BERK ?. I E Y\ 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF I 
 CALIFORNIA/ 
 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 JOHN DEBO GALLOWAY 
 
 AND HIS DAUGHTER 
 BERTHA GALLOWAY FOSTER 
 
RIVERSIDE EDITION 
 
 I. A WEEK ON THE CONCORD AND MERR!- 
 
 MACK RIVERS. 
 II. WALDEN; OR, LIFE IN THE WOODS. 
 
 III. THE MAINE WOODS. 
 
 IV. CAPE COD. 
 
 V. EARLY SPRING IN MASSACHUSETTS. 
 VI. SUMMER. With a Map of Concord. 
 VII. AUTUMN. 
 VIII. WINTER. 
 IX. EXCURSIONS. 
 X. MISCELLANIES. With a Biographical Sketch 
 
 by RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 XI. FAMILIAR LETTERS. Edited, with an Intro 
 duction and Notes, by FRANK B. SANBORN. 
 THE SAME. Riverside Pocket Edition, n vols. Flex 
 ible leather. 
 
 NOTES ON NEW ENGLAND BIRDS. Edited by 
 F. H. ALLEN. 
 
 WALDEN ; OR, LIFE IN TWE WOODS Holiday 
 Edition. With an Introduction by BRADFORD TORREY, 
 and 28 full-page photogravure illustrations. 
 
 THE SAME. Cambridge Classics. With a Biographical 
 Sketch by RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 THE SAME. Riverside A Idine Series. 2 vols. 
 
 THOREAU S THOUGHTS. Selections from the Writ 
 ings of Henry D. Thoreau. Edited by H. G. O. BLAKB. 
 With Bibliography. 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 BOSTON AND Naw YORK 
 
Edition 
 
 THE WRITINGS OF 
 HENRY DAVID THOREAU 
 
 WITH BIBLIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTIONS 
 AND FULL INDEXES 
 
 VOLUME I 
 
A WEEK ON THE CONCORD 
 
 AND MERRIMACK 
 
 RIVERS 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY DAVID THOREAU 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 ftfcetffte prcjtf Cambciboe 
 
Copyright, 1867, 
 BY TICKffOR AND FIELDS. 
 
 Copyright, 1893, 
 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
PUBLISHERS ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 Two only of Thoreau s books were published 
 during his lifetime, although a number of the 
 papers afterward collected into volumes were 
 printed by him in magazines. The volumes 
 succeeding A Week on the Concord and Merri- 
 mack Rivers and Walden were composed of 
 papers grouped according to convenience at the 
 time. Later, Mr. H. G. O. Blake drew from 
 Thoreau s manuscript journals the four volumes 
 corresponding to the seasons. With the publi 
 cation of Autumn the entire series of Thoreau s 
 works acquires a certain completeness, and the 
 opportunity therefore arises for a new and uni 
 form edition of his writings on the same general 
 plan as that followed with the works of Longfel 
 low, Hawthorne, Lowell, Emerson, Whittier, 
 and Holmes. 
 
 The present edition contains not only all that 
 has heretofore been published in the volumes 
 under Thoreau s name, but papers also not here 
 tofore included. Since it has been necessary to 
 make the older books anew, it has been thought 
 advisable to bring the groups into better har- 
 
vi PUBLISHERS ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 mony. A Yankee in Canada, therefore, has 
 been grouped under the head of Excursions^ 
 and the miscellaneous papers, new and old, have 
 been brought into one volume, to which also 
 Mr. Emerson s biographical sketch is prefixed. 
 Wherever there are interesting facts to be noted 
 regarding the writings they are presented in 
 Introductory Notes. Each volume is provided 
 with a separate index, and a General Index in 
 the tenth volume brings together references to 
 Thoreau s scattered observations. Care has 
 been taken also to verify, whenever it has been 
 possible, the many poetical quotations. 
 
 Four portraits, each a distinct contribution 
 to a knowledge of Thoreau s appearance, accom 
 pany the edition. The origin of each is ex 
 plained in a prefatory note to the volume con 
 taining it. 
 
 BOSTON : 4 PARK STREET, 
 September, 1893. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 [The sub-titles under each division are of Thoreau s poems and snatches 
 of verse therein included.] 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE . . . i* 
 
 CONCORD RIVER . 3 
 
 " The respectable folks " ..... 8 
 
 SATURDAY 15 
 
 " Ah, tis in vain the peaceful din " . . . 18 
 " Here then an aged shepherd dwelt " . . .19 
 " On Ponkawtasset, since we took our way " . 20 
 
 SUNDAY 53 
 
 " An early unconverted Saint " .... 53 
 
 " Low in the eastern sky " . . . . . .58 
 
 " Dong, sounds the brass in the east " . . 62 
 
 * Greece, who am I that should remember thee " . 68 
 " Some tumultuous little rill " , ... . 77 
 
 " I make ye an offer " . . . . . .86 
 
 " Conscience is instinct bred in the house " . 94 
 
 "Such water do the gods distill" . . . .107 
 
 "That Phaeton of our day" . . . . .128 
 
 MONDAY 151 
 
 " Though all the fates should prove unkind " . 189 
 MOUNTAINS . . . . . . . 212 
 
 " The western wind came lumbering in " . . 224 
 " Then idle Time ran gadding by " . . . . 226 
 
 " Now chiefly is my natal hour " . . . . 226 
 
 RUMORS FROM AN ^EOLIAN HARP .... 229 
 
 " Away ! away ! away ! away ! " . . . . 231 
 
viii CONTENTS 
 
 TUESDAY 233 
 
 " Ply the oars ! away ! away ! " . . . 234 
 
 " Since that first * Away ! away 1 " . . . . 248 
 
 MIST 249 
 
 " Man s little acts are grand " 279 
 
 " The waves slowly beat " 284 
 
 HAZE 284 
 
 " Where gleaming- fields of haze " . . . . 290 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM ANACREON .... 298 
 " Thus, perchance, the Indian hunter " . . . 306 
 
 WEDNESDAY 309 
 
 THE FISHER S BOY 317 
 
 " This is my Carnac, whose unmeasured dome " . 331 
 rt True kindness is a pure divine affinity " . . 342 
 
 SYMPATHY 343 
 
 THE ATLANTIDES 345 
 
 " My love must be as free " 369 
 
 " The Good how can we trust ? " . . . . 371 
 " Nature doth have her dawn each day " . . . 375 
 FRIENDS, ROMANS, COUNTRYMEN, AND LOVERS . 379 
 THE INWARD MORNING 388 
 
 THURSDAY 393 
 
 " My books I d fain cast off, I cannot read " . . 397 
 
 FRIDAY , ... 441 
 
 THE POET S DELAY 453 
 
 " I hearing get who had but ears "... 460 
 " Men dig and dive but cannot my wealth spend " . 462 
 
 " Salmon Brook " 463 
 
 " Oft, as I turn me on my pillow o er "... 474 
 " I am the antumnal sun "..... 499 
 " A finer race and finer fed "..... 503 
 " I am a parcel of vain strivings tied " . . . 506 
 " All things are current found " . . . .512 
 
 *#* The portrait prefacing this volume is from the crayon 
 by S. W. Rowse in 1854, preserved in the Public Library of 
 Concord. 
 
A WEEK ON THE CONCORD AND 
 MERRIMACK RIVERS 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 IT was in August and September, 1839, as 
 the chronicle notes, that the voyage here re 
 corded was made. Thoreau was just past his 
 twenty-second birthday ; he had been two years 
 out of college, and though he had thus far printed 
 nothing, he had already, four years before, be 
 gun that practice of noting his experience, ob 
 servation, and reflection in a diary which he 
 continued through life, so that not only did his 
 journals furnish him with the first draft of what 
 he published in his lifetime, but they formed a 
 magazine from which, after his death, friendly 
 editors drew successive volumes. 
 
 The Week is much more than a mere re 
 production of his journal during the period 
 under consideration. It was not published as a 
 book until 1849, ten years after the excursion 
 which it commemorated; but in its final form 
 were inclosed many verses and some prose pas 
 sages which had already appeared in the short- 
 
X A WEEK ON THE 
 
 lived historic Tfie Dial. It will be remem 
 bered that Thoreau was not only a contributor 
 to that periodical from the beginning, but for a 
 while had editorial charge of it; the editing, in 
 deed, seemed to be handed about from one to 
 another of the circle most concerned in its issue. 
 Thus in the first number, July, 1840, appeared 
 the excursus on Aulus Persius Flaccus, printed 
 in the Week, pp. 405-412. So, also, his poems 
 on Friendship saw the light first in the second 
 number of The Dial, and there also appeared 
 the poems The Inward Morning, The Poet s 
 Delay, Rumors from an ^olian Harp, and 
 others, as well as the study of Anacreon, with 
 examples in translation. It is easy for the 
 reader to see that the Week is Thoreau s com 
 monplace book as well as journal. 
 
 He was living in his hut on Walden Pond 
 when he edited his manuscripts for publication 
 in book form, and Alcott visiting him one even 
 ing there heard him read some passages from 
 the work. It is interesting to observe how im 
 mediately this man of fine instincts perceived 
 the worth of what had as yet struck his ear 
 only, listening as a friend. "The book," he 
 writes in his diary, "is purely American, fra 
 grant with the life of New England woods and 
 streams, and could have been written nowhere 
 else. Especially am I touched by his suffi- 
 
CONCORD AND MERRIMACK RIVERS xi 
 
 ciency and soundness, his aboriginal vigor, - 
 as if a man had once more come into Nature 
 who knew what Nature meant him to do with 
 her; Virgil and "White of Selborne, and Izaak 
 Wnlfrmj gfld Yar>keg^settler all in one. I came 
 home at midnight through the snowy wood- 
 paths, and slept with the pleasing dream that 
 presently the press would give me two books 
 to be proud of, Emerson s Poems and Tho- 
 reau s Week."* 
 
 This was written in March, 1847, and Tho- 
 reau was probably just about to try the publish 
 ers, if his manuscript were not even now resting 
 in his hut from one of its journeys. For in a 
 letter to Emerson, at that time in England, 
 written November 14, 1847, Thoreau says, "I 
 suppose you will like to hear of my book, though 
 I have nothing worth writing about it. Indeed, 
 for the last month or two, I have forgotten it, 
 but shall certainly remember it again. Wiley 
 & Putnam, Munroe, the Harpers, and Crosby & 
 Nichols, have all declined printing it with the 
 least risk to themselves; but Wiley & Putnam 
 will print it in their series, and any of them 
 anywhere, at my risk. If I liked the book well 
 enough, I should not delay; but for the present 
 I am indifferent. I believe this is, after all, 
 
 1 A. Bronson Alcott ; his Life and Philosophy. By F. B. 
 Sanborn and William T. Harris, p. 446. 
 
xii A WEEK ON THE 
 
 the course you advised, to let it lie." 1 Ap 
 parently he used the opportunity of having it by 
 him to touch it up now and then, for in a letter 
 to Mr. J. Elliot Cabot, written in March, 1848, 
 he says: "My book, fortunately, did not find a 
 publisher ready to undertake it, and you can 
 imagine the effect of delay on an author s esti 
 mate of his own work. However, I like it well 
 enough to mend it, and shall look at it again, 
 directly when I have dispatched some other 
 things." 2 The essay on Friendship which pre 
 cedes the poem Friends, Romans, Country 
 men, and Lovers, already referred to, appears to 
 have been written at this time, for Mr. Alcott in 
 his diary, under date of January 13, 1848, 
 notes : Henry Thoreau came in after my hours 
 with the children, and we had a good deal of 
 talk on the modes of popular influence. He 
 read me a manuscript essay of his on Frien4^ 
 ship v which he had just written, and wmch I 
 thought superior to anything I had heard." 3 
 
 Apparently Thoreau was convinced of the 
 impossibility of persuading any publisher to 
 take the book at his own risk, and was suffi 
 ciently confident of the worth of the volume to 
 
 1 The Emerson - Thoreau Correspondence in The Atlantic 
 Monthly, June, 1892. 
 
 2 Ibid. 
 
 3 Henry D. Thoreau. By F. B. Sauborn [American Men 
 of Letters], p. 304. 
 
CONCORD AND MERRIMACK RIVERS xni 
 
 bear the expense of publication himself, al 
 though to do this he was obliged to borrow 
 money, and, since the book did not meet its ex 
 penses, afterward to take up the occupation of 
 surveying in order to cancel his obligation. 
 The book was published by James Munroe & 
 Co., Boston and Cambridge, apparently in the 
 summer of 1849. Mr. George Kipley wrote a 
 kindly notice of it in The Tribune, and James 
 Russell Lowell reviewed it in a dozen pages in 
 the Massachusetts Quarterly Review for De 
 cember of the same year. With his own cun 
 ning in literary art he quickly divined the in 
 terior structure of the Week. "The great 
 charm," he says, "of Mr. Thoreau s book seems 
 to be that its being a book at all is a happy 
 fortuity. The door of the portfolio cage has 
 been left open, and the thoughts have flown out 
 of themselves. The paper and types are only 
 accidents. The page is confidential like a 
 diary. . . . He begins honestly enough as the 
 Boswell of Musketaquid and Merrimack. . . . 
 As long as he continues an honest Boswell, his 
 book is delightful, but sometimes he serves his 
 two rivers as Hazlitt did Northcote, and makes 
 them run Thoreau or Emerson or indeed any 
 thing but their own transparent element. . . 
 We have digressions on Boodh, on Aiiacreon 
 (with translations hardly so good as Cowley), 
 
xiv A WEEK ON THE 
 
 on Persius, on Friendship, and we know not 
 what. We come upon them like snags, jolting 
 us headforemost out of our places as we are row 
 ing placidly up stream, or drifting down. Mr. 
 Thoreau becomes so absorbed in these discus 
 sions that he seems as it were to catch a crab 
 and disappears uncomfortably from his seat at 
 the bow oar. We could forgive them all, espe 
 cially that on Books and that on Friendship 
 (which is worthy of one who has so long com 
 muned with Nature and with Emerson), we 
 could welcome them all were they put by them 
 selves at the end of the book. But, as it is, 
 they are out of proportion and out of place and 
 mar our Merrimacking dreadfully. We were 
 bid to a river-party, not to be preached at." 
 After distributing praise and blame over the 
 poetical interludes, Lowell closes his review with 
 the words: "Since we have found fault with 
 what we may be allowed to call worsification, 
 we should say that the prose work is done con 
 scientiously and neatly. The style is compact, 
 and the language has an antique purity like 
 wine grown colorless with age." 
 
 In spite of the generous reception which the 
 book had thus at the hands of men like Alcott, 
 Ripley, and Lowell, the public was indifferent 
 enough. Thoreau recounts the issue of the 
 venture with grim humor in an entry in his 
 
CONCORD AND MERRIMACK RIVERS xv 
 
 diary, October 28, 1853, after the book had 
 been in the bookstores for four years. " For a 
 year or two past my publisher, falsely so called, 
 has been writing from time to time to ask what 
 disposition should be made of the copies of A. 
 Week, on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers 
 still on hand, and at last suggesting that he had 
 use for the room they occupied in his cellar. 
 So I had them all sent to me here, and they 
 have arrived to-day by express, filling the man s 
 wagon, 706 copies out of an edition of 1000, 
 which I bought of Munroe four years ago, and 
 have been ever since paying for, and have not 
 quite paid for yet. The wares are sent to me 
 at last, and I have an opportunity to examine 
 my purchase. They are something more sub 
 stantial than fame, as my back knows, which 
 has borne them up two flights of stairs to a 
 place similar to that to which they trace their 
 origin. 
 
 "Of the remaining 290 and odd, 75 were 
 given away, the rest sold. I have now a library 
 of nearly 900 volumes, over 700 of which I 
 wrote myself. Is it not well that the author 
 should behold the fruits of his labor? My 
 works are piled up on one side of my chamber 
 half as high as my head, my opera omnia. This 
 is authorship, these are the work of my brain. 
 There was just one piece of good luck in the 
 
Kvi A WEEK ON THE 
 
 venture. The unbound were tied up by the 
 printer four years ago in stout paper wrappers, 
 and inscribed, 
 
 "H. D. Thoreau, 
 
 Concord River. 
 
 50 cops., 
 
 so Munroe had only to cross out River and 
 write Mass., and deliver them to the express 
 man at once. I can see now what I write for, 
 the result of my labors. Nevertheless, in spite 
 of this result, sitting beside the inert mass of 
 my works, I take up my pen to-night to record 
 what thought or experience I may have had, 
 with as much satisfaction as ever. Indeed, I 
 believe that this result is more inspiring and 
 better for me than if a thousand had bought my 
 wares. It affects my privacy less and leaves 
 me freer." l 
 
 We have quoted from the judgments of 
 Alcott and Lowell on the book because one 
 is curious to know how the contemporaries of 
 Thoreau regarded his work; later critics have 
 the advantage and disadvantage of seeing such 
 writing through an atmosphere charged with 
 many men s breathing of criticism and appre 
 ciation. Lowell himself, when he returned to 
 Thoreau sixteen years later, had in a measure 
 
 1 Autumn : from the Journal of Henry D. Thoreau, pp. 163, 
 104. 
 
CONCORD AND MERRIMACK RIVERS xvn 
 
 re-formed his appreciation. But, after all, no 
 judgment of an author is quite so interesting as 
 that which the author himself passes, even 
 though one has to correct this estimate by other 
 observations on the author and his work. At 
 any rate, Thoreau shall be the last here to com 
 ment on this book : 
 
 "I thought that one peculiarity of my Week 
 was its hypsethral character, to use an epithet 
 applied to those Egyptian temples which are 
 open to the heavens above, under the ether. I 
 thought that it had little of the atmosphere of 
 the house about it, but it might have been 
 written wholly, as in fact it was to a great ex 
 tent, out of doors. It was only at a late period 
 in writing it, as it happened, that I used any 
 phrases implying that I lived in a house or led 
 a domestic life. I trust it does not smell so 
 much of the study and library, even of the 
 poet s attic, as of the fields and woods, that it is 
 a hypaethral or unroofed book, lying open under 
 the ether, and permeated by it, open to all 
 weathers, not easy to be kept on a shelf." l 
 
 l Summer : from the Journal of Henry D. Thoreau, p. 261. 
 
A WEEK ON THE CONCORD AND 
 MERKIMACK RIVERS 
 
Where er thou sail st who sailed with me, 
 Though now thou climbest loftier mounts, 
 And fairer rivers dost ascend, 
 Be thou my Muse, my Brother . 
 
 I am bound, I am bound, for a distant shore. 
 By a lonely isle, by a far Azore, 
 There it is, there it is, the treasure I seek, 
 On the barren sands of a desolate creek. 
 
 I sailed up a river with a pleasant wind, 
 New lands, new people, and new thoughts to find ; 
 Many fair reaches and headlands appeared, 
 And many dangers were there to be feared ; 
 But when I remember where I have been, 
 And the fair landscapes that I have seen, 
 THOU seemest the only permanent shore, 
 The cape never rounded, nor wandered o er. 
 
 Fluminaque obliquis cinxit declivia ripis ; 
 Qua$, diversa locis, partim sorbentur ab ipsa ; 
 In mare perveniunt partim, campoque recepta 
 Liberioris aquae pro ripis litora pulsant. 
 
 He confined the rivers within their sloping banks, 
 Which in different places are part absorbed by the earth, 
 Part reach the sea, and being received within the plain 
 Of its freer waters, beat the shore for banks. 
 
 OVID, Met. L 39. 
 
CONCORD RIVER. 
 
 Beneath low hills, In the broad interval 
 Through which at will our Indian rivulet 
 Winds mindful still of sannup and of squaw, 
 Whose pipe and arrow oft the plough unburies, 
 Here, in pine houses, built of new-fallen trees, 
 Bupplanters of the tribe, the farmers dwell." 
 
 EMEBSON. 
 
 THE Musketaquid, or Grass-ground River, 
 though probably as old as the Nile or Eu 
 phrates, did not begin to have a place in civil 
 ized history until the fame of its grassy mea 
 dows and its fish attracted settlers out of Eng 
 land in 1635, when it received the other but 
 kindred name of CONCORD from the first planta 
 tion on its banks, which appears to have been 
 commenced in a spirit of peace and harmony. 
 It will be Grass-ground River as long as grass 
 grows and water runs here ; it will be Concord 
 River only while men lead peaceable lives on its 
 banks. To an extinct race it was grass-ground, 
 where they hunted and fished; and it is still 
 perennial grass-ground to Concord farmers, who 
 own the Great Meadows, and get the hay from 
 year to year. "One branch of it," according 
 
4 CONCORD RIVER 
 
 to the historian of Concord, for I love to quote 
 so good authority, "rises in the south part of 
 Hopkinton, and another from a pond and a 
 large cedar-swamp in Westborough," and flow 
 ing between Hopkinton and Southborough, 
 through Framingham, and between Sudbury 
 and Wayland, where it is sometimes called 
 Sudbury River, it enters Concord at the south 
 part of the town, and after receiving the North 
 or Assabeth River, which has its source a little 
 farther to the north and west, goes out at the 
 northeast angle, and flowing between Bedford 
 and Carlisle, and through Billerica, empties 
 into the Merrimack at Lowell. In Concord, it 
 is in summer from four to fifteen feet deep, 
 and from one hundred to three hundred feet 
 wide, but in the spring freshets, when it over 
 flows its banks, it is in some places nearly a 
 mile wide. Between Sudbury and Wayland 
 the meadows acquire their greatest breadth, 
 and when covered with water, they form a 
 handsome chain of shallow vernal lakes, re 
 sorted to by numerous gulls and ducks. Just 
 above Sherman s Bridge, between these towns, 
 is the largest expanse ; and when the wind blows 
 freshly in a raw March day, heaving up the 
 surface into dark and sober billows or regular 
 swells, skirted as it is in the distance with alder- 
 Bwamps and smoke-like maples, it looks like a 
 
CONCORD RIVER 5 
 
 smaller Lake Huron, and is very pleasant and 
 exciting for a landsman to row or sail over. 
 The farm-houses along the Sudbury shore, 
 which rises gently to a considerable height, 
 command fine water prospects at this season. 
 The shore is more flat on the Wayland side, 
 and this town is the greatest loser by the flood. 
 Its farmers tell me that thousands of acres are 
 flooded now, since the dams have been erected, 
 where they remember to have seen the white 
 honeysuckle or clover growing once, and they 
 could go dry with shoes only in summer. Now 
 there is nothing but blue-joint and sedge and 
 cut-grass there, standing in water all the year 
 round. For a long time, they made the most 
 of the driest season to get their hay, working 
 sometimes till nine o clock at night, sedulously 
 paring with their scythes in the twilight round 
 the hummocks left by the ice ; but now it is not 
 worth the getting when they can come at it, and 
 they look sadly round to their wood-lots and 
 upland as a last resource. 
 
 It is worth the while to make a voyage up 
 this stream, if you go no farther than Sudbury, 
 only to see how much country there is in the 
 rear of us : great hills, and a hundred brooks, 
 and farm-houses, and barns, and haystacks, 
 you never saw before, and men everywhere ; 
 Sudbury, that is SoutJiborough men, and Way- 
 
6 CONCORD RIVER 
 
 land, and Nine-Acre-Corner men, and Bound 
 Rock, where four towns bound on a rock in the 
 river, Lincoln, Wayland, Sudbury, Concord. 
 Many waves are there agitated by the wind, 
 keeping nature fresh, the spray blowing in your 
 face, reeds and rushes waving; ducks by the 
 hundred, all uneasy in the surf, in the raw 
 wind, just ready to rise, and now going off with 
 a clatter and a whistling like riggers straight 
 for Labrador, flying against the stiff gale with 
 reefed wings, or else circling round first, with 
 all their paddles briskly moving, just over the 
 surf, to reconnoitre you before they leave these 
 parts ; gulls wheeling overhead, muskrats swim 
 ming for dear life, wet and cold, with no fire to 
 warm them by that you know of, their labored 
 homes rising here and there like haystacks ; and 
 countless mice and moles and winged titmice 
 along the sunny, windy shore ; cranberries tossed 
 on the waves and heaving up on the beach, 
 their little red skiffs beating about among the 
 alders ; such healthy natural tumult as proves 
 .the jast day is not yet at hand. And there 
 stand all around the alders, and birches, and 
 oaks, and maples full of glee and sap, holding 
 in their buds until the waters subside. You 
 shall perhaps run aground on Cranberry Island, 
 only some spires of last year s pipe-grass above 
 water to show where the danger is, and get as 
 
CONCORD RIVER 1 
 
 good a freezing there as anywhere on the North 
 west Coast. I never voyaged so far in all my 
 life. You shall see men you never heard of 
 before, whose names you don t know, going 
 away down through the meadows with long 
 ducking-guns, with water-tight boots wading 
 through the fowl-meadow grass, on bleak, win 
 try, distant shores, with guns at half-cock ; and 
 they shall see teal, blue-winged, green-winged, 
 shelldrakes, whistlers, black ducks, ospreys, 
 and many other wild and noble sights before 
 night, such as they who sit in parlors never 
 dream of. You shall see rude and sturdy, ex 
 perienced and wise men, keeping their castles, 
 or teaming up their summer s wood, or chop 
 ping alone in the woods ; men fuller of talk and 
 rare adventure in the sun and wind and rain, 
 than a chestnut is of meat, who were out not 
 only in 75 and 1812, but have been out every 
 day of their lives ; greater men than Homer, or 
 Chaucer, or Shakespeare, only they never got 
 time to say so ; they never took to the way of 
 writing. Look at their fields, and imagine 
 what they might write, if ever they should put 
 pen to paper. Or what have they not written 
 on the face of the earth already, clearing, and 
 burning, and scratching, and harrowing, and 
 ploughing, and subsoiling, in and in, and out 
 and out, and over and over, again and again, 
 
 I 
 
8 CONCORD RIVER 
 
 erasing what they had already written for want 
 of parchment. 
 
 As yesterday and the historical ages are past, 
 as the work of to-day is present, so some flit 
 ting perspectives and demi -experiences of the 
 life that is in nature are in time veritably 
 future, or rather outside to time, perennial, 
 young, divine, in the wind and rain which 
 never die. 
 
 The respectable folks, 
 
 Where dwell they ? 
 
 They whisper in the oaks, 
 
 And they sigh in the hay ; 
 
 Summer and winter, night and day, 
 
 Out on the meadow, there dwell they. 
 
 They never die, 
 
 Nor snivel nor cry, 
 
 Nor ask our pity 
 
 With a wet eye. 
 
 A sound estate they ever mend, 
 
 To every asker readily lend ; 
 
 To the ocean wealth, 
 
 To the meadow health, 
 
 To Time his length, 
 
 To the rocks strength, 
 
 To the stars light, 
 
 To the weary night, 
 
 To the busy day, 
 
 To the idle play ; 
 
 And so their good cheer never ends, 
 
 For all are their debtors, and ajl their friends. 
 
 Concord Kiver is remarkable for the gentle 
 ness of its current, which is scarcely percepti- 
 
CONCORD RIVER 9 
 
 ble, and some have referred to its influence the 
 proverbial moderation of the inhabitants of 
 Concord, as exhibited in the Revolution, and 
 on later occasions. It has been proposed that 
 the town should adopt for its coat of arms a 
 field verdant, with the Concord circling nine 
 times round. I have read that a descent of ar 
 eighth of an inch in a mile is sufficient to pro 
 duce a flow. Our river has, probably, very 
 near the smallest allowance. The story is cur 
 rent, at any rate, though I believe that strict 
 history will not bear it out, that the only bridge 
 ever carried away on the main branch, within 
 the limits of the town, was driven upstream by 
 the wind. But wherever it makes a sudden 
 bend it is shallower and swifter, and asserts its 
 title to be called a river. Compared with the 
 other tributaries of the Merrimack, it appears 
 to have been properly named Musketaquid, or 
 Meadow River, by the Indians. For the most 
 part, it creeps through broad meadows, adorned 
 with scattered oaks, where the cranberry is 
 found in abundance, covering the ground like a 
 moss-bed. A row of sunken dwarf willows bor 
 ders the stream on one or both sides, while at 
 a greater distance the meadow is skirted with 
 maples, alders, and other fluviatilo trees, over 
 run with the grape-vine, which bears fruit in 
 its season, purple, red, white, and other grapes 
 
10 CONCORD RIVER 
 
 Still farther from the stream, on the edge of 
 the firm land, are seen the gray and white 
 dwellings of the inhabitants. According to the 
 valuation of 1831, there were in Concord two 
 thousand one hundred and eleven acres, or 
 about one seventh of the whole territory, in mea 
 dow; this standing next in the list after pas 
 turage and unimproved lands; and, judging from 
 the returns of previous years, the meadow is 
 not reclaimed so fast as the woods are cleared. 
 
 Let us here read what old Johnson says of 
 these meadows in his " Wonder- Working Provi 
 dence," which gives the account of New Eng 
 land from 1628 to 1652, and see how matters 
 looked to him. He says of the Twelfth Church 
 of Christ gathered at Concord: "This town is 
 seated upon a fair fresh river, whose rivulets 
 are filled with fresh marsh, and her streams 
 with fish, it being a branch of that large river 
 of Merrimack. Allwifes and shad in their sea 
 son come up to this town, but salmon and dace 
 cannot come up, by reason of the rocky falls, 
 which causeth their meadows to lie much cov 
 ered with water, the which these people, to 
 gether with their neighbor town, have several 
 times essayed to cut through but cannot, yet it 
 may be turned another way with an hundred 
 pound charge as it appeared." As to their 
 farming he says: "Having laid out their estate 
 
CONCORD RIVER 11 
 
 upon cattle at 5 to 20 pound a cow, when they 
 came to winter them with inland hay, and feed 
 upon such wild fother as was never cut before, 
 they could not hold out the winter, but, ordina 
 rily the first or second year after their coming 
 up to a new plantation, many of their cattle 
 died." And this from the same author: "Of 
 the Planting of the 19th Church in the Matta- 
 chusets Government, called Sudbury:" "This 
 year [does he mean 1654 ?] the town and church 
 of Christ at Sudbury began to have the first 
 foundation stones laid, taking up her station in 
 the inland country, as her elder sister Concord 
 had formerly done, lying further up the same 
 river, being furnished with great plenty of fresh 
 marsh, but, it lying very low is much indam- 
 aged with land floods, insomuch that when the 
 summer proves wet they lose part of their hay ; 
 yet are they so sufficiently provided that they 
 take in cattle of other towns to winter." 
 
 The sluggish artery of the Concord meadows 
 steals thus unobserved through the town, with 
 out a murmur or a pulse -beat, its general course 
 from southwest to northeast, and its length 
 about fifty miles; a huge volume of matter, 
 ceaselessly rolling through the plains and val 
 leys of the substantial earth with the mocca- 
 sined tread of an Indian warrior, making haste 
 from the high places of the earth to its ancient 
 
12 CONCORD RIVER 
 
 reservoir. The murmurs of many a famous 
 river on the other side of the globe reach even 
 to us here, as to more distant dwellers on its 
 banks; many a poet s stream, floating the helms 
 and shields of heroes on its bosom. The Xan- 
 thus or Scamander is not a mere dry channel 
 and bed of a mountain torrent, but fed by the 
 ever-flowing springs of fame : 
 
 " And thou Simois, that as an arrowe, clere 
 Through Troy rennest, aie downward to the sea ; " 
 
 and I trust that I may be allowed to associate 
 our muddy but much abused Concord Eiver 
 with the most famous in history. 
 
 " Sure there are poets which did never dream 
 Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream 
 Of Helicon ; we therefore may suppose 
 Those made not poets, but the poets those." 
 
 The Mississippi, the Ganges, and the Nile, 
 those journeying atoms from the Rocky Moun 
 tains, the Himmaleh, and Mountains of the 
 Moon, have a kind of personal importance in 
 the annals of the world. The heavens are not 
 yet drained over their sources, but the Moun 
 tains of the Moon still send their annual tribute 
 to the Pasha without fail, as they did to the 
 Pharaohs, though he must collect the rest of his 
 revenue at the point of the sword. Rivers must 
 have been the guides which conducted the foot 
 steps of the first travelers. They are the con- 
 
CONCORD RIVER 13 
 
 stant lure, when they flow by our doors, to dis 
 tant enterprise and adventure ; and, by a natu 
 ral impulse, the dwellers on their banks will at 
 length accompany their currents to the lowlands 
 of the globe, or explore at their invitation the 
 interior of continents. They are the natural 
 highways of all nations, not only leveling the 
 ground and removing obstacles from the path 
 of the traveler, quenching his thirst and bear 
 ing him on their bosoms, but conducting him 
 through the most interesting scenery, the most 
 populous portions of the globe, and where the 
 animal and vegetable kingdoms attain their 
 greatest perfection. 
 
 I had often stood on the banks of the Con 
 cord, watching the lapse of the current, an em 
 blem of all progress, following the same law 
 with the system, with time, and all that is made ; 
 the weeds at the bottom gently bending down 
 the stream, shaken by the watery wind, still 
 planted where their seeds had sunk, but erelong 
 to die and go down likewise ; the shining peb 
 bles, not yet anxious to better their condition, 
 the chips and weeds, and occasional logs and 
 stems of trees that floated past, fulfilling their 
 ;ate, were objects of singular interest to me, 
 and at last I resolved to launch myself on its 
 bosom and float whither it would bear me. 
 
SATUKDAY. 
 
 Come, come, my lovely fair, and let us try 
 Those rural delicacies." 
 
 QUAKLKS, Christ s Invitation to the Soul. 
 
 AT length, on Saturday, the last day of Au 
 gust, 1839, we two, brothers, and natives of 
 Concord, weighed anchor in this river port ; for 
 Concord, too, lies under the sun, a port of entry 
 and departure for the bodies as well as the souls 
 of men; one shore at least exempted from all 
 duties but such as an honest man will gladly 
 discharge. A warm, drizzling rain had obscured 
 the morning, and threatened to delay our voy 
 age, but at length the leaves and grass were 
 dried, and it came out a mild afternoon, as se 
 rene and fresh as if Nature were maturing some 
 greater scheme of her own. After this long 
 dripping and oozing from every pore, she began 
 to respire again more healthily than ever. So 
 with a vigorous shove we launched our boat 
 from the bank, while the flags and bulrushes 
 courtesied a God-speed, and dropped silently 
 down the stream. 
 
 Our boat, which had cost us a week s labor 
 in the spring, was in form like a fisherman s 
 
16 A WEEK 
 
 dory, fifteen feet long by three and a half in 
 breadth at the widest part, painted green below, 
 with a border of blue, with reference to the two 
 elements in which it was to spend its existence. 
 It had been loaded the evening before at our 
 door, half a mile from the river, with potatoes 
 and melons from a patch which we had culti 
 vated, and a few utensils; and was provided 
 with wheels in order to be rolled around falls, 
 as well as with two sets of oars, and several 
 slender poles for shoving in shallow places, and 
 also two masts, one of which served for a tent- 
 pole at night ; for a buffalo-skin was to be our 
 bed, and a tent of cotton cloth our roof. It 
 was strongly built, but heavy, and hardly of 
 better model than usual. If rightly made, a"\ 
 boat would be a sort of amphibious animal, a J 
 creature of two elements, related by one half its I 
 structure to some swift and shapely fish, and by \ 
 the other to some strong-winged and graceful 
 bird. The fish shows where there should be the 
 greatest breadth of beam and depth in the hold ; 
 its fins direct where to set the oars, and the tail 
 gives some hint for the form and position of the 
 rudder. The bird shows how to rig and trim 
 the sails, and what form to give to the prow, 
 that it may balance the boat and divide the air 
 and water best. These hints we had but par 
 tially obeyed. But the eyes, though they are 
 
SATURDAY 17 
 
 no sailors, will never be satisfied with any model, 
 however fashionable, which does not answer all 
 the requisitions of art. However, as art is all 
 of a ship but the wood, and yet the wood alone 
 will rudely serve the purpose of a ship, so our 
 boat, being of wood, gladly availed itself of the 
 old law that the heavier shall float the lighter, 
 and though a dull water-fowl, proved a suffi 
 cient buoy for our purpose. 
 
 " Were it the will of Heaven, an osier bough 
 Were vessel safe enough the seas to plough." 
 
 Some village friends stood upon a promontory 
 lower down the stream to wave us a last fare 
 well; but we, having already performed these 
 shore rites, with excusable reserve, as befits 
 those who are embarked on unusual enterprises, 
 who behold but speak not, silently glided past 
 the firm lands of Concord, both peopled cape 
 and lonely summer meadow, with steady sweeps. 
 And yet we did unbend so far as to let our guns 
 or 11 gj when at length we had swept out 
 
 of sight, and thus left the woods to ring again 
 with their echoes; and it may be many russet- 
 clad children, lurking in those broad meadows, 
 with the bittern and the woodcock and the rail, 
 though wholly concealed by brakes and hard- 
 hack and meadow-sweet, heard our salute that 
 afternoon. 
 
 We were soon floating past the first regular 
 
18 A WEEK 
 
 battle-ground of the Revolution, resting on our 
 oars between the still visible abutments of that 
 "North Bridge," over which in April, 1775, 
 rolled the first faint tide of that war which 
 ceased not, till, as we read on the stone on our 
 right, it "gave peace to these United States." 
 As a Concord poet has sung : 
 
 " By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
 
 Their flag to April s breeze unfurled, 
 Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
 And fired the shot heard round the world. 
 
 " The foe long since in silence slept ; 
 
 Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
 And Time the ruined bridge has swept 
 
 Down the dark stream which seaward creeps/ 
 
 Our reflections had already acquired a histor 
 ical remoteness from the scenes we had left, and 
 we ourselves essayed to sing : 
 
 Ah, t is in vain the peaceful din 
 
 That wakes the ignoble town, 
 Not thus did braver spirits win 
 
 A patriot s renown. 
 
 There is one field beside this stream 
 
 Wherein no foot does fall, 
 But yet it beareth in my dream 
 
 A richer crop than all. 
 
 Let me believe a dream so dear, 
 Some heart beat high that day, 
 
 Above the petty Province here, 
 And Britain far away ; 
 
SATURDAY 19 
 
 Some hero of the ancient mould, 
 
 Some arm of knightly worth, 
 Of strength unbought, and faith unsold, 
 
 Honored this spot of earth ; 
 
 Who sought the prize his heart described, 
 
 And did not ask release, 
 Whose free-born valor was not bribed 
 
 By prospect of a peace. 
 
 The men who stood on yonder height 
 
 That day are long since gone ; 
 Not the same hand directs the fight 
 
 And monumental stone. 
 
 Ye were the Grecian cities then, 
 
 The Romes of modern birth, 
 Where the New England husbandmen 
 
 Have shown a Roman worth. 
 
 In vain I search a foreign land 
 
 To find our Bunker Hill, 
 And Lexington and Concord stand 
 
 By no Laconiau rill, 
 
 With such thoughts we swept gently by this 
 now peaceful pasture-ground, on waves of Con 
 cord, in which was long since drowned the din 
 of war. 
 
 But since we sailed 
 Some things have failed, 
 And many a dream 
 Gone down the stream. 
 
 Here then an aged shepherd dwelt, 
 Who to his flock his substance dealt, 
 And ruled them with a vigorous crook. 
 By precept of the sacred Book ; 
 
20 A WEEK 
 
 But he the pierless bridge passed o er, 
 And solitary left the shore. 
 
 Anon a youthful pastor came, 
 Whose crook was not unknown to fame, 
 HjsJaiabs he viewed with gentle glance, 
 Spread o er the country s wide expanse, 
 And fed with " Mosses from the Manse." 
 Here was our Hawthorne in the dale, 
 And here the shepherd told his tale. 
 
 That slight shaft had now sunk behind the 
 hills, and we had floated round the neighboring 
 bend, and under the new North Bridge between 
 Ponkawtasset and the Poplar Hill, into the 
 Great Meadows, which, like a broad moccasin 
 print, have leveled a fertile and juicy place in 
 nature. 
 
 On Ponkawtasset, since we took our way 
 Down this still stream to far Billericay, 
 A poet wise has settled, whose fine ray 
 Doth often shine on Concord s twilight day. 
 
 Like those first stars, whose silver beams on high, 
 Shining more brightly as the day goes by, 
 Most travelers cannot at first descry, 
 But eyes that wont to range the evening sky, 
 
 And know celestial lights, do plainly see, 
 And gladly hail them, numbering two or three ; 
 For lore that s deep must deeply studied be, 
 As from deep wells men read star-poetry. 
 
 These stars are never paled, though out of sight, 
 But like the sun they shine forever bright; 
 
SATURDAY 21 
 
 Ay, they are suns, though earth must in its flight 
 Put out its eyes that it may see their light. 
 
 Who would neglect the least celestial sound, 
 Or faintest light that falls on earthly ground, 
 If he could know it one day would be found 
 That star in Cygnus whither we are bound, 
 And pale our sun with heavenly radiance round ? 
 
 Gradually the village murmur subsided, and 
 we seemed to be embarked on the placid current 
 of our dreams, floating from past to future as 
 silently as one awakes to fresh morning or even 
 ing thoughts. We glided noiselessly down the 
 stream, occasionally driving a pickerel or a 
 bream from the covert of the pads, and the 
 smaller bittern now and then sailed away on 
 sluggish wings from some recess in the shore, 
 or the larger lifted itself out of the long grass 
 at our approach, and carried its precious legs 
 away to deposit them in a place of safety. The 
 tortoises also rapidly dropped into the water, 
 as our boat ruffled the surface amid the wil 
 lows, breaking the reflections of the trees. The 
 banks had passed the height of their beauty, 
 and some of the brighter flowers showed by 
 their faded tints that the season was verging 
 towards the afternoon of the year; but this 
 sombre tinge enhanced their sincerity, and in 
 the still unabated heats they seemed like the 
 mossy brink of some cool well. The narrow- 
 
22 A WEEK 
 
 leaved willow (Salix Purshiana) lay along the 
 surface of the water in masses of light green 
 foliage, interspersed with the large balls of the 
 button-bush. The small rose-colored polygonum 
 raised its head proudly above the water on 
 either hand, and flowering at this season and in 
 these localities, in front of dense fields of the 
 white species which skirted the sides of the 
 stream, its little streak of red looked very rare 
 and precious. The pure white blossoms of the 
 arrow-head stood in the shallower parts, and a 
 few cardinals on the margin still proudly sur 
 veyed themselves reflected in the water, though 
 the latter, as well as the pickerel-weed, was now 
 nearly out of blossom. The snake-head ( Che- 
 lone glabrd) grew close to the shore, while a 
 kind of coreopsis, turning its brazen face to the 
 sun, full and rank, and a tall, dull red flower 
 (JEupatorium purpureum, or trumpet - weed) 
 formed the rear rank of the fluvial array. The 
 bright blue flowers of the soapwort gentian 
 were sprinkled here and there in the adjacent 
 meadows, like flowers which Proserpine had 
 dropped, and still farther in the fields or higher 
 on the bank were seen the purple Gerardia, the 
 Virginian rhexia, and drooping neottia or la 
 dies -tresses; while from the more distant way 
 sides which we occasionally passed, and banks 
 where the sun had lodged, was reflected still a 
 
SATURDAY 23 
 
 dull yellow beam from the ranks of tansy, now 
 past its prime. In short, Nature seemed to 
 have adorned herself for our departure with a 
 profusion of fringes and curls, mingled with the 
 bright tints of flowers, reflected in the water. 
 But we missed the white water-lily, which is the 
 queen of river flowers, its reign being over for 
 this season. He makes his voyage too late, 
 perhaps, by a true water clock who delays so 
 long. Many of this species inhabit our Con 
 cord water. I have passed down the river be 
 fore sunrise on a summer morning, between 
 fields of lilies still shut in sleep ; and when, at 
 length, the flakes of sunlight from over the 
 bank fell on the surface of the water, whole 
 fields of white blossoms seemed to flash open 
 before me, as I floated along, like the unfolding 
 of a banner, so sensible is this flower to the 
 influence of the sun s rays. 
 
 As we were floating through the last of these 
 familiar meadows, we observed the large and 
 conspicuous flowers of the hibiscus, covering 
 the dwarf willows and mingled with the leaves 
 of the grape, and wished that we could inform 
 one of our friends behind of the locality of this 
 somewhat rare and inaccessible flower before it 
 was too late to pluck it ; but we were just glid 
 ing out of sight of the village spire before it 
 occurred to us that the farmer in the adjacent 
 
24 A WEEK 
 
 meadow would go to church on the morrow, and 
 would carry this news for us; and so by the 
 Monday, while we should be floating on the 
 Merrimack, our friend would be reaching to 
 pluck this blossom on the bank of the Concord. 
 
 After a pause at Ball s Hill, the St. Ann s 
 of Concord voyageurs, not to say any prayer 
 for the success of our voyage, but to gather the 
 few berries which were still left on the hills, 
 hanging by very slender threads, we weighed 
 anchor again, and were soon out of sight of our 
 native village. The land seemed to grow fairer 
 as we withdrew from it. Far away to the 
 southwest lay the quiet village, left alone under 
 its elms and button woods in mid-afternoon ; and 
 the hills, notwithstanding their blue, ethereal 
 faces, seemed to cast a saddened eye on their 
 old playfellows ; but, turning short to the north, 
 we bade adieu to their familiar outlines, and 
 addressed ourselves to new scenes and adven 
 tures. Naught was familiar but the heavens, 
 from under whose roof the voyageur nevei 
 passes; but with their countenance, and the 
 acquaintance we had with river and wood, we 
 trusted to fare well under any circumstances. 
 
 From this point the river runs perfectly 
 straight for a mile or more to Carlisle Bridge, 
 which consists of twenty wooden piers, and 
 when we looked back over it, its surface was 
 
SATURDAY 25 
 
 reduced to a line s breadth, and appeared like 
 a cobweb gleaming in the sun. Here and there 
 might be seen a pole sticking up, to mark the 
 place where some fisherman had enjoyed unusual 
 luck, and in return had consecrated his rod to 
 the deities who preside over these shallows. It 
 was full twice as broad as before, deep and 
 tranquil, with a muddy bottom, and bordered 
 with willows, beyond which spread broad la 
 goons covered with pads, bulrushes, and flags. 
 
 Late in the afternoon we passed a man on the 
 shore fishing with a long birch pole, its silvery 
 bark left on, and a dog at his side, rowing so 
 near as to agitate his cork with our oars, and 
 drive away luck for a season ; and when we had 
 rowed a mile as straight as an arrow, with our 
 faces turned towards him, and the bubbles in 
 our wake still visible on the tranquil surface, 
 there stood the fisher still with his dog, like 
 statues under the other side of the heavens, the 
 only objects to relieve the eye in the extended 
 meadow ; and there would he stand abiding his 
 luck, till he took his way home through the 
 fields at evening with his fish. Thus, by one 
 bait or another, Nature allures inhabitants into 
 all her recesses. This man was the last of our 
 townsmen whom we saw, and we silently 
 through him bade adieu to our friends* 
 
26 A WEEK 
 
 *i^* 
 
 The characteristics and pursuits of various 
 ages and races of men are always existing in 
 epitome in every neighborhood. The pleasures 
 of my earliest youth have become the inherit 
 ance of other men. This man is still a fisher, 
 and belongs to an era in which I myself have 
 lived. Perchance he is not confounded by 
 many knowledges, and has not sought out many 
 inventions, but how to take many fishes before 
 the sun sets, with his slender birchen pole and 
 flaxen line, that is invention enough for him. 
 It is good even to be a fisherman in summer 
 and in winter. Some men are judges, these 
 August days, sitting on benches, even till the 
 court rises; they sit judging there honorably, 
 between the seasons and between meals, leading 
 a civil politic life, arbitrating in the case of 
 Spaulding versus Cummings, it may be, from 
 highest noon till the red vesper sinks into the 
 west. The fisherman, meanwhile, stands in 
 three feet of water, under the same summer s 
 sun, arbitrating in other cases between muck 
 worm and shiner, amid the fragrance of water- 
 lilies, mint, and pontederia, leading his life 
 many rods from the dry land, within a pole s 
 length of where the larger fishes swim. Human 
 life is to him very much like a river, 
 
 " re mi ing aie downward to the sea." 
 
SATURDAY 27 
 
 This was his observation. His honor made a 
 great discovery in bailments. 
 
 I can just remember an old brown-coated 
 man who was the Walton of this stream, who 
 had come over from Newcastle, England, with 
 his son, the latter a stout and hearty man 
 who had lifted an anchor in his day. A straight 
 old man he was, who took his way in silence 
 through the meadows, having passed the period 
 of communication with his fellows ; his old ex 
 perienced coat, hanging long and straight and 
 brown as the yellow-pine bark, glittering with 
 so much smothered sunlight, if you stood near 
 enough, no work of art but naturalized at 
 length. I often discovered him unexpectedly 
 amid the pads and the gray willows when he 
 moved, fishing in some old country method, 
 for youth and age then went a-fishing together, 
 full of incommunicable thoughts, perchance 
 about his own Tyne and Northumberland. He 
 was always to be seen in serene afternoons 
 haunting the river, and almost rustling with the 
 sedge; so many sunny hours in an old man s 
 life, entrapping silly fish; almost grown to be 
 the sun s familiar; what need had he of hat or 
 raiment any, having served out his time, and 
 seen through such thin disguises ? I have seen 
 how his coeval fates rewarded him with the yel 
 low perch, and yet I thought his luck was not 
 
28 A WEEK 
 
 in proportion to his years; and I have seen 
 when, with slow steps and weighed down with 
 aged thoughts, he disappeared with his fish 
 tinder his low-roofed house on the skirts of the 
 village. I think nobody else saw him; nobody 
 else remembers him now, for he soon after died, 
 and migrated to new Tyne streams. His fishing 
 was not a sport, nor solely a means of subsist 
 ence, but a sort of solemn sacrament and with 
 drawal from the world, just as the aged read 
 their Bibles. x 
 
 Whether we live by the seaside, or by the 
 lakes and rivers, or on the prairie, it concerns 
 us to attend to the nature of fishes, since they 
 are not phenomena confined to certain localities 
 only, but forms and phases of the life in nature 
 universally dispersed. The countless shoals 
 which annually coast the shores of Europe and 
 America are not so interesting to the student 
 of nature as the more fertile law itself, which 
 deposits their spawn on the tops of mountains 
 and on the interior plains ; the fish principle in 
 nature, from which it results that they may be 
 found in water in so many places, in greater or 
 less numbers. The natural historian is not a 
 fisherman who prays for cloudy days and good 
 luck merely; but as fishing has been styled "a 
 contemplative man s recreation," introducing 
 
SATURDAY 29 
 
 him profitably to woods and water, so the fruit 
 of the naturalist s observations is not in new 
 genera or species, but in new contemplations 
 still, and .science is only a-onore contemplative 
 man s recreation. The seeds of the life of fishes 
 are everywhere disseminated, whether the winds 
 waft them, or the waters float them, or the deep 
 earth holds them; wherever a pond is dug, 
 straightway it is stocked with this vivacious 
 race. They have a lease of nature, and it is 
 not yet out. The Chinese are bribed to carry 
 their ova from province to province in jars or 
 in hollow reeds, or the water-birds to transport 
 them to the mountain tarns and interior lakes. 
 There are fishes wherever there is a fluid me 
 dium, and even in clouds and in melted metals 
 we detect their semblance. Think how in win 
 ter you can sink a line down straight in a 
 pasture through snow and through ice, and pull 
 up a bright, slippery, dumb, subterranean silver 
 or golden fish! It is curious, also, to reflect 
 how they make one family, from the largest to 
 the smallest. The least minnow that lies on the 
 ice as bait for pickerel looks like a huge sea- 
 fish cast up on the shore. In the waters of 
 this town there are about a dozen distinct spe 
 cies, though the inexperienced would expect 
 many more. 
 
30 A WEEK 
 
 It enhances our sense of the grand security 
 and serenity of nature to observe the still uiir 
 disturbed pnnnnmy and content of the fishes 
 of this century, their happiness a regular fruit 
 of the summer. The Fresh- Water Sun-Fish, 
 Bream, or Ruff (JPomotis wilgaris), as it were, 
 without ancestry, without posterity, still repre 
 sents the Fresh-Water Sun-Fish in nature. It 
 is the most common of all, and seen on every 
 urchin s string; a simple and inoffensive fish, 
 whose nests are visible all along the shore, hol 
 lowed in the sand, over which it is steadily 
 poised through the summer hours on waving 
 fin. Sometimes there are twenty or thirty nests 
 in the space of a few rods, two feet wide by half 
 a foot in depth, and made with no little labor, 
 the weeds being removed, and the sand shoved 
 up on the sides, like a bowl. Here it may be 
 seen early in summer assiduously brooding, and 
 driving away minnows and larger fishes, even 
 its own species, which would disturb its ova, 
 pursuing them a few feet, and circling round 
 swiftly to its nest again; the minnows, like 
 young sharks, instantly entering the empty 
 nests, meanwhile, and swallowing the spawn, 
 which is attached to the weeds and to the bot 
 tom, on the sunny side. The spawn is exposed 
 to so many dangers that a very small propor 
 tion can ever become fishes, for beside being 
 
SATURDAY 31 
 
 the constant prey of birds and fishes, a great 
 many nests are made so near the shore, in shal 
 low water, that they are left dry in a few days, 
 as the river goes down. These and the lam 
 prey s are the only fishes nests that I have ob 
 served, though the ova of some species may be 
 seen floating on the surface. The breams are 
 so careful of their charge that you may stand 
 close by in the water and examine them at your 
 leisure. I have thus stood over them half an 
 hour at a time, and stroked them familiarly 
 without frightening them, suffering them to 
 nibble my fingers harmlessly, and seen them 
 erect their dorsal fins in anger when my hand 
 approached their ova, and have even taken them 
 gently out of the water with my hand ; though 
 this cannot be accomplished by a sudden move 
 ment, however dexterous, for instant warning is 
 conveyed to them through their denser element, 
 but only by letting the fingers gradually close 
 about them as they are poised over the palm, 
 and with the utmost gentleness raising them 
 slowly to the surface. Though stationary, they 
 kept up a constant sculling or waving motion 
 with their fins, which is exceedingly graceful, 
 and expressive of their humble happiness; for 
 unlike_ours, the_element in which theyJHjve_is 
 a stream whio.h must- be constantly resisted. 
 From time to time they nibble the weeds at the 
 
32 A WEEK 
 
 bottom or overhanging their nests, or dart after 
 a fly or a worm. The dorsal fin, besides an 
 swering the purpose of a keel, with the anal, 
 serves to keep the fish upright, for in shallow 
 water, where this is not covered, they fall on 
 their sides. As you stand thus stooping over 
 the bream in its nest, the edges of the dorsal 
 and caudal fins have a singular dusty golden 
 reflection, and its eyes, which stand out from 
 the head, are transparent and colorless. Seen 
 in its native element, it is a very beautiful and 
 compact .fish, perfect in all its parts, and looks 
 like a brijy^aiil-Cinii-Jresh-i^^ It is 
 
 a perfect jewel of the river, the green, red, cop 
 pery, and golden reflections of its mottled sides 
 being the concentration of such rays as struggle 
 through the floating pads and flowers to the 
 sandy bottom, and in harmony with the sunlit 
 brown and yellow pebbles. Behind its watery 
 shield it dwells far from many accidents inevi-/ 
 table to human life. 
 
 There is also another species of bream found 
 in our river, without the red spot on the oper- 
 culum, which, according to M. Agassiz, is un- 
 described. 
 
 The Common Perch (Percaflavescens, which 
 name describes well the gleaming, golden re 
 flections of its scales as it is drawn out of the 
 water, its red gills standing out in vain in the 
 
SATURDAY 33 
 
 thin element) is one of the handsomest and most 
 regularly formed of our fishes, and at such a 
 moment as this reminds us of the fish in the 
 picture which wished to be restored to its native 
 element until it had grown larger ; and indeed 
 most of this species that are caught are not half 
 grown. In the ponds there is a light-colored 
 and slender kind, which swim in shoals of many 
 hundreds in the sunny water, in company with 
 the shiner, averaging not more than six or 
 seven inches in length, while only a few larger 
 specimens are found in the deepest water, which 
 prey upon their weaker brethren. I have often 
 attracted these small perch to the shore at even 
 ing, by rippling the water with my fingers, and 
 they may sometimes be caught while attempting 
 to pass inside your hands. It is a tough and 
 heedless fish, biting from impulse, without nib 
 bling, and from impulse refraining to bite, and 
 sculling indifferently past. It rather prefers 
 the clear water and sandy bottoms, though here 
 it has not much choice. It is a true fish, such 
 as the angler loves to put into his basket or 
 hang at the top of his willow twig, in shady 
 afternoons along the banks of the stream. So 
 many unquestionable fishes he counts, and so 
 many shiners, which he counts and then throws 
 away. Old Josselyn in his "New England s 
 Rarities," published in 1672, mentions the 
 Perch or River Partridge. 
 
84 A WEEK 
 
 The Chivin, Dace, Roach, Cousin Trout, or 
 whatever else it is called (Leuciscus pulchellus), 
 white and red, is always an unexpected prize, 
 which, however, any angler is glad to hook for 
 its rarity; a name that reminds us of many 
 an unsuccessful ramble by swift streams, when 
 the wind rose to disappoint the fisher. It is 
 commonly a silvery soft-scaled fish, of graceful, 
 scholarlike, and classical look, like many a pic 
 ture in an English book. It loves a swift cur 
 rent and a sandy bottom, and bites inadvertently, 
 yet not without appetite for the bait. The 
 minnows are used as bait for pickerel in the 
 winter. The red chivin, according to some, is 
 still the same fish, only older, or with its tints 
 deepened as they think by the darker water it 
 inhabits, as the red clouds swim in the twilight 
 atmosphere. He who has not hooked the red 
 chivin is not yet a complete angler. Other 
 fishes, methinks, are slightly amphibious, but 
 this is a denizen of the water wholly. The cork 
 goes dancing down the swift-rushing stream, 
 amid the weeds and sands, when suddenly, by 
 a coincidence never to be remembered, emerges 
 this fabulous inhabitant of another element, a 
 thing heard of but not seen, as if it were the 
 instant creation of an eddy, a true product of 
 the running stream. And this bright cupreous 
 dolphin was spawned and has passed its life be* 
 
SATURDAY 35 
 
 neath the level of your feet in your native fields. 
 Fishes too, as well as birds and clouds, derive 
 their armor from the mine. I have heard of 
 mackerel visiting the copper banks at a particu 
 lar season ; this fish, perchance, has its habitat 
 in the Coppermine River. I have caught white 
 chivin of great size in the Aboljacknagesic, 
 where it empties into the Penobscot, at the base 
 of Mount Ktaadn, but no red ones there. The 
 latter variety seems not to have been sufficiently 
 observed. 
 
 The Dace (Leuciscus argenteus) is a slight 
 silvery minnow, found generally in the middle 
 of the stream where the current is most rapid, 
 and frequently confounded with the last named. 
 
 The Shiner (Leuciscus chrysoleucus) is a soft- 
 scaled and tender fish, the victim of its stronger 
 neighbors, found in all places, deep and shal 
 low, clear and turbid; generally the first nib- 
 bier at the bait, but, with its small mouth and 
 nibbling propensities, not easily caught. It is 
 a erold or silver bit that passes current in the 
 
 O A 
 
 river, its limber tail dimpling the surface in 
 sport or flight. I have seen the fry, when 
 frightened by something thrown into the water, 
 leap out by dozens, together with the dace, and 
 wreck themselves upon a floating plank. It is 
 the little light-infant of the river, with body 
 armor of gold or silver spangles, slipping, glid- 
 
36 A WEEK 
 
 ing its life through with a quirk of the tail, 
 half in the water, half in the air, upward and 
 ever upward with flitting fin to more crystalline 
 tides, yet still abreast of us dwellers on the 
 bank. It is almost dissolved by the summer 
 heats. A slighter and lighter colored shiner is 
 found in one of our ponds. 
 
 The Pickerel (Esox reticulatus), the swiftest, 
 wariest, and most ravenous of fishes, which 
 Josselyn calls the Fresh- Water or River Wolf, 
 is very common in the shallow and weedy la 
 goons along the sides of the stream. It is a 
 solemn, stately, ruminant fish, lurking under 
 the shadow of a pad at noon, with still, circum 
 spect, voracious eye, motionless as a jewel set 
 in water, or moving slowly along to take up its 
 position, darting from time to time at such un 
 lucky fish or frog or insect as comes within its 
 range, and swallowing it at a gulp. I have 
 caught one which had swallowed a brother pick 
 erel half as large as itself, with the tail still 
 visible in its mouth, while the head was already 
 digested in its stomach. Sometimes a striped 
 snake, bound to greener meadows across the 
 stream, ends its undulatory progress in the 
 same receptacle. They are so greedy and im 
 petuous that they are frequently caught by 
 being entangled in the line the moment it is 
 cast. Fishermen also distinguish the brook 
 
SATURDAY 37 
 
 pickerel, a shorter and thicker fish than the 
 former. 
 
 The Horned Pout (Plmelodus nebulosus\ 
 sometimes called Minister, from the peculiar 
 squeaking noise it makes when drawn out of the 
 water, is a dull and blundering fellow, and, like 
 the eel, vespertinal in his habits and fond of 
 the mud. It bites deliberately, as if about its 
 business. They are taken at night with a mass 
 of worms strung on a thread, which catches in 
 their teeth, sometimes three or four, with an 
 eel, at one pull. They are extremely tenacious 
 of life, opening and shutting their mouths for 
 half an hour after their heads have been cut off ; 
 a bloodthirsty and bullying race of rangers, 
 inhabiting the fertile river bottoms, with ever a 
 lance in rest, and ready to do battle with their 
 nearest neighbor. I have observed them in 
 summer, when every other one had a long and 
 bloody scar upon his back, where the skin was 
 gone, the mark, perhaps, of some fierce encoun 
 ter. Sometimes the fry, not an inch long, are 
 seen darkening the shore with their myriads. 
 
 The Suckers (Catostomi JSostonienses an 
 tuberculati). Common and Horned, perhaps on 
 an average the largest of our fishes, may be seen 
 in shoals of a hundred or more, stemming the 
 current in the sun, on their mysterious migra 
 tions, and sometimes sucking in the bait which 
 
38 A WEEK 
 
 the fisherman suffers to float toward them. 
 The former, which sometimes grow to a large 
 size, are frequently caught by the hand in the 
 brooks, or like the red chivin are jerked out by 
 a hook fastened firmly to the end of a stick, and 
 placed under their jaws. They are hardly 
 known to the mere angler, however, not often 
 biting at his baits, though the spearer carries 
 home many a mess in the spring. To our vil 
 lage eyes, these shoals have a foreign and im 
 posing aspect, realizing the fertility of the seas. 
 
 The Common Eel, too (.Murcena Bostonien- 
 SiY),the only species of eel known in the State, a 
 slimy, squirming creature, informed of mud, 
 still squirming in the pan, is speared and 
 hooked up with various success. Methinks it 
 too occurs in picture, left after the deluge, in 
 many a meadow high and dry. 
 
 In the shallow parts of the river, where the 
 current is rapid and the bottom pebbly, you 
 may sometimes see the curious circular nests 
 of the Lamprey Eel (Petromyzon Americanus), 
 the American Stone-Sucker, as large as a cart 
 wheel, a foot or two in height, and sometimes 
 rising half a foot above the surface of the water. 
 They collect these stones, of the size of a hen s 
 egg, with their mouths, as their name implies, 
 and are said to fashion them into circles with 
 their tails. They ascend falls by clinging to 
 
SATURDAY 39 
 
 the stones, which may sometimes be raised by 
 lifting the fish by the tail. As they are not 
 seen on their way down the streams, it is 
 thought by fishermen that they never return, 
 but waste away and die, clinging to rocks and 
 stumps of trees for an indefinite period ; a tragic 
 feature in the scenery of the river bottoms wor 
 thy to be remembered with Shakespeare s de 
 scription of the sea-floor. They are rarely seen 
 in our waters at present, on account of the 
 dams, though they are taken in great quantities 
 at the mouth of the river in Lowell. Their 
 nests, which are very conspicuous, look more 
 like art than anything in the river. 
 
 If we had leisure this afternoon, we might 
 turn our prow up the brooks in quest of the 
 classical trout and the minnows. Of the last 
 alone, according to M. Agassiz, several of the 
 species found in this town are yet undescribed. 
 These would, perhaps, complete the list of our 
 finny contemporaries in the Concord waters. 
 
 Salmon, Shad, and Alewives were formerly 
 abundant here, and taken in weirs by the In 
 dians, who taught this method to the whites, 
 by whom they were used as food and as manure, 
 until the dam and afterward the canal at Bil- 
 lerica, and the factories at Lowell, put an end 
 to their migrations hitherward; though it is 
 thought that a few more enterprising shad may 
 
40 A WEEK 
 
 still occasionally be seen in this part of the 
 river. It is said, to account for the destruction 
 of the fishery, that those who at that time rep 
 resented the interests of the fishermen and the 
 fishes, remembering between what dates they 
 were accustomed to take the grown shad, stipu 
 lated that the dams should be left open for that 
 season only, and the fry, which go down a 
 month later, were consequently stopped and 
 destroyed by myriads. Others say that the 
 fish- ways were not properly constructed. Per 
 chance, after a few thousands of years, if the 
 fishes will be patient, and pass their summers 
 elsewhere meanwhile, nature will have leveled 
 the Billerica dam, and the Lowell factories, and 
 the Grass-ground River run clear again, to 
 be explored by new migratory shoals, even as 
 far as the Hopkinton pond and Westborough 
 swamp. 
 
 One would like to know more of that race, 
 now extinct, whose seines lie rotting in the gar 
 rets of their children, who openly professed the 
 trade of fishermen, and even fed their townsmen 
 creditably, not skulking through the meadows 
 to a rainy afternoon sport. Dim visions we still 
 get of miraculous draughts of fishes, and heaps 
 uncountable by the river-side, from the tales of 
 our seniors sent on horseback in their childhood 
 from the neighboring towns, perched on saddle- 
 
SATURDAY 41 
 
 bags, with instructions to get the one bag filled 
 with shad, the other with ale wives. At least 
 one memento of those days may still exist in 
 the memory of this generation, in the familiar 
 appellation of a celebrated train-band of this 
 town, whose untrained ancestors stood credita 
 bly at Concord North Bridge. Their captain, 
 a man of piscatory tastes, having duly warned 
 his company to turn out on a certain day, they, 
 like obedient soldiers, appeared promptly on 
 parade at the appointed time, but, unfortu 
 nately, they went undrilled, except in the ma 
 noeuvres of a soldier s wit and unlicensed jesting, 
 that May day ; for their captain, forgetting his 
 own appointment, and warned only by the fa 
 vorable aspect of the heavens, as he had often 
 done before, went a-fishing that afternoon, and 
 his company thenceforth was known to old and 
 young, grave and gay, as "The Shad," and by 
 the youths of this vicinity this was long re 
 garded as the proper name of all the irregular 
 militia in Christendom. But, alas! no record 
 of these fishers lives remains that we know, 
 unless it be one brief page of hard but unques 
 tionable history, which occurs in Day Book No. 
 4, of an old trader of this town, long since dead, 
 which shows pretty plainly what constituted a 
 fisherman s stock in trade in those days. It 
 purports to be a Fisherman s Account Current, 
 
42 A WEEK 
 
 probably for the fishing season of the year 1805, 
 during which months he purchased daily rum 
 and sugar, sugar and rum, N. E. and W. L, 
 "one cod line," "one brown mug," and "a line 
 for the seine; " rum and sugar, sugar and rum, 
 "good loaf sugar," and "good brown," W. I. 
 and N. E., in short and uniform entries to the 
 bottom of the page, all carried out in pounds, 
 shillings, and pence, from March 25 to June 5, 
 and promptly settled by receiving "cash in 
 full " at the last date. But perhaps not so set 
 tled altogether. These were the necessaries of 
 life in those days ; with salmon, shad, and ale- 
 wives, fresh and pickled, he was thereafter in 
 dependent on the groceries. Kather a prepon 
 derance of the fluid elements ; but such is the 
 fisherman s nature. I can faintly remember to 
 have seen this same fisher in my earliest youth, 
 still as near the river as he could get, with un 
 certain, undulatory step, after so many things 
 had gone downstream, swinging a scythe in the 
 meadow, his bottle like a serpent hid in the 
 grass ; himself as yet not cut down by the Great 
 Mower. 
 
 Surely the fates are forever kind, though Na 
 ture s laws are more immutable than any des 
 pot s, yet to man s daily life they rarely seem 
 rigid, but permit him to relax with license in 
 summer weather. He is not harshly reminded 
 
SATURDAY 43 
 
 of the things he may not do. She is very kind 
 and liberal to all men of vicious habits, and 
 certainly does not deny them quarter; they do 
 not die without priest. Still they maintain life 
 along the way, keeping this side the Styx, still 
 hearty, still resolute, "never better in their 
 lives;" and again, after a dozen years have 
 elapsed, they start up from behind a hedge, 
 asking for work and wages for able-bodied men. 
 Who has not met such 
 
 " a beggar on the way, 
 Who sturdily could gang ? . . . 
 Who cared neither for wind nor wet, 
 In lands where er he past ? " 
 
 " That bold adopts each house he views, his own ; 
 Makes every purse his checquer, and, at pleasure, 
 Walks forth, and taxes all the world, like Caesar ;" 
 
 as if consistency were the secret of health, while 
 the poor inconsistent aspirant man, seeking to 
 live a pure life, feeding on air, divided against 
 himself, cannot stand, but pines and dies after 
 a life of sickness, on beds of down. 
 
 The unwise are accustomed to speak as if 
 some were not sick ; but methinks the difference 
 between men in respect to health is not great 
 enough to lay much stress upon. Some are 
 reputed sick and some are not. It often hap- 
 pens that the sicker man is the nurse Jfcojbhe 
 
44 A WEEK 
 
 Shad are still taken in the basin of Concord 
 River, at Lowell, where they are said to be a 
 month earlier than the Merrimack shad, on ac 
 count of the warmth of the water. Still pa 
 tiently, almost pathetically, with instinct not to 
 be discouraged, not to be reasoned with, revis 
 iting their old haunts, as if their stern fates 
 would relent, and still met by the Cktcporatipn 
 with its dam. Poor shad ! where is thy redress ? 
 When Nature gave thee instinct, gave she thee 
 the heart to bear thy fate? Still wandering the 
 sea in thy scaly armor to inquire humbly at the 
 mouths of rivers if man has perchance left them 
 free for thee to enter. By countless shoals loi 
 tering uncertain meanwhile, merely stemming 
 the tide there, in danger from sea foes in spite 
 of thy bright armor, awaiting new instructions, 
 until the sands, until the water itself, tell thee 
 if it be so or not. Thus by whole migrating 
 nations, full of Jnstinct T which is thy faith, T in 
 this backward spring, turned adrift, and per 
 chance knowest not where men do not dwell, 
 where there are not factories, in these days. 
 Armed with no sword, no electric shock, but 
 mere Shad, ^armfid-o.nly with innocence and a 
 _just_caiise, with tender dumb mouth only for 
 ward, and scales easy to be detached. I for one 
 am with thee, and who knows what may avail a 
 crow-bar against that Billerica dam? Not de- 
 
SATURDAY 45 
 
 spairing when whole myriads have gone to feed 
 those sea monsters during thy suspense, but 
 still brave, indifferent, on easy fin there, like 
 shad reserved for higher destinies. Willing to 
 be decimated for man s behoof after the spawn 
 ing season. Away with the superficial and self 
 ish phil-anthropy of men, who knows what 
 admirable virtue of fishes may be below low- 
 water-mark, bearing up against a hard destiny, 
 not admired by that fellow-creature who alone 
 can appreciate it ! Who hears the fishes when 
 they cry? It will not be forgotten by some 
 memory that we were contemporaries. Thou 
 shalt erelong have thy way up the rivers, up all 
 the rivers of the globe, if I am not mistaken. 
 Yea, even thy dull watery dream shall be more 
 than realized. If it were not so, but thou wert 
 to be overlooked at first and at last, then would 
 not I take their heaven. Yes, I say so, who 
 think I know better than thou canst. Keep a 
 stiff fin, then, and stem all the tides thou mayst 
 meet. 
 
 At length it would seem that the interests, 
 not of the fishes only, but of the men of Way- 
 land, of Sudbury, of Concord, demand the 
 leveling of that dam. Innumerable acres of 
 meadow are waiting to be made dry land, wild 
 native grass to give place to English. The 
 farmers stand with scythes whet, waiting the 
 
46 A WEEK 
 
 subsiding of the waters, by gravitation, by 
 evaporation, or otherwise, but sometimes their 
 eyes do not rest, their wheels do not roll, on the 
 quaking meadow ground during the haying sea 
 son at all. So many sources of wealth inacces 
 sible. They rate the loss hereby incurred in 
 the single town of Wayland alone as equal to 
 the expense of keeping a hundred yoke of oxen 
 the year round. One year, as I learn, not long 
 ago, the farmers standing ready to drive their 
 teams afield as usual, the water gave no signs of 
 falling; without new attraction in the heavens, 
 without freshet or visible cause, still standing 
 stagnant at an unprecedented height. All hy 
 drometers were at fault ; some trembled for their 
 English, even. But speedy emissaries revealed 
 the unnatural secret, in the new float-board, 
 wholly a foot in width, added to their already 
 too high privileges by the dam proprietors. 
 The hundred yoke of oxen, meanwhile, standing 
 patient, gazing wishfully meadowward, at that 
 inaccessible waving native grass, uncut but by 
 the grgat TMQWftT- J^inm, who cuts so broad a 
 swathe, without so much as a wisp to wind 
 about their horns. 
 
 That was a long pull from Ball s Hill to Car 
 lisle Bridge, sitting with our faces to the south, 
 a slight breeze rising from the north; but nev- 
 
SATURDAY 47 
 
 ertheless water still runs and grass grows, for 
 now, having passed the bridge between Carlisle 
 and Bedford, we see men haying far off in 
 the meadow, their heads waving like the grass 
 which they cut. In the distance the wind 
 seemed to bend all alike. As the night stole 
 over, such a freshness was wafted across the 
 meadow that every blade of cut grass seemed 
 to teem with life. Faint purple clouds began 
 to be reflected in the water, and the cow-bells 
 tinkled louder along the banks, while, like sly 
 water-rats, we stole along nearer the shore, 
 looking for a place to pitch our camp. 
 
 At length, when we had made about seven 
 miles, as far as Billerica, we moored our boat 
 on the west side of a little rising ground which 
 in the spring forms an island in the river. 
 Here we found huckleberries still hanging upon 
 the bushes, where they seemed to have slowly 
 ripened for our especial use. Bread and sugar, 
 and cocoa boiled in river water, made our re 
 past, and as we had drank in the fluvial pros 
 pect all day, so now we took a draft of the 
 water with our evening meal to propitiate the 
 river gods, and whet our vision for the sights it 
 was to behold. The sun was setting on the one 
 hand, while our eminence was contributing its 
 shadow to the night on the other. It seemed 
 insensibly to grow lighter as the night shut in, 
 
48 A WEEK 
 
 and a distant and solitary farm-house was re 
 vealed, which before lurked in the shadows of 
 the noon. There was no other house in sight, 
 nor any cultivated field. To the right and left, 
 as far as the horizon, were straggling pine wood; 
 with their plumes against the sky, and acros;^ 
 the river were rugged hills, covered with shrub 
 oaks, tangled with grape-vines and ivy, with 
 here and there a gray rock jutting out from the 
 maze. The sides of these cliffs, though a quar 
 ter of a mile distant, were almost heard to rustle 
 while we looked at them, it was such a leafy 
 wilderness; a place for fauns and satyrs, and 
 where bats hung all day to the rocks, and at 
 evening flitted over the water, and fire -flies 
 husbanded their light under the grass and leaves 
 against the night. When we had pitched our 
 tent on the hillside, a few rods from the shore, 
 we sat looking through its triangular door in 
 the twilight at our lonely mast on the shore just 
 seen above the alders, and hardly yet come to a 
 standstill from the swaying of the stream ; the 
 first encroachment of commerce on this land. 
 There was our port, our Ostia. That straight, 
 geometrical line against the water and the sky 
 stood for the last refinements of civilized life, 
 and what of sublimity there is in history was 
 there symbolized. 
 
 For the most part, there was no recognition 
 
SATURDAY 49 
 
 of human life in the night, no human breathing 
 was heard, only the breathing of the wind. As 
 we sat up, kept awake by the novelty of our 
 situation, we heard at intervals foxes stepping 
 about over the dead leaves, and brushing the 
 dewy grass close to our tent, and once a mus 
 quash fumbling among the potatoes and melons 
 in our boat; but when we hastened to the shore 
 we could detect only a ripple in the water ruf 
 fling the disk of a star. At intervals we were 
 serenaded by the song of a dreaming sparrow or 
 the throttled cry of an owl; but after each sound 
 which near at hand broke the stillness of the 
 night, each crackling of the twigs, or rustling 
 among the leaves, there was a sudden pause, 
 and deeper and more conscious silence, as if the 
 intruder were aware that no life was rightfully 
 abroad at that hour. There was a fire in Low 
 ell, as we judged, this night, and we saw the 
 horizon blazing, and heard the distant alarm- 
 bells, as it were a faint tinkling music borne 
 to these woods. But the most constant and 
 memorable sound of a summer s night, which 
 we did not fail to hear every night afterward, 
 though at no time so incessantly and so favor 
 ably as now, was the barking of the house-dogs, 
 from the loudest and hoarsest bark to the faint 
 est aerial palpitation under the eaves of heaven, 
 from the patient but anxious mastiff to the timid 
 
50 A WEEK 
 
 and wakeful terrier, at first loud and rapid, 
 then faint and slow, to be imitated only in a 
 whisper ; wow-wow-wow-wow wo wo w w. 
 Even in a retired and uninhabited district like 
 this, it was a sufficiency of sound for the ear of 
 night, and more impressive than any music. I 
 have heard the voice of a hound, just before 
 daylight, while the stars were shining, from 
 over the woods and river, far in the horizon, 
 when it sounded as sweet and melodious as an 
 instrument. The hounding of a dog pursuing 
 a fox or other animal in the horizon may have 
 first suggested the notes of the hunting-horn 
 to alternate with and relieve the lungs of the 
 dog. This natural bugle long resounded in the 
 woods of the ancient world before the horn was 
 invented. The very dogs that sullenly bay the 
 moon from farm-yards in these nights excite 
 more heroism in our breasts than all the civil 
 exhortations or war sermons of the age. "I 
 would rather be a dog, and bay the moon," than 
 many a Roman that I know. The night is 
 equally indebted to the clarion of the cock, with 
 wakeful hope, from the very setting of the sun, 
 prematurely ushering in the dawn. All these 
 sounds, the crowing of cocks, the baying of 
 dogs, and the hum of insects at noon, are the 
 evidence of nature s health or sound state. 
 Such is the never-failing beauty and accuracy 
 
SATURDAY 51 
 
 of language, the most perfect art in the world; 
 the chisel of a thousand years retouches it. 
 
 At length the antepenultimate and drowsy 
 hours drew on, and all sounds were denied en 
 trance to our ears. 
 
 Who sleeps by day and walks by night, 
 Will meet no spirit, but some sprite. 
 
SUNDAY. 
 
 H The river calmly flows, 
 Through shining banks, through lonely glen, 
 Where the owl shrieks, though ne er the cheer of men 
 
 Has stirred its mute repose, 
 Still if you should walk there, you would go there again." 
 
 CHANNINO. 
 
 ** The Indians tell us of a beautiful river lying far to the south, which 
 they call Merrimack." SIETJB DR MONTS, Relations of the Jesuits, 1604. 
 
 IN the morning the river and adjacent coun 
 try were covered with a dense fog, through 
 which the smoke of our fire curled up like a still 
 subtiler mist; but before we had rowed many 
 rods, the sun arose and the fog rapidly dis 
 persed, leaving a slight steam only to curl along 
 the surface of the water. It was a quiet Sun 
 day morning, with more of the auroral rosy and 
 white than of the yellow light in it, as if it 
 .dated, from earlier than the fall of man, and 
 still preserved a heathenish integrity : 
 
 An early unconverted Saint, 
 
 Free from noontide or evening taint, 
 
 Heathen without reproach, 
 
 That did upon the civil day encroach, 
 
 And ever since its birth 
 
 Had trod the outskirts of the earth. 
 
 But the impressions which the morning makes 
 
54 A WEEK 
 
 vanish with its dews, and not even the most 
 "persevering mortal" can preserve the memory 
 of its freshness to midday. As we passed the 
 various islands, or what were islands in the 
 spring, rowing with our backs downstream, we 
 gave names to them. The one on which we had 
 camped we called Fox Island, and one fine 
 densely wooded island surrounded by deep water 
 and overrun by grape-vines, which looked like 
 a mass of verdure and of flowers cast upon the 
 waves, we named Grape Island. From Ball s 
 Hill to Billerica meeting-house, the river was 
 still twice as broad as in Concord, a deep, dark, 
 and dead stream, flowing between gentle hills 
 and sometimes cliffs, and well wooded all the 
 way. It was a long woodland lake bordered 
 with willows. For long reaches we could see 
 neither house nor cultivated field, nor any sign 
 of the vicinity of man. Now we coasted along 
 some shallow shore by the edge of a dense pali 
 sade of bulrushes, which straightly bounded the 
 water as if clipped by art, reminding us of the 
 reed forts of the East-Indians of which we had 
 read; and now the bank, slightly raised, was 
 overhung with graceful grasses and various 
 species of brake, whose downy stems stood 
 closely grouped and naked as in a vase, while 
 their heads spread several feet on either side. 
 The dead limbs of the willow were rounded and 
 
SUNDAY 55 
 
 adorned by the climbing mikania {Mikania 
 scandens), which filled every crevice in the leafy 
 bank, contrasting agreeably with the gray bark 
 of its supporter and the balls of the button -bush. 
 The water willow (Salix Purshiana), when it is 
 of large size and entire, is the most graceful 
 and ethereal of our trees. Its masses of light- 
 green foliage, piled one upon another to the 
 height of twenty or thirty feet, seemed to float 
 on the surface of the water, while the slight 
 gray stems and the shore were hardly visible 
 between them. No tree is so wedded to the 
 water, and harmonizes so well with still streams. 
 It is even more graceful than the weeping wil 
 low, or any pendulous trees which dip their 
 branches in the stream instead of being buoyed 
 up by it. Its limbs curved outward over the 
 surface as if attracted by it. It had not a New 
 England but an Oriental character, reminding 
 us of trim Persian gardens, of Haroun Al- 
 raschid, and the artificial lakes of the East. 
 
 As we thus dipped our way along between 
 fresh masses of foliage overrun with the grape 
 and smaller flowering vines, the surface was so 
 calm, and both air and water so transparent, 
 that the flight of a kingfisher or robin over the 
 river was as distinctly seen reflected in the 
 water below as in the air above. The birds 
 seemed to flit through submerged groves, alight* 
 
56 A WEEK 
 
 ing on the yielding sprays, and their clear notes 
 to come up from below. We were uncertain 
 whether the water floated the land, or the land 
 held the water in its bosom. It was such a sea 
 son, in short, as that in which one of our Con 
 cord poets sailed on its stream, and sung its 
 quiet glories. 
 
 " There is an inward voice, that in the stream 
 Sends forth its spirit to the listening ear, 
 And in a calm content it floweth on, 
 Like wisdom, welcome with its own respect. 
 Clear in its breast lie all these beauteous thoughts, 
 It doth receive the green and graceful trees, 
 And the gray rocks smile in its peaceful arms." 
 
 And more he sung, but too serious for our page. 
 For every oak and birch, too, growing on the 
 hill-top, as well as for these elms and willows, 
 we knew that there was a graceful ethereal and 
 ideal tree making down from the roots, and 
 sometimes Nature in high tides brings her mir^ 
 ror to its foot and makes it visible. The still- 
 ness was intense and almost conscious, as if it 
 were a natural Sabbath, and we fancied that 
 the morning was the evening of a celestial day. 
 The air was so elastic and crystalline that it 
 had the same effect on the landscape that a glass 
 has on a picture, to give it an ideal remoteness 
 and perfection. The landscape was clothed 
 in a mild and quiet light, in which the woods 
 and fences checkered and partitioned it with 
 
SUNDAY 57 
 
 new regularity, and rough and uneven fields 
 stretched away with lawn-like smoothness to 
 the horizon, and the clouds, finely distinct and 
 picturesque, seemed a fit drapery to hang over 
 fairy-land. The world seemed decked for some 
 holiday or prouder pageantry, with silken 
 streamers flying, and the course of our lives to 
 wind on before us like a green lane into a coun 
 try maze, at the season when fruit-trees are in 
 blossom. 
 
 Why should not our whole life and its scenery 
 be actually thus fair and distinct? All our 
 lives want a suitable background. They should 
 at least, like the life of the anchorite, be as im 
 pressive to behold as objects in the desert, a 
 broken shaft or crumbling mound against a lim 
 itless horizon. Character always secures for 
 itself this advantage, and is thus distinct and 
 unrelated to near or trivial objects, whether 
 things or persons. On this same stream a 
 maiden once sailed in my boat, thus unattended 
 but by invisible guardians, and as she sat in the 
 prow there was nothing but herself between the 
 steersman and the sky. I could then say with 
 the poet, 
 
 " Sweet falls the summer air 
 Over her frame who sails with me ; 
 Her way like that is beautifully free, 
 
 Her nature far more rare, 
 And is her constant heart of virgin purity." 
 
58 A WEEK 
 
 At evening, still the very stars seem but this 
 maiden s emissaries and reporters of her prog 
 ress. 
 
 Low in the eastern sky 
 Is set thy glancing eye ; 
 And though its gracious light 
 Ne er riseth to my sight, 
 Yet every star that climbs 
 Above the gnarled limbs 
 
 Of yonder hill, 
 Conveys thy gentle will. 
 
 Believe I knew thy thought, 
 And that the zephyrs brought 
 Thy kindest wishes through, 
 As mine they bear to you, 
 That some attentive cloud 
 Did pause amid the crowd 
 
 Over my head, 
 While gentle things were said. 
 
 Believe the thrushes sung, 
 And that the flower-bells rung 1 , 
 That herbs exhaled their scent, 
 And beasts knew what was meant, 
 The trees a welcome waved, 
 And lakes their margins laved, 
 
 When thy free mind 
 To my retreat did wind. 
 
 It was a summer eve, 
 The air did gently heave 
 While yet a low-hung cloud 
 Thy eastern skies did shroud ; 
 The lightning s silent gleam, 
 Startling my drowsy dream, 
 
 Seemed like the flash 
 Under thy dark eyelash. 
 
SUNDAY 69 
 
 Still will I strive to be 
 As if thou wert with me ; 
 Whatever path I take, 
 It shall be, for thy sake, 
 Of gentle slope and wide, 
 As thou wert by my side, 
 
 Without a root 
 To trip thy gentle foot. 
 
 I 11 walk with gentle pace, 
 And choose the smoothest place 
 And careful dip the oar, 
 And shun the winding shore, 
 And gently steer my boat 
 Where water-lilies float, 
 
 And cardinal flowers 
 Stand in their sylvan bowers. 
 
 It required some rudeness to disturb with our 
 boat the mirror-like surface of the water, in 
 which every twig and blade of grass was so 
 faithfully reflected; too faithfully indeed for 
 art to imitate, for only Nature may exaggerate 
 herself. The shallowest still water is unfathom 
 able. Wherever the trees and skies are re 
 flected, there is more than Atlantic depth, and 
 no danger of fancy running aground. We no 
 tice that it required a separate intention of the 
 eye, a more free and abstracted vision, to see 
 the reflected trees and the sky, than to see the 
 river bottom merely ; and so are there manifold 
 visions in the direction of every object, and 
 even the most opaque reflect the heavens from 
 their surface. Some men have their eyes natu- 
 
60 A WEEK 
 
 rally intended to the one and some to the other 
 object. 
 
 " A man that looks on glass, 
 
 On it may stay his eye, 
 Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass, 
 And the heavens espy." 
 
 Two men in a skiff, whom we passed here 
 abouts, floating buoyantly amid the reflections 
 of the trees, like a feather in mid-air, or a leaf 
 which is wafted gently from its twig to the 
 water without turning over, seemed still in 
 their element, and to have very delicately 
 availed themselves of the natural laws. Their 
 floating there was a beautiful and successful 
 experiment in natural philosophy, and it served 
 to ennoble in our eyes the art of navigation; 
 for as birds fly and fishes swim, so these men 
 sailed. It reminded us how much fairer and 
 nobler all the actions of man might be, and 
 that ^our life in its whole economy might be as 
 JbeautifuTas the^afrest works of art or nature. 
 
 The sun lodged on the old gray cliffs, ancl 
 glanced from every pad; the bulrushes and 
 flags seemed to rejoice in the delicious light 
 and air; the meadows were a-drinking at their 
 leisure; the frogs sat meditating, all sabbath 
 thoughts, summing up their week, with one eye 
 out on the golden sun, and one toe upon a reed, 
 eying the wondrous universe in which they act 
 
SUNDAY 61 
 
 their part; the fishes swam more staid and 
 soberly, as maidens go to church; shoals of 
 golden and silver minnows rose to the surface to 
 behold the heavens, and then sheered off into 
 more sombre aisles ; they swept by as if moved 
 by one mind, continually gliding past each 
 other, and yet preserving the form of their bat 
 talion unchanged, as if they were still embraced 
 by the transparent membrane which held the 
 spawn; a young band of brethren and sisters 
 trying their new fins; now they wheeled, now 
 shot ahead, and when we drove them to the 
 shore and cut them off, they dexterously tacked 
 and passed underneath the boat. Over the old 
 wooden bridges no traveler crossed, and neither 
 the river nor the fishes avoided to glide between 
 the abutments. 
 
 Here was a village not far off behind the 
 woods, Billerica, settled not long ago, and the 
 children still bear the names of the first settlers 
 in this late "howling wilderness; " yet to all in 
 tents and purposes it is as old as Fernay or as 
 Mantua, an old gray town whp.rp. mp.n grow p)d 
 .and slftpp already^-under moss-rown_ monu 
 ments^ outgrow their usefulness. This is an 
 cient Billerica ( Villarica ?), now in its dotage, 
 named from the English Billericay, and whose 
 Indian name was Shawshine. I never heard 
 that it was young. See, is not nature here gone 
 
62 A WEEK 
 
 to decay, farms all run out, meeting-house 
 grown gray and racked with age ? If you would 
 know of its early youth, ask those old gray 
 rocks in the pasture. It has a bell that sounds 
 sometimes as far as Concord woods; I have 
 heard that, ay, hear it now. No wonder that 
 such a sound startled the dreaming Indian, and 
 frightened his game, when the first bells were 
 swung on trees, and sounded through the forest 
 beyond the plantations of the white man; but 
 to-day I like best the echo amid these cliffs and 
 woods. It is no feeble imitation, but rather its 
 original, or as if some rural Orpheus played 
 over the strain again to show how it should 
 sound. 
 
 Dong, sounds the brass in the east, 
 As if to a funeral feast, 
 But I like that sound the best 
 Out of the fluttering west. 
 
 The steeple ringeth a knell, 
 But the fairies silvery bell 
 Is the voice of that gentle folk, 
 Or else the horizon that spoke. 
 
 Its metal is not of brass, 
 But air, and water, and glass, 
 And under a cloud it is swung, 
 And by the wind it is rung. 
 
 When the steeple tolleth the noon, 
 
 It soundeth not so soon, 
 
 Yet it rings a far earlier hour, 
 
 And the sun has not reached its tower. 
 
SUNDAY 63 
 
 On the other hand, the road runs up to Car 
 lisle, city of the woods, which, if it is less civil, 
 is the more natural. It does well hold the earth 
 together. It gets laughed at because it is a 
 small town, I know, but nevertheless it is a 
 place where great men may be born any day, 
 for fair winds and foul blow right on over it 
 without distinction. It has a meeting-house 
 and horse-sheds, a tavern and a blacksmith s 
 shop, for centre, and a good deal of wood to cut 
 and cord yet. And 
 
 " Bedford, most noble Bedford, 
 I shall not thee forget." 
 
 History has remembered thee; especially that 
 meek and humble petition of thy old planters, 
 like the wailing of the Lord s own people, "To 
 the gentlemen, the selectmen" of Concord, 
 praying to be erected into a separate parish. 
 We can hardly credit that so plaintive a psalm 
 resounded but little more than a century ago 
 along these Babylonish waters. "In the ex 
 treme difficult seasons of heat and cold," said 
 they, "we were ready to say of the Sabbath, 
 Behold what a weariness is it." "Gentlemen, 
 if our seeking to draw off proceed from any dis 
 affection to our present Reverend Pastor, or the 
 Christian Society with whom we have taken 
 such sweet counsel together, and walked unto 
 the house of God in company, then hear us not 
 
 
64 A WEEK 
 
 this day ; but we greatly desire, if God please, 
 to be eased of our burden on the Sabbath, the 
 travel and fatigue thereof, that the word of God 
 may be nigh to us, near to our houses and in 
 our hearts, that we and our little ones may serve 
 the Lord. We hope that God, who stirred up 
 the spirit of Cyrus to set forward temple work, 
 has stirred us up to ask, and will stir you up to 
 grant, the prayer of our petition ; so shall your 
 humble petitioners ever pray, as in duty 
 bound" And so the temple work went for 
 ward here to a happy conclusion. Yonder in 
 Carlisle the building of the temple was many 
 wearisome years delayed, not that there was 
 wanting of Shittim wood, or the gold of Ophir, 
 but a site therefor convenient to all the wor 
 shipers; whether on "Buttrick s Plain," or 
 rather on "Poplar Hill." It was a tedious 
 question. 
 
 In this Billerica solid men must have lived, 
 select from year to year ; a series of town clerks, 
 at least ; and there are old records that you may 
 search. Some spring the white man came, built 
 him a house, and made a clearing here, letting 
 in the sun, dried up a farm, piled up the old 
 gray stones in fences, cut down the pines around 
 his dwelling, planted orchard seeds brought 
 from the old country, and persuaded the civil 
 apple-tree to blossom next to the wild pine and 
 
SUNDAY 65 
 
 the juniper, shedding its perfume in the wilder 
 ness. Their old stocks still remain. He culled 
 the graceful elm from out the woods and from 
 the river-side, and so refined and smoothed his 
 village plot. He rudely bridged the stream, 
 and drove his team afield into the river mea 
 dows, cut the wild grass, and laid bare the homes 
 of beaver, otter, muskrat, and with the whetting 
 of his scythe scared off the deer and bear. He 
 set up a mill, and fields of English grain sprang 
 in the virgin soil. And with his grain he scat 
 tered the seeds of the dandelion and the wild 
 trefoil over the meadows, mingling his English 
 flowers with the wild native ones. The brist 
 ling burdock, the sweet-scented catnip, and the 
 humble yarrow planted themselves along his 
 woodland road, they, too, seeking "freedom to 
 worship God" in their way. And thus he 
 plants a town. The white man s mullein soon 
 reigned in Indian cornfields, and sweet-scented 
 English grasses clothed the new soil. Where, 
 then, could the Red Man set his foot? The 
 honey-bee hummed through the Massachusetts 
 woods, and sipped the wild-flowers round the 
 Indian s wigwam, perchance unnoticed, when, 
 with prophetic warning, it stung the Red child s 
 hand, forerunner of that industrious tribe that 
 was to come and pluck the wild-flower of his 
 race up by the root. 
 
66 A WEEK 
 
 The white man comes, pale as the dawn, with 
 a load of thought, with a slumbering intelligence 
 as a fire raked up, knowing well what he knows, 
 not guessing but calculating ; strong in commu 
 nity, yielding obedience to authority; of expe 
 rienced race; of wonderful, wonderful common 
 sense; dull but capable, slow but persevering, 
 severe but just, of little humor but genuine ; a 
 laboring man, despising game and sport ; build 
 ing a house that endures, a framed house. He 
 buys the Indian s moccasins and baskets, then 
 buys his hunting-grounds, and at length forgets 
 where he is buried and ploughs up his bones. 
 And here town records, old, tattered, time- 
 worn, weather-stained chronicles, contain the 
 Indian sachem s mark perchance, an arrow or 
 a beaver, and the few fatal words by which he 
 deeded his hunting-grounds away. He comes 
 with a list of ancient Saxon, Norman, and Cel 
 tic names, and strews them up and down this 
 river, Framingham, Sudbury, Bedford, Car 
 lisle, Billerica, Chelmsf ord, and this is New 
 Angle-land, and these are the New West Sax 
 ons, whom the Red Men call, not Angle-ish or 
 English, but Yejigefise, and so at last they are 
 known for Yankees. 
 
 When we were opposite to the middle of Bil 
 lerica, the fields on either hand had a soft and 
 cultivated English aspect, the village spire be- 
 
SUNDAY 67 
 
 ing seen over the copses which skirt the river, 
 and sometimes an orchard straggled down to the 
 water-side, though, generally, our course this 
 forenoon was the wildest part of our voyage. 
 It seemed that men led a quiet and very civil 
 life there. The inhabitants were plainly cul 
 tivators of the earth, and lived under an or 
 ganized political government. The school-house 
 stood with a meek aspect, entreating a long 
 truce to war and savage life. Every one finds 
 by his own experience, as well as in history, 
 that the era in which men cultivate the apple, 
 and the amenities of the garden, is essentially 
 different from that of the hunter and forest life, 
 and neither can displace the other without loss. 
 We have all had our day-dreams, as well as 
 more prophetic nocturnal vision; but as for 
 farming. I am convinced that my genius dates 
 from an older era than the agricultural. I 
 would at least strike my spade into the earth 
 with such careless freedom but accuracy as the 
 woodpecker his bill into a tree. There is in my 
 -nature, methinks, a singular yearning toward 
 aUjwildness,^ IJsnow ;_p_f_no redeeming qualities 
 imayself but a sincere love for some things, 
 and when I am reproved I fall back on to this 
 ground. What have I to do with ploughs? I 
 cut another furrow than you see. Where the 
 off ox treads, there is it not, it is farther off; 
 
68 A WEEK 
 
 where the nigh ox walks, it will not be, it is 
 nigher still. If corn fails, my crop fails not, 
 and what are drought and rain to me? The 
 rude Saxon pioneer will sometimes pine for that 
 refinement and artificial beauty which are Eng 
 lish, and love to hear the sound of such sweet 
 and classical names as the Pentland and Mal- 
 vern Hills, the Cliffs of Dover and the Trosachs, 
 Richmond, Derwent, and Winandermere, which 
 are to him now instead of the Acropolis and 
 Parthenon, of Baiae, and Athens, with its sea 
 walls, and Arcadia and Tempe. 
 
 Greece, who am I that should remember thee, 
 
 Thy Marathon and thy Thermopylae ? 
 
 Is my life vulgar, my fate mean, 
 
 Which on these golden memories can lean ? 
 
 We are apt enough to be pleased with such 
 books as Evelyn s Sylva, Acetarium, and Ka- 
 lendarium Hortense, but they imply a relaxed 
 nerve in the reader. Gardening is cjviL_and. 
 social, but it wants the vigor and freedom of 
 the forest and__the outlaw. There may be an 
 excess of cultivation as well as of anything 
 else, until civilization becomes pathetic. A 
 highly cultivated man,^ all whose bones can 
 be bent! whose heaven-born virtues are but 
 good manners ! The young pines springing up 
 in the cornfields from year to year are to me a 
 refreshing fact. We talk of civilizing the In- 
 
SUNDAY 69 
 
 dian, but that is not the name for his improve 
 ment. By the wary independence and aloofness 
 of his dim forest life he preserves his intercourse 
 with his native gods, and is admitted from time 
 to time to a rare and peculiar society with Na 
 ture. He has glances of starry recognition to 
 jvhich .Qnr saloons are strangers. The steady 
 illumination of his genius, dim only because 
 distant, is like the faint but satisfying light of 
 the . stars-compared with the dazzling but inef 
 fectual and short-lived blaze of candles. The 
 Society-Islanders had their day-born gods, but 
 they were not supposed to be "of equal antiquity 
 with the atua fauau po, or night-born gods." 
 It is true, there are the innocent pleasures of 
 country life, and it is sometimes pleasant to 
 make the earth yield her increase, and gather 
 the fruits in their season; but the heroic spirit 
 will not fail to dream of remoter retirements 
 and more rugged paths. It will have its gar 
 den-plots and its parterres elsewhere than on 
 the earth, and gather nuts and berries by the 
 way for its subsistence, or orchard fruits with 
 such heedlessness as berries. We would not 
 always be soothing and taming nature, breaking 
 the horse and the ox, but sometimes ride the 
 horse wild and chase the buffalo. The jndian s 
 inte^cjourse with Nature is at leastjmch as ad- 
 jaita_oi_the__greatest independence of each. If 
 
70 A WEEK 
 
 he is somewhat of a stranger in her midst, the 
 ner is too much of a familiar. There is 
 something vulgar and foul in the latter s close 
 ness to his mistress, something noble and cleanly 
 in_the_former s distance. In civilization, as in 
 a southern latitude, man degenerates at length, 
 and yields to the incursion of more northern 
 tribes, 
 
 " Some nation yet shut in 
 With hills of ice." 
 
 There are other, savager, and more primeval 
 aspects of nature than our poets have sung. It 
 is only white man s poetry. Homer and Ossian 
 even can never revive in London or Boston. 
 And yet, behold how these cities are refreshed 
 by the mere tradition, or the imperfectly trans 
 mitted fragrance and flavor of these wild fruits. 
 If we could listen but for an instant to the 
 chant of the Indian muse, we should understand 
 why he will not exchange his savageness for 
 civilization. Nations are not whimsical. Steel 
 and blankets are strong temptations; but the 
 Indian does well to continue Indian. 
 
 After sitting in my chamber many days, 
 reading the poets, I have been out early on a 
 foggy morning and heard the cry of an owl in a 
 neighboring wood as from a nature behind the 
 common, unexplored by science or by literature. 
 None of the feathered race has yet realized my 
 
SUNDAY 71 
 
 youthful conceptions of the woodland depths. 
 I had seen the red Election-birds brought from 
 their recesses on my comrades string, and fan 
 cied that their plumage would assume stranger 
 and more dazzling colors, like the tints of even 
 ing, in proportion as I advanced farther into 
 the darkness and solitude of the forest. Still 
 less have I seen such strong and wilderness tints 
 on any poet s string. 
 
 These modern ingenious sciences and arts do 
 not affect me as those more venerable arts of 
 hunting and fishing, and even of husbandry in 
 its primitive and simple form ; as ancient and 
 honorable trades as the sun and moon and winds 
 pursue, coeval with the faculties of man, and 
 invented when these were invented. We do 
 not know their John Gutenberg, or Richard 
 Arkwright, though the poets would fain make 
 them to have been gradually learned and taught. 
 According to Gower, 
 
 " And laclahel, as saith the boke, 
 
 Firste made nette, and fishes toke. 
 Of huntyng eke he fond the chace, 
 Whiche nowe is knowe in many place ; 
 A tent of clothe, with corde and stake, 
 He sette up first, and did it make." 
 
 Also, Lydgate says : 
 
 " Jason first sayled, in story it is tolde, 
 Toward Colchos, to wynne the flees of golde, 
 Ceres the Goddess fond first the tilthe of londe ; 
 
72 A WEEK 
 
 Also, Aristeus f onde first the usage 
 
 Of mylke, and cruddis, and of honey swote ; 
 
 Peryodes, for grete avauntage, 
 
 From flyntes smote fuyre, daryng in the roote." 
 
 We read that Aristeus "obtained of Jupiter 
 and Neptune, that the pestilential heat of the 
 dog-days, wherein was great mortality, should 
 be mitigated with wind." This is one of those 
 dateless benefits conferred on man which have 
 no record in our vulgar day, though we still 
 find some similitude to them in our dreams, in 
 which we have a more liberal and juster appre 
 hension of things, unconstrained by habit, 
 which is then in some measure put off, and di 
 vested of memory, which we call history. 
 
 According to fable, when the island of JEgina 
 was depopulated by sickness, at the instance of 
 uiEacus, Jupiter turned the ants into men, that 
 is, as some think, he made men of the inhab 
 itants who lived meanly like ants. This is 
 perhaps the fullest history of those early days 
 extant. 
 
 The fable, which is naturally and truly com 
 posed, so as to satisfy the imagination, ere it 
 addresses the understanding, beautiful though 
 strange as a wild -flower, is to the wise man 
 an apothegm, and admits of his most generous 
 interpretation. When we read that Bacchus 
 
SUNDAY 73 
 
 made the Tyrrhenian mariners mad, so that 
 they leapt into the sea, mistaking it for a mea 
 dow full of flowers, and so became dolphins, we 
 are not concerned about the historical truth of 
 this, but rather a higher poetical truth. We 
 seem to hear the music of a thought, and care 
 not if the understanding be not gratified. For 
 their beauty, consider the fables of Narcissus, 
 of Endymion, of Memnon son of Morning, the 
 representative of all promising youths who have 
 died a premature death, and whose memory is 
 melodiously prolonged to the latest morning; 
 the beautiful stories of Phaeton, and of the 
 Sirens whose isle shone afar off white with the 
 bones of unburied men ; and the pregnant ones 
 of Pan, Prometheus, and the Sphinx ; and that 
 long list of names which have already become 
 part of the universal language of civilized men, 
 and from proper are becoming common names 
 or nouns, the Sibyls, the Eumenides, the 
 Parcae, the Graces, the Muses, Nemesis, etc. 
 
 It is interesting to observe with what singu 
 lar unanimity the farthest sundered nations and 
 generations consent to give completeness and 
 roundness to an ancient fable, of which they 
 indistinctly appreciate the beauty or the truth. 
 By a faint and dream-like effort, though it be 
 only by the vote of a scientific body, the dullest 
 posterity slowly add some trait to the mythus. 
 
74 A WEEK 
 
 As when astronomers call the lately discovered 
 planet Neptune ; or the asteroid Astrsea, that the 
 Virgin who was driven from earth to heaven 
 at the end of the golden age may have her 
 local habitation in the heavens more distinctly 
 assigned her, for the slightest recognition of 
 poetic worth is significant. By such slow ag 
 gregation has mythology grown from the first. 
 The very nursery tales of this generation were 
 the nursery tales of primeval races. They mi 
 grate from east to west, and again from west to 
 east; now expanded into the "tale divine "of 
 bards, now shrunk into a popular rhyme. This 
 is an approach to that universal language which 
 men have sought in vain. This fond reitera 
 tion of the oldest expressions of truth by the 
 latest posterity, content with slightly and reli 
 giously retouching the old material, is the most 
 impressive proof of a common humanity. 
 
 All nations love the same jests and tales, 
 Jews, Christians, and Mahometans, and the 
 same translated suffice for all. All men are 
 children, and of one family. The same tale 
 sends them all to bed, and wakes them in the 
 morning. Joseph Wolff, the missionary, dis 
 tributed copies of Robinson Crusoe, translated 
 into Arabic, among the Arabs, and they made 
 a great sensation. "Robinson Crusoe s adven 
 tures and wisdom," says he, "were read by Ma- 
 
SUNDA Y 75 
 
 hometans in the market-places of Sanaa, Hody- 
 eda, and Loheya, and admired and believed!" 
 On reading the book, the Arabians exclaimed, 
 "Oh, that Robinson Crusoe must have been a 
 great prophet ! " 
 
 To some extent, mythology is only the most 
 ancient history and biography. So far from 
 being false or fabulous in the common sense, it 
 contains only enduring and essential truth, the 
 I and you, the here and there, the now and 
 then, being omitted. Either time or rare wis 
 dom writes it. Before printing was discovered, 
 a century was equal to a thousand years. The 
 poet is he who can write some pure mythology 
 to-day without the aid of posterity. In how 
 few words, for instance, the Greeks would have 
 told the story of Abelard and Heloise, making 
 but a sentence for our classical dictionary, 
 and then, perchance, have stuck up their names 
 to shine in some corner of the firmament. We 
 moderns, on the other hand, collect only the 
 raw materials of biography and history, "me 
 moirs to serve for a history," which itself is but 
 materials to serve for a mythology. How many 
 volumes folio would the Life and Labors of Pro 
 metheus have filled, if perchance it had fallen, 
 as perchance it did first, in days of cheap print 
 ing! Who knows what shape the fable of Co 
 lumbus will at length assume, to be confounded 
 
76 A WEEK 
 
 with that of Jason and the expedition of the 
 Argonauts. And Franklin, there may be a 
 line for him in the future classical dictionary, 
 recording what that demigod did, and refer 
 ring him to some new genealogy. "Son of 
 
 and . He aided the Americans to 
 
 gain their independence, instructed mankind in 
 economy, and drew down lightning from the 
 clouds." 
 
 The hidden significance of these fables which 
 is sometimes thought to have been detected, the 
 ethics running parallel to the poetry and his 
 tory, are not so remarkable as the readiness 
 with which they may be made to express a va 
 riety of truths. As if they were the skeletons 
 of still older and more universal truths than 
 any whose flesh and blood they are for the time 
 made to wear. It is like striving to make the 
 sun, or the wind, or the sea symbols to sig 
 nify exclusively the particular thoughts of our 
 day. But what signifies it ? In the mythus a 
 superhuman intelligence uses the unconscious 
 thoughts and dreams of men as its hieroglyph 
 ics to address men unborn. In the history of 
 the human mind, these glowing and ruddy fables 
 precede the noonday thoughts of men, as Aurora 
 the sun s rays. The matutine intellect of the 
 poet, keeping in advance of the glare of philoso 
 phy, always dwells in this auroral atmosphere. 
 
SUNDAY 77 
 
 As we said before, the Concord is a dead 
 stream, but its scenery is the more suggestive 
 to the contemplative voyager, and this day its 
 water was fuller of reflections than our pages 
 even. Just before it reaches the falls in Biller- 
 ica, it is contracted, and becomes swifter and 
 shallower, with a yellow pebbly bottom, hardly 
 passable for a canal-boat, leaving the broader 
 and more stagnant portion above like a lake 
 among the hills. All through the Concord, 
 Bedford, and Billerica meadows we had heard 
 no murmur from its stream, except where some 
 tributary runnel tumbled in, 
 
 Some tumultuous little rill, 
 
 Purling round its storied pebble, 
 
 Tinkling to the selfsame tune, 
 
 From September until June, 
 
 Which no drought doth e er enfeeble. 
 
 Silent flows the parent stream, 
 
 And if rocks do lie below, 
 Smothers with her waves the din, 
 As it were a youthfuLsjn^. 
 
 Just as still, and just as slow. 
 
 Ibut now at length we heard this staid and prim 
 itive river rushing to her fall, like any rill. 
 We here left its channel, just above the Bil 
 lerica Falls, and entered the canal, which runs, 
 or rather is conducted, six miles through the 
 woods to the Merrimack, at Middlesex ; and as 
 we did not care to loiter in this part of our voy- 
 
78 A WEEK 
 
 age, while one ran along the tow-path drawing 
 the boat by a cord, the other kept it off the 
 shore with a pole, so that we accomplished the 
 whole distance in little more than an hour. 
 This canal, which is the oldest in the country, 
 and has even an antique look beside the more 
 modern railroads, is fed by the Concord, so 
 that we were still floating on its familiar waters. 
 It is so much water which the river lets for the 
 advantage of commerce. There appeared some 
 want of harmony in its scenery, since it was not 
 of equal date with the woods and meadows 
 through which it is led, and we missed the con 
 ciliatory influence of time on land and water; 
 but in the lapse of ages, Nature will recover 
 and indemnify herself, and gradually plant fit 
 shrubs and flowers along its borders. Already 
 the kingfisher sat upon a pine over the water, 
 and the bream and pickerel swam below. Thus 
 
 of-jthe hands of_the 
 
 architect info the hajidg_gf^Nature t to be per 
 fected. 
 
 It was a retired and pleasant route, without 
 houses or travelers, except some young men 
 who were lounging upon a bridge in Chelms- 
 ford, wjip_leaned impudently^ over the rails to 
 pryjnto our concerns^ but we caught the eye of 
 the most forward, and looked at him till he was 
 visibly_discoinfite4. Not that there was any 
 
SUNDAY 79 
 
 peculiar efficacy in our look, but rather a sense 
 of shame left in him which disarmed him. 
 
 It is a very true and expressive phrase, "He 
 looked daggers at me," for the first pattern and 
 prototype of all daggers must have been a 
 glance of the eye. First, there was the glance 
 of Jove s eye, then his fiery bolt; then, the 
 material gradually hardening, tridents, spears, 
 javelins; and finally, for the convenience of pri 
 vate men, daggers, krisses, and so forth, were 
 invented. It is wonderful how we get about 
 the streets without being wounded by these 
 delicate and glancing weapons, a man can so 
 nimbly whip out his rapier, or without being 
 noticed carry it unsheathed. Yet it is rare 
 that one gets seriously looked at. 
 
 As we passed under the last bridge over the 
 canal, just before reaching the Merrimack, the 
 people coming out of church paused to look at 
 us from above, and apparently, so strong is cus 
 tom, indulged in some heathenish comparisons; 
 but we were the truest observers of this sunny 
 day. According to Hesiod, 
 
 " The seventh is a holy day, 
 For then Latona brought forth golden-rayed Apollo," 
 
 and by our reckoning this was the seventh day 
 of the week, and not the first. I find among 
 the papers of an old Justice of the Peace and 
 Deacon of the town of Concord, this singular 
 
80 A WEEK 
 
 memorandum, which is worth preserving as a 
 relic of an ancient custom. After reforming 
 the spelling and grammar, it runs as follows: 
 "Men that traveled with teams on the Sab 
 bath, December 18, 1803, were Jeremiah Rich 
 ardson and Jonas Parker, both of Shirley. 
 They had teams with rigging such as is used 
 to carry barrels, and they were traveling west 
 ward. Richardson was questioned by the Hon. 
 Ephraim Wood, Esq., and he said that Jonas 
 Parker was his fellow-traveler, and he further 
 said that a Mr. Longley was his employer, who 
 promised to bear him out." We were the men 
 that were gliding northward, this September 1, 
 1839, with still team, and rigging not the most 
 convenient to carry barrels, unquestioned by 
 any Squire or Church Deacon, and ready to bear 
 ourselves out if need were. In the latter part 
 of the seventeenth century, according to the 
 historian of Dunstable, "Towns were directed 
 to erect 4 a cage near the meeting-house, and 
 in this all offenders against the sanctity of the 
 Sabbath were confined." Society has relaxed 
 a little from its strictness, one would say, but 
 J. presume that there is noteless reliyifw, than 
 l_jhejiyature is found to be loos 
 
 ened in one part, it is only drawn the tighter 
 in another. 
 
 You can hardly convince a man of an error 
 
SUNDAY 81 
 
 in a lifetime, but must content yourself with 
 the reflection that the progress of science is 
 slow. If he is not 
 
 flrp,n nmy ha. The geologists tell us that it 
 took one hundred years to prove that fossils are 
 organic, and one hundred and fifty more to 
 prove that they are not to be referred to the 
 Noachian deluge. I am not sure but I should 
 betake myself in extremities to the liberal di 
 vinities of Greece, rather than to my country s 
 God. Jehovah, though with us he has ac 
 quired new attributes, jg more absolute and 
 ujiapprgachable, but hardly more divine, than 
 He is not so much of a gentleman, not 
 and jsaj^olic, hjL does not exert so 
 
 intimate^and genial an influence on nature, as 
 nmnjia god of the Greeks. I should fear the 
 infinite power and inflexible justice of the al 
 mighty mortal hardly as yet apotheosized, so 
 wholly masculine, with no sister Juno, no 
 Apollo, no Venus, nor Minerva, to intercede 
 
 for me, Ovfj.<*> <iAeovcra T, Kr)8ojjLevrj re. The ,GLcfi- 
 
 cjan are youthful and erring and fallen gods. 
 with the vices of men, but in many important 
 respects essentially of the divine race. In my 
 Pantheon, Pan still reigns in his pristine glory, 
 with his ruddy face, his flowing beard, and his 
 shaggy body, his pipe and his crook, his nymph 
 Echo, and his chosen daughter lambe; for the 
 
82 A WEEK 
 
 great god PJULJS not dead, as was rumored. 
 No god ever dies. Perhaps of all the gods of 
 New England and of ancient Greece, I am 
 most constant at his shrine. 
 
 /"" It seems to me that the god that is commonly 
 worshiped in civilized countries is not at all 
 divine, though he bears a divine name, but is 
 the oj^whelming authQrity and respectability 
 jf mankind combined. Men reverence one an 
 other, not yet God. If I thought that I could 
 speak with discrimination and impartiality of 
 the nations of Christendom, I should praise 
 them, but it tasks me too much. They seem 
 to be the most civil and humane, but I may be 
 mistaken. Every people have gods to suit 
 their circumstances; the Society Islanders had 
 a god called Toahitu, " in shape like a dog ; he 
 saved such as were in danger of falling from 
 rocks and trees." I think that we can do with 
 out him, as we have not much climbing to do. 
 Among them a man could make himself a god 
 out of a piece of wood in a few minutes, which 
 would frighten him out of his wits. 
 
 I fancy that some indefatigable spinster of 
 the old school, who had the supreme felicity to 
 be born in "days that tried men s souls," hear 
 ing this, may say with Nestor, another of the 
 old school, "But you are younger than I. For 
 time was when I conversed with greater men 
 
SUNDAY 83 
 
 than you. For not at any time have I seen 
 such men, nor shall see them, as Perithous, and 
 Dry as, and Troi/xeVa A,au>>," that is probably 
 Washington, sole "Shepherd of the People." 
 And when Apollo has now six times rolled 
 westward, or seemed to roll, and now for the 
 seventh time shows his face in the east, eyes 
 wellnigh glazed, long glassed, which have fluc 
 tuated only between lamb s wool and worsted, 
 explore ceaselessly some good sermon book. For 
 six days shalt thou labor and do all thy knit 
 ting, but on the seventh, forsooth, thy reading. 
 Happy we who can bask in this warm Septem 
 ber sun, which illumines all creatures, as well 
 when they rest as when they toil, not without 
 a feeling of gratitude; whose life is as blame 
 less, how blameworthy soever it may be, on the 
 Lord s Mona-day as on his Suna-day. 
 
 There are various, nay, incredible faiths; 
 why should we be alarmed at any of them? 
 What man believes, God believes. Long as I 
 have lived, and many blasphemers as I have 
 heard and seen, I have never yet heard or wit 
 nessed any direct and conscious blasphemy or 
 irreverence; but of indirect and habitual, 
 enough. Where is the_manwho JLa^guiUyL of 
 jlirec^and personal insolence to^Qmjthat_made 
 him? 
 
 One memorable addition to the old mythol- 
 
84 A WEEK 
 
 ogy is due to this era, the Christian fable. 
 With what pains, and tears, and blood these 
 centuries have woven this and added it to the 
 mythology of mankind ! The new Prometheus. 
 With what miraculous consent, and patience, 
 and persistency has this mythus been stamped 
 on the memory of the race! It would seem as 
 if it were in the progress of our mythology to 
 dethrone Jehovah, and crown Christ in his 
 stead. 
 
 If it is not a tragical life we live, then I know 
 not what to call it. Such a story as that of 
 Jesus Christ, the history of Jerusalem, say, 
 being a part of the Universal History. The 
 naked, the embalmed, unburied death of Jeru 
 salem amid its desolate hills, think of it. In 
 Tasso s poem I trust some things are sweetly 
 buried. Consider the snappish tenacity with 
 which they preach Christianity still. What are 
 time and space to Christianity, eighteen hun 
 dred years, and a new world? that the hum 
 ble life of a Jewish peasant should have force 
 to make a New York bishop so bigoted. Forty- 
 four lamps, the gift of kings, now burning in a 
 place called the Holy Sepulchre ; a church-bell 
 ringing; some unaffected tears shed by a pil 
 grim on Mount Calvary within the week. 
 
 "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, when I forget thee, 
 may my right hand forget her cunning." 
 
SUNDAY 85 
 
 "By the waters of Babylon there we sat 
 down, and we wept when we remembered Zion." 
 
 I trust that some may be as near and dear 
 to Buddha, or Christ, or Swedenborg, who are 
 without the pale of their churches, jit isjne- 
 to be Christian to appreciate the 
 
 beautj^and significance of the life of Christ. I 
 know that some will have hard thoughts of me, 
 when they hear their Christ named beside my 
 Buddha, yet I am sure that I am willing they 
 should love their Christ more than my Buddha, 
 for the love is the main thing, and I like him 
 too. "God is the letter Ku, as well as Khu." 
 Why need Christians be still intolerant and 
 superstitious? The simple-minded sailors were 
 unwilling to cast overboard Jonah at his own 
 request. 
 
 " Where is this love become in later age ? 
 Alas ! t is gone in endless pilgrimage 
 From hence, and never to return, I doubt, 
 Till revolution wheel those times about." 
 
 One man says, 
 
 " The world s a popular disease, that reigns 
 Within the froward heart and frantic brains 
 Of poor distempered mortals." 
 
 Another, that 
 
 " all the world s a stage, 
 And all the men and women merely players." 
 
 The world is a strange place for a playhouse to 
 stand within it. Old Drayton thought that a 
 
86 A WEEK 
 
 man that lived here, and would be a poet, fop 
 instance, should have in him certain "brave, 
 translunary things," and a "fine madness" 
 should possess his brain. Certainly it were as 
 well, that he might be up to the occasion. 
 That is a superfluous wonder, which Dr. John 
 son expresses at the assertion of Sir Thomas 
 Browne that "his life has been a miracle of 
 thirty years, which to relate were not history 
 but a piece of poetry, and would sound like a 
 fable." The wonder is, rather, that all men 
 do not assert as much. That would be a rare 
 praise, if it were true, which was addressed to 
 Francis Beaumont, " Spectators sate part in 
 your tragedies." 
 
 Think what a mean and wretched place this 
 world is ; that half the time we have to light a 
 lamp that we may see to live in it. This is half 
 our life. Who would undertake the enterprise 
 if it were all? And, pray, what more has day 
 to offer? A lamp that burns more clear, a 
 purer oil, say winter-strained, that so we may 
 pursue our idleness with less obstruction. 
 Bribed with a little sunlight and a few pris 
 matic tints, we bless our Maker, and stave off 
 his wrath with h}Tnns. 
 
 I make ye an offer, 
 
 Ye gods, hear the scoffer, 
 
 The scheme will not hurt you, 
 
 If ye will find goodness, I will find virtue, 
 
SUNDAY 87 
 
 Though I am your creature, 
 And child of your nature, 
 I have pride still unbended, 
 And blood undescended, 
 Some free independence, 
 And my own descendants. 
 I cannot toil blindly, 
 Though ye behave kindly, 
 And I swear by the rood, 
 I ll be slave to no God. 
 I ye will deal plainly f 
 I will strive mainly, 
 ill discover. 
 
 Great plans to_your lover r 
 And give him a sphere 
 Somewhat larger than here. 
 
 "Verily, my angels! I was abashed on ac 
 count of ray servant, who had no Providence 
 but me; therefore did I pardon him." 1 
 
 Most people with whom I talk, men and wo 
 men even of some originality and genius, have 
 their scheme of the universe all cut and dried, 
 very dry, I assure you, to hear, dry enough 
 to burn, dry-rotted and powder-post, methinks, 
 which they set up between you and them in 
 the shortest intercourse ; an ancient and totter 
 ing frame with all its boards blown off. They 
 do not walk without their bed. Some, to me, 
 seemingly very unimportant and unsubstantial 
 things and relations, are for them everlastingly 
 
 1 The Gulistan of Sadi. 
 
88 A WEEK 
 
 settled, as Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and 
 the like. These are like the everlasting hills to 
 them. But in all my wanderings I never came 
 across the least vestige of authority for these 
 things. They have not left so distinct a trace 
 as the delicate flower of a remote geological 
 period on the coal in my grate. Tile wisest 
 no .doctrines : hejhasjiojjcheme ; 
 
 he sees no rafter, not even_a_cobweb, against 
 the_heavens. it is clear sky. I. I ever see 
 more clearly at one time than at another, the 
 medium through which I see is clearer. To see 
 from earth to heaven, and see there standing, 
 stilFaT fixture, that old Jewish scheme ! What 
 jjght have you to hold up this obstacle to my Y , J 
 
 .^understanding you, to your understanding me ! 
 You did not invent it ; it was imposed on you. 
 
 JExamine your authority. Even Christ, we 
 fear, had his scheme, his conformity to tradi- 
 
 ^pE^jwhich slightly vitiates his teaching. He 
 had not swallowed all formulas" He ^preached 
 some mere doctrines. As for me, Abraham, 
 Isaac, and Jacob are now only the subtilest im 
 aginable essences, which would not stain the 
 morning sky. Your scheme must be the frame 
 work of the universe; all other schemes will 
 soon be ruins. The perfect God in his revela 
 tions of himself has never got to the length of 
 one such proposition as you, his prophets, state. 
 
SUNDAY 89 
 
 Have you learned the alphabet of heaven and 
 can count three? Do you know the number of 
 God s family? Can you put mysteries into 
 words? Do you presume to fable of the in 
 effable? Pray, what geographer are you, that 
 speak of heaven s topography? Whose friend 
 are you that speak of God s personality? Do 
 you, Miles Howard, think that he has made you 
 his confidant? Tell me of the height of the 
 mountains of the moon, or of the diameter of 
 space, and I may believe you, but of the secret 
 history of the Almighty, and I shall pronounce 
 thee mad. Yet we have a sort of family history 
 of our God, so have the Tahitians of theirs, 
 and some old poet s grand imagination is im 
 posed on us as adamantine everlasting truth, 
 and God s own word. Pythagoras says, truly 
 enough, "A true assertion respecting God is 
 an assertion of God;" but we may well doubt 
 if there is any example of this in literature. 
 
 The New Testament is an invaluable book, 
 though I confess to having been slightly pre 
 judiced against it in my very early days by 
 the church and the Sabbath school, so that it 
 seemed, before I reaji it, to be the yellowest 
 book in the catalogue. Yet I early escaped 
 from their meshes. It was hard to get the com 
 mentaries out of one s head and taste its true 
 flavor. I think that Pilgrim s Progress is the 
 
90 A WEEK 
 
 best sermon which has been preached from this 
 text; almost all other sermons that I have 
 heard, or heard of, have been but poor imita 
 tions of this. It would be a poor story to be 
 prejudiced against the Life of Christ because 
 the book has been edited by Christians. In 
 fact, I love this book rarely, though it is a sort 
 of castle in the air to me, which I am permitted 
 to dream. Having come to it so recently and 
 freshly, it has the greater charm, so that I can 
 not find any to talk with about it. I never read 
 a novel, they have so little real life and thought 
 in them. The reading which I love best is the 
 scriptures of the several nations, though it hap 
 pens that I am better acquainted with those of 
 the Hindoos, the Chinese, and the Persians, 
 than of the Hebrews, which I have come to last. 
 Give me one of these Bibles, and you have si 
 lenced me for a while. When I recover the use 
 of my tongue, I am wont to worry my neigh 
 bors with the new sentences; but commonly 
 they cannot see that there is any wit in them. 
 Such has been my experience with the New 
 Testament. I have not yet got to the cruci 
 fixion, I have read it over so many times. I 
 should love dearly to read it aloud to my friends, 
 some of whom are seriously inclined; it is so 
 good, and I am sure that they have never heard 
 it, it fits their case exactly, and we should enjoy 
 
SUNDA Y 91 
 
 it so much together, but I instinctively de 
 spair of getting their ears. They soon show, 
 by signs not to be mistaken, that it is inexpres 
 sibly wearisome to them. I do not mean to 
 imply that I am any better than my neigh 
 bors; for, alas! I know that I am only as 
 good, though I love better books than they. 
 
 It is remarkable that, notwithstanding the 
 universal favor with which the New Testament 
 is outwardly received, and even the bigotry with 
 which it is defended, there is no hospitality 
 shown to, there is no appreciation of, the order 
 of truth with which it deals. I know of no 
 book that has so few readers. There is none so 
 truly strange, and heretical, and unpopular. 
 To Christians, no less than Greeks and Jews, 
 it is foolishness and a stumbling-block. There 
 are, indeed, severe things in it which no man 
 should read aloud more than once. " Seek first 
 the kingdom of heaven." "Lay not up for 
 yourselves treasures on earth." "If thou wilt 
 be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give 
 to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in 
 heaven." "For what is a man profited, if he 
 shall gain the whole world, and lose his own 
 soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange 
 for his soul?" Think of this, Yankees! 
 "Verily, I say unto you, if ye have faith as a 
 grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this 
 
92 A WEEK 
 
 mountain, Remove hence to yonder place, and 
 it shall remove ; and nothing shall be impossible 
 unto you." Think of repeating these things to 
 a New England audience ! thirdly, fourthly, fif - 
 teenthly, till there are three barrels of sermons ! 
 Who, without cant, can read them aloud? 
 Who, without cant, can hear them, and not go 
 out of the meeting-house? They never were 
 read, they never were heard. Let but one of 
 these sentences be rightly read, from any pulpit 
 in the land, and there would not be left one 
 stone of that meeting-house upon another. 
 
 Yet the New Testament treats of man and 
 man s so-called spiritual affairs too exclusively, 
 and is too constantly moral and personal, to 
 alone content me, who am not interested solely 
 in man s religious or moral nature, or in man 
 even. I have not the most definite designs on 
 the future. Absolutely speaking, Do unto oth 
 ers as you would that they should do unto you 
 is by no means a golden rule, but the best of 
 current silver. An honest man would have but 
 little occasion for it. It is golden not to have 
 any rule at all in such a case. The book has 
 never been written which is to be accepted with 
 out any allowance. Christ was a sublime actor 
 on the stage of the world. He knew what he 
 was thinking of when he said, Heaven and 
 j?arth shall pass away, but my words shall not 
 
SUNDAY 93 
 
 Cjmss away*" I draw near to him at such a 
 time. Yet h(Ttaught mankind but imperfectly 
 how to live ; his thoughts were all directed to- 
 ward another world. There is another kind of 
 success than his. Even here we have a sort of 
 living to get, and must buffet it somewhat 
 longer. There are various tough problems yet 
 to solve, and we must make shift to live, be 
 twixt spirit and matter, such a human life as 
 we can. 
 
 A healthy man, with steady employment, as 
 wood-chopping at fifty cents a cord, and a camp 
 in the woods, will not be a good subject for 
 Christianity. The New Testament may be a 
 choice book to him on some, but not on all or 
 most of his days. He will rather go a-fishing 
 in his leisure hours. The Apostles, though 
 they were fishers too, were of the solemn race 
 of sea-fishers, and never trolled for pickerel on 
 inland streams. 
 
 Men have a singular desire to be good with 
 out being good for anything, because, perchance, 
 they think vaguely that so it will be good for 
 them in the end. The sort of morality which 
 thf pripsts inculcate is a very subtle policy, far 
 finer than the politicians , and thejworld is very 
 
 , SUPPPSftfnlly ml fid by^ thp.m-a^ the_ policemen . 
 It is not worth the while to let our imperfec 
 tions disturb us always. The conscience really 
 
94 A WEEK 
 
 does not, and ought not to monopolize the whole 
 of our lives, any more than the fceart or the 
 jiead. It is as liable to disease as any other 
 part. I have seen some whose consciences, 
 owing undoubtedly to former indulgence, had 
 grown to be as irritable as spoilt children, and 
 at length gave them no peace. They did not 
 know when to swallow their cud, and their lives 
 of course yielded no milk. 
 
 inp*<tt bred in the house, 
 
 Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin 
 
 By an unnatural breeding in and in. 
 
 I say, Tnrnjtout doors, 
 
 Into the moors. 
 
 I love a life -whose plot is simple, 
 
 And does not thicken with every pimple, 
 
 A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it, 
 
 That makes the universe no worse than t finds it. 
 
 I love an earnest soul, 
 
 Whose mighty joy and sorrow 
 
 Are not drowned in a bowl, 
 
 And brought to life to-morrow ; 
 
 That lives one tragedy, 
 
 And not seventy ; 
 
 A conscience worth keeping, 
 
 Laughing not weeping ; 
 
 A conscience wise and steady, 
 
 And forever ready ; 
 
 Not changing with events, 
 
 Dealing in compliments ; 
 
 A conscience exercised about 
 
 Large things, where one may doubt. 
 
 I love a soul not all of wood, 
 
 Predestinated to be good, 
 
SUNDAY 95 
 
 But true to the backbone 
 Unto itself alone, 
 And false to none ; 
 Born to its own affairs, 
 Its own joys and own cares ; 
 By whom the work which God begun 
 Is finished, and not undone ; 
 .-Taken up whej-e he jeft off, 
 Whether to worship or to scoff ; 
 If not good, why then evil, 
 If not good god, good devil. 
 Goodness ! you hypocrite, come out of that, 
 Live your life, do your work, then take your hat. 
 I have no patience towards 
 Such conscientious cowards. 
 Give me simple laboring folk, 
 Who love their work, 
 Whose virtue is a song 
 To cheer God along. 
 
 I was once reproved by a minister who was 
 driving a poor beast to some meeting-house 
 horse-sheds among the hills of New Hampshire, 
 because I was bending my steps to a mountain- 
 top on the Sabbath, instead of a church, when I 
 would have gone farther than he to hear a true 
 word spoken on that or any day. He declared 
 that I was "breaking the Lord s fourth com 
 mandment," and proceeded to enumerate, in a 
 sepulchral tone, the disasters which had befallen 
 him whenever he had done any ordinary work 
 on the Sabbath. He really thought that a god 
 was on the watch to trip up those men who fol 
 lowed any secular work on this day, and did not 
 
96 A WEEK 
 
 see that it was the evil conscience of the workers 
 that did it. The country is full of this super 
 stition, so that when one enters a village, the 
 church, not only really but from association, 
 is the ugliest looking building in it, because it 
 is the one in which human nature stoops the 
 lowest and is most disgraced. Certainly, such 
 temples as these shall erelong cease to deform 
 the landscape. There are few things more dis 
 heartening and disgusting than when you are 
 walking the streets of a strange village on the 
 Sabbath, to hear a preacher shouting like a 
 boatswain in a gale of wind, and thus harshly 
 profaning the quiet atmosphere of the day. You 
 fancy him to have taken off his coat, as when 
 men are about to do hot and dirty work. 
 
 If I should ask the minister of Middlesex to 
 let me speak in his pulpit on a Sunday, he 
 would object because I do not pray as he does, 
 or because I am not ordained. What under 
 the sun are these things? 
 
 Really, there is no infidelity, nowadays, so 
 great as that which prays, and keeps the Sab 
 bath, and rebuilds the churches. The sealer of 
 the South Pacific preaches a truer doctrine. 
 The church is a sort of hospital for men s souls, 
 and as full of quackery as the hospital for their 
 bodies. Those who are taken into it live like 
 pensioners in their Retreat or Sailor s Snug 
 
SUNDAY 97 
 
 Harbor, where you may see a row of religious 
 cripples sitting outside in sunny weather. Let 
 not the . apprehension that he may one day have 
 to occupy a ward therein discourage the cheer 
 ful labors of the able-souled man. While he 
 remembers the sick in their extremities, let him 
 not look thither as to his goal. One is sick 
 at heart of this pagoda worship. It is like the 
 beating of gongs in a Hindoo subterranean tem 
 ple. In dark places and dungeons the preach 
 er s words might perhaps strike root and grow, 
 but not in broad daylight in any part of the 
 world that I know. The sound of the Sabbath 
 bell far away, now breaking on these shores, 
 does not awaken pleasing associations, but mel 
 ancholy and sombre ones rather. One involun 
 tarily rests on his oar, to humor his unusually 
 meditative mood. It is as the sound of many 
 catechisms and religious books twanging a cant 
 ing peal round the earth, seeming to issue from 
 some Egyptian temple and echo along the shore 
 of the Nile, right opposite to Pharaoh s palace 
 and Moses in the bulrushes, startling a multi 
 tude of storks and alligators basking in the sun. 
 Everywhere "good men" sound a retreat, 
 and the word has gone forth to fall back on 
 innocence. Fall forward rather on to what 
 ever there is there. Christianity only hopes. 
 It has hung its harp on the willows, and cannot 
 
98 A WEEK 
 
 sing a song in a strange land. It has dreamed 
 a sad dream, and does not yet welcome the 
 morning with joy. The mother tells her false 
 hoods to her child, but, thank Heaven, the child 
 does not grow up in its parent s shadow. Our 
 mother s faith has not grown with her experi 
 ence. Her experience has been too much for 
 her. The lesson (rf life was too hard for her- to 
 
 It is remarkable that almost all speakers and 
 writers feel it to be incumbent on them, sooner 
 or later, to prove or to acknowledge the per 
 sonality of God. Some Earl of Bridgewater, 
 thinking it better late than never, has provided 
 for it in his will. It is a sad mistake. In 
 reading a work on agriculture, we have to skip 
 the author s moral reflections, and the words 
 "Providence" and "He" scattered along the 
 page, to come at the profitable level of what he 
 has to say. What he calls his religion is for 
 the most part offensive to the nostrils. He 
 should know better than expose himself, and 
 keep his foul sores covered till they are quite 
 healed. There is morej-eligion in men s science 
 than there is science in their religion. Let us 
 make haste to the report of the committee on 
 swine. 
 
 A man s real faith is never contained in his 
 creed, nor is his creed an article of his faith. 
 
SUNDAY 99 
 
 The last is never adopted. This it is that per 
 mits him to smile ever, and to live even as 
 bravely as he does. And yet he clings anxiously 
 to his creed, as to a straw, thinking that that 
 does him good service because his sheet anchor 
 does not drag. 
 
 In most men s religion, the ligature which 
 -^shouldbe its umbilical cord connecting them 
 with divinity is~ rather like that thread which 
 the accomplices of Cylon held in their hands 
 when they went abroad from the temple of 
 Minerva, the other end being attached to the 
 statue of the goddess. But frequently, as in 
 their case, the thread breaks, being stretched, 
 and they are left without an asylum. 
 
 "A good and pious man reclined his head on 
 the bosom of contemplation, and was absorbed 
 in the ocean of a revery. At the instant when 
 he awaked from his vision, one of his friends, 
 by way of pleasantry, said, What rare gift have 
 you brought us from that garden, where you 
 have been recreating ? He replied, I fancied to 
 myself and said, when I can reach the rose- 
 bower, I will fill my lap with the flowers, and 
 bring them as a present to my friends; but 
 when I got there, the fragrance of the roses so 
 intoxicated me, that the skirt dropped from my 
 
 hands. O bird of dawn ! learn the warmth 
 
 of affection from the moth; for that scorched 
 
100 A WEEK 
 
 creature gave up the ghost, and uttered not a 
 groan: These vain pretenders are ignorant of 
 him they seek after ; for of him that knew him 
 we never heard again : O thou ! who towerest 
 above the flights of conjecture, opinion, and 
 comprehension ; whatever has been reported of 
 thee we have heard and read; the congregation 
 is dismissed, and life drawn to a close ; and we 
 still rest at our first encomium of thee! " l 
 
 By noon we were let down into the Merri- 
 mack through the locks at Middlesex, just above 
 Pawtucket Falls, by a serene and liberal-minded 
 man, who came quietly from his book, though 
 his duties, we supposed, did not require him to 
 open the locks on Sundays. With him we had 
 a just and equal encounter of the eyes, as be 
 tween two honest men. 
 
 The movements of the eyes express the per 
 petual and unconscious courtesy of the parties. 
 It is said that a rogue does not look you in the 
 face, neither does an honest man look at you as 
 if he had his reputation to establish. I have 
 seen some who did not know when to turn aside 
 their eyes in meeting yours. A truly confident 
 and magnanimous spirit is wiser than to contend 
 for the mastery in such encounters. Serpents 
 alone conquer by the steadiness of their gaze. 
 
 1 Sadi. 
 
SUNDAY 101 
 
 My friend looks me in the face and sees me, 
 that is all. 
 
 The best relations were at once established 
 between us and this man, and though few words 
 were spoken, he could not conceal a visible in 
 terest in us and our excursion. He was a lover 
 of the higher mathematics, as we found, and in 
 the midst of some vast sunny problem, when we 
 overtook him and whispered our conjectures. 
 By this man we were presented with the freedom 
 of the Merrimack. We now felt as if we were 
 fairly launched on the ocean stream of our voy 
 age, and were pleased to find that our boat 
 would float on Merrimack water. We began 
 again busily to put in practice those old arts of 
 rowing, steering, and paddling. It seemed a 
 strange phenomenon to us that the two rivers 
 should mingle their waters so readily, since we 
 had never associated them in our thoughts. 
 
 As we glided over the broad bosom of the 
 Merrimack, between Chelmsford and Dracut, 
 at noon, here a quarter of a mile wide, the rat 
 tling of our oars was echoed over the water to 
 those villages, and their slight sounds to us. 
 Their harbors lay as smooth and fairy-like as 
 the Lida, or Syracuse, or Rhodes, in our imag 
 ination, while, like some strange roving craft, 
 we flitted past what seemed the dwellings of no 
 ble home-staying men, seemingly as conspicuous 
 
102 A WEEK 
 
 as if on an eminence, or floating upon a tide 
 which came up to those villagers breasts. At 
 a third of a mile over the water we heard dis 
 tinctly some children repeating their catechism 
 in a cottage near the shore, while in the broad 
 shallows between, a herd of cows stood lashing 
 their sides, and waging war with the flies. 
 
 Two hundred years ago, other catechizing 
 than this was going on here ; for here came the 
 Sachem Wannalancet and his people, and some 
 times Tahatawan, our Concord Sachem, who 
 afterwards had a church at home, to catch fish 
 at the falls; and here also came John Eliot, 
 with the Bible and Catechism, and Baxter s 
 Call to the Unconverted, and other tracts, done 
 into the Massachusetts tongue, and taught them 
 Christianity meanwhile. "This place," says 
 Gookin, referring to Wamesit, "being an an 
 cient and capital seat of Indians, they come to 
 fish ; and this good man takes this opportunity 
 to spread the net of the gospel, to fish for their 
 souls." "May 5, 1674," he continues, "ac 
 cording to our usual custom, Mr. Eliot and 
 myself took our journey to Wamesit, or Paw- 
 tuckett; and arriving there that evening, Mr. 
 Eliot preached to as many of them as could be 
 got together, out of Matt. xxii. 1-14, the par 
 able of the marriage of the king s son. We 
 met at the wigwam of one called Wannalancet, 
 
SUNDA Y 103 
 
 about two miles from the town, near Pawtuckett 
 falls, and bordering upon Merrimak river. 
 This person, Wannalancet, is the eldest son of 
 old Pasaconaway, the ehiefest sachem of Paw 
 tuckett. He is a sober and grave person, and 
 of years, between fifty and sixty. He hath 
 been always loving and friendly to the English." 
 As yet, however, they had not prevailed on him 
 to embrace the Christian religion. "But at 
 this time," says Gookin, "May 6, 1674," 
 "after some deliberation and serious pause, he 
 stood up, and made a speech to this effect: *I 
 must acknowledge I have, all my days, used to 
 pass in an old canoe, [alluding to his frequent 
 custom to pass in a canoe upon the river,] and 
 now you exhort me to change and leave my old 
 canoe, and embark in a new canoe, to which I 
 have hitherto been unwilling; but now I yield 
 up myself to your advice, and enter into a new 
 canoe, and do engage to pray to God here 
 after. " One "Mr. Richard Daniel, a gentle 
 man that lived in Billerica," who with other 
 "persons of quality" was present, "desired 
 brother Eliot to tell the sachem from him, that 
 it may be, while he went in his old canoe, he 
 passed in a quiet stream ; but the end thereof 
 was death and destruction to soul and body. 
 But now he went into a new canoe, perhaps 
 he would meet with storms and trials, but yet 
 
104 A WEEK 
 
 he should be encouraged to persevere, for the 
 end of his voyage would be everlasting rest." 
 "Since that time, I hear this sachem doth per 
 severe, and is a constant and diligent hearer of 
 God s word, and sanctifieth the Sabbath, though 
 he doth travel to Wamesit meeting every Sab 
 bath, which is above two miles; and though 
 sundry of his people have deserted him, since 
 he subjected to the gospel, yet he continues and 
 persists." 1 
 
 Already, as appears from the records, "At 
 a General Court held at Boston in New Eng 
 land, the 7th of the first month, 1643-44," 
 "Wassamequin, Nashoonon, Kutchamaquin, 
 Massaconomet, and Squaw Sachem, did volun 
 tarily submit themselves " to the English; and 
 among other things did "promise to be willing 
 from time to time to be instructed in the know 
 ledge of God." Being asked "Not to do any 
 unnecessary work on the Sabbath day, espe 
 cially within the gates of Christian towns," they 
 answered, "It is easy to them; they have not 
 much to do on any day, and they can well take 
 their rest on that day." "So," says Winthrop, 
 in his Journal, "we causing them to understand 
 the articles, and all the ten commandments of 
 God, and they freely assenting to all, they were 
 solemnly received, and then presented the Court 
 1 Gookin s Hist. Coll. of the Indians in New England, 1674 
 
SUNDAY 105 
 
 with twenty-six fathom more of wampom ; and 
 the Court gave each of them a coat of two yards 
 of cloth, and their dinner; and to them and 
 their men, every of them, a cup of sack at their 
 departure; so they took leave and went away." 
 
 What journey ings on foot and on horseback 
 through the wilderness, to preach the gospel to 
 these minks and muskrats ! who first, no doubt, 
 listened with their red ears out of a natural 
 hospitality and courtesy, and afterward from 
 curiosity or even interest, till at length there 
 "were praying Indians," and, as the General 
 Court wrote to Cromwell, the "work is brought 
 to this perfection that some of the Indians them 
 selves can pray and prophesy in a comfortable 
 manner." 
 
 It was in fact an old battle and hunting 
 ground through which we had been floating, the 
 ancient dwelling-place of a race of hunters and 
 warriors. Their weirs of stone, their arrow 
 heads and hatchets, their pestles, and the mor 
 tars in which they pounded Indian corn before 
 the white man had tasted it, lay concealed in the 
 mud of the river bottom. Tradition still points 
 out the spots where they took fish in the greatest 
 numbers, by such arts as they possessed. It is 
 a rapid story the historian will have to put to 
 gether. Miantonimo, Winthrop, Webster. 
 Soon he comes from Montaup to Bunker Hill, 
 
106 A WEEK 
 
 from bear-skins, parched corn, bows and arrows, 
 to tiled roofs, wheatfields, guns and swords. 
 Pawtucket and Wamesit, where the Indians re 
 sorted in the fishing season, are now Lowell, the 
 city of spindles and Manchester of America, 
 which sends its cotton cloth round the globe. 
 Even we youthful voyagers had spent a part of 
 our lives in the village of Chelmsford, when the 
 present city, whose bells we heard, was its ob 
 scure north district only, and the giant weaver 
 was not yet fairly born. So old are we; so 
 young is it. 
 
 We were thus entering the State of New 
 Hampshire on the bosom of the flood formed by 
 the tribute of its innumerable valleys. ,The 
 river was the only key which could unlock its 
 maze, presenting its hills and valleys, its lakes 
 and streams, in their natural order and position. 
 The Merrimack, or Sturgeon River, is formed 
 by the confluence of the Pemigewasset, which 
 rises near the Notch of the White Mountains, 
 and the Winnipiseogee, which drains the lake 
 of the same name, signifying "The Smile of the 
 Great Spirit." From their junction it runs 
 south seventy-eight miles to Massachusetts, and 
 thence east thirty -five miles to the sea. I have 
 traced its stream from where it bubbles out of 
 the rocks of the White Mountains above the 
 
SUNDAY 107 
 
 clouds, to where it is lost amid the salt billows 
 of the ocean on Plum Island beach. At first it 
 comes on murmuring to itself by the base of 
 stately and retired mountains, through moist 
 primitive woods whose juices it receives, where 
 the bear still drinks it, and the cabins of set 
 tlers are far between, and there are few to cross 
 its stream; enjoying in solitude its cascades 
 still unknown to fame ; by long ranges of moun 
 tains of Sandwich and of Squam, slumbering 
 like tumuli of Titans, with the peaks of Moose- 
 hillock, the Haystack, and Kearsarge reflected 
 in its waters; where the maple and the rasp 
 berry, those lovers of the hills, flourish amid 
 temperate dews; flowing long and full of 
 meaning, but untranslatable as its name Pemi- 
 gewasset, by many a pastured Pelion and Ossa, 
 where unnamed muses haunt, tended by Oreads, 
 Dryads, Naiads, and receiving the tribute of 
 many an untasted Hippocrene. There are 
 earth, air, fire, and water, very well, this is 
 water, and down it comes. 
 
 Such water do the gods distill, 
 And pour down every hill 
 
 For their New England men ; 
 A draught of this wild nectar bring, 
 And I 11 not taste the spring 
 
 Of Helicon again. 
 
 Falling all the way, and yet not discouraged by 
 the lowest fall. By the law of its birth never 
 
108 A WEEK 
 
 to become stagnant, for it Has come out of the 
 clouds, and down the sides of precipices worn 
 in the flood, through beaver-dams broke loose, 
 not splitting but splicing and mending itself, 
 until it found a breathing-place in this low land. 
 There is no danger now that the sun will steal 
 it back to heaven again before it reach the sea, 
 for it has a warrant even to recover its own 
 dews into its bosom again with interest at every 
 eve. 
 
 It was already the water of Squam and New 
 found Lake and Winnipiseogee, and White 
 Mountain snow dissolved, on which we were 
 floating, and Smith s and Baker s and Mad 
 Rivers, and Nashua and Souhegan and Piscata- 
 quoag, and Suncook and Soucook and Contoo- 
 cook, mingled in incalculable proportions, still 
 fluid, yellowish, restless all, with an ancient, 
 ineradicable inclination to the sea. 
 
 So it flows on down by Lowell and Haverhill, 
 at which last place it first suffers a sea change, 
 and a few masts betray the vicinity of the 
 ocean. Between the towns of Amesbury and 
 Newbury it is a broad, commercial river, from a 
 third to half a mile in width, no longer skirted 
 with yellow and crumbling banks, but backed 
 by high green hills and pastures, with frequent 
 white beaches on which the fishermen draw up 
 their nets. I have passed down this portion of 
 
SUNDAY 109 
 
 the river in a steamboat, and it was a pleasant 
 bight to watch from its deck the fishermen drag 
 ging their seines on the distant shore, as in pic 
 tures of a foreign strand. At intervals you 
 may meet with a schooner laden with lumber, 
 standing up to Haverhill, or else lying at an 
 chor or aground, waiting for wind or tide; 
 until, at last, you glide under the famous Chain 
 Bridge, and are landed at Newburyport. Thus 
 she who at first was "poore of waters, naked of 
 renowne," having received so many fair tribu 
 taries, as was said of the Forth, 
 
 " Doth grow the greater still, the further downe ; 
 Till that abounding both in power and fame, 
 She long doth strive to give the sea her name ; " 
 
 or if not her name, in this case, at least the 
 impulse of her stream. From the steeples of 
 Newburyport you may review this river stretch 
 ing far up into the country, with many a white 
 sail glancing over it like an inland sea, and be 
 hold, as one wrote who was born on its head 
 waters, "Down out at its mouth, the dark inky 
 main blending with the blue above. Plum Is 
 land, its sand ridges scolloping along the hori 
 zon like the sea-serpent, and the distant outline 
 broken by many a tall ship, leaning, still 9 
 against the sky." 
 
 Rising at an equal height with the Connecti 
 cut, the Merrimack reaches the sea by a course 
 
110 A WEEK 
 
 only half as long, and hence has no leisure to 
 form broad and fertile meadows, like the for 
 mer, but is hurried along rapids, and down 
 numerous falls, without long delay. The banks 
 are generally steep and high, with a narrow in 
 terval reaching back to the hills, which is only 
 rarely or partially overflown at present, and is 
 much valued by the farmers. Between Chelms- 
 ford and Concord, in New Hampshire, it varies 
 from twenty to seventy -five rods in width. It 
 is probably wider than it was formerly, in many 
 places, owing to the trees having been cut down, 
 and the consequent wasting away of its banks. 
 .The influence of the Pawtucket Dam is felt as 
 far up as Cromwell s Falls, and many think 
 that the banks are being abraded and the river 
 filled up again by this cause. Like all our 
 rivers, it is liable to freshets, and the Pemige- 
 wasset has been known to rise twenty-five feet 
 in a few hours. It is navigable for vessels of 
 burden about twenty miles; for canal -boats, 
 by means of locks, as far as Concord in New 
 Hampshire, about seventy -five miles from its 
 mouth; and for smaller boats to Plymouth, one 
 hundred and thirteen miles. A small steam 
 boat once plied between Lowell and Nashua, 
 before the railroad was built, and one now runs 
 from Newburyport to Haverhill. 
 
 Unfitted to some extent for the purposes of 
 
SUNDAY 111 
 
 commerce by the sand-bar at its mouth, see how 
 this river was devoted from the first to the 
 service of manufactures. Issuing from the 
 iron region of Franconia, and flowing through 
 still uncut forests, by inexhaustible ledges of 
 granite, with Squam, and Winnipiseogee, and 
 Newfound, and Massabesic Lakes for its mill- 
 ponds, it falls over a succession of natural 
 dams, where it has been offering its privileges 
 in vain for ages, until at last the Yankee race 
 came to improve them. Standing at its mouth, 
 look up its sparkling stream to its source, a 
 silver cascade which falls all the way from the 
 White Mountains to the sea, and behold a 
 city on each successive plateau, a. busy colony 
 of human beaver around every fall. Not to 
 mention Newburyport and Haverhill, see Law 
 rence, and Lowell, and Nashua, and Manches 
 ter, and Concord, gleaming one above the other. 
 When at length it has escaped from under the 
 last of the factories, it has a level and unmo 
 lested passage to the sea, a mere waste water, 
 as it were, bearing little with it but its fame ; 
 its pleasant course revealed by the morning fog 
 which hangs over it, and the sails of the few 
 small vessels which transact the commerce of 
 Haverhill and Newburyport. But its real ves 
 sels are railroad cars, and its true and main 
 stream, flowing by an iron channel farther 
 
112 A WEEK 
 
 south, may be traced by a long line of vapor 
 amid the hills, which no morning wind ever dis 
 perses, to where it empties into the sea at Bos 
 ton. This side is the louder murmur now. 
 Instead of the scream of a fish-hawk scaring the 
 fishes, is heard the whistle of the steam-engine, 
 arousing a country to its progress. 
 
 This river too was at length discovered by 
 the white man, "trending up into the land," he 
 knew not how far, possibly an inlet to the South 
 Sea. Its valley, as far as the Winnipiseogee, 
 was first surveyed in 1652. The first settlers 
 of Massachusetts supposed that the Connecticut, 
 in one part of its course, ran northwest, "so 
 near the great lake as the Indians do pass their 
 canoes into it over land." From which lake 
 and the "hideous swamps" about it, as they 
 supposed, came all the beaver that was traded 
 between Virginia and Canada, and the Poto 
 mac was thought to come out of or from very 
 near it. Afterward the Connecticut came so 
 near the course of the Merrimack that, with a 
 little pains, they expected to divert the current 
 of the trade into the latter river, and its profits 
 from their Dutch neighbors into their own 
 pockets. 
 
 Unlike the Concord, the Merrimack is not a 
 dead but a living stream, though it has less life 
 
SUNDAY 113 
 
 within its waters and on its banks. It has a 
 swift current, and, in this part of its course, a 
 clayey bottom, almost no weeds, and compara 
 tively few fishes. We looked down into its yel 
 low water with the more curiosity, who were 
 accustomed to the Nile-like blackness of the 
 former river. Shad and alewives are taken 
 here in their season, but salmon, though at one 
 time more numerous than shad, are now more 
 rare. Bass, also, are taken occasionally; but 
 locks and dams have proved more or less de 
 structive to the fisheries. The shad make their 
 appearance early in May, at the same time with 
 the blossoms of the pyrus, one of the most con 
 spicuous early flowers, which is for this reason 
 called the shad-blossom. An insect called the 
 shad-fly also appears at the same time, cover 
 ing the houses and fences. We are told that 
 "their greatest run is when the apple-trees are 
 in full blossom. The old shad return in Au 
 gust; the young, three or four inches long, in 
 September. These are very fond of flies." A 
 rather picturesque and luxurious mode of fish 
 ing was formerly practiced on the Connecticut, 
 at Bellows Falls, where a large rock divides the 
 stream. "On the steep sides of the island 
 rock," says Belknap, "hang several arm-chairs, 
 fastened to ladders, and secured by a counter 
 poise, in which fishermen sit to catch salmon 
 
114 A WEEK 
 
 and shad with dipping nets." The remains of 
 Indian weirs, made of large stones, are still to 
 be seen in the Winnipiseogee, one of the head 
 waters of this river. 
 
 It cannot but affect our philosophy favorably 
 to be reminded of these shoals of migratory 
 fishes, of salmon, shad, alewives, marsh-bank 
 ers, and others, which penetrate up the innu 
 merable rivers of our coast in the spring, even 
 to the interior lakes, their scales gleaming in 
 the sun; and again, of the fry which in still 
 greater numbers wend their way downward to 
 the sea. "And is it not pretty sport," wrote 
 Captain John Smith, who was on this coast as 
 early as 1614, "to pull up twopence, sixpence, 
 and twelvepence, as fast as you can haul and 
 veer a line?" "And what sport doth yield ff, 
 more pleasing content, and less hurt or charge, 
 than angling with a hook, and crossing the 
 sweet air from isle to isle, over the silent 
 streams of a calm sea." 
 
 On the sandy shore, opposite the Glass-house 
 village in Chelmsford, at the Great Bend where 
 we landed to rest us and gather a few wild 
 plums, we discovered the Campanula rotundi- 
 folia, a new flower to us, the harebell of the 
 poets, which is common to both hemispheres, 
 growing close to the water. Here, in the shady 
 
SUNDAY 115 
 
 branches of an apple-tree on the sand, we took 
 our nooning, where there was not a zephyr to 
 disturb the repose of this glorious Sabbath day, 
 and we reflected serenely on the long past and 
 successful labors of Latona. 
 
 " So silent is the cessile air, 
 
 That every cry and call, 
 The hills, and dales, and forest fair 
 Again repeats them all. 
 
 "The herds beneath some leafy trees, 
 
 Amidst the flowers they lie, 
 
 The stable ships upon the seas 
 
 Tend up their sails to dry." 
 
 As we thus rested in the shade, or rowed lei 
 surely along, we had recourse, from time to 
 time, to the Gazetteer, which was our Naviga 
 tor, and from its bald natural facts extracted 
 the pleasure of poetry. Beaver River comes 
 in a little lower down, draining the meadows 
 of Pelham, Windham, and Londonderry. The 
 Scotch-Irish settlers of the latter town, accord 
 ing to this authority, were the first to introduce 
 the potato into New England, as well as the 
 manufacture of linen cloth. 
 
 Everything that is printed and bound in a 
 book contains some echo at least of the best that 
 is in literature. Indeed, the best books have 
 a use, like sticks and stones, which is above 
 or beside their design, not anticipated in the 
 
116 A WEEK 
 
 preface, not concluded in the appendix. Even 
 Virgil s poetry serves a very different use to me 
 to-day from what it did to his contemporaries. 
 It has often an acquired and accidental value 
 merely, proving that man is still man in the 
 world. It is pleasant to meet with such still 
 lines as, 
 
 "Jam laeto turgent in palmite gemmae ; " 
 Now the buds swell on the joyful stem. 
 
 " Strata jacent passim sua quaeque sub arbore poma ; " 
 The apples lie scattered everywhere, each under its tree. 
 
 In an ancient and dead language, any recog 
 nition of living nature attracts us. These are 
 such sentences as were written while grass grew 
 and water ran. It is no small recommendation 
 when a book will stand the test of mere unob 
 structed sunshine and daylight. 
 
 What would we not give for some great poem 
 to read now, which would be in harmony with 
 the scenery, for if men read aright, methinks 
 they would never reacL anything but poems. 
 ]S[o_history nor philosophy can supply their 
 place. 
 
 The wisest definition of poetry the poet will 
 instantly prove false by setting aside its requi 
 sitions. We can, therefore, publish only our 
 advertisement of it. 
 
 There is no doubt that the loftiest written 
 
SUNDAY 117 
 
 wisclom is either rhymed, or in some way musi 
 cally measured, is, in form as well as sub 
 stance, poetry ; and a volume which should con 
 tain the condensed wisdom of mankind need not 
 have one rhythmless line. 
 
 Yet poetry, though the last and finest result, 
 is a natural fruit. As naturally as the oak 
 bears an acorn, and the vine a gourd, man bears 
 a poem, either spoken or done. It is the chief 
 and most memorable success, Qr_history is but 
 j^ proaq n^rratiye_of^oetin^dftft(1s. What else 
 have the Hindoos, the Persians, the Babyloni 
 ans, the Egyptians done, that can be told ? It 
 is the simplest relation of phenomena, and de 
 scribes the commonest sensations with more 
 truth than sjejenjce does, and the latter at a dis- 
 sJLowly_ mimics its style and methods. 
 
 The poet sings how the blood flows in his veins. 
 He performs his functions, and is so well that 
 he needs such stimulus to sing only as plants 
 to put forth leaves and blossoms. He would 
 strive in vain to modulate the remote and tran 
 sient music which he sometimes hears, since his 
 is SLjital function like breathing, and an 
 
 integral result like weight, Jt-iauiQt_the over-^ 
 jflowing of life, but its subsidence rather, and 
 is drawn from under the feet of the poet. It is 
 
 " """ "" ~~- ~~" -" - ,, I| ^ r % i i 
 
 enough if Homer but say the sun sets. He is 
 <4s serene as^nature, and we can hardly detect 
 
118 A WEEK 
 
 the enthusiasm of the bard. It is aa if nature 
 <-poke. He presents to us the simplest pictures 
 of human life, so the child itself can understand 
 them, and the man must not think twice to ap 
 preciate his naturalness. Each reader discov 
 ers for himself that, with respect to the simpler 
 features of nature, succeeding poets have done 
 little else than copy his similes. His more 
 memorable passages are as naturally bright as 
 gleams of sunshine in misty weather. Nature 
 furnishes him not only with words, but with 
 stereotyped lines and sentences from her mint. 
 
 " As from the clouds appears the full moon, 
 All shining, and then again it goes behind the shadowy 
 
 clouds, 
 
 So Hector, at one time appeared among the foremost, 
 And at another in the rear, commanding ; and all with brass 
 He shone, like to the lightning of segis-bearing Zeus." 
 
 He conveys the least information, even the 
 hour of the day, with such magnificence and 
 vast expense of natural imagery, as if it were a 
 message from the gods. 
 
 " While it was dawn, and sacred day was advancing, 
 For that space the weapons of both flew fast, and the peo 
 ple fell; 
 But when now the woodcutter was preparing his morning 
 
 meal, 
 
 In the recesses of the mountain, and had wearied his hands 
 With cutting lofty trees, and satiety came to his mind, 
 And the desire of sweet food took possession of his thoughts ; 
 Then the Danaans, by their valor, broke the phalanxes, 
 Shouting to their companions from rank to rank." 
 
SUNDAY 119 
 
 When the army of the Trojans passed the 
 night under arms, keeping watch lest the enemy 
 should reembark under cover of the dark, 
 
 "They, thinking great things, upon the neutral ground of 
 
 war 
 
 Sat all the night ; and many fires burned for them. 
 As when in the heavens the stars round the bright moon 
 Appear beautiful, and the air is without wind ; 
 And all the heights, and the extreme summits, 
 And the wooded sides of the mountains appear ; and from 
 
 the heavens an infinite ether is diffused, 
 And all the stars are seen ; and the shepherd rejoices in his 
 
 heart ; 
 
 So between the ships and the streams of Xanthua 
 Appeared the fires of the Trojans before Ilium. 
 A thousand fires burned on the plain ; and by each 
 Sat fifty, in the light of the blazing fire ; 
 And horses eating white barley and corn, 
 Standing by the chariots, awaited fair-throned Aurora." 
 
 The "white-armed goddess Juno," sent by 
 the Father of gods and men for Iris and 
 Apollo, 
 
 " Went down the Idsean mountains to far Olympus, 
 As when the mind of a man, who has come over much earth, 
 Sallies forth, and he reflects with rapid thoughts, 
 There was I, and there, and remembers many things ; 
 So swiftly the august Juno hastening flew through the air, 
 And came to high Olympus." 
 
 His scenery is always true, and not invented. 
 He does not leap in imagination from Asia to 
 Greece, through mid air, 
 
 iirei^i fj.d\a 
 Oupfd re CTKi6fvra t 6d\affffd T 
 
120 A WEEK 
 
 For there are very many 
 Shady mountains and resounding seas between. 
 
 If his messengers repair but to the tent of 
 Achilles, we do not wonder how they got there, 
 but accompany them step by step along the 
 shore of the resounding sea. Nestor s account 
 of the march of the Pylians against the Epeians 
 is extremely lifelike : 
 
 "Then rose up to them sweet-worded Nestor, the shrill orator 
 
 of the Pylians, 
 And words sweeter than honey flowed from his tongue." 
 
 This time, however, he addresses Patroclus 
 alone: "A certain river, Minyas by name, leaps 
 seaward near to Arene, where we Pylians wait 
 the dawn, both horse and foot. Thence with 
 all haste we sped us on the morrow ere t was 
 noonday, accoutred for the fight, even to Al- 
 pheus s sacred source," etc. We fancy that 
 we hear the subdued murmuring of the Minyas 
 discharging its waters into the main the live 
 long night, and the hollow sound of the waves 
 breaking on the shore, until at length we are 
 cheered at the close of a toilsome march by the 
 gurgling fountains of Alpheus. 
 
 There are few books which are fit to be re 
 membered in our wisest hours, but the Iliad is 
 brightest in the serenest days, and embodies 
 still all the sunlight that fell on Asia Minor. 
 No modern joy or ecstasy of ours can lower its 
 
SUNDAY 121 
 
 height or dim its lustre, but there it lies in the 
 east of literature, as it were the earliest and 
 latest production of the mind. The ruins of 
 Egypt oppress and stifle us with their dust, 
 foulness preserved in cassia and pitch, and 
 swathed in linen ; the death of that which never 
 lived. But the rays of Greek poetry struggle 
 down to us, and mingle with the sunbeams of 
 the recent day. The statue of Memnon is cast 
 down, but the shaft of the Iliad still meets the 
 sun in his rising. 
 
 " Homer is gone ; and where is Jove ? and where 
 The rival cities seven ? His song outlives 
 Time, tower, and god, all that then was, save Heaven. * 
 
 So, too, no doubt, Homer had his Homer, 
 and Orpheus his Orpheus, in the dim antiquity 
 which preceded them. The mythological sys 
 tem of the ancients, and it is still the mythology 
 of the moderns, the poem of mankind, inter 
 woven so wonderfully with their astronomy, 
 and matching in grandeur and harmony the 
 architecture of the heavens themselves, seems 
 to point to a time when a mightier genius in 
 habited the earth. But, after all, man is the 
 great poet, and not Homer nor Shakespeare; 
 and our language itself, and the common arts 
 of life, are his work. Poetry is so universally 
 true and independent of experience that it does 
 not need any particular biography to illustrate 
 
122 A WEEK 
 
 it, but we refer it sooner or later to some Or 
 pheus or Linus, and after ages to the genius of 
 humanity and the gods themselves. 
 
 It would be worth the while to select our 
 reading, for books are the society we keep ; to 
 read only the serenely true; never statistics, 
 nor fiction, nor news, nor reports, nor period 
 icals, but only great poems, and when they 
 failed, read them again, or perchance write 
 more. Instead of other sacrifice, we might 
 offer up our perfect (reAcm) thoughts to the gods 
 daily, in hymns or psalms. For we should be 
 at the helm at least once a day. The whole of 
 the day should not be daytime ; there should be 
 one hour, if no more, which the day did not 
 bring forth. Scholars are wont to sell their 
 birthright for a mess of learning. But is it 
 necessary to know what the speculator prints, 
 or the thoughtless study, or the idle read, the 
 literature of the Russians and the Chinese, or 
 even French philosophy and much of German 
 criticism? Eead the best books first, or you 
 may not have a chance to read them at all. 
 44 There are the worshipers with offerings, and 
 the worshipers with mortifications; and again 
 the worshipers with enthusiastic devotion; 
 so there are those the wisdom of whose reading 
 is their worship, men of subdued passions and 
 
SUNDA Y 123 
 
 severe manners; This world is not for him 
 who doth not worship; and where, O Arjoon, is 
 there another? " Certainly, we do not need to 
 be soothed and entertained always like children. 
 He who resorts to the easy novel, because he is 
 languid, does no better than if he took a nap. 
 The front aspect of great thoughts can only be 
 enjoyed by those who stand on the side whence 
 they arrive. Books, not which afford us a 
 cowering enjoyment, but in which each thought 
 jsj)f unusual^ daring^ such as an idle man can 
 not read, and a timid one would not be enter 
 tained by, which eyeiL-inake us dangerous to 
 existing institutions, such call I good books. 
 
 All that are printed and bound are not 
 books ; they do not necessarily belong to letters, 
 but are oftener to be ranked with the other lux 
 uries and appendages of civilized life. Base 
 wares are palmed off under a thousand dis 
 guises. "The way to trade," as a peddler once 
 told me, "is to put it right through," no matter 
 what it is, anything that is agreed on. 
 
 " You grov ling worldlings, you whose wisdom trades 
 Where light ne er shot his golden ray." 
 
 By dint of able writing and pen-craft, books 
 are cunningly compiled, and have their run and 
 success even among the learned, as if they were 
 the result of a new man s thinking, and their 
 birth were attended with some natural throes. 
 
124 A WEEK 
 
 But in a little while their covers fall off, for 
 no binding will avail, and it appears that they 
 are not Books or Bibles at all. There are new 
 and patented inventions in this shape, purport 
 ing to be for the elevation of the race, which 
 many a pure scholar and genius who has learned 
 to read is for a moment deceived by, and finds 
 himself reading a horse-rake, or spinning- jenny, 
 or wooden nutmeg, or oak-leaf cigar, or steam- 
 power press, or kitchen range, perchance, when 
 he was seeking serene and biblical truths. 
 
 "Merchants, arise, 
 And mingle conscience with your merchandise." 
 
 Paper is cheap, and authors need not now erase 
 one book before they write another. Instead 
 of cultivating the earth for wheat and potatoes, 
 they cultivate literature, and fill a place in the 
 Eepublic of Letters. Or they would fain write 
 for fame merely, as others actually raise crops 
 of grain to be distilled into brandy. Books are 
 for the most part willfully and hastily written, 
 as parts of a system to supply a want real or 
 imagined. Books of natural history aim com 
 monly to be hasty schedules, or inventories of 
 God s property, by some clerk. They do not 
 in the least teach the divine view of nature, but 
 the popular view, or rather the popular method 
 of studying nature, and make haste to conduct 
 the persevering pupil only into that dilemma 
 where the professors always dwell. 
 
SUNDAY 125 
 
 " To Athens gowned he goes, and from that school 
 Returns unsped, a more instructed fool." 
 
 They teach the elements really of ignorance, 
 not of knowledge ; for, to speak deliberately and 
 in view of the highest truths, it is not easy to 
 distinguish elementary knowledge. , There is a 
 chasm between knowledge and ignorance which 
 the arches of science can never span. A book 
 should contain pure discoveries, glimpses of 
 ^terra^-firma, thoughjby shipwrecked mariners, 
 and not the art of navigation by those who have 
 never been out of sight of land. They must 
 not yield wheat and potatoes, but must them 
 selves be the unconstrained and natural harvest 
 of their author s lives. 
 
 " What I have learned is mine ; I ve had my thought, 
 And me the Muses noble truths have taught." 
 
 We do not learn much from learned books, 
 but from true, sincere, human books, from 
 frank and honest biographies. The life of a 
 good man will hardly improve us more than the 
 life of a freebooter, for the inevitable laws ap- 
 _gear__as., plainly in the infringement as in the 
 obsgrva.np.ft, and ,0ur_-liveSu_aEe sustained by a 
 yearly equal expense ofjvirtue of some kind. 
 The decaying tree, while yet it lives, demands 
 sun, wind, and rain no less than the green one. 
 It secretes sap and performs the functions of 
 health. If we choose, we may study the albur- 
 
126 A WEEK 
 
 num only. The gnarled stump has as tender a 
 bud as the sapling. 
 
 At least let us have healthy books, a stout 
 horse-rake, or a kitchen range which is not 
 cracked. Let not the poet shed tears only for 
 the public weal. He should be as vigorous as 
 a sugar-maple, with sap enough to maintain his 
 own verdure, beside what runs into the troughs, 
 and not like a vine, which being cut in the 
 spring bears no fruit, but bleeds to death in the 
 jmdeavor to heal its wounds. The poet is he 
 that hath fat enough, like bears and marmots, 
 IQ suck his clawj^all winter* He hibernates 
 in this world, and jeeds JOB his^own marrow. 
 We love to think in winter, as we waHT~dver 
 the snowy pastures, of those happy dreamers 
 that lie under the sod, of dormice and all that 
 race of dormant creatures, which have such a 
 superfluity of life enveloped in thick folds of 
 fur, impervious to cold. Alas, the poet too is 
 in one sense a sort of dorjnmise gone into win 
 ter quarters of deep and serene thoughts, insen 
 sible to surrounding circumstances; his words 
 are the relation of his oldest and finest mem 
 ory, a wisdom drawn from the remotest expe 
 rience. Other men lead a starved existence, 
 meanwhile, like Jyi.wlra 7 that would fain keep 
 on the wing, and trust to pick up a sparrow 
 now and then. 
 
SUNDAY 127 
 
 There are already essays and poems, the 
 growth of this land, which are not in vain, all 
 which, however, we could conveniently have 
 stowed in the till of our chest. If the gods per 
 mitted their own inspiration to be breathed in 
 vain, these might be overlooked in the crowd, 
 but the accents of truth are as sure to be heard 
 at last on earth as in heaven. They already 
 seem ancient, and in some measure have lost 
 the traces of their modern birth. Here are 
 they who 
 
 "ask for that which is our whole life s light, 
 For the perpetual, true, and clear insight." 
 
 I remember a few sentences which spring like 
 the sward in its native pasture, where its roots 
 were never disturbed, and not as if spread over 
 a sandy embankment; answering to the poet s 
 prayer, 
 
 " Let us set so just 
 
 A rate on knowledge, that the world may trust 
 The poet s sentence, and not still aver 
 Each art is to itself a flatterer." 
 
 But, above all, in our native port, did we not 
 frequent the peaceful games of the Lyceum, 
 from which a new era will be dated to New 
 England, as from the games of Greece. For 
 if Herodotus carried his history to Olympia to 
 read, after the cestus and the race, have we not 
 heard such histories recited there, which since 
 
128 A WEEK 
 
 our countrymen have read, as made Greece 
 sometimes to be forgotten? Philosophy, too, 
 has there her grove and portico, not wholly 
 unfrequented in these days. 
 
 Lately the victor, whom all Pindars praised, 
 has won another palm, contending with 
 
 44 Olympian bards who sung 
 Divine ideas below, 
 Which always find us young, 
 And always keep us so." 
 
 What earth or sea, mountain or stream, or 
 Muses spring or grove, is safe from his all- 
 searching, ardent eye, who drives off Phoebus 
 beaten track, visits unwonted zones, makes the 
 gelid Hyperboreans glow, and the old polar 
 serpent writhe, and many a Nile flow back and 
 hide his head! 
 
 That Phaeton of our day, 
 
 Who d make another milky way, 
 
 And burn the world up with his ray, 
 
 By us an undisputed seer, 
 
 Who d drive his flaming car so near 
 
 Unto our shuddering mortal sphere, 
 
 Disgracing all our slender worth, 
 And scorching up the living earth, 
 To prove his heavenly birth. 
 
 The silver spokes, the golden tire, 
 Are glowing with unwonted fire, 
 And ever nigher roll and nigher; 
 
SUNDAY 129 
 
 The pins and axle melted are, 
 
 The silver radii fly afar, 
 
 Ah, he will spoil his Father s car! 
 
 Who let him have the steeds he cannot steer ? 
 Henceforth the sun will not shine for a year ; 
 And we shall Ethiops all appear. 
 
 From his 
 
 " lips of cunning fell 
 The thrilling Delphic oracle." 
 
 And yet, sometimes, 
 
 We should not mind if on our ear there fell 
 Some less of cunning, more of oracle. 
 
 It is Apollo shining in your face. O rare Con 
 temporary, let us have far-off heats. Give us 
 the subtler, the heavenlier, though fleeting 
 beauty, which passes through and through, and 
 dwells not in the verse ; even pure water, which 
 but reflects those tints which wine wears in its 
 grain. Let epic trade-winds blow, and cease 
 this waltz of inspirations. Let us oftener feel 
 even the gentle southwest wind upon our cheeks 
 blowing from the Indian s heaven. What 
 though we lose a thousand meteors from the 
 sky, if skyey depths, if star-dust and undissolv- 
 able nebulae remain ? What though we lose a 
 thousand wise responses of the oracle, if we 
 may have instead some natural acres of Ionian 
 earth? 
 
 Though we know well, 
 
130 A WEEK 
 
 " That t is not in the power of kings [or presidents] to raise 
 A spirit for verse that is not born thereto, 
 Nor are they born in every prince s days ; " 
 
 yet spite of all they sang in praise of their 
 "Eliza s reign," we have evidence that poets 
 may be born and sing in our day, in the presi 
 dency of James K. Polk, 
 
 " And that the utmost powers of English rhyme," 
 Were not " within her peaceful reign confined." 
 
 The prophecy of the poet Daniel is already how 
 much more than fulfilled ! 
 
 " And who in time knows whither we may vent 
 The treasure of our tongue ? To what strange shores 
 This gain of our best glory shall be sent, 
 T enrich unknowing nations with our stores ? 
 What worlds in th yet unformed Occident, 
 May come refined with the accents that are ours." 
 
 Enough has been said in these days of the 
 charm of fluent writing. We hear it com 
 plained of some works of genius that they have 
 fine thoughts, but are irregular and have no 
 flow. But even the mountain peaks in the ho 
 rizon are, to the eye of science, parts of one 
 range. We should consider that the flow of 
 thought is more like a tidal wave than a prone 
 river, and is the result of a celestial influence, 
 not of any declivity in its channel. The river 
 flows because it runs down hill, and flows the 
 faster, the faster it descends. The reader who 
 expects to float downstream for the whole voy- 
 
SUNDAY 131 
 
 age may well complain of nauseating swells 
 and choppings of the sea when his frail shore 
 craft gets amidst the billows of the ocean 
 stream, which flows as much to sun and moon 
 as lesser streams to it. But if we would appre 
 ciate the flow that is in these books, we must 
 expect to feel it rise from the page like an ex 
 halation, and wash away our critical brains like 
 burr millstones, flowing to higher levels above 
 and behind ourselves. There is many a book 
 which ripples on like a freshet, and flows as 
 glibly as a mill-stream sucking under a cause 
 way ; and when their authors are in the full tide 
 of their discourse, Pythagoras and Plato and 
 Jamblichus halt beside them. Their long, 
 stringy, slimy sentences are of that consistency 
 that they naturally flow and run together. 
 They_read asjl written for military men, for 
 men of business, there is such a dispatch in 
 them. Compared with these, the ^rave^think- 
 _ers and phflnanphftrs seem not to have got their 
 swaddling-clothes off; they are slower than a 
 Koman army in its march, the rear camping 
 to-night where the van camped last night. The 
 wise Jamblichus eddies and gleams like a watery 
 slough. 
 
 " How many thousands never heard the name 
 Of Sidney, or of Spenser, or their books ! 
 And yet brave fellows, and presume of fame, 
 
 And seem to bear down all the world with looks! " 
 
132 A WEEK 
 
 The ready writer seizes the pen and shouts 
 "F^rward-l Alamo and Fanning!" and after 
 rolls the tide of war. The very walls and 
 fences seem to travel. But the most rapid trot 
 is no flow after all; and thither, reader, you 
 and I, at least, will not follow. 
 
 A perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is 
 extremely rare. For the most part we miss the 
 hue and fragrance of the thought; as if we 
 could be satisfied with the dews of the morning 
 or evening without their colors, or the heavens 
 without their azure. The most attractive sen 
 tences are, perhaps, not the wisest, but the 
 surest and roundest. They are spoken firmly 
 and conclusively, as if the speaker had a right 
 to know what he says, and if not wise, they 
 have at least been well learned. Sir Walter 
 Kaleigh might well be studied, if only for the 
 excellence of his style, for he is remarkable in 
 the midst of so many masters. There is a 
 natural emphasis in his style, like a man s 
 tread, and a breathing space between the sen 
 tences, which the best of modern writing does 
 not furnish. His chapters are like English 
 parks, or say rather like a Western forest, 
 where the larger growth keeps down the under 
 wood, and one may ride on horseback through 
 the openings. All the distinguished writers of 
 that period possess a greater vigor and natural- 
 
SUNDAY 133 
 
 ness than the more modern, for it is allowed 
 to slander our own time, and when we read a 
 quotation from one of them in" the midst of a 
 modern author, we seem to have come suddenly 
 upon a greener ground, a greater depth and 
 strength of soil. It is as if a green bough were 
 laid across the page, and we are refreshed as by 
 the sight of fresh grass in midwinter or early 
 spring. You have constantly the warrant of 
 life and experience in what you read. The lit- 
 jtlgjthaj^ is said js^jeked out by implication of the 
 much that was done. The sentences are ver 
 
 durous and blooming as evergreen and flowers, 
 because they are rooted in fact and experience, 
 but our false and florid sentences have only the 
 tints of flowers without their sap or roots. A1J. 
 men are really most attracted by the beauty of 
 plain speech, and they even write, in a florid 
 
 style in^imitation-- xdt _ thi s. Ihey_:preier _to be 
 
 misunderstood rather__than to come short of its 
 jexuberancfi.. Hussein Effendi praised the epis 
 tolary style of Ibrahim Pasha to the French 
 traveler Botta, because of "the difficulty of un 
 derstanding it; there was," he said, "but one 
 person at Jidda who was capable of understand 
 ing and explaining the Pasha s correspondence." 
 A man s whole life is taxed for the least thing 
 well done. It is its net result. Every sen 
 tence is the result of a long probation. Where 
 
134 A WEEK 
 
 shall we look for standard English but to the 
 words of a standard man? The word which is 
 best said came nearest to not being^gokenjit 
 all, for it is cousin jto a deed which the speaker 
 could have better done. ji^,_^lmostit_must 
 have taken the place of a deed by some urgent 
 necessity, even by some misfortune, so that the 
 truest writer will be some captive knight, after 
 "alT 35d^"perhaps~the fates had such a design, 
 when, having stored Raleigh so richly with the 
 substance of life and experience, they made 
 him a fast prisoner, and compelled him to make 
 his words his deeds, and transfer to his expres 
 sion the emphasis and sincerity of his action. 
 
 Men have a respect for scholarship and learn 
 ing greatly out of proportion to the use they 
 commonly serve. We are amused to read how 
 Ben Jonson engaged that the dull masks with 
 which the royal family and nobility were to be 
 entertained should be "grounded upon antiquity 
 and solid learning." Can there be any greater 
 reproach than an idle learning? Learn to split 
 wood, at least. JThe necessity of labor and 
 conversation with many men and things, to the 
 scholar is rarely well remembered ; ..steady labor 
 with the hands, whichjgngrosses the attention 
 also ? is unquestionably the best method of re 
 moving palaver and sentimentality out of one s 
 style,, both of speaking and writing. If he has 
 
SUNDAY 135 
 
 worked hard from morning till night, though 
 he may have grieved that he could not be watch 
 ing the train of his thoughts during that time, 
 yet the few hasty lines which at evening record 
 his day s experience will be more musical and 
 true than his freest but idle fancy could have 
 furnished. Surely the writer isjto address a 
 world of laborersTand such therefore must be 
 his own discipline. He will not idly dance at 
 his work who has wood to cut and cord before 
 nightfall in the short days of winter ; but every 
 stroke will be husbanded, and ring soberly 
 through the wood; and so will the strokes of 
 that scholar s pen, which at evening record the 
 story of the day, ring soberly, yet cheerily, on 
 the ear of the reader, long after the echoes of 
 his axe have died away. The scholar may be 
 sure that he writes the tougher truth for the 
 calluses on his palms. They give firmness to 
 the sentence. Indeed, the mind never makes 
 a great and successful effort, without a corre- 
 spondTng energy of the body. We are often 
 struck by the force and precision of style to 
 which hard-working men, unpracticed in writ 
 ing, easily attain when required to make the 
 
 effort. ^4_lLl?iEB e ^_ an< ^ v ig or an( l sincer 
 ity, the ornaments of style, were better learned 
 on the farm and in the workshop than in the 
 schools. The sentences written by such rude 
 
136 A WEEK 
 
 hands are nervous and tough, like hardened 
 thongs, the sinews of the deer, or the roots of 
 the pine. As for the graces of expression, a 
 great thought is never found in a mean dress; 
 but though it proceed from the lips of the Wo- 
 lofs, the nine Muses and the three Graces will 
 have conspired to clothe it in fit phrase. Its 
 education has always been liberal, and its im 
 plied wit can endow a college. The world, 
 which the Greeks called Beauty, has been made 
 such by being gradually divested of every orna 
 ment which was not fitted to endure. The 
 Sibyl, "speaking with inspired mouth, smileless, 
 inornate, and unperfumed, pierces through cen 
 turies by the power of the god." The scholar 
 might frequently emulate the propriety and 
 emphasis of the farmer s call to his team, and 
 confess that if that were written it would sur 
 pass his labored sentences. Whose are the 
 truly labored sentences? From the weak and 
 flimsy periods of the politician and literary 
 man, we are glad to turn even to the description 
 of work, the simple record of the month s labor 
 in the farmer s almanac, to restore our tone and 
 spirits. A sentence should read as if its au 
 thor, had he held a plough instead of a pen, 
 could have drawn a furrow deep and straight 
 to the end. The scholar requires hard and 
 serious labor to give an impetus to his thought* 
 
SUNDAY 137 
 
 He will learn to grasp the pen firmly so, and 
 wield it gracefully and effectively, as an axe 
 or a sword. When we consider the weak and 
 nerveless periods of some literary men, who 
 perchance in feet and inches come up to the 
 standard of their race, and are not deficient in 
 girth also, we are amazed at the immense sacri 
 fice of thews and sinews. What ! these propor 
 tions, these bones, and this their work! 
 Hands which could have felled an ox have 
 hewed this fragile matter which would not have 
 tasked a lady s fingers ! Can this be a stalwart 
 man s work, who has a marrow in his back and 
 a tendon Achilles in his heel? They who set 
 tip the blocks of Stonehenge did somewhat, if 
 they only laid out their strength for once, and 
 stretched themselves. 
 
 Yet, after all, the truly efficient laborer will 
 not crowd his day with work, but will saunter 
 to his task, surrounded by a wide halo of ease 
 and leisure, and then do but what he loves best. 
 He Is anxious only about the fruitful kernels 
 of time. Though the hen should sit all day, 
 she could lay only one egg, and, besides, would 
 not have picked up materials for another. Let 
 a man take time enough for the most trivial 
 deed, though it be but the paring of his nails. 
 The buds swell imperceptibly, without hurry or 
 confusion, as if the short spring days were an 
 eternity. 
 
138 A WEEK 
 
 Then spend an age in whetting thy desire, 
 Thou need st not hasten if thou dost standfast. 
 
 Some hours seem not to be occasion for any 
 deed, but for resolves to draw breath in. We 
 do not directly go about the execution of the 
 purpose that thrills us, but shut our doors be 
 hind us and ramble with prepared mind, as if 
 the half were already done. Our resolution is 
 taking root or hold on the earth then, as seeds 
 first send a shoot downward which is fed by 
 their own albumen, ere they send one upward 
 to the light. 
 
 There is a sort of homely truth and natural 
 ness in some books which is very rare to find, 
 and yet looks cheap enough. There may be 
 nothing lofty in the sentiment, or fine in the 
 expression, but it is careless country talk. 
 Homeliness is almost as great a merit in a book 
 as in a house, if the reader would abide there. 
 It is next to beauty, and a very high art. Some 
 have this merit only. The scholar is not apt to 
 make his most familiar experience come grace 
 fully to the aid of his expression. Very few 
 men can speak of Nature, for instance, with any 
 truth. They overstep her modesty, somehow or 
 other, and confer no favor. They do not speak 
 a good word for her. Most cry better than 
 they speak, and you can get more nature out 
 
SUNDAY 139 
 
 of them by pinching than by addressing them. 
 The surliness with which the woodchopper 
 speaks of his woods, handling them as indiffer 
 ently as his axe, is better than the mealy- 
 mouthed enthusiasm of the lover of nature. 
 Better that the primrose by the river s brim 
 be a yellow primrose, and nothing more, than 
 that it be something less. Aubrey relates of 
 Thomas Fuller that his was "a very working 
 head, insomuch that, walking and meditating 
 before dinner, he would eat up a penny loaf, 
 not knowing that he did it. His natural mem 
 ory was very great, to which he added the art 
 of memory. He would repeat to you forwards 
 and backwards all the signs from Ludgate to 
 Charing Cross." He says of Mr. John Hales, 
 that "he loved Canarie," and was buried "un 
 der an altar monument of black marble 
 
 with a too long epitaph;" of Edmund 
 
 Halley, that he "at sixteen could make a dial, 
 and then, he said, he thought himself a brave 
 fellow; " of William Holder, who wrote a book 
 upon his curing one Popham who was deaf and 
 dumb, "he was beholding to no author; did 
 only consult with nature." For the most part, 
 an author consults only with all who have writ 
 ten before him upon a subject, and his book is 
 but the advice of so many. But a good book 
 will never have been forestalled, but the topic 
 
140 A WEEK 
 
 itself will in one sense be new, and its author, 
 by consulting with nature, will consult not only 
 with those who have gone before, but with those 
 who may come after. There is always room 
 and occasion enough for a true book on any 
 subject; as there is room for more light the 
 brightest day, and more rays will not interfere 
 with the first. 
 
 We thus worked our way up this river, grad 
 ually adjusting our thoughts to novelties, be 
 holding from its placid bosom a new nature and 
 new works of men, and, as it were with increas 
 ing confidence, finding nature still habitable, 
 genial, and propitious to us ; not following any 
 beaten path, but the windings of the river, as 
 ever the nearest way for us. Fortunately we 
 had no business in this country. The Concord 
 had rarely been a river, or rivus, but barely 
 fluvius, or between Jluvius and lacus. This 
 Merrimack was neither rivus nor fluvius nor 
 lacus, but rather amnis here, a gently swelling 
 and stately rolling flood approaching the sea. 
 We could even sympathize with its buoyant 
 tide, going to seek its fortune in the ocean, and, 
 anticipating the time when "being received 
 within the plain of its freer water," it should 
 "beat the shores for banks," 
 
 " campoque recepta 
 Liberioris aquse, pro ripis litora pulsant" 
 
SUNDAY 141 
 
 At length we doubled a low shrubby islet, 
 called Rabbit Island, subjected alternately to 
 the sun and to the waves, as desolate as if it lay 
 some leagues within the icy sea, and found our* 
 selves in a narrower part of the river, near the 
 sheds and yards for picking the stone known 
 as the Chelmsford granite, which is quarried 
 in Westford and the neighboring towns. We 
 passed Wicasuck Island, which contains seventy 
 acres or more, on our right, between Chelmsford 
 and Tyngsborough. This was a favorite resi 
 dence of the Indians. According to the History 
 of Dunstable, "About 1663, the eldest son of 
 Passaconaway [Chief of the Penacooks] was 
 thrown into jail for a debt of 45, due to John 
 Tinker, by one of his tribe, and which he had 
 promised verbally should be paid. To relieve 
 him from his imprisonment, his brother Wan- 
 nalancet and others, who owned Wicasuck 
 Island, sold it and paid the debt." It was, 
 however, restored to the Indians by the General 
 Court in 1665. After the departure of the In 
 dians in 1683, it was granted to Jonathan Tyng 
 in payment for his services to the colony, in 
 maintaining a garrison at his house. Tyng s 
 house stood not far from Wicasuck Falls. 
 Gookin, who, in his Epistle Dedicatory to Rob 
 ert Boyle, apologizes for presenting his "matter 
 clothed in a wilderness dress," says that on the 
 
142 A WEEK 
 
 breaking out of Philip s war in 1675, there were 
 taken up by the Christian Indians and the Eng 
 lish in Marlborough, and sent to Cambridge, 
 seven "Indians belonging to Narragansett, 
 Long Island, and Pequod, who had all been at 
 work about seven weeks with one Mr. Jonathan 
 Tyng, of Dunstable, upon Merrimack River; 
 and, hearing of the war, they reckoned with 
 their master, and getting their wages, conveyed 
 themselves away without his privity, and, being 
 afraid, marched secretly through the woods, 
 designing to go to their own country." How 
 ever, they were released soon after. Such were 
 the hired men in those days. Tyng was the 
 first permanent settler of Dunstable, which 
 then embraced what is now Tyngsborough and 
 many other towns. In the winter of 1675, in 
 Philip s war, every other settler left the town, 
 but "he," says the historian of Dunstable, 
 "fortified his house; and, although obliged to 
 send to Boston for his food, sat himself down 
 in the midst of his savage enemies, alone, in the 
 wilderness, to defend his home. Deeming his 
 position an important one for the defense of the 
 frontiers, in February, 1676, he petitioned the 
 Colony for aid," humbly showing, as his peti 
 tion runs, that, as he lived "in the uppermost 
 house on Merrimac river, lying open to y e 
 enemy, yet being so seated that it is, as it were, 
 
SUNDAY 143 
 
 a watch-house to the neighboring towns," he 
 could render important service to his country 
 if only he had some assistance, "there being," 
 he said, "never an inhabitant left in the town 
 but myself." Wherefore he requests that their 
 "Honors would be pleased to order him three 
 or four men to help garrison his said house," 
 which they did. But methinks that such a gar 
 rison would be weakened by the addition of a 
 man. 
 
 " Make bandog thy scout watch to bark at a thief, 
 Make courage for life, to be capitain chief ; 
 Make trap-door thy bulwark, make bell to begin, 
 Make gunstone and arrow show who is within." 
 
 Thus he earned the title of first permanent set 
 tler. In 1694 a law was passed "that every 
 settler who deserted a town for fear of the In 
 dians should forfeit all his rights therein." But 
 now, at any rate, as I have frequently observed, 
 a man may desert the fertile frontier territories 
 of truth and justice, which are the State s best 
 lands, for fear of far more insignificant foes, 
 without forfeiting any of his civil rights therein. 
 Nay, townships are granted to deserters, and 
 the General Court, as I am sometimes inclined 
 to regard it, is but a deserters camp itself. 
 
 As we rowed along near the shore of Wica- 
 suck Island, which was then covered with 
 wood, in order to avoid the current* two men> 
 
144 A WEEK 
 
 who looked as if they had just run out of Low 
 ell, where they had been waylaid by the Sab 
 bath, meaning to go to Nashua, and who now 
 found themselves in the strange, natural, uncul 
 tivated, and unsettled part of the globe whicl 
 intervenes, full of walls and barriers, a rough 
 and uncivil place to them, seeing our boat mov 
 ing so smoothly up the stream, called out from 
 the high bank above our heads to know if we 
 would take them as passengers, as if this were 
 the street they had missed ; that they might sit 
 and chat and drive away the time, and so at last 
 find themselves in Nashua. This smooth way 
 they much preferred. But our boat was crowded 
 with necessary furniture, and sunk low in the 
 water, and moreover required to be worked, for 
 even it did not progress against the stream with 
 out effort; so we were obliged to deny them 
 passage. As we glided away with even sweeps, 
 while the fates scattered oil in our course, the 
 sun now sinking behind the alders on the dis 
 tant shore, we could still see them far off over 
 the water, running along the shore and climbing 
 over the rocks and fallen trees like insects, 
 for they did not know any better than we that 
 they were on an island, the un sympathizing 
 river ever flowing in an opposite direction; 
 until, having reached the entrance of the island 
 brook, which they had probably crossed upon 
 
SUNDA Y 145 
 
 the locks below, they found a more effectual 
 barrier to their progress. They seemed to be 
 learning much in a little time. They ran about 
 like ants on a burning brand, and once more they 
 tried the river here, and once more there, to see 
 if water still indeed was not to be walked on, 
 as if a new thought inspired them, and by some 
 peculiar disposition of the limbs they could 
 accomplish it. At length sober common sense 
 seemed to have resumed its sway, and they con 
 cluded that what they had so long heard must 
 be true, and resolved to ford the shallower 
 stream. When nearly a mile distant we could 
 see them stripping off their clothes and prepar 
 ing for this experiment; yet it seemed likely 
 that a new dilemma would arise, they were so 
 thoughtlessly throwing away their clothes on 
 the wrong side of the stream, as in the case 
 of the countryman with his corn, his fox, and 
 his goose, which had to be transported one at 
 a time. Whether they got safely through, or 
 went round by the locks, we never learned. 
 We CQuldjKiLbelp being struck by the seeming, 
 thougj^nocent indifference^f Nature to these 
 fiasiiksj^^while elsewhere she was 
 equally serving others. ^Like a true benefac- 
 t$ess,_the secret of her service is unchangeable- 
 ness. Thus is the busiest merchant, thougET 
 within sight of his Lowell, put to pilgrim s 
 
146 A WEEK 
 
 shifts, and soon comes to staff and scrip and 
 scallop shell. 
 
 We, too, who held the middle of the stream, 
 came near experiencing a pilgrim s fate, being 
 tempted to pursue what seemed a sturgeon or 
 larger fish, for we remembered that this was the 
 Sturgeon River, its dark and monstrous back 
 alternately rising and sinking in midstream. 
 We kept falling behind, but the fish kept his 
 back well out, and did not dive, and seemed to 
 prefer to swim against the stream, so, at any 
 rate, he would not escape us by going out to 
 sea. At length, having got as near as was con 
 venient, and looking out not to get a blow from 
 his tail, now the bow-gunner delivered his 
 charge, while the stern-man held his ground. 
 But the halibut-skinned monster, in one of these 
 swift-gliding pregnant moments, without ever 
 ceasing his bobbing up and down, saw fit, with 
 out a chuckle or other prelude, to proclaim him 
 self a huge imprisoned spar, placed there as a 
 buoy, to warn sailors of sunken rocks. So, 
 each casting some blame upon the other, we 
 withdrew quickly to safer waters. 
 
 The Scene-shifter saw fit here to close the 
 drama of this day without regard to any unities 
 which we mortals prize. Whether it might 
 have proved tragedy, or comedy, or tragi-com- 
 edy, or pastoral, we cannot tell. This SundaJ 
 
SUNDAY 147 
 
 ended by the going down of the sun, leaving us 
 still on the waves. But they who are on the 
 water enjoy a longer and brighter twilight than 
 they who are on the land, for here the water, as 
 well as the atmosphere, absorbs and reflects the 
 light, and some of the day seems to have sunk 
 down into the waves. The light gradually for 
 sook the deep water, as well as the deeper air, 
 and the gloaming came to the fishes as well as 
 to us, and more dim and gloomy to them, whose 
 day is a perpetual twilight, though sufficiently 
 bright for their weak and watery eyes. Vespers 
 had already rung in many a dim and watery 
 chapel down below, where the shadows of the 
 weeds were extended in length over the sandy 
 floor. The vespertinal pout had already begun 
 to flit on leathern fin, and the finny gossips 
 withdrew from the fluvial street to creeks and 
 coves, and other private haunts, excepting a few 
 of stronger fin, which anchored in the stream, 
 stemming the tide even in their dreams. Mean 
 while, like a dark evening cloud, we were 
 wafted over the cope of their sky, deepening the 
 shadows on their deluged fields. 
 
 Having reached a retired part of the river 
 where it spread out to sixty rods in width, we 
 pitched our tent on the east side, in Tyngsbor- 
 ough, just above some patches of the beach 
 plum, which was now nearly ripe, where the 
 
148 A WEEK 
 
 sloping bank was a sufficient pillow, and with 
 the bustle of sailors making the land, we trans 
 ferred such stores as were required from boat to 
 tent, and hung a lantern to the tent-pole, and 
 so our house was ready. With a buffalo spread 
 on the grass, and a blanket for our covering, 
 our bed was soon made. A fire crackled mer 
 rily before the entrance, so near that we could 
 tend it without stepping abroad, and when we 
 had supped, we put out the blaze, and closed 
 the door, and with the semblance of domestic 
 comfort, sat up to read the Gazetteer, to learn 
 our latitude and longitude, and write the journal 
 of the voyage, or listened to the wind and the 
 rippling of the river till sleep overtook us. 
 There we lay under an oak on the bank of the 
 stream, near to some farmer s cornfield, getting 
 sleep, and forgetting where we were; a great 
 blessing, that we are obliged to forget our en 
 terprises every twelve hours. Minks, muskrats, 
 meadow-mice, woodchucks, squirrels, skunks, 
 rabbits, foxes, and weasels, all inhabit near, 
 but keep very close while you are there. The 
 river sucking and eddying away all night down 
 toward the marts and the seaboard, a great wash 
 and freshet, and no small enterprise to reflect 
 on. Instead of the Scythian vastness of the 
 Billerica night, and its wild musical sounds, we 
 were kept awake by the boisterous sport of some 
 
SUNDAY 149 
 
 Irish laborers on the railroad, wafted to us over 
 the water, still unwearied and unresting on this 
 seventh day, who would not have done with 
 whirling up and down the track with ever-in 
 creasing velocity and still reviving shouts, till 
 late in the night. 
 
 One sailor was visited in his dreams this night 
 by the Evil Destinies, and all those powers that 
 are hostile to human life, which constrain and 
 oppress the minds of men, and make their path 
 seem difficult and narrow, and beset with dan 
 gers, so that the most innocent and worthy en 
 terprises appear insolent and a tempting of fate, 
 and the gods go not with us. But the other 
 happily passed a serene and even ambrosial or 
 immortal night, and his sleep was dreamless, or 
 only the atmosphere of pleasant dreams re 
 mained, a happy, natural sleep until the morn 
 ing; and his cheerful spirit soothed and reas 
 sured his brother, for whenever they meet, the 
 Good Genius is sure to prevail. 
 
MONDAY. 
 
 ** I thynke for to touche also 
 The worlde whiche neweth ererie daie, 
 So as I can, BO as I male." 
 
 GOWEB. 
 
 " The hye sheryfe of Notynghame, 
 Hym holde in your mynde." 
 
 Robin Hood Ballads. 
 
 " His shoote it was but loosely shott, 
 
 Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, 
 
 For it mett one of the sheriffe s men, 
 
 And William a Trent was slaine." 
 
 Robin Hood Ballads. 
 
 " Gazed on the Heavens for what he missed on Earth." 
 
 Britannia s Pastorals. 
 
 WHEN the first light dawned on the earth, 
 and the birds awoke, and the brave river was 
 heard rippling confidently seaward, and the 
 nimble early rising wind rustled the oak leaves 
 about our tent, all men, having reinforced their 
 bodies and their souls with sleep, and cast aside 
 doubt and fear, were invited to unattempted 
 adventures. 
 
 " All courageous knichtis 
 Agains the day dichtis 
 The breest-plate that bricht is, 
 To f eght with their foue. 
 
152 A WEEK 
 
 The stoned steed stampis 
 Throw curage and crampis, 
 Syne on the land lampis ; 
 
 The night is neir gone." 
 
 One of us took the boat over to the opposite 
 shore, which was flat and accessible, a quarter 
 of a mile distant, to empty it of water and wash 
 out the clay, while the other kindled a fire and 
 got breakfast ready. At an early hour we were 
 again on our way, rowing through the fog as 
 before, the river already awake, and a million 
 crisped waves come forth to meet the sun when 
 he should show himself. The countrymen, re 
 cruited by their day of rest, were already stir 
 ring, and had begun to cross the ferry on the 
 business of the week. This ferry was as busy 
 as a beaver dam, and all the world seemed anx 
 ious to get across the Merrimack River at this 
 particular point, waiting to get set over, chil 
 dren with their two cents done up in paper, jail 
 birds broke loose and constable with warrant, 
 travelers from distant lands to distant lands, 
 men and women to whom the Merrimack River 
 was a bar. There stands a gig in the gray 
 morning, in the mist, the impatient traveler 
 pacing the wet shore with whip in hand, and 
 shouting through the fog after the regardless 
 Charon and his retreating ark, as if he might 
 throw that passenger overboard and return 
 
MONDAY 153 
 
 forthwith for himself; he will compensate him. 
 He is to break his fast at some unseen place on 
 the opposite side. It may be Ledyard, or the 
 Wandering Jew. Whence, pray, did he come 
 out of the foggy night? and whither through 
 the sunny day will he go? We observe only 
 his transit ; important to us, forgotten by him, 
 transiting all day. There are two of them. 
 May be, they are Virgil and Dante. But when 
 they crossed the Styx, none were seen bound up 
 or down the stream, that I remember. It is 
 only a transjectus, a transitory voyage, like life 
 itself, none but the long-lived gods bound up or 
 down the stream. Many of these Monday men 
 are ministers, no doubt, reseeking their parishes 
 with hired horses, with sermons in their valises 
 all read and gutted, the day after never with 
 them. They cross each other s routes all the 
 country over like woof and warp, making a gar 
 ment of loose texture; vacation now for six 
 days. They stop to pick nuts and berries, and 
 gather apples, by the wayside at their leisure. 
 Good religious men, with the love of men in 
 their hearts, and the means to pay their toll in 
 their pockets. We got over this ferry chain 
 without scraping, rowing athwart the tide of 
 travel, no toll for us that day. 
 
 The fog dispersed, and we rowed leisurely 
 along through Tyngsborough, with a clear sky 
 
154 A WEEK 
 
 and a mild atmosphere, leaving the habitations 
 of men behind, and penetrating yet farther 
 into the territory of ancient Dunstable. It was 
 from Dunstable, then a frontier town, that the 
 famous Captain Lovewell, with his company, 
 marched in quest of the Indians on the 18th of 
 April, 1725. He was the son of "an ensign in 
 the army of Oliver Cromwell, who came to this 
 country, and settled at Dunstable, where he 
 died at the great age of one hundred and twenty 
 years." In the words of the old nursery tale, 
 sung about a hundred years ago, 
 
 " He and his valiant soldiers did range the woods full wide, 
 And hardships they endured to quell the Indian s pride." 
 
 In the shaggy pine forest of Pequawket they 
 met the "rebel Indians," and prevailed, after a 
 bloody fight, and a remnant returned home to 
 enjoy the fame of their victory. A township 
 called Lovewell s Town, but now, for some 
 reason, or perhaps without reason, Pembroke, 
 was granted them by the State. 
 
 " Of all our valiant English, there were but thirty-four, 
 And of the rebel Indians, there were about four-score ; 
 And sixteen of our English did safely home return, 
 The rest were killed and wounded, for which we all must 
 mourn. 
 
 "Our worthy Capt. Lovewell among them there did die, 
 They killed Lieut. Robbins, and wounded good young Frye, 
 Who was our English Chaplin ; he many Indians slew, 
 And some of them he scalped while bullets round him 
 flew." 
 
MONDA Y 155 
 
 Our brave forefathers have exterminated all 
 the Indians, and their degenerate children no 
 longer dwell in garrisoned houses nor hear any 
 war-whoop in their path. It would be well, 
 perchance, if many an "English Chaplin "in 
 these days could exhibit as unquestionable 
 trophies of his valor as did "good young Frye." 
 We have need to be as sturdy pioneers still as 
 Miles Standish, or Church, or Lovewell. We 
 are to follow on another trail, it is true, but 
 one as convenient for ambushes. WhaiJLLihe 
 Jhidiajis_aTe__to^ not^savages as 
 
 grim prowling jibout the clearings tp-daty. ? 
 
 " And braving many dangers and hardships in the way, 
 They safe arrived at Dunstable the thirteenth (?) day dl 
 May." 
 
 But they did not all " safe arrive in Dunstable 
 the thirteenth," or the fifteenth, or the thirtieth 
 "day of May." Eleazer Davis and Josiah 
 Jones, both of Concord, for our native town had 
 seven men in this fight, Lieutenant Farwell, of 
 Dunstable, and Jonathan Frye, of Andover, 
 who were all wounded, were left behind, creep 
 ing toward the settlements. "After traveling 
 several miles, Frye was left and lost," though 
 a more recent poet has assigned him company 
 in his last hours. 
 
 " A man he was of comely form, 
 
 Polished and brave, well learned and kind ; 
 Old Harvard s learned halls he left 
 Far in the wilds a grave to find. 
 
156 A WEEK 
 
 " Ah ! now his blood-red arm he lifts ; 
 
 His closing lids he tries to raise ; 
 And speak once more before he dies, 
 In supplication and in praise. 
 
 u He prays kind Heaven to grant success, 
 
 Brave Love well s men to guide and bless, 
 And when they ve shed their heart-blood true, 
 To raise them all to happiness. 
 
 " Lieutenant Farwell took his hand, 
 
 His arm around his neck he threw, 
 And said, Brave Chaplain, I could wish 
 That Heaven had made me die for you. " 
 
 Farwell held out eleven days. "A tradition 
 says," as we learn from the History of Concord, 
 "that arriving at a pond with Lieut. Farwell, 
 Davis pulled off one of his moccasins, cut it in 
 strings, on which he fastened a hook, caught 
 some fish, fried and ate them. They refreshed 
 him, but were injurious to Farwell, who died 
 soon after." Davis had a ball lodged in his 
 body, and his right hand shot off; but on the 
 whole, he seems to have been less damaged 
 than his companions. He came into Berwick 
 after being out fourteen days. Jones also had 
 a ball lodged in his body, but he likewise got 
 into Saco after fourteen days, though not in the 
 best condition imaginable. " He had subsisted, " 
 says an old journal, "on the spontaneous vege 
 tables of the forest; and cranberries which he 
 
MONDAY 157 
 
 had eaten came out of wounds lie had received 
 in his body." This was a* 80 tne case w * tn 
 Davis. The last two reached home at length, 
 safe if not sound, and lived many years in a 
 crippled state to enjoy their pension. 
 
 But alas ! of the crippled Indians, and their 
 adventures in the woods, 
 
 " For as we are informed, so thick and fast they fell, 
 Scarce twenty of their number at night did get home 
 well," 
 
 how many balls lodged with them, how fared 
 their cranberries, what Berwick or Saco they 
 got into, and finally what pension or township 
 was granted them, there is no journal to tell. 
 
 It is stated in the History of Dunstable that 
 just before his last march, Lovewell was warned 
 to beware of the ambuscades of the enemy, but 
 "he replied, that he did not care for them, 
 and bending down a small elm beside which 
 he was standing into a bow, declared that 
 he would treat the Indians in the same way. 
 This elm is still standing [in Nashua], a vener 
 able and magnificent tree." 
 
 Meanwhile, having passed the Horseshoe In 
 terval in Tyngsborough, where the river makes 
 a sudden bend to the northwest, for our re 
 flections have anticipated our progress some 
 what, we were advancing farther into the 
 
158 A WEEK 
 
 country and into the day, which last proved 
 almost as golden as the preceding, though the 
 slight bustle and activity of the Monday seemed 
 to penetrate even to this scenery. Now and 
 then we had to muster all our energy to get 
 round a point, where the river broke rippling 
 over rocks, and the maples trailed their branches 
 in the stream, but there was generally a back 
 water or eddy on the side, of which we took ad 
 vantage. The river was here about forty rods 
 wide and fifteen feet deep. Occasionally one 
 ran along the shore, examining the country, and 
 visiting the nearest farm-houses, while the other 
 followed the windings of the stream alone, to 
 meet his companion at some distant point, and 
 hear the report of his adventures; how the 
 farmer praised the coolness of his well, and his 
 wife offered the stranger a draught of milk, or 
 the children quarreled for the only transparency 
 in the window that they might get sight of the 
 man at the well. For though the country 
 seemed so new, and no house was observed by us, 
 shut in between the banks that sunny day, we 
 did not have to travel far to find where men 
 inhabited, like wild bees, and had sunk wells 
 in the loose sand and loam of the Merrimack. 
 There dwelt the subject of the Hebrew scrip 
 tures, and the Esprit des Lois, where a thin, 
 vaporous smoke curled up through the noon. 
 
MONDAY 159 
 
 All that is told of mankind, of the inhabitants 
 of the Upper Nile, and the Sunderbunds, and 
 Timbuctoo, and the Orinoko, was experience 
 here. Every race and class of men was repre 
 sented. According to Belknap, the historian of 
 New Hampshire, who wrote sixty years ago, 
 >here too, perchance, dwelt "new lights" and 
 free -thinking men, even then. "The people in 
 general throughout the State," it is written, 
 "are professors of the Christian religion in some 
 form or other. There is, however, a sort of 
 wise men who pretend to reject it; but they 
 have not yet been able to substitute a better in 
 its place." 
 
 The other voyageur, perhaps, would in the 
 mean while have seen a brown hawk, or a wood- 
 chuck, or a musquash creeping under the alders. 
 
 We occasionally rested in the shade of a 
 maple or a willow, and drew forth a melon for 
 our refreshment, while we contemplated at our 
 leisure the lapse of the river and of human life ; 
 and as that current, with its floating twigs and 
 leaves, so did all things pass in review before 
 us, while far away in cities and marts on this 
 very stream, the old routine was proceeding 
 still. There is, indeed, a tide in the affairs of 
 men, as the poet says, and yet as things flow 
 they circulate, and the ebb always balances the 
 flow. All streams are but tributary to the 
 
160 A WEEK 
 
 ocean, which itself does not stream, and the 
 shores are unchanged, but in longer periods 
 than man can measure. Go where we will, we 
 discover infinite change in particulars only, not 
 in generals. When I go into a museum and see 
 the mummies wrapped in their linen bandages, 
 I see that the lives of men began to need reform 
 as long ago as when they walked the earth. I 
 come out into the streets, and meet men who 
 declare that the time is near at hand for the 
 redemption of the race. But as men lived in 
 Thebes, so do they live in Dunstable to-day. 
 "Time drinketh up the essence of every great 
 and noble action which ought to be performed, 
 and is delayed in the execution." So says 
 Veeshnoo Sarma; and we perceive that the 
 schemers return again and again to common 
 sense and labor. Such is the evidence of his 
 tory. 
 
 " Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose 
 
 runs, 
 
 And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of 
 the Suns." 
 
 There are secret articles in our treaties with the 
 gods, of more importance than all the rest, 
 which the historian can never know. 
 
 There are many skillful apprentices, but few 
 master workmen. On every hand we observe a 
 truly wise practice, in education, in morals, and 
 
MONDAY 161 
 
 in the arts of life, the embodied wisdom of 
 many an ancient philosopher. Who does not 
 see that heresies have some time prevailed, that 
 reforms have already taken place? All this 
 worldly wisdom might be regarded as the once 
 unamiable heresy of some wise man. Some in 
 terests have got a footing on the earth which 
 we have not made sufficient allowance for. 
 Even they who first built these barns and cleared 
 the land thus, had some valor. The abrupt 
 epochs and chasms are smoothed down in his 
 tory as the inequalities of the plain are con 
 cealed by distance. But unless we do more 
 than simply learn the trade of our time, we are 
 but apprentices, and not yet masters of the art 
 of life. 
 
 Now that we are casting away these melon 
 seeds, how can we help feeling reproach? He 
 who eats the fruit should at least plant the 
 seed; ay, if possible, a better seed than that 
 whose fruit he has enjoyed. Seeds, there are 
 seeds enough which need only be stirred in with 
 the soil where they lie, by an inspired voice or 
 pen, to bear fruit of a divine flavor. O thou 
 spendthrift! Defray thy debt to the world; 
 eat not the seed of institutions, as the luxurious 
 do, but plant it rather, while thou devourest the 
 pulp and tuber for thy subsistence; that so, 
 perchance, one variety may at last be found 
 worthy of preservation. 
 
162 A WEEK 
 
 There are moments when all anxiety and 
 stated toil are becalmed in the infinite leisure 
 and repose of nature. All laborers must have 
 their nooning, and at this season of the day, we 
 are all, more or less, Asiatics, and give over all 
 work and reform. While lying thus on our 
 oars by the side of the stream, in the heat of 
 the day, our boat held by an osier put through 
 the staple in its prow, and slicing the melons, 
 which are a fruit of the East, our thoughts re 
 verted to Arabia, Persia, and Hindostan, the 
 lands of contemplation and dwelling-places of 
 the ruminant nations. In the experience of 
 this noontide we could find some apology even 
 for the instinct of the opium, betel, and tobacco 
 chewers. Mount Saber, according to the 
 French traveler and naturalist, Botta, is cele 
 brated for producing the Kat-tree, of which 
 "the soft tops of the twigs and tender leaves 
 are eaten," says his reviewer, "and produce an 
 agreeable soothing excitement, restoring from 
 fatigue, banishing sleep, and disposing to the 
 enjoyment of conversation." We thought that 
 we might lead a dignified Oriental life along 
 this stream as well, and the maple and alders 
 would be our Kat-trees. 
 
 ft.-i* -a -great^pleasure ta escape sometimes 
 .from thft^restless class of Reformers. What 
 if these grievances exist? So do you and I. 
 
MONDAY 163 
 
 Think you that sitting hens are troubled with 
 ennui these long summer days, sitting on and 
 on in the crevice of a hay -loft, without active 
 employment? By the faint cackling in distant 
 barns, I judge that dame Nature is interested 
 still to know how many eggs her hens lay. The 
 Universal Soul, as it is called, has an interest 
 in the stacking of hay, the foddering of cattle, 
 and the draining of peat-meadows. Away in 
 Scythia, away in India, it makes butter and 
 cheese. Suppose that all farms are run out, 
 and we youths must buy old land and bring it 
 to, still everywhere the relentless opponents of 
 reform bear a strange resemblance to ourselves ; 
 or, perchance, they are a few old maids and 
 bachelors, who sit round the kitchen hearth and 
 listen to the singing of the kettle. "The ora 
 cles often give victory to our choice, and not to 
 the order alone of the mundane periods. As, 
 for instance, when they say that our voluntary 
 sorrows germinate in us as the growth of the 
 particular life we lead." The reform which 
 you talk about can be undertaken any morning 
 before unbarring our doors. We need not call 
 any convention. When two neighbors begin to 
 eat corn bread, who before ate wheat, then the 
 gods smile from ear to ear, for it is very pleas 
 ant to them. Why do you not try it? Don t 
 let me hinder you. 
 
164 A WEEK 
 
 There are theoretical reformers at all times, 
 and all the world over, living on anticipation. 
 Wolff, traveling in the deserts of Bokhara, 
 says, "Another party of derveeshes came to me 
 J and observed, The time will come when there 
 shall be no difference between rich and poor, 
 between high and low, when property will be 
 in common, even wives and children. " But 
 forever I ask of such, What then? The der 
 veeshes in the deserts of Bokhara and the re 
 formers in Marlboro Chapel sing the same 
 song. "There s a good time coming, boys," 
 but, asked one of the audience, in good faith, 
 "Can you fix the date?" Said I, " Will you 
 help it along?" 
 
 The nonchalance and dolce-far-niente air of 
 nature and society hint at infinite periods in the 
 progress of mankind. The States have leisure 
 to laugh from Maine to Texas at some news 
 paper joke, and New England shakes at the 
 double - entendres of Australian circles, while 
 the poor reformer cannot get a hearing. 
 
 Men do not fail commonly for want of know 
 ledge, but for want of prudence to give wisdom 
 the preference. What we need to know in any 
 case is very simple. It is but too easy to es 
 tablish another durable and harmonious routine. 
 Immediately all parts of nature consent to it. 
 Only make something to take the place of some- 
 
MONDAY 165 
 
 thing, and men will behave as if it was the 
 very thing they wanted. They must behave, 
 at any rate, and will work up any material. 
 There is always a present and extant life, be it 
 better or worse, which all combine to uphold. 
 We should be slow to mend, my friends, as 
 slow to require mending, "Not hurling, accord 
 ing to the oracle, a transcendent foot towards 
 piety." The language of excitement is at best 
 picturesque merely. You must be calm before 
 you can utter oracles. What was the excite 
 ment of the Delphic priestess compared with 
 the calm wisdom of Socrates? or whoever it 
 was that was wise. Enthusiasm is a supernat 
 ural serenity. 
 
 " Men find that action is another thing 
 
 Than what they in discoursing- papers read ; 
 The world s affairs require in managing 
 
 More arts than those wherein you clerks proceed." 
 
 As in geology, so in social institutions, we may 
 discover the causes of all past change in the 
 present invariable order of society. The great 
 est appreciable physical revolutions are the 
 work of the light-footed air, the stealthy -paced 
 water, and the subterranean fire. Aristotle 
 said, "As time never fails, and the universe is 
 eternal, neither the Tanais nor the Nile can 
 have flowed forever." We are independent of 
 the change we detect. The longer the lever, the 
 
166 A WEEK 
 
 less perceptible its motion. It is the slowest 
 pulsation which is the most vital. The hero 
 then will know how to wait, as well as to make 
 haste. All good abides with him who waiteth 
 wisely ; we shall sooner overtake the dawn by 
 remaining here than by hurrying over the hills 
 of the west. Be assured that every man s suc 
 cess is in proportion to his average ability. 
 The meadow flowers spring and bloom where 
 the waters annually deposit their slime, not 
 where they reach in some freshet only. A man 
 is not his hope, nor his despair, nor yet his past 
 deed. We know not yet what we have done, 
 still less what we are doing. Wait till evening, 
 and other parts of our day s work will shine 
 than we had thought at noon, and we shall dis 
 cover the real purport of our toil. As when 
 the farmer has reached the end of the furrow 
 and looks back, he can tell best where the 
 pressed earth shines most. 
 
 To one who habitually endeavors to contem 
 plate the true state of things, the political state 
 can hardly be said to have any existence what 
 ever. It is unreal, incredible, and insignificant 
 to him, and for him to endeavor to extract the 
 truth from such lean material is like making 
 sugar from linen rags, when sugar-cane may be 
 had. Generally speaking, the political news, 
 
MONDAY 167 
 
 whether domestic or foreign, might be written 
 to-day for the next ten years with sufficient 
 accuracy. Most revolutions in society have not 
 power to interest, still less alarm us; but tell 
 me that our rivers are drying up, or the genus 
 pine dying out in the country, and I might at 
 tend. Most events recorded in history are more 
 remarkable than important, like eclipses of the 
 sun and moon, by which all are attracted, but 
 whose effects no one takes the trouble to calcu 
 late. 
 
 But will the government never be so well ad 
 ministered, inquired one, that we private men 
 shall hear nothing about it? "The king an 
 swered : At all events, I require a prudent and 
 able man, who is capable of managing the state 
 affairs of my kingdom. The ex-minister said : 
 The criterion, O Sire ! of a wise and competent 
 man is, that he will not meddle with such like 
 matters." Alas that the ex-minister should 
 have been so nearly right ! 
 
 In my short experience of human life, the 
 outward obstacles, if there were any such, have 
 not been living men, but the institutions of the 
 dead. It is grateful to make one s way through 
 this latest generation as through dewy grass. 
 Men are as innocent as the morning to the un 
 suspicious. 
 
 " And round about good morrows fly, 
 As if day taught humanity." 
 
168 A WEEK 
 
 Not being Reve of this Shire, 
 
 " The early pilgrim blythe he hailed, 
 That o er the hills did stray, 
 And many an early husbandman, 
 That he met on the way ; " 
 
 thieves and robbers all, nevertheless. I have 
 not so surely foreseen that any Cossack or 
 Chippeway would come to disturb the honest 
 and simple commonwealth, as that some mon 
 ster institution would at length embrace and 
 crush its free members in its scaly folds ; for it 
 is not to be forgotten, that while the law holds 
 fast the thief and murderer, it lets itself go 
 loose. When I have not paid the tax which the 
 State demanded for that protection which I did 
 not want, itself has robbed me; when I have 
 asserted the liberty it presumed to declare, it 
 self has imprisoned me. Poor creature! if it 
 knows no better I will not blame it. If it can 
 not live but by these means, I can. I do not 
 wish, it happens, to be associated with Massa 
 chusetts, either in holding slaves or in conquer 
 ing Mexico. I am a little better than herself 
 in these respects. As for Massachusetts, that 
 huge she Briareus, Argus and Colchian Dragon 
 conjoined, set to watch the Heifer of the Con 
 stitution and the Golden Fleece, we would not 
 warrant our respect for her, like some compo 
 sitions, to preserve its qualities through all 
 
MONDAY 169 
 
 weathers. Thus it has happened, that not the 
 Arch Fiend himself has been in my way, but 
 these toils which tradition says were originally 
 spun to obstruct him. They are cobwebs and 
 trifling obstacles in an earnest man s path, it is 
 true, and at length one even becomes attached 
 to his unswept and undusted garret. I love 
 man kind, but I hate the institutions of the 
 dead unkind. Men execute nothing so faith 
 fully as the wills of the dead, to the last codicil 
 and letter. They rule this world, and the liv 
 ing are but their executors. Such foundation 
 too have our lectures and our sermons, com 
 monly. They are all Dudldan; and piety 
 derives its origin still from that exploit of pius 
 .sEneaS) who bore his father, Anchises, on his 
 shoulders from the ruins of Troy. Or, rather, 
 like some Indian tribes, we bear about with us 
 the mouldering relics of our ancestors on our 
 shoulders. If, for instance, a man asserts the 
 value of individual liberty over the merely po 
 litical commonweal, his neighbor still tolerates 
 him, that is, he who is living near him, some 
 times even sustains him, but never the State. 
 Its officer, as a living man, may have human 
 virtues and a thought in his brain, but as the 
 tool of an institution, a jailer or constable it 
 may be, he is not a whit superior to his prison 
 key or his staff. Herein is the tragedy : that men 
 
170 A WEEK 
 
 doing outrage to their proper natures, even 
 those called wise and good, lend themselves tc 
 perform the office of inferior and brutal ones. 
 Hence come war and slavery in ; and what else 
 may not come in by this opening? But cer 
 tainly there are modes by which a man may put 
 bread into his mouth which will not prejudice 
 him as a companion and neighbor. 
 
 " Now turn again, turn again, said the pind6r, 
 
 For a wrong way you have gone, 
 For you have forsaken the king s highway, 
 And made a path over the corn." 
 
 Undoubtedly, countless reforms are called 
 for because society is not animated, or instinct 
 enough with life, but in the condition of some 
 snakes which I have seen in early spring, with 
 alternate portions of their bodies torpid and 
 flexible, so that they could wriggle neither way. 
 All men are partially buried in the grave of 
 custom, and of some we see only the crown of 
 the head above ground. Better are the physi 
 cally dead, for they more lively rot. Even vir 
 tue is no longer such if it be stagnant. A 
 man s life should be constantly as fresh as this 
 river. It should be the same channel, but a 
 new water every instant. 
 
 "Virtues as rivers pass, 
 But still remains that virtuous man there was." 
 
 Most men have no inclination, no rapids, no 
 
MONDAY 171 
 
 cascades, but marshes, and alligators, and mi 
 asma instead. We read that when, in the ex 
 pedition of Alexander, Onesicritus was sent 
 forward to meet certain of the Indian sect of 
 Gymnosophists, and he had told them of those 
 new philosophers of the West, Pythagoras, 
 Socrates, and Diogenes, and their doctrines, 
 one of them, named Dandamis, answered that 
 "They appeared to him to have been men of 
 genius, but to have lived with too passive a re 
 gard for the laws." The philosophers of the 
 West are liable to this rebuke still. "They 
 say that Lieou-hia-hoei, and Chao-lien did not 
 sustain to the end their resolutions, and that 
 they dishonored their character. Their lan 
 guage was in harmony with reason and justice ; 
 while their acts were in harmony with the sen 
 timents of men." 
 
 Chateaubriand said: "There are two things 
 which grow stronger in the breast of man, in 
 proportion as he advances in years : the love of 
 country and religion. Let them be never so 
 much forgotten in youth, they sooner or later 
 present themselves to us arrayed in all their 
 charms, and excite in the recesses of our hearts 
 an attachment justly due to their beauty." It 
 may be so. But even this infirmity of noble 
 minds marks the gradual decay of youthful hope 
 and faith. It is the allowed infidelity of ago? 
 
172 A WEEK 
 
 There is a saying of the Wolofs, "He who was 
 born first has the greatest number of old 
 clothes," consequently M. Chateaubriand has 
 more old clothes than I have. It is compara 
 tively a faint and reflected beauty that is ad 
 mired, not an essential and intrinsic one. It is 
 because the old are weak, feel their mortality, 
 and think that they have measured the strength 
 of man. They will not boast; they will be 
 frank and humble. Well, let them have the 
 few poor comforts they can keep. Humility is 
 still a very human virtue. They look back on 
 life, and so see not into the future. The pros 
 pect of the young is forward and unbounded, 
 mingling the future with the present. In the 
 declining day the thoughts make haste to rest in 
 darkness, and hardly look forward to the ensu 
 ing morning. The thoughts of the old prepare 
 for night and slumber. The same hopes and 
 prospects are not for him who stands upon the 
 rosy mountain-tops of life, and him who expects 
 the setting of his earthly day. 
 
 I must conclude that Conscience, if that be 
 the name of it, was not given us for no purpose, 
 or for a hindrance. However flattering order 
 and expediency may look, it is but the repose of 
 a lethargy, and we will choose rather to be 
 awake, though it be stormy, and maintain our 
 selves on this earth, and in this life, as we may, 
 
MONDAY 173 
 
 without signing our death-warrant. Let us see 
 if we cannot stay here, where He has put us, on 
 his own conditions. Does not his law reach as 
 far as his light ? The expedients of the nations 
 clash with one another, only the absolutely 
 right is expedient for all. 
 
 There are some passages in the Antigone of 
 Sophocles, well known to scholars, of which I 
 am reminded in this connection. Antigone has 
 resolved to sprinkle sand on the dead body of 
 her brother Polynices, notwithstanding the edict 
 of King Creon condemning to death that one 
 who should perform this service, which the 
 Greeks deemed so important, for the enemy of 
 his country ; but Ismene, who is of a less reso 
 lute and noble spirit, declines taking part with 
 her sister in this work, and says, 
 
 "I, therefore, asking those under the earth 
 to consider me, that I am compelled to do thus, 
 will obey those who are placed in office ; for to 
 do extreme things is not wise. 5 
 
 Antigone. "I would not ask you, nor would 
 you, if you still wished, do it joyfully with me. 
 Be such as seems good to you. But I will bury 
 him. It is glorious for me doing this to die. 
 I beloved will lie with him beloved, having, 
 like a criminal, done what is holy; since the 
 time is longer which it is necessary for me to 
 please those below, than those here, for there I 
 
174 A WEEK 
 
 shall always lie. But if it seems good to you, 
 hold in dishonor things which are honored by 
 the gods." 
 
 Ismene. "I indeed do not hold them in dis 
 honor; but to act in opposition to the citizens I 
 am by nature unable." 
 
 Antigone being at length brought before 
 King Creon, he asks, 
 
 "Did you then dare to transgress these 
 laws?" 
 
 Antigone. "For it was not Zeus who pro 
 claimed these to me, nor Justice who dwells 
 with the gods below ; it was not they who es 
 tablished these laws among men. Nor did I 
 think that your proclamations were so strong, 
 as, being a mortal, to be able to transcend the 
 unwritten and immovable laws of the gods. 
 For not something now and yesterday, but for 
 ever these live, and no one knows from what 
 time they appeared. I was not about to pay 
 the penalty of violating these to the gods, fear 
 ing the presumption of any man. For I well 
 knew that I should die, and why not? even if 
 you had not proclaimed it." 
 
 This was concerning the burial of a dead 
 body. 
 
 The wisest conservatism is that of the Hin 
 doos. "Immemorial custom is transcendent 
 
MONDAY 175 
 
 law," says Menu. That is, it was the custom 
 of the gods before men used it. The fault of 
 our New England custom is that it is memorial. 
 What is morality but immemorial custom? 
 Conscience is the chief of conservatives. Tf Per- 
 form the settled functions," says Kreeshna in 
 the Bhagvat-Geeta ; "action is preferable to in 
 action. The journey of thy mortal frame may 
 not succeed from inaction." "A man s own 
 calling, with all its faults, ought not to be for 
 saken. Every undertaking is involved in its 
 faults as the fire in its smoke." "The man 
 who is acquainted with the whole should not 
 drive those from their works who are slow 
 of comprehension, and less experienced than 
 himself." "Wherefore, O Arjoon, resolve to 
 fight." is the advice of the god to the irresolute 
 soldier who fears to slay his best friends. It is 
 a sublime conservatism; as wide as the world, 
 and as unwearied as time ; preserving the uni 
 verse with Asiatic anxiety, in that state in 
 which it appeared to their minds. These philos 
 ophers dwell on the inevitability and unchange- 
 ableness of laws, on the power of temperament 
 and constitution, the three goon or qualities, 
 and the circumstances or birth and affinity. 
 The end is an immense consolation ; eternal ab 
 sorption in Brahma. Their speculations never 
 venture beyond their own table-lands, though 
 
1T6 A WEEK 
 
 they are high and vast as they. Buoyancy, 
 freedom, flexibility, variety, possibility, which 
 also are qualities of the Unnamed, they deal not 
 with. The undeserved reward is to be earned 
 by an everlasting moral drudgery; the incalcu 
 lable promise of the morrow is, as it were, 
 weighed. And who will say that their conser 
 vatism has not been effectual? "Assuredly," 
 says a French translator, speaking of the an 
 tiquity and durability of the Chinese and Indian 
 nations, and of the wisdom of their legislators, 
 "there are there some vestiges of the eternal 
 laws which govern the world." 
 
 Christianity, on the other hand, is humane, 
 practical, and, in a large sense, radical. So 
 many years and ages of the gods those Eastern 
 sages sat contemplating Brahm, uttering in si 
 lence the mystic u Om," being absorbed into the 
 essence of the Supreme Being, never going out 
 of themselves, but subsiding farther and deeper 
 within; so infinitely wise, yet infinitely stag 
 nant; until, at last, in that same Asia, but in 
 the western part of it, appeared a youth, wholly 
 unf oretold by them, not being absorbed into 
 Brahm, but bringing Brahm down to earth and 
 to mankind ; in whom Brahm had awaked from 
 his long sleep, and exerted himself, and the day 
 began, a new avatar. The Brahman had 
 never thought to be a brother of mankind as 
 
MONDA Y 177 
 
 well as a child of God. Christ is the prince of 
 Reformers and Radicals. Many expressions in 
 the New Testament come naturally to the lips 
 of all Protestants, and it furnishes the most 
 pregnant and practical texts. There is no harm 
 less dreaming, no wise speculation in it, but 
 everywhere a substratum of good sense. It 
 never reflects, but it repents. There is no poe 
 try in it, we may say, nothing regarded in the 
 light of beauty merely, but moral truth is its 
 object. All mortals are convicted by its con 
 science. 
 
 The New Testament is remarkable for its pure 
 morality; the best of the Hindoo Scripture, 
 for its pure intellectuality. The reader is no 
 where raised into and sustained in a higher, 
 purer, or rarer region of thought than in the 
 Bhagvat-Geeta. Warren Hastings, in his sen 
 sible letter recommending the translation of this 
 book to the Chairman of the East India Com 
 pany, declares the original to be " of a sublim 
 ity of conception, reasoning, and diction almost 
 unequaled," and that the writings of the Indian 
 philosophers "will survive when the British do 
 minion in India shall have long ceased to exist, 
 and when the sources which it once yielded of 
 wealth and power are lost to remembrance." 
 It is unquestionably one of the noblest and most 
 sacred scriptures which have come down to us. 
 
178 A WEEK 
 
 Books are to be distinguished by the grandeur 
 of their topics even more than by the manner 
 in which they are treated. The Oriental phi 
 losophy approaches easily loftier themes than 
 the modern aspires to; and no wonder if it 
 sometimes prattle about them. It only assigns 
 their due rank respectively to Action and Con 
 templation, or rather does full justice to the 
 latter. Western philosophers have not con 
 ceived of the significance of Contemplation in 
 their sense. Speaking of the spiritual discipline 
 to which the Brahmans subjected themselves, 
 and the wonderful power of abstraction to which 
 they attained, instances of which had come 
 under his notice, Hastings says : 
 
 "To those who have never been accustomed 
 to the separation of the mind from the notices 
 of the senses, it may not be easy to conceive by 
 what means such a power is to be attained; 
 since even the most studious men of our hemi 
 sphere will find it difficult so to restrain their 
 attention, but that it will wander to some object 
 of present sense or recollection; and even the 
 buzzing of a fly will sometimes have the power 
 to disturb it. But if we are told that there 
 have been men who were successively, for ages 
 past, in the daily habit of abstracted contempla 
 tion, begun in the earliest period of youth, and 
 continued in many to the maturity of age, each 
 
MONDAY 179 
 
 adding some portion of knowledge to the store 
 accumulated by his predecessors; it is not as 
 suming too much to conclude, that as the mind 
 ever gathers strength, like the body, by exer 
 cise, so in such an exercise it may in each have 
 acquired the faculty to which they aspired, and 
 that their collective studies may have led them 
 to the discovery of new tracts and com binations 
 of sentiment, totally different from the doctrines 
 with which the learned of other nations are ac 
 quainted; doctrines which, however speculative 
 and subtle, still as they possess the advantage 
 of being derived from a source so free from 
 every adventitious mixture, may be equally 
 founded in truth with the most simple of our 
 own." 
 
 "The forsaking of works" was taught by 
 Kreeshna to the most ancient of men, and 
 handed down from age to age, "until at length, 
 in the course of time, the mighty art was lost." 
 
 "In wisdom is to be found every work with 
 out exception," says Kreeshna. 
 
 "Although thou wert the greatest of all of 
 fenders, thou shalt be able to cross the gulf of 
 sin with the bark of wisdom." 
 
 44 There is not anything in this world to be 
 compared with wisdom for purity." 
 
 44 The action stands at a distance inferior to 
 the application of wisdom." 
 
180 A WEEK 
 
 The wisdom of a Moonee "is confirmed, when, 
 like the tortoise, he can draw in all his mem 
 bers, and restrain them from their wonted pur 
 poses. * 
 
 "Children only, and not the learned, speak 
 of the speculative and the practical doctrines as 
 two. They are but one. For both obtain the 
 selfsame end, and the place which is gained by 
 the followers of the one is gained by the follow 
 ers of the other." 
 
 "The man enjoyeth not freedom from action, 
 from the non-commencement of that which he 
 hath to do ; nor doth he obtain happiness from 
 a total inactivity. No one ever resteth a mo 
 ment inactive. Every man is involuntarily 
 urged to act by those principles which are in 
 herent in his nature. The man who restraineth 
 his active faculties, and sitteth down with his 
 mind attentive to the objects of his senses, is 
 called one of an astrayed soul, and the practicer 
 of deceit. So the man is praised, who, having 
 subdued all his passions, performeth with his 
 active faculties all the functions of life, uncon 
 cerned about the event." 
 
 " Let the motive be in the deed and not in the 
 event. Be not one whose motive for action is 
 the hope of reward. Let not thy life be spent 
 in inaction." 
 
 "For the man who doeth that which he hath 
 
MONDA Y 181 
 
 to do, without affection, obtaineth the Su 
 preme." 
 
 "He who may behold as it were inaction in 
 action, and action in inaction, is wise amongst 
 mankind. He is a perfect performer of al] 
 duty." 
 
 "Wise men call him a Pandeet, whose every 
 undertaking is free from the idea of desire, and 
 whose actions are consumed by the fire of wis 
 dom. He abandoneth the desire of a reward of 
 his actions; he is always contented and inde 
 pendent ; and although he may be engaged in a 
 work, he as it were doeth nothing." 
 
 "He is both a Yogee and a Sannyasee who 
 performeth that which he hath to do indepen 
 dent of the fruit thereof; not he who liveth 
 without the sacrificial fire and without action." 
 
 "He who enjoyeth but the Amreeta which is 
 left of his offerings obtaineth the eternal spirit 
 of Brahm, the Supreme." 
 
 What, after all, does the practicalness of life 
 amount to ? The things immediate to be done 
 are very trivial. I could postpone them all to 
 hear this locust sing. The most glorious fact 
 in my experience is not anything that I have 
 done or may hope to do, but a transient thought, 
 or vision, or dream, which I have had. I 
 would give all the wealth of the world, and all 
 the deeds of all the heroes, for one true vision. 
 
182 A WEEK 
 
 But how can I communicate witk the gods, who 
 am a pencil-maker on the earth, and not be 
 insane ? 
 
 "I am the same to all mankind," says 
 Kreeshna ; " there is not one who is worthy of 
 my love or hatred." 
 
 This teaching is not practical in the sense in 
 which the New Testament is. It is not always 
 sound sense in practice. The Brahman never 
 proposes courageously to assault evil, but pa 
 tiently to starve it out. His active faculties 
 are paralyzed by the idea of caste, of impassa 
 ble limits, of destiny and the tyranny of time. 
 Kreeshna s argument, it must be allowed, is 
 defective. No sufficient reason is given why 
 Arjoon should fight. Arjoon may be con 
 vinced, but the reader is not, for his judgment 
 is not "formed upon the speculative doctrines 
 of the Sankhya Sastra." "Seek an asylum in 
 wisdom alone; " but what is wisdom to a West 
 ern mind ? The duty of which he speaks is an 
 arbitrary one. When was it established ? The 
 Brahman s virtue consists in doing, not right, 
 but arbitrary things. What is that which a 
 man " hath to do " ? What is " action " ? What 
 are the "settled functions"? What is "a 
 man s own religion," which is so much better 
 than another s? What is "a man s own par 
 ticular calling "? What are the duties which 
 
MONDAY 183 
 
 are appointed by one s birth? It is a defense 
 of the institution of castes, of what is called the 
 " natural duty " of the Kshetree, or soldier, " to 
 attach himself to the discipline," "not to flee 
 from the field," and the like. But they who 
 are unconcerned about the consequences of their 
 actions are not therefore unconcerned about 
 their actions. 
 
 Behold the difference between the Oriental 
 and the Occidental. The former has nothing 
 to do in this world ; the latter is full of activity. 
 The one looks in the sun till his eyes are put 
 out; the other follows him prone in his west 
 ward course. There is such a thing as caste, 
 even in the West ; but it is comparatively faint ; 
 it is conservatism here. It says, forsake not 
 your calling, outrage no institution, use no vio 
 lence, rend no bonds; the State is thy parent. 
 Its virtue or manhood is wholly filial. There 
 is a struggle between the Oriental and Occi 
 dental in every nation; some who would be for 
 ever contemplating the sun, and some who are 
 hastening toward the sunset. The former class 
 says to the latter, When you have reached the 
 sunset, you will be no nearer to the sun. To 
 which the latter replies, But we so prolong the 
 day. The former "walketh but in that night, 
 when all things go to rest in the night of time. 
 The contemplative Moonee sleepeth but in the 
 day of time, when all things wake." 
 
184 A WEEK 
 
 To conclude these extracts, I can say, in the 
 words of Sanjay, "As, O mighty Prince! I 
 recollect again and again this holy and wonder 
 ful dialogue of Kreeshna and Arjoon, I con 
 tinue more and more to rejoice; and as I recall 
 to my memory the more than miraculous form 
 of Haree, my astonishment is great, and I mar 
 vel and rejoice again and again! Wherever 
 Kreeshna the God of devotion may be, wher 
 ever Arjoon the mighty bowman may be, there 
 too, without doubt, are fortune, riches, victory, 
 and good conduct. This is my firm belief." 
 
 I would say to the readers of Scriptures, 
 if they wish for a good book, read the Bhag- 
 vat-Geeta, an episode to the Mahabharat, said 
 to have been written by Kreeshna Dwypayen 
 
 Veias, known to have been written by , 
 
 more than four thousand years ago, it mat 
 ters not whether three or four, or when, 
 translated by Charles Wilkins. It deserves to 
 be read with reverence even by Yankees, as a 
 part of the sacred writings of a devout people ; 
 and the intelligent Hebrew will rejoice to find 
 in it a moral grandeur and sublimity akin to 
 those of his own Scriptures. 
 
 To an American reader, who, by the advan 
 tage of his position, can see over that strip of 
 Atlantic coast to Asia and the Pacific, who, as 
 it were, sees the shore slope upward over the 
 
MONDAY 185 
 
 Alps to the Himmaleh Mountains, the compar 
 atively recent literature of Europe often appears 
 partial and clannish; and, notwithstanding the 
 limited range of his own sympathies and studies, 
 the European writer who presumes that he is 
 speaking for the world is perceived by him to 
 speak only for that corner of it which he in 
 habits. One of the rarest of England s scholars 
 and critics, in his classification of the worthies 
 of the world, betrays the narrowness of his Eu 
 ropean culture and the exclusiveness of his read 
 ing. None of her children has done justice to 
 the poets and philosophers of Persia or of India. 
 They have even been better known to her mer 
 chant scholars than to her poets and thinkers 
 by profession. You may look in vain through 
 English poetry for a single memorable verse 
 inspired by these themes. Nor is Germany to 
 be excepted, though her philological industry 
 is indirectly serving the cause of philosophy 
 and poetry. Even Goethe wanted that univer 
 sality of genius which could have appreciated 
 the philosophy of India, if he had more nearly 
 approached it. His genius was more practical, 
 dwelling much more in the regions of the 
 understanding, and was less native to contem 
 plation than the genius of those sages. It is 
 remarkable that Homer and a few Hebrews are 
 the most Oriental names which modern Europe, 
 
186 A WEEK 
 
 t 
 
 whose literature has taken its rise since the de 
 cline of the Persian, has admitted into her list 
 of Worthies, and perhaps the worthiest of man 
 kind, and the fathers of modern thinking, for 
 the contemplations of those Indian sages have 
 influenced, and still influence, the intellectual 
 development of mankind, whose works even 
 yet survive in wonderful completeness, are, for 
 the most part, not recognized as ever having 
 existed. If the lions had been the painters, 
 it would have been otherwise. . In every one s 
 youthful dreams, philosophy is still vaguely but 
 inseparably, and with singular truth, associated 
 with the East, nor do after years discover its 
 local habitation in the Western world. In com 
 parison with the philosophers of the East, we 
 may say that modern Europe has yet given 
 birth to none. Beside the vast and cosmogonal 
 philosophy of the Bhagvat-Geeta, even our 
 Shakespeare seems sometimes youthfully green 
 and practical merely. Some of these sublime 
 sentences, as the Chaldaean oracles of Zoroaster, 
 still surviving after a thousand revolutions and 
 translations, alone make us doubt if the poetic 
 form and dress are not transitory, and not es 
 sential to the most effective and enduring ex 
 pression of thought. Ex oriente lux may still 
 be the motto of scholars, for the Western world 
 has not yet derived from the East all the light 
 which it is destined to receive thence. 
 
MONDA Y 187 
 
 It would be worthy of the age to print to 
 gether the collected Scriptures or Sacred Writ 
 ings of the several nations, the Chinese, the 
 Hindoos, the Persians, the Hebrews, and oth 
 ers, as the Scripture of mankind. The New 
 Testament is still, perhaps, too much on the lips 
 and in the hearts of men to be called a Scrip 
 ture in this sense. Such a juxtaposition and 
 comparison might help to liberalize the faith of 
 men. This is a work which Time will surely 
 edit, reserved to crown the labors of the print 
 ing-press. This would be the Bible, or Book 
 of Books, which let the missionaries carry to 
 the uttermost parts of the earth. 
 
 While engaged in these reflections, thinking 
 ourselves the only navigators of these waters, 
 suddenly a canal-boat, with its sail set, glided 
 round a point before us, like some huge river 
 beast, and changed the scene in an instant; and 
 then another and another glided into sight, and 
 we found ourselves in the current of commerce 
 once more. So we threw our rinds in the water 
 for the fishes to nibble, and added our breath 
 to the life of living men. Little did we think, 
 in the distant garden in which we had planted 
 the seed and reared this fruit, where it would 
 be eaten. Our melons lay at home on the sandy 
 bottom of the Merrimack, and our potatoes in 
 
188 A WEEK 
 
 the sun and water at the bottom of the boat 
 looked like a fruit of the country. Soon, how 
 ever, we were delivered from this fleet of junks, 
 and possessed the river in solitude, once more 
 rowing steadily upward through the noon, be 
 tween the territories of Nashua on the one hand, 
 and Hudson, once Nottingham, on the other. 
 From time to time we scared up a kingfisher or 
 a summer duck, the former flying rather by 
 vigorous impulses than by steady and patient 
 steering with that short rudder of his, sounding 
 his rattle along the fluvial street. 
 
 Erelong another scow hove in sight, creeping 
 down the river; and hailing it, we attached our 
 selves to its side, and floated back in company, 
 chatting with the boatmen, and obtaining a 
 draught of cooler water from their jug. They 
 appeared to be green hands from far among 
 the hills, who had taken this means to get to 
 the seaboard, and see the world; and would 
 possibly visit the Falkland Isles, and the China 
 seas, before they again saw the waters of the 
 Merrimack, or, perchance, they would not re 
 turn this way forever. They had already em 
 barked the private interests of the landsman in 
 the larger venture of the race, and were ready 
 to mess with mankind, reserving only the till 
 of a chest to themselves. But they too were 
 soon lost behind a point, and we went croaking 
 
MONDAY 189 
 
 on our way alone. What grievance has its root 
 among the New Hampshire hills? we asked; 
 what is wanting to human life here, that these 
 men should make such haste to the antipodes ? 
 We prayed that their bright anticipations might 
 not be rudely disappointed. 
 
 Though all the fates should prove unkind, 
 Leave not your native land behind. 
 The ship, becalmed, at length stands still ; 
 The steed must rest beneath the hill ; 
 But swiftly still our fortunes pace 
 To find us out in every place. 
 
 The vessel, though her masts be firm, 
 
 Beneath her copper bears a worm ; 
 
 Around the cape, across the line, 
 
 Till fields of ice her course confine ; 
 
 It matters not how smooth the breeze, 
 
 How shallow or how deep the seas, 
 
 Whether she bears Manilla twine, 
 
 Or in her hold Madeira wine, 
 
 Or China teas, or Spanish hides, 
 
 In port or quarantine she rides ; 
 
 Far from New England s blustering shore, 
 
 New England s worm her hulk shall bore, 
 
 And sink her in the Indian seas, 
 
 Twine, wine, and hides, and China teas. 
 
 We passed a small desert here on the east 
 bank, between Tyngsborough and Hudson, 
 which was interesting and even refreshing to 
 our eyes in the midst of the almost universal 
 greenness. This sand was indeed somewhat 
 impressive and beautiful to us. A very old 
 
190 A WEEK 
 
 inhabitant, who was at work in a field on the 
 Nashua side, told us that he remembered when 
 corn and grain grew there, and it was a culti 
 vated field. But at length the fishermen, for 
 this was a fishing-place, pulled up the bushes 
 on the shore, for greater convenience in haul 
 ing their seines, and when the bank was thus 
 broken, the wind began to blow up the sand 
 from the shore, until at length it had covered 
 about fifteen acres several feet deep. We saw 
 near the river, where the sand was blown off 
 down to some ancient surface, the foundation 
 of an Indian wigwam exposed, a perfect circle 
 of burnt stones, four or five feet in diameter, 
 mingled with fine charcoal, and the bones of 
 small animals which had been preserved in the 
 sand. The surrounding sand was sprinkled 
 with other burnt stones on which their fires had 
 been built, as well as with flakes of arrow-head 
 stone, and we found one perfect arrow-head. 
 In one place we noticed where an Indian had 
 sat to manufacture arrow -heads out of quartz, 
 and the sand was sprinkled with a quart of 
 small glass-like chips about as big as a four- 
 pence, which he had broken off in his work. 
 Here, then, the Indians must have fished before 
 the whites arrived. There was another similar 
 sandy tract about half a mile above this. 
 
MONDAY 19.1 
 
 Still the noon prevailed, and we turned the 
 prow aside to bathe, and recline ourselves under 
 some buttonwoods, by a ledge of rocks, in a re 
 tired pasture sloping to the water s edge, and 
 skirted with pines and hazels, in the town of 
 Hudson. Still had India, and that old noon 
 tide philosophy, the better part of our thoughts. 
 
 It is always singular, but encouraging, to 
 meet with common sense in very old books, as 
 the Heetopades of Veeshnoo Sarma; a playful 
 wisdom which has eyes behind as well as before, 
 and oversees itself. It asserts their health and 
 independence of the experience of later times. 
 This pledge of sanity cannot be spared in a 
 book, that it sometimes pleasantly reflect upon 
 itself. The story and fabulous portion of this 
 book winds loosely from sentence to sentence as 
 so many oases in a desert, and is as indistinct 
 as a camel s track between Mourzouk and Dar- 
 four. It is a comment on the flow and freshet 
 of modern books. The reader leaps from sen 
 tence to sentence, as from one stepping-stone 
 to another, while the stream of the story rushes 
 past unregarded. The Bhagvat-Geeta is less 
 sententious and poetic, perhaps, but still more 
 wonderfully sustained and developed. Its sanity 
 and sublimity have impressed the minds even 
 of soldiers and merchants. It is the character 
 istic of great poems that they will yield of their 
 
192 A WEEK 
 
 sense in due proportion to the hasty and the 
 deliberate reader. To the practical they will 
 be common sense, and to the wise wisdom; as 
 either the traveler may wet his lips, or an 
 army may fill its water-casks at a full stream. 
 
 One of the most attractive of those ancient 
 books that I have met with is the Laws of 
 Menu. According to Sir William Jones, 
 "Vyasa, the son of Parasara, has decided that 
 the Veda, with its Angas, or the six composi 
 tions deduced from it, the revealed system of 
 medicine, the Puranas or sacred histories, and 
 the code of Menu, were four works of supreme 
 authority, which ought never to be shaken by 
 arguments merely human." The last is believed 
 by the Hindoos "to have been promulged in the 
 beginning of time, by Menu, son or grandson 
 of Brahma," and "first of created beings; " and 
 Brahma is said to have "taught his laws to 
 Menu in a hundred thousand verses, which 
 Menu explained to the primitive world in the 
 very words of the book now translated." Oth 
 ers affirm that they have undergone successive 
 abridgments for the convenience of mortals, 
 "while the gods of the lower heaven and the 
 band of celestial musicians are engaged in 
 studying the primary code." "A number of 
 glosses or comments on Menu were composed 
 by the Munis, or old philosophers, whose trea- 
 
MONDAY 193 
 
 tises, together with that before us, constitute the 
 Dherma Sastra, in a collective sense, or Body 
 of Law." Culluca Bhatta was one of the more 
 modern of these. 
 
 Every sacred book, successively, has been 
 accepted in the faith that it was to be the final 
 resting-place of the sojourning soul; but after 
 all, it was but a caravansary which supplied 
 refreshment to the traveler, and directed him 
 farther on his way to Isphahan or Bagdat. 
 Thank God, no Hindoo tyranny prevailed at 
 the framing of the world, but we are freemen of 
 the universe, and not sentenced to any caste. 
 
 I know of no book which has come down to 
 us with grander pretensions than this, and it is 
 so impersonal and sincere that it is never offen 
 sive nor ridiculous. Compare the modes in 
 which modern literature is advertised with the 
 prospectus of this book, and think what a read 
 ing public it addresses, what criticism it ex 
 pects. It seems to have been uttered from some 
 eastern summit, with a sober morning prescience 
 in the dawn of time, and you cannot read a 
 sentence without being elevated as upon the 
 table-land of the Ghauts. It has such a rhythm 
 as the winds of the desert, such a tide as the 
 Ganges, and is as superior to criticism as the 
 Himmaleh Mountains. Its tone is of such un- 
 relaxed fibre that even at this late day, unworn 
 
194 A WEEK 
 
 by time, it wears the English and the Sanskrit 
 dress indifferently ; and its fixed sentences keep 
 up their distant fires still, like the stars, by 
 whose dissipated rays this lower world is illu 
 mined. The whole book by noble gestures and 
 inclinations renders many words unnecessary. 
 English sense has toiled, but Hindoo wisdom 
 never perspired. Though the sentences open as 
 we read them, unexpensively, and at first almost 
 unmeaningly, as the petals of a flower, they 
 sometimes startle us with that rare kind of wis 
 dom which could only have been learned from 
 the most trivial experience ; but it comes to us 
 as refined as the porcelain earth which subsides 
 to the bottom of the ocean. They are clean and 
 dry as fossil truths, which have been exposed to 
 the elements for thousands of years, so imper 
 sonally and scientifically true that they are the 
 ornament of the parlor and the cabinet. Any 
 moral philosophy is exceedingly rare. This of 
 Menu addresses our privacy more than most. 
 It is a more private and familiar, and at the 
 same time a more public and universal word, 
 than is spoken in parlor or pulpit nowadays. 
 As our domestic fowls are said to have their 
 original in the wild pheasant of India, so our 
 domestic thoughts have their prototypes in the 
 thoughts of her philosophers. We are dabbling 
 in the very elements of our present conventional 
 
MONDAY 195 
 
 and actual life ; as if it were the primeval con 
 venticle, where how to eat, and to drink, and to 
 sleep, and maintain life with adequate dignity 
 and sincerity, were the questions to be decided. 
 It is later and more intimate with us even than 
 the advice of our nearest friends. And yet it 
 is true for the widest horizon, and read out of 
 doors has relation to the dim mountain line, and 
 is native and aboriginal there. Most books be 
 long to the house and street only, and in the 
 fields their leaves feel very thin. They are bare 
 and obvious, and have no halo nor haze about 
 them. Nature lies far and fair behind them all. 
 But this, as it proceeds from, so it addresses, 
 what is deepest and most abiding in man. It 
 belongs to the noontide of the day, the midsum 
 mer of the year, and after the snows have 
 melted, and the waters evaporated in the spring, 
 still its truth speaks freshly to our experience. 
 It helps the sun to shine, and his rays fall on its 
 page to illustrate it. It spends the mornings 
 and the evenings, and makes such an impression 
 on us overnight as to awaken us before dawn, 
 and its influence lingers around us like a fra 
 grance late into the day. It conveys a new 
 gloss to the meadows and the depths of the 
 wood, and its spirit, like a more subtile ether, 
 sweeps along with the prevailing winds of a 
 country. The very locusts and crickets of a 
 
196 A WEEK 
 
 summer day are but later or earlier glosses on 
 the Dherma Sastra of the Hindoos, a continua 
 tion of the sacred code. As we have said, there 
 is an orientalism in the most restless pioneer, 
 and the farthest west is but the farthest east. 
 While we are reading these sentences, this fair 
 modern world seems only a reprint of the Laws 
 of Menu with the gloss of Culluca. Tried by a 
 New England eye, or the mere practical wisdom 
 of modern times, they are the oracles of a race 
 already in its dotage, but held up to the sky, 
 which is the only impartial and incorruptible 
 ordeal, they are of a piece with its depth and 
 serenity, and I am assured that they will have a 
 place and significance as long as there is a sky 
 to test them by. 
 
 Give me a sentence which no intelligence can 
 understand. There must be a kind of life and 
 palpitation to it, and under its words a kind of 
 blood must circulate forever. It is wonderful 
 that this sound should have come down to us 
 from so far, when the voice of man can be heard 
 so little way, and we are not now within ear 
 shot of any contemporary. The woodcutters 
 have here felled an ancient pine forest, and 
 brought to light to these distant hills a fair lake 
 in the southwest; and now in an instant it is 
 distinctly shown to these woods as if its image 
 had traveled hither from eternity. Perhaps 
 
MONDAY 197 
 
 these old stumps upon the knoll remember when 
 anciently this lake gleamed in the horizon. 
 One wonders if the bare earth itself did not ex 
 perience emotion at beholding again so fair a 
 prospect. That fair water lies there in the sun 
 thus revealed, so much the prouder and fairer 
 because its beauty needed not to be seen. It 
 seems yet lonely, sufficient to itself, and supe 
 rior to observation. So are these old sentences 
 like serene lakes in the southwest, at length re 
 vealed to us, which have so long been reflecting 
 our own sky in their bosom. 
 
 The great plain of India lies as in a cup be 
 tween the Himmaleh and the ocean on the north 
 and south, and the Brahmapootra and Indus 
 on the east and west, wherein the primeval race 
 was received. We will not dispute the story. 
 We are pleased to read in the natural history of 
 the country, of the "pine, larch, spruce, and 
 silver fir," which cover the southern face of the 
 Himmaleh range; of the "gooseberry, rasp 
 berry, strawberry," which from an imminent 
 temperate zone overlook the torrid plains. So 
 did this active modern life have even then a 
 foothold and lurking-place in the midst of the 
 stateliness and contemplativeness of those East 
 ern plains. In another era the "lily of the 
 valley, cowslip, dandelion," were to work their 
 way down into the plain, and bloom in a level 
 
198 A WEEK 
 
 zone of their own reaching round the earth. 
 Already has the era of the temperate zone ar 
 rived, the era of the pine and the oak, for the 
 palm and the banian do not supply the wants of 
 this age. The lichens on the summits of the 
 rocks will perchance find their level erelong. 
 
 As for the tenets of the Brahmans, we are 
 not so much concerned to know what doctrines 
 they held, as that they were held by any. We 
 can tolerate all philosophies, Atomists, Pneu- 
 matologists, Atheists, Theists, Plato, Aristo 
 tle, Leucippus, Democritus, Pythagoras, Zoro 
 aster, and Confucius. It is the attitude of these 
 men, more than any communication which they 
 make, that attracts us. Between them and their 
 commentators, it is true, there is an endless dis 
 pute. But if it comes to this, that you compare 
 notes, then you are all wrong. As it is, each 
 takes us up into the serene heavens, whither the 
 smallest bubble rises as surely as the largest, 
 and paints earth and sky for us. Any sincere 
 thought is irresistible. The very austerity of 
 the Brahmans is tempting to the devotional soul, 
 as a more refined and nobler luxury. Wants so 
 easily and gracefully satisfied seem like a more 
 refined pleasure. Their conception of creation 
 is peaceful as a dream. "When that power 
 awakes, then has this world its full expansion; 
 but when he slumbers with a tranquil spirit, 
 
MONDAY 199 
 
 then the whole system fades away." In the 
 very indistinctness of their theogony a sublime 
 truth is implied. It hardly allows the reader to 
 rest in any supreme first cause, but directly it 
 hints at a supremer still which created the last, 
 and the Creator is still behind increate. 
 
 Nor will we disturb the antiquity of this Scrip 
 ture, "From fire, from air, and from the sun," it 
 was "milked out." One might as well investi 
 gate the chronology of light and heat. Let the 
 sun shine. Menu understood this matter best, 
 when he said, "Those best know the divisions of 
 days and nights who understand that the day of 
 Brahma, which endures to the end of a thousand 
 such ages, [infinite ages, nevertheless, according 
 fco mortal reckoning,] gives rise to virtuous ex 
 ertions ; and that his night endures as long as 
 his day." Indeed, the Mussulman and Tartar 
 dynasties are beyond all dating. Methinks I 
 have lived under them myself. In every man s 
 brain is the Sanskrit. The Vedas and their 
 An gas are not so ancient as serene contempla 
 tion. Why will we be imposed on by antiquity? 
 Is the babe young? When I behold it, it seems 
 more venerable than the oldest man ; it is more 
 ancient than Nestor or the Sibyls, and bears the 
 wrinkles of father Saturn himself. And do we 
 live but in the present ? How broad a line is 
 that ? I sit now on a stump whose rings num- 
 
200 A WEEK 
 
 ber centuries of growth. If I look around I see 
 that the soil is composed of the remains of just 
 such stumps, ancestors to this. The earth is 
 covered with mould. I thrust this stick many 
 aeons deep into its surface, and with my heel 
 make a deeper furrow than the elements have 
 ploughed here for a thousand years. If I listen, 
 I hear the peep of frogs which is older than the 
 slime of Egypt, and the distant drumming of a 
 partridge on a log, as if it were the pulse-beat 
 of the summer air. I raise my fairest and 
 freshest flowers in the old mould. Why, what 
 we would fain call new is not skin deep; the 
 earth is not yet stained by it. It is not the 
 fertile ground which we walk on, but the leaves 
 which flutter over our heads. The newest is 
 jut the oldest made visible to our senses. 
 When we dig up the soil from a thousand feet 
 below the surface, we call it new, and the plants 
 which spring from it; and when our vision 
 pierces deeper into space, and detects a remoter 
 star, we call that new also. The place where 
 we sit is called Hudson, once it was Notting 
 ham, once 
 
 We should read history as little critically as 
 we consider the landscape, and be more inter 
 ested by the atmospheric tints and various lights 
 and shades which the intervening spaces create 
 
MONDAY 201 
 
 than by its groundwork and composition. It is 
 the morning now turned evening and seen in 
 the west, the same sun, but a new light and 
 atmosphere. Its beauty is like the sunset; not 
 a fresco painting on a wall, flat and bounded, 
 but atmospheric and roving or free. In reality, 
 history fluctuates as the face of the landscape 
 from morning to evening. What is of moment 
 is its hue and color. Time hides no treasures ; 
 we want not its then, but its now. We do not 
 complain that the mountains in the horizon are 
 blue and indistinct ; they are the more like the 
 heavens. 
 
 Of what moment are facts that can be lost, 
 which need to be commemorated? The mon 
 ument of death will outlast the memory of the 
 dead. The pyramids do not tell the tale which 
 was confided to them ; the living fact commemo 
 rates itself. Why look in the dark for light? 
 Strictly speaking, the historical societies have 
 not recovered one fact from oblivion, but are 
 themselves instead of the fact that is lost. 
 The researcher is more memorable than the re 
 searched. The crowd stood admiring the mist 
 and the dim outlines of the trees seen through 
 it, when one of their number advanced to ex 
 plore the phenomenon, and with fresh admira 
 tion all eyes were turned on his dimly retreating 
 figure. It is astonishing with how little coop- 
 
202 A WEEK 
 
 eration of the societies the past is remembered. 
 Its story has indeed had another muse than has 
 been assigned it. There is a good instance of 
 the manner in which all history began, in Al- 
 wakidis Arabian Chronicle: "I was informed 
 by Ahmed Almatin Aljorhami, who had it from 
 Kephaa Ebn Kais Aldmiri, who had it from 
 Saiph E~bn Fabalah Alchatquarmi, who had it 
 from Thabet Ebn Alkamah, who said he was 
 present at the action." These fathers of history 
 were not anxious to preserve, but to learn the 
 fact; and hence it was not forgotten. Critical 
 acumen is exerted in vain to uncover the past; 
 the past cannot be presented ; we cannot know 
 what we are not. But one veil hangs over past, 
 present, and future, and it is the province of 
 the historian to find out, not what was, but what 
 is. Where a battle has been fought, you will 
 find nothing but the bones of men and beasts ; 
 where a battle is being fought, there are hearts 
 beating. We will sit on a mound and muse, 
 and not try to make these skeletons stand on 
 their legs again. Does Nature remember, think 
 you, that they were men, or not rather that they 
 are bones? 
 
 Ancient history has an air of antiquity. It 
 should be more modern. It is written as if the 
 spectator should be thinking of the backside of 
 the picture on the wall, or as if the author ex- 
 
MONDAY 203 
 
 pected that the dead would be hrs readers, and 
 wished to detail to them their own experience. 
 Men seem anxious to accomplish an orderly 
 retreat through the centuries, earnestly rebuild 
 ing the works behind, as they are battered down 
 by the encroachments of time; but while they 
 loiter, they and their works both fall a prey to 
 the arch enemy. History has neither the ven- 
 erableness of antiquity, nor the freshness of the 
 modern. It does as if it would go to the begin 
 ning of things, which natural history might 
 with reason assume to do; but consider the 
 Universal History, and then tell us, when 
 did burdock and plantain sprout first? It has 
 been so written, for the most part, that the 
 times it describes are with remarkable propriety 
 called dark ages. They are dark, as one has 
 observed, because we are so in the dark about 
 them. The sun rarely shines in history, what 
 with the dust and confusion ; and when we meet 
 with any cheering fact which implies the pres 
 ence of this luminary, we excerpt and modern 
 ize it. As when we read in the history of the 
 Saxons that Edwin of Northumbria "caused 
 stakes to be fixed in the highways where he had 
 seen a clear spring," and "brazen dishes were 
 chained to them to refresh the weary sojourner, 
 whose fatigues Edwin had himself experienced." 
 This is worth all Arthur s twelve battles. 
 
204 A WEEK 
 
 "Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the 
 
 younger day : 
 
 Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay." 
 Than fifty years of Europe better one New England ray 1 
 
 Biography, too, is liable to the same objec 
 tion ; it should be autobiography. Let us not, 
 as the Germans advise, endeavor to go abroad 
 and vex our bowels that we may be somebody 
 else to explain him. If I am not I, who will be ? 
 
 But it is fit that the Past should be dark; 
 though the darkness is not so much a quality of 
 the past as of tradition. It is not a distance of 
 time, but a distance of relation, which makes 
 thus dusky its memorials. What is near to the 
 heart of this generation is fair and bright still. 
 Greece lies outspread fair and sunshiny in floods 
 of light, for there is the sun and daylight in her 
 literature and art. Homer does not allow us to 
 forget that the sun shone, nor Phidias, nor 
 the Parthenon. Yet no era has been wholly 
 dark, nor will we too hastily submit to the his 
 torian, and congratulate ourselves on a blaze of 
 light. If we could pierce the obscurity of those 
 remote years, we should find it light enough; 
 only there is not our day. Some creatures are 
 made to see in the dark. There has always 
 been the same amount of light in the world. 
 The new and missing stars, the comets and 
 eclipses, do not affect the general illumination, 
 
MONDAY 205 
 
 for only our glasses appreciate them. The eyes 
 of the oldest fossil remains, they tell us, indicate 
 that the same laws of light prevailed then as 
 now. Always the laws of light are the same, 
 but the modes and degrees of seeing vary. The 
 gods are partial to no era, but steadily shines 
 their light in the heavens, while the eye of the 
 beholder is turned to stone. There was but 
 the sun and the eye from the first. The ages 
 have not added a new ray to the one, nor altered 
 a fibre of the other. 
 
 If we will admit time into our thoughts at 
 all, the mythologies, those vestiges of ancient 
 poems, wrecks of poems, so to speak, the world s 
 inheritance, still reflecting some of their origi 
 nal splendor, like the fragments of clouds tinted 
 by the rays of the departed sun ; reaching into 
 the latest summer day, and allying this hour to 
 the morning of creation ; as the poet sings : 
 
 " Fragments of the lofty strain 
 
 Float down the tide of years, 
 
 As buoyant on the stormy main 
 
 A parted wreck appears, " 
 
 these are the materials and hints for a history 
 t the rise and progress of the race; how, from 
 the condition of ants, it arrived at the condition 
 of men, and arts were gradually invented. Let 
 it thousand surmises shed some light on this 
 story. We will not be confined by historical, 
 
206 A WEEK 
 
 even geological periods which would allow us to 
 doubt of a progress in human affairs. If we 
 rise above this wisdom for the day, we shall ex 
 pect that this morning of the race, in which it 
 has been supplied with the simplest necessaries, 
 with corn, and wine, and honey, and oil, and 
 fire, and articulate speech, and agricultural and 
 other arts, reared up by degrees from the condi 
 tion of ants to men, will be succeeded by a day 
 of equally progressive splendor; that, in the 
 lapse of the divine periods, other divine agents 
 and godlike men will assist to elevate the race 
 as much above its present condition. 
 But we do not know much about it. 
 
 Thus did one voyageur waking dream, while 
 his companion slumbered on the bank. Sud 
 denly a boatman s horn was heard echoing from 
 shore to shore, to give notice of his approach to 
 the farmer s wife with whom he was to take his 
 dinner, though in that place only muskrats and 
 kingfishers seemed to hear. The current of our 
 reflections and our slumbers being thus dis* 
 turbed, we weighed anchor once more. 
 
 As we proceeded on our way in the afternoon, 
 the western bank became lower, or receded 
 farther from the channel in some places, leaving 
 a few trees only to fringe the water s edge; 
 while the eastern rose abruptly here and there 
 
MONDA Y 207 
 
 into wooded hills fifty or sixty feet high. The 
 bass (Tilia Americana), also called the lime or 
 linden, which was a new tree to us, overhung 
 the water with its broad and rounded leaf, in 
 terspersed with clusters of small hard berries 
 now nearly ripe, and made an agreeable shade 
 for us sailors. The inner bark of this genus is 
 the bast, the material of the fisherman s matting, 
 and the ropes and peasant s shoes of which the 
 Russians make so much use, and also of nets 
 and a coarse cloth in some places. According 
 to poets, this was once Philyra, one of the 
 Oceanides. The ancients are said to have used 
 its bark for the roofs of cottages, for baskets, 
 and for a kind of paper called Philyra. They 
 also made bucklers of its wood, "on account 
 of its flexibility, lightness, and resiliency." It 
 was once much used for carving, and is still in 
 demand for sounding-boards of piano-fortes and 
 panels of carriages, and for various uses for 
 which toughness and flexibility are required. 
 Baskets and cradles are made of the twigs. Its 
 sap affords sugar, and the honey made from its 
 flowers is said to be preferred to any other. 
 Its leaves are in some countries given to cattle, 
 a kind of chocolate has been made of its fruit, a 
 medicine has been prepared from an infusion of 
 its flowers, and finally, the charcoal made of its 
 wood is greatly valued for gunpowder. 
 
208 A WEEK 
 
 The sight of this tree reminded us that we 
 had reached a strange land to us. As we sailed 
 under this canopy of leaves, we saw the sky 
 through its chinks, and, as it were, the meaning 
 and idea of the tree stamped in a thousand 
 hieroglyphics on the heavens. The universe is 
 so aptly fitted to our organization that the eye 
 wanders and reposes at the same time. On 
 every side there is something to soothe and re 
 fresh this sense. Look up at the tree-tops, and 
 see how finely Nature finishes off her work 
 there. See how the pines spire without end 
 higher and higher, and make a graceful fringe 
 to the earth. And who shall count the finer 
 cobwebs that soar and float away from their 
 utmost tops, and the myriad insects that dodge 
 between them. Leaves are of more various 
 forms than the alphabets of all languages put 
 together ; of the oaks alone there are hardly two 
 alike, and each expresses its own character. 
 
 In all her products, Nature only develops her 
 simplest germs. One would say that it was no 
 great stretch of invention to create birds. The 
 hawk, which now takes his flight over the top 
 of the wood, was at first, perchance, only a leaf 
 which fluttered in its aisles. From rustling 
 leaves she came in the course of ages to the 
 loftier flight and clear carol of the bird. 
 
 Salmon Brook comes in from the west under 
 
MONDAY 209 
 
 the railroad, a mile and a half below the village 
 of Nashua. We rowed up far enough into the 
 meadows which border it to learn its piscatorial 
 history from a haymaker on its banks. He told 
 us that the silver eel was formerly abundant 
 here, and pointed to some sunken creels at its 
 mouth. This man s memory and imagination 
 were fertile in fishermen s tales of floating isles 
 in bottomless ponds, and of lakes mysteriously 
 stocked with fishes, and would have kept us till 
 nightfall to listen, but we could not afford to 
 loiter in this roadstead, and so stood out to our 
 sea again. Though we never trod in those 
 meadows, but only touched their margin with 
 our hands, we still retain a pleasant memory of 
 them. 
 
 Salmon Brook, whose name is said to be a 
 translation from the Indian, was a favorite 
 haunt of the aborigines. Here, too, the first 
 white settlers of Nashua planted, and some 
 dents in the earth where their houses stood and 
 the wrecks of ancient apple-trees are still visi 
 ble. About one mile up this stream stood the 
 house of old John Lovewell, who was an ensign 
 in the army of Oliver Cromwell, and the father 
 of "famous Captain Lovewell." He settled 
 here before 1690, and died about 1754, at the 
 age of one hundred and twenty years. He is 
 thought to have been engaged in the famous 
 
210 A WEEK 
 
 Narragansett swamp fight, which took place in 
 1675, before he came here. The Indians are 
 said to have spared him in succeeding wars on 
 account of his kindness to them. Even in 1700 
 he was so old and gray-headed that his scalp 
 was worth nothing, since the French governor 
 offered no bounty for such. I have stood in 
 ihe dent of his cellar on the bank of the brook, 
 and talked there with one whose grandfather 
 had, whose father might have, talked with 
 Lovewell. Here also he had a mill in his old 
 age, and kept a small store. He was remem 
 bered by some who were recently living, as a 
 hale old man who drove the boys out of his or 
 chard with his cane. Consider the triumphs of 
 the mortal man, and what poor trophies it would 
 have to show, to wit: He cobbled shoes with 
 out glasses at a hundred, and cut a handsome 
 swath at a hundred and five! LovewelTs house 
 is said to have been the first which Mrs. Dustan 
 reached on her escape from the Indians. Here, 
 probably, the hero of Pequawket was born and 
 bred. Close by may be seen the cellar and the 
 gravestone of Joseph Hassell, who, as is else 
 where recorded, with his wife Anna, and son 
 Benjamin, and Mary Marks, "were slain by 
 our Indian enemies on September 2, [1691,] 
 in the evening." As Gookin observed on a 
 previous ocasiou, "The Indian rod upon the 
 
MONDAY 211 
 
 English backs had not yet done God s errand." 
 Salmon Brook near its mouth is still a solitary 
 stream, meandering through woods and mea 
 dows, while the then uninhabited mouth of the 
 Nashua now resounds with the din of a manu 
 facturing town. 
 
 A stream from Otternic Pond in Hudson 
 comes in just above Salmon Brook, on the op 
 posite side. There was a good view of Uncan- 
 nunuc, the most conspicuous mountain in these 
 parts, from the bank here, seen rising over the 
 west end of the bridge above. We soon after 
 passed the village of Nashua, on the river of 
 the same name, where there is a covered bridge 
 over the Merrimack. The Nashua, which is 
 one of the largest tributaries, flows from Wa- 
 chusett Mountain, through Lancaster, Groton, 
 and other towns, where it has formed well- 
 known elm-shaded meadows, but near its mouth 
 it is obstructed by falls and factories, and did 
 not tempt us to explore it. 
 
 Far away from here, in Lancaster, with an 
 other companion, I have crossed the broad val 
 ley of the Nashua, over which we had so long 
 looked westward from the Concord hills without 
 seeing it to the blue mountains in the horizon. 
 So many streams, so many meadows and woods 
 and quiet dwellings of men had lain concealed 
 between us and those Delectable Mountains; 
 
212 A WEEK 
 
 from yonder hill on the road to Tyngsbor- 
 ough you may get a good view of them. There 
 where it seemed uninterrupted forest to our 
 youthful eyes, between two neighboring pines 
 in the horizon, lay the valley of the Nashua, 
 and this very stream was even then winding at 
 its bottom, and then, as now, it was here si 
 lently mingling its waters with the Merrimack. 
 The clouds which floated over its meadows and 
 were born there, seen far in the west, gilded 
 by the rays of the setting sun, had adorned a 
 thousand evening skies for us. But as it were, 
 by a turf wall this valley was concealed, and in 
 our journey to those hills it was first gradually 
 revealed to us. Summer and winter our eyes 
 had rested on the dim outline of the mountains, 
 to which distance and indistinctness lent a gran 
 deur not their own, so that they served to inter 
 pret all the allusions of poets and travelers. 
 Standing on the Concord Cliffs, we thus spoke 
 our mind to them : 
 
 With frontier strength ye stand your ground, 
 
 With grand content ye circle round, 
 
 Tumultuous silence for all sound, 
 
 Ye distant nursery of rills, 
 
 Monadnock and the Peterborough Hills ; 
 
 Finn argument that never stirs, 
 
 Outcircling the philosophers, 
 
 Like some vast fleet, 
 
 Sailing through rain and sleet, 
 
 Through winter s cold and summer s heat; 
 
MONDAY 218 
 
 Still holding on upon your high emprise, 
 
 Until ye find a shore amid the skies ; 
 
 Not skulking close to laud, 
 
 With cargo contraband, 
 
 For they who sent a venture out by ye 
 
 Have set the Sun to see 
 
 Their honesty. 
 
 Ships of the line, each one, 
 
 Ye westward run, 
 
 Convoying clouds, 
 
 Which cluster in your shrouds, 
 
 Always before the gale, 
 
 Under a press of sail, 
 
 With weight of metal all untold, 
 
 I seem to feel ye in my firm seat here, 
 
 Immeasurable depth of hold, 
 
 And breadth of beam, and length of running gear. 
 
 Methinks ye take luxurious pleasure 
 
 In your novel western leisure ; 
 
 So cool your brows and freshly blue, 
 
 As Time had naught for ye to do ; 
 
 For ye lie at your length, 
 
 An unappropriated strength, 
 
 Unhewn primeval timber, 
 
 For knees so stiff, for masts so limber ; 
 
 The stock of which new earths are made, 
 
 One day to be our western trade, 
 
 Fit for the stanchions of a world 
 
 Which through the seas of space is hurled. 
 
 While we enjoy a lingering ray, 
 Ye still o ertop the western day, 
 Reposing yonder on God s croft 
 Like solid stacks of hay ; 
 So bold a line as ne er was writ 
 On any page by human wit ; 
 
214 A WEEK 
 
 The forest glows as if 
 
 An enemy s camp-fires shone 
 
 Along the horizon, 
 
 Or the day s funeral pyre 
 
 Were lighted there ; 
 
 Edged with silver and with gold, 
 
 The clouds hang o er in damask fold, 
 
 And with such depth of amber light 
 
 The west is dight, 
 
 Where still a few rays slant, 
 
 That even Heaven seems extravagant. 
 
 Watatic Hill 
 
 Lies on the horizon s sill 
 
 Like a child s toy left overnight, 
 
 And other duds to left and right, 
 
 On the earth s edge, mountains and trees 
 
 Stand as they were on air graven, 
 
 Or as the vessels in a haven 
 
 Await the morning breeze. 
 
 I fancy even 
 
 Through your denies windeth the way to heaven ; 
 
 And yonder still, in spite of history s page, 
 
 Linger the golden and the silver age ; 
 
 Upon the laboring gale 
 
 The news of future centuries is brought, 
 
 And of new dynasties of thought, 
 
 From your remotest vale. 
 
 But special I remember thee, 
 
 Wachusett, who like me 
 
 Standest alone without, society. 
 
 Thy far blue eye, 
 
 A remnant of the sky, 
 
 Seen through the clearing or the gorge, 
 
 Or from the windows of the forge, 
 
 Doth leaven all it passes by. 
 
 Nothing is true 
 
MONDAY 215 
 
 But stands tween me and you, 
 
 Thou western pioneer, 
 
 Who know st not shame nor fear, 
 
 By venturous spirit driven 
 
 Under the eaves of heaven ; 
 
 And canst expand thee there, 
 
 And breathe enough of air ? 
 
 Even beyond the West 
 
 Thou migratest, 
 
 Into unclouded tracts, 
 
 Without a pilgrim s axe, 
 
 Cleaving thy road on high 
 
 With thy well-tempered brow, 
 
 And mak st thyself a clearing in the sky. 
 
 Upholding heaven, holding down earth, 
 
 Thy pastime from thy birth ; 
 
 Not steadied by the one, nor leaning on the other, 
 
 May I approve myself thy worthy brother ! 
 
 At length, like Rasselas and other inhabitants 
 of happy valleys, we had resolved to scale the 
 blue wall which bounded the western horizon, 
 though not without misgivings that thereafter 
 no visible fairy-land would exist for us. But 
 it would be long to tell of our adventures, and 
 we have no time this afternoon, transporting 
 ourselves in imagination up this hazy Nashua 
 valley, to go over again that pilgrimage. We 
 have since made many similar excursions to the 
 principal mountains of New England and New 
 York, and even far in the wilderness, and have 
 passed a night on the summit of many of them. 
 And now, when we look again westward from 
 
216 A WEEK 
 
 our native hills, Wachusett and Monadnocb 
 have retreated once more among the blue and 
 fabulous mountains in the horizon, though our 
 eyes rest on the very rocks on both of them, 
 where we have pitched our tent for a night, and 
 boiled our hasty-pudding amid the clouds. 
 
 As late as 1724 there was no house on the 
 north side of the Nashua, but only scattered 
 wigwams and grisly forests between this fron 
 tier and Canada. In September of that year, 
 two men who were engaged in making turpen 
 tine on that side, for such were the first enter 
 prises in the wilderness, were taken captive and 
 carried to Canada by a party of thirty Indians. 
 Ten of the inhabitants of Dunstable, going to 
 look for them, found the hoops of their barrel 
 cut, and the turpentine spread on the ground. 
 I have been told by an inhabitant of Tyngsbor- 
 ough, who had the story from his ancestors, 
 that one of these captives, when the Indians 
 were about to upset his barrel of turpentine, 
 seized a pine knot and, flourishing it, swore so 
 resolutely that he would kill the first who 
 touched it, that they refrained, and when at 
 length he returned from Canada he found it 
 still standing. Perhaps there was more than 
 one barrel. However this may have been, the 
 scouts knew by marks on the trees, made with 
 
MONDAY 21T 
 
 coal mixed with grease, that the men were not 
 killed, but taken prisoners. One of the com 
 pany, named Farwell, perceiving that the tur 
 pentine had not done spreading, concluded that 
 the Indians had been gone but a short time, and 
 they accordingly went in instant pursuit. Con 
 trary to the advice of Farwell, following di 
 rectly on their trail up the Merrimack, they fell 
 into an ambuscade near Thornton s Ferry, in 
 the present town of Merrimack, and nine were 
 killed, only one, Farwell, escaping after a vig 
 orous pursuit. The men of Dunstable went out 
 and picked up their bodies, and carried them 
 all down to Dunstable and buried them. It is 
 almost word for word as in the Robin Hood 
 ballad: 
 
 " They carried these foresters into fair Nottingham, 
 
 As many there did know, 
 They digged them graves in their churchyard, 
 And they buried them all a-row." 
 
 Nottingham is only the other side of the river, 
 and they were not exactly all a-row. You may 
 read in the churchyard at Dunstable, under the 
 "Memento Mori," and the name of one of them, 
 how they "departed this life," and 
 
 " This man with seven more that lies in 
 
 this grave was slew all in a day by 
 
 the Indians." 
 
 The stones of some others of the company stand 
 
218 A WEEK 
 
 around the common grave with their separate 
 inscriptions. Eight were buried here, but nine 
 were killed, according to the best authorities. 
 
 " Gentle river, gentle river, 
 
 Lo, thy streams are stained with gore, 
 Many a brave and noble captain 
 Floats along thy willowed shore. 
 
 " All beside thy limpid waters, 
 
 All beside thy sands so bright, 
 Indian Chiefs and Christian warriors 
 Joined in fierce and mortal fight." 
 
 It is related in the History of Dunstable, that 
 on the return of Farwell the Indians were en 
 gaged by a fresh party, which they compelled to 
 retreat, and pursued as far as the Nashua, where 
 they fought across the stream at its mouth. 
 After the departure of the Indians, the figure 
 of an Indian s head was found carved by them 
 on a large tree by the shore, which circumstance 
 has given its name to this part of the village of 
 Nashville, the "Indian Head." "It was ob 
 served by some judicious," says Gookin, refer 
 ring to Philip s war, "that at the beginning of 
 the war the English soldiers made a nothing 
 of the Indians, and many spake words to this 
 effect, that one Englishman was sufficient to 
 chase ten Indians; many reckoned it was no 
 other but Fern, vidi, vici." But we may con 
 clude that the judicious would by this time have 
 made a different observation. 
 
MONDAY 219 
 
 Farwell appears to have been the only one 
 who had studied his profession, and understood 
 the business of hunting Indians. He lived to 
 fight another day, for the next year he was 
 Love well s lieutenant at Pequawket, but that 
 time, as we have related, he left his bones in the 
 wilderness. His name still reminds us of twi 
 light days and forest scouts on Indian trails, 
 with an uneasy scalp ; an indispensable hero 
 to New England. As the more recent poet of 
 Love welF s fight has sung, halting a little but 
 bravely still, 
 
 41 Then did the crimson streams that flowed 
 
 Seem like the waters of the brook, 
 That brightly shine, that loudly dash, 
 Far down the cliffs of Agiochook," 
 
 These battles sound incredible to us. I think 
 that posterity will doubt if such things ever 
 were ; if our bold ancestors who settled this land 
 were not struggling rather with the forest shad 
 ows, and not with a copper-colored race of men. 
 They were vapors, fever and ague of the un 
 settled woods. Now, only a few arrow-heads 
 are turned up by the plough. In the Pelasgic, 
 the Etruscan, or the British story, there is no 
 thing so shadowy and unreal. 
 
 It is a wild and antiquated looking graveyard, 
 overgrown with bushes, on the high-road, about 
 
220 A WEEK 
 
 a quarter of a mile from and overlooking the 
 Merrimack, with a deserted mill-stream bound 
 ing it on one side, where lie the earthly remains 
 of the ancient inhabitants of Dunstable. We 
 passed it three or four miles below here. You 
 may read there the names of Lovewell, Farwell, 
 and many others whose families were distin 
 guished in Indian warfare. We noticed there 
 two large masses of granite more than a foot 
 thick and rudely squared, lying flat on the 
 ground over the remains of the first pastor and 
 his wife. 
 
 It is remarkable that the dead lie everywhere 
 under stones, 
 
 " Strata jacent passim suo quseque sub " lapide 
 
 corpora, we might say, if the measure allowed. 
 When the stone is a slight one, it does not 
 oppress the spirits of the traveler to meditate 
 by it ; but these did seem a little heathenish to 
 us; and so are all large monuments over men s 
 bodies, from the pyramids down. A monument 
 should at least be "star-y-pointing," to indicate 
 whither the spirit is gone, and not prostrate, 
 like the body it has deserted. There have been 
 some nations who could do nothing but con 
 struct tombs, and these are the only traces which 
 they have left. They are the heathen. But 
 why these stones, so upright and emphatic, like 
 
MONDAY 221 
 
 exclamation -points? What was there so re 
 markable that lived? Why should the monu 
 ment be so much more enduring than the fame 
 which it is designed to perpetuate, a stone to 
 a bone? "Here lies," "Here lies; " why 
 do they not sometimes write, There rises? Is it 
 a monument to the body only that is intended? 
 "Having reached the term of his natural life; " 
 would it not be truer to say, Having reached 
 the term of his unnatural life? The rarest 
 quality in an epitaph is truth. If any character 
 is given, it should be as severely true as the 
 decision of the three judges below, and not the 
 partial testimony of friends. Friends and con 
 temporaries should supply only the name and 
 date, and leave it to posterity to write the epi 
 taph. 
 
 Here lies an honest man, 
 Rear-Admiral Van. 
 
 Faith, then ye have 
 
 Two in one grave, 
 
 For in his favor, 
 
 Here too lies the Engraver. 
 
 Fame itself is but an epitaph; as late, as false, 
 as true. But they only are the true epitaphs 
 which Old Mortality retouches. 
 
 A man might well pray that he may not taboo 
 or curse any portion of nature by being buried 
 in it. For the most part, the best man s spirit 
 
222 A WEEK 
 
 makes a fearful sprite to haunt his grave, and 
 it is therefore much to the credit of Little John, 
 the famous follower of Robin Hood, and reflect 
 ing favorably on his character, that his grave 
 was "long celebrous for the yielding of excel 
 lent whetstones." I confess that I have but 
 little love for such collections as they have at 
 the Catacombs, Pere la Chaise, Mount Auburn, 
 and even this Dunstable graveyard. At any 
 rate, nothing but great antiquity can make 
 graveyards interesting to me. I have no friends 
 there. It may be that I am not competent to 
 write the poetry of the grave. The farmer who 
 has skimmed his farm might perchance leave 
 his body to Nature to be ploughed in, and in 
 some measure restore its fertility. We should 
 not retard but forward her economies. 
 
 Soon the village of Nashua was out of sight, 
 and the woods were gained again, and we rowed 
 slowly on before sunset, looking for a solitary 
 place in which to spend the night. A few 
 evening clouds began to be reflected in the 
 water, and the surface was dimpled only here 
 and there by a muskrat crossing the stream. 
 We camped at length near Penichook Brook, on 
 the confines of what is now Nashville, by a deep 
 ravine, under the skirts of a pine wood, where 
 the dead pine-leaves were our carpet, and their 
 tawny boughs stretched overhead. But fire and 
 
MONDA Y 223 
 
 smoke soon tamed the scene; the rocks con 
 sented to be our walls, and the pines our roof. 
 A woodside was already the fittest locality for us. 
 
 The wilderness is near as well as dear to 
 every man. Even the oldest villages are in 
 debted to the border of wild wood which sur 
 rounds them, more than to the gardens of men. 
 There is something indescribably inspiriting and 
 beautiful in the aspect of the forest skirting and 
 occasionally jutting into the midst of new 
 towns, which, like the sand-heaps of fresh fox- 
 burrows, have sprung up in their midst. The 
 very uprightness of the pines and maples asserts 
 the ancient rectitude and vigor of nature. Our 
 lives need the relief of such a background, 
 where the pine flourishes and the jay still 
 screams. 
 
 We had found a safe harbor for our boat, 
 and as the sun was setting carried up our 
 furniture, and soon arranged our house upon 
 the bank, and while the kettle steamed at the 
 tent door, we chatted of distant friends and of 
 the sights which we were to behold, and won 
 dered which way the towns lay from us. Our 
 cocoa was soon boiled, and supper set upon 
 our chest, and we lengthened out this meal, like 
 old voyageurs, with our talk. Meanwhile we 
 spread the map on the ground, and read in the 
 Gazetteer when the first settlers came here and 
 
224 A WEEK 
 
 got a township granted. Then, when suppei 
 was done and we had written the journal of our 
 voyage, we wrapped our buffaloes about us and 
 lay down with our heads pillowed on our arms, 
 listening awhile to the distant baying of a dog, 
 or the murmurs of the river, or to the windf 
 which had not gone to rest : 
 
 The western wind came lumbering in, 
 Bearing a faint Pacific din, 
 Our evening mail, swift at the call 
 Of its Postmaster-General ; 
 Laden with news from Calif orn , 
 Whate er transpired hath since morn, 
 How wags the world by brier and brake 
 From hence to Athabasca Lake ; 
 
 or half awake and half asleep, dreaming of a 
 star which glimmered through our cotton roof. 
 Perhaps at midnight one was awakened by a 
 cricket shrilly singing on his shoulder, or by a 
 hunting spider in his eye, and was lulled asleep 
 again by some streamlet purling its way along 
 at the bottom of a wooded and rocky ravine in 
 our neighborhood. It was pleasant to lie with 
 our heads so low in the grass, and hear what a 
 tinkling ever-busy laboratory it was. A thou 
 sand little/artisans v beat on their anvils all night 
 long. 
 
 Far in the night, as we were falling asleep on 
 the bank of the Merrimack, we heard some tyro 
 beating a drum incessantly, in preparation fo* 
 
MONDAY 225 
 
 a country muster, as we learned, and we thought 
 of the line, 
 
 " When the drum beat at dead of night." 
 
 We could have assured him that his beat would 
 be answered, and the forces be mustered. Fear, 
 not, thou drummer of the night, we too will be 
 
 : there. And still he drummed on in the silence 
 and the dark. This stray sound from a far-off 
 sphere came to our ears from time to time, far, 
 sweet, and significant, and we listened with 
 such an unprejudiced sense as if for, the first 
 time we heard at all. No doubt he was an 
 insignificant drummer enough, but his music 
 afforded us a prime and leisure hour, and we 
 felt that we were in season wholly. These sim 
 ple sounds related us to the stars. Ay, there 
 was adx)gic)in them so convincing that the com- 
 
 Jjined sense of mankinc^^could never makejna. 
 
 _4oui?t their oonfilusiona. I stop my habitual 
 
 thinking, ^a^Jfjbheplough had suddenly run 
 
 ^deeper., in its furrow through the "crust of the 
 
 jworld. How can I go on, who have just stepped 
 over such a bottomless skylight in the bog of 
 my life ? Suddenly old Time winked at me, 
 Ah, you know me, you rogue, and news had 
 come that IT was well. That ancient universe 
 is in such capital health, t _I_thjnk 
 
 will never die, ffeal yourselves, doctors; by 
 
226 A WEEK 
 
 Then idle Time ran gadding by 
 And left me with Eternity alone ; 
 
 I hear beyond the range of sound, 
 
 I see beyond the verge of sight, 
 
 I see, smell, taste, hear, feel, that everlasting 
 Something to which we are allied, at once our 
 maker, our abode, our destiny, our very Selves ; 
 
 rthlTone historic truth,] the most remarkable fact 
 which can become the distinct and uninvited 
 subject of our thought, the actual glory of the 
 universe; the_only factwhich a hiunan^being 
 
 ^cannot avojdjrecognizing, or m some way forget 
 or dispense with. 
 
 It doth expand my privacies 
 To all, and leave me single in the crowd. 
 
 I have seen how the foundations of the world 
 are laid, and I have not the least doubt that it 
 will stand a good while. 
 
 Now chiefly is my nataHiour, 
 
 And only now my prime of life. 
 
 J[ wIU_iwtfudfliib.t_the love untold, 
 
 Which not my worth nor want hath bought, 
 
 Which wooed me young and wooes me old, 
 
 And to this evening hath me brought. 
 
 What are ears? what is Time? that this par 
 ticular series of sounds called a strain of music, 
 an invisible and fairy troop which never brushed 
 the dew from any mead, can be wafted down 
 through the centuries from Homer to me, and 
 he have been conversant with that same aerial 
 
MONDAY 227 
 
 and mysterious charm which now so tingles my 
 ears ? What a fine communication from age to 
 age, of the fairest and noblest thoughts, the 
 aspirations of ancient men, even such as were 
 never communicated by speech, is music ! It is 
 the flower of language, thought colored and 
 curved, fluent and flexible, its crystal fountain 
 tinged with the sun s rays, and its purling rip 
 ples reflecting the grass and the clouds. A 
 strain of music reminds me of a passage of the 
 Vedas, and I associate with it the idea of infi 
 nite remoteness, as well as of beauty and seren 
 ity, for to the senses that is fetl]y^frmn_ii3^ 
 whicji_^ddrfiaafia_the greatest depth within us. 
 It teaches us again and again to trust the re 
 motest and^ finestas the divinest instinct, and 
 makes t a dream our only real experience^ We 
 feel yJTsad cheer/Vhen we hear it, perchance be 
 cause we that hear are not one with that which 
 is heard. 
 
 Therefore a torrent of sadness deep 
 
 Through the strains of thy triumph is heard to sweep. 
 
 The sadness is ours. The Indian poet CalidaS 
 says in the Sacontala: "Perhaps the sadness of 
 men on seeing beautiful forms and hearing 
 sweet music arises from some faint remembrance 
 of past joys, and the traces of connections in a 
 former state of existence." As polishing ex 
 presses the vein in marble, and grain in wood, 
 
228 A WEEK 
 
 so music brings out what of heroic lurks any 
 where. ThfrJiero isL-thfiuaple patron of music. 
 
 ^ ^^ ^^^ 4 _ 
 
 That harmony which exists naturally between 
 the hero s moods and the universe, the soldier 
 would fain imitate with drum and trumpet. 
 When we are in health, all sounds fife and drum 
 for us ; we hear the notes of music in the air, or 
 catch its echoes dying away when we awake in 
 the dawn. MarchingJ^ :vdieii^he--pulse of the 
 hero beats jn iinisn_wi^ Nature? 
 
 and he steps to the measure of the universe; 
 then there is true courage and invincible 
 strength,^ 
 
 Plutarch says that "Plato thinks the gods 
 never gave men music, the science of melody 
 and harmony, for mere delectation or to tickle 
 the ear; but that the discordant parts of the 
 circulations and beauteous fabric of the soul, 
 and that of it that roves about the body, and 
 many times, for want of tune and air, breaks 
 forth into many extravagances and excesses, 
 might be sweetly recalled and artfully wound 
 up to their former consent and agreement." 
 
 Music is the sound of the universal laws 
 promulgated. It is the only assured tone. 
 There are in it such strains as far surpass any 
 man s faith in the loftiness of his destiny. 
 Things are to be learned which it will be worth 
 the while to learn. Formerly I heard these 
 
MONDA Y 229 
 
 RUMORS FROM AN AEOLIAN HARP. 
 
 There is a vale which none hath seen, 
 Where foot of man has never been, 
 Such as here lives with toil and strife, 
 An anxious and a sinful life. 
 
 There every virtue has its birth, 
 Ere it descends upon the earth, 
 And thither every deed returns, 
 Which in the generous bosom burns. 
 
 There love is warm, and youth is young, 
 And poetry is yet unsung, 
 For Virtue still adventures there, 
 And freely breathes her native air. 
 
 And ever, if you hearken well, 
 You still may hear its vesper bell, 
 And tread of high-souled men go by, 
 Their thoughts conversing with the sky. 
 
 According to Jamblichus, "Pythagoras did 
 not procure for himself a thing of this kind 
 through instruments or the voice, but employing 
 a certain ineffable divinity, and which it is diffi 
 cult to apprehend, he extended his ears and 
 fixed his intellect in the sublime symphonies of 
 the world, he alone hearing and understanding, 
 as it appears, the universal harmony and con 
 sonance of the spheres, and the stars that are 
 moved through them, and which produce a 
 fuller and more intense melody than anything 
 effected by mortal sounds." 
 
230 A WEEK 
 
 Traveling on foot very early one morning 
 due east from here about twenty miles, from 
 Caleb Harriman s tavern in Hampstead toward 
 Haverhill, when I reached the railroad in Plais- 
 tow, I heard at some distance a faint music in 
 the air like an ^Eolian harp, which I immedi 
 ately suspected to proceed from the cord of the 
 telegraghjibrating in the just awakening morn 
 ing wind, and applying my ear to one of the 
 posts I was convinced that it was so. It was 
 the telegraph harp singing its message through 
 the country, ita message sejit^aflJLJ3y_,iaen, but 
 by_4ods._ Perchance, like the statue of Mem- 
 non, it resounds only in the morning, when the 
 first rays of the sun fall on it. It was like the 
 first lyre or shell heard on the sea-shore, that 
 vibrating cord high in the air over the shores of 
 earth. So have all things their higher and their 
 .lower uses^ ITeard a fairer news than the 
 journals ever print. It told of things worthy 
 to hear, and worthy of the electric fluid to carry 
 the news of, not of the price of cotton and 
 flour, but it hinted at the price of the world 
 itself and of things which are priceless, of abso 
 lute truth and beauty. 
 
 Still the drum rolled on, and stirred our 
 blood to fresh extravagance that night. The 
 clarion sound and clang of corselet and buckler 
 were heard from many a hamlet of the soul, 
 
MONDAY 231 
 
 and many a knight was arming for the fight 
 behind the encamped stars. 
 
 " Before each van 
 
 Prick forth the aery knights, and couch their spears 
 Till thickest legions close ; with feats of arms 
 From either end of Heaven the welkin burns." 
 
 Away! away! away! away! 
 
 Ye have not kept your secret well, 
 I will abide that other day, 
 
 Those other lands ye tell. 
 
 Has time no leisure left for these, 
 
 The acts that ye rehearse ? 
 Is not eternity a lease 
 
 For better deeds than verse ? 
 
 T is sweet to hear of heroes dead, 
 To know them still alive, 
 But sweeter if we earn their bread, 
 And in us they survive. 
 
 Our life should feed the springs of fame 
 
 With a perennial wave, 
 As ocean feeds the babbling founts 
 
 Which find in it their grave. 
 
 Ye skies, drop gently round my breast. 
 
 And be my corselet blue, 
 Ye earth, receive my lance in rest, 
 
 My faithful charger you ; 
 
 Ye stars, my spear-heads in the sky, 
 
 My arrow-tips ye are ; 
 I see the routed foemen fly, 
 
 My bright spears fixed are. 
 
232 A WEEK 
 
 Give me an angel for a foe, 
 
 Fix now the place and time, 
 And straight to meet him I will go 
 
 Above the starry chime. 
 
 And with our clashing bucklers clang 
 The heavenly spheres shall ring, 
 
 While bright the northern lights shall hang 
 Beside our tourneying. 
 
 And if she lose her champion true, 
 
 Tell Heaven not despair, 
 For I will be her champion new, 
 
 Her fame I will repair. 
 
 There was a high wind this night, which we 
 afterwards learned had been still more violent 
 elsewhere, and had done much injury to the 
 cornfields far and near; but we only heard it 
 sigh from time to time, as if it had no license 
 to shake the foundations of our tent ; the pines 
 murmured, the water rippled, and the tent 
 rocked a little, but we only laid our ears closer 
 to the ground, while the blast swept on to alarm 
 other men, and long before sunrise we were 
 ready to pursue our voyage as usual. 
 
TUESDAY. 
 
 " On either side the river lie 
 Long fields of barley and of rye, 
 That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
 And through the fields the road runs by 
 To many-towered Camelot." 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 LONG before daylight we ranged abroad, 
 hatchet in hand, in search of fuel, and made 
 the yet slumbering and dreaming wood resound 
 with our blows. Then with our fire we burned 
 up a portion of the loitering night, while the 
 kettle sang its homely strain to the morning 
 star. We tramped about the shore, waked all 
 the muskrats, and scared up the bittern and 
 birds that were asleep upon their roosts; we 
 hauled up and upset our boat, and washed it 
 and rinsed out the clay, talking aloud as if it 
 were broad day, until at length, by three 
 o clock, we had completed our preparations and 
 were ready to pursue our voyage as usual; so, 
 shaking the clay from our feet, we pushed into 
 the fog. 
 
 Though we were enveloped in mist as usual, 
 we trusted that there was a bright day behind it. 
 
234 A WEEK 
 
 Ply the oars ! away ! away ! 
 In each dew-drop of the morning 
 Lies the promise of a day. 
 
 Rivers from the sunrise flow, 
 
 Springing with the dewy morn ; 
 
 Voyageurs gainst time do row, 
 
 Idle noon nor sunset know, 
 Ever even with the dawn. 
 
 Belknap, the historian of this State, says that, 
 " In the neighborhood of fresh rivers and ponds, 
 a whitish fog in the morning lying over the 
 water is a sure indication of fair weather for 
 that day; and when no fog is seen, rain is 
 expected before night." That which seemed 
 to us to invest the world was only a narrow 
 and shallow wreath of vapor stretched over the 
 channel of the Merrimack from the seaboard to 
 the mountains. More extensive fogs, however, 
 have their own limits. I once saw the day 
 break from the top of Saddle-back Mountain 
 in Massachusetts, above the clouds. As we 
 cannot distinguish objects through this dense 
 fog, let me tell this story more at length. 
 
 I had come over the hills on foot and alone 
 in serene summer days, plucking the raspberries 
 by the wayside, and occasionally buying a loaf 
 of bread at a farmer s house, with a knapsack 
 on my back which held a few traveler s books 
 and a change of clothing, and a staff in my 
 
TUESDAY 235 
 
 hand. I had that morning looked down from 
 the Hoosack Mountain, where the road crosses 
 it, on the village of North Adams in the valley 
 three miles away under my feet, showing how 
 uneven the earth may sometimes be, and mak 
 ing it seem an accident that it should ever be 
 level and convenient for the feet of man. Put 
 ting a little rice and sugar and a tin cup into 
 my knapsack at this village, I began in the af 
 ternoon to ascend the mountain, whose summit 
 is three thousand six hundred feet above the 
 level of the sea, and was seven or eight miles 
 distant by the path. My route lay up a long 
 and spacious valley called the Bellows, because 
 the winds rush up or down it with violence in 
 storms, sloping up to the very clouds between 
 the principal range and a lower mountain. 
 There were a few farms scattered along at dif 
 ferent elevations, each commanding a fine pros 
 pect of the mountains to the north, and a stream 
 ran down the middle of the valley on which near 
 the head there was a mill. It seemed a road 
 for the pilgrim to enter upon who would climb 
 to the gates of heaven. Now I crossed a hay- 
 field, and now over the brook on a slight bridge, 
 still gradually ascending all the while with a 
 sort of awe, and filled with indefinite expecta 
 tions as to what kind of inhabitants and what 
 kind of nature I should come to at last. It 
 
236 A WEEK 
 
 now seemed some advantage that the earth was 
 uneven, for one could not imagine a more noble 
 position for a farm-house than this vale af 
 forded, farther from or nearer to its head, from 
 a glen-like seclusion overlooking the country at 
 a great elevation between these two mountain 
 walls. 
 
 It reminded me of the homesteads of the 
 Huguenots, on Staten Island, off the coast of 
 New Jersey. The hills in the interior of this 
 island, though comparatively low, are pene 
 trated in various directions by similar sloping 
 valleys on a humble scale, gradually narrowing 
 and rising to the centre, and at the head of 
 these the Huguenots, who were the first settlers, 
 placed their houses quite within the land, in 
 rural and sheltered places, in leafy recesses 
 where the breeze played with the poplar and 
 the gum-tree, from which, with equal security 
 in calm and storm, they looked out through a 
 widening vista, over miles of forest and stretch 
 ing salt marsh, to the Huguenot s Tree, an old 
 elm on the shore, at whose root they had landed, 
 and across the spacious outer bay of New York 
 to Sandy Hook and the Highlands of Never- 
 sink, and thence over leagues of the Atlantic, 
 perchance to some faint vessel in the horizon, 
 almost a day s sail on her voyage to that Eu 
 rope whence they had come. When walking in 
 
TUESDA Y 237 
 
 the interior there, in the midst of rural scenery, 
 where there was as little to remind me of the 
 ocean as amid the New Hampshire hills, I have 
 suddenly, through a gap, a cleft or "clove road," 
 as the Dutch settlers called it, caught sight of 
 a ship under full sail, over a field of corn, 
 twenty or thirty miles at sea. The effect was 
 similar, since I had no means of measuring dis 
 tances, to seeing a painted ship passed back 
 wards and forwards through a magic lantern. 
 
 But to return to the mountain. It seemed 
 as if he must be the most singular and heavenly 
 minded man whose dwelling stood highest up 
 the valley. The thunder had rumbled at my 
 heels all the way, but the shower passed off in 
 another direction, though if it had not, I half 
 believed that I should get above it. I at length 
 reached the last house but cSe, where the path 
 to the summit diverged to the right, while the 
 summit itself rose directly in front. But I 
 determined to follow up the valley to its head, 
 and then find my own route up the steep as 
 jie^sjiojter and more adventurous way. I had 
 thoughts of returning to this house, which was 
 well kept and so nobly placed, the next day, 
 and perhaps remaining a week there, if I could 
 have entertainment. Its mistress was a frank 
 and hospitable young woman, who stood before 
 me in a dishabille, busily and unconcernedly 
 
238 A WEEK 
 
 combing her long black hair while she talked, 
 giving her head the necessary toss with each 
 sweep of the comb, with lively, sparkling eyes, 
 and full of interest in that lower world from 
 which I had come, talking all the while as fa 
 miliarly as if she had known me for years, and 
 reminding me of a cousin of mine. She at first 
 had taken me for a student from Williamstown, 
 for they went by in parties, she said, either rid 
 ing or walking, almost every pleasant day, and 
 were a pretty wild set of fellows; but they 
 never went by the way I was going. As I 
 passed the last house, a man called out to know 
 what I had to sell, for, seeing my knapsack, 
 he thought that I might be a peddler who was 
 taking this unusual route over the ridge of the 
 valley into South Adams. He told me that it 
 was still four or fiHe miles to the summit by the 
 path which I had left, though not more than 
 two in a straight line from where I was, but 
 that nobody ever went this way ; there was no 
 path, and I should find it as steep as the roof of 
 a house. But I knew that I was more used to 
 woods and mountains than he, and went along 
 through his cow-yard, while he, looking at the 
 sun, shouted after me that I should not get to 
 the top that night. I soon reached the head of 
 the valley, but as I could not see the summit 
 from this point, I ascended a low mountain on 
 
TUESDAY 239 
 
 the opposite side, and took its bearing with my 
 compass. I at once entered the woods, and be 
 gan to climb the steep side of the mountain in a 
 diagonal direction, taking the bearing of a tree 
 every dozen rods. The ascent was by no means 
 difficult or unpleasant, and occupied much less 
 time than it would have taken to follow the path. 
 Even country people, I have observed, magnify 
 the difficulty of traveling in the forest, and 
 especially among mountains. They seem to 
 lack their usual common sense in this. I have 
 climbed several higher mountains without guide 
 or path, and have found, as might be expected, 
 that it takes only more time and patience com 
 monly than to travel the smoothest highway. 
 It is very rare that you meet with obstacles in 
 this world which the humblest man has not fac 
 ulties to surmount. It is true we may come to 
 a perpendicular precipice, but we need not jump 
 off, nor run our heads against it. A man may 
 jump down his own cellar stairs, or dash his 
 brains out against his chimney, if he is mad. 
 So far as my experience goes, travelers gener 
 ally exaggerate the difficulties of the way. 
 Like most evil, the difficulty is imaginary; for 
 what s the hurry? IfjL^aerson lost would con- 
 clude^that after all he is not-lost, he is not be 
 side himself, -terfr-frfrninding 1 in his own oleLghogq 
 on the very spot where he is, and that for the 
 
240 A WEEK 
 
 time being he will live there; but the places 
 that have known him, they are lost, how 
 much anxiety and danger would vanish. I am 
 not alone if I stand by myself. Who knows 
 where in space this globe is rolling? Yet we 
 will not give ourselves up for lost, let it go 
 where it will. 
 
 I made my way steadily upward in a straight 
 line, through a dense undergrowth of mountain 
 laurel, until the trees began to have a scraggy 
 and infernal look, as if contending with frost 
 goblins, and at length I reached the summit, 
 just as the sun was setting. Several acres here 
 had been cleared, and were covered with rocks 
 and stumps, and there was a rude observatory 
 in the middle which overlooked the woods. I 
 had one fair view of the country before the sun 
 went down, but I was too thirsty to waste any 
 light in viewing the prospect, and set out di 
 rectly to find water. First, going down a well- 
 beaten path for half a mile through the low 
 scrubby wood, till I came to where the water 
 stood in the tracks of the horses which had car 
 ried travelers up, I lay down flat, and drank 
 these dry, one after another, a pure, cold, 
 spring-like water, but yet I could not fill my 
 dipper, though I contrived little siphons of 
 grass-stems, and ingenious aqueducts on a small 
 scale; it was too slow a process. Then, remern- 
 
TUESDAY 241 
 
 bering that I had passed a moist place near the 
 top, on my way up, I returned to find it again, 
 and here, with sharp stones and my hands, in 
 the twilight, I made a well about two feet deep, 
 which was soon filled with pure cold water, 
 and the birds too came and drank at it. So I 
 filled my dipper, and, making my way back to 
 the observatory, collected some dry sticks, and 
 made a fire on some flat stones which had been 
 placed on the floor for that purpose, and so I 
 soon cooked my supper of rice, having already 
 whittled a wooden spoon to eat it with. 
 
 I sat up during the evening, reading by the 
 light of the fire the scraps of newspapers in 
 which some party had wrapped their luncheon ; 
 the prices current in New York and Boston, 
 the advertisements, and the singular editorials 
 which some had seen fit to publish, not foresee 
 ing under what critical circumstances they would 
 be read. I read these things at a vast advan 
 tage there, and it seemed to me that the adver 
 tisements, or what is called the business part of 
 a paper, were greatly the best, the most useful, 
 natural, and respectable. Almost all the opin 
 ions and sentiments expressed were so little con 
 sidered, so shallow and flimsy, that I thought 
 the very texture of the paper must be weaker in 
 that part and tear the more easily. The ad 
 vertisements and the prices current were more 
 
242 A WEEK 
 
 closely allied to nature, and were respectable in 
 some measure as tide and meteorological tables 
 are; but the reading-matter, which I remem 
 bered was most prized down below, unless it 
 was some humble record of science, or an ex 
 tract from some old classic, struck me as 
 strangely whimsical, and crude, and one-idea d, 
 like a school -boy s theme, such as youths write 
 and after burn. The opinions were of that 
 kind that are doomed to wear a different aspect 
 to-morrow, like last year s fashions; as if 
 mankind were very green indeed, and would 
 be ashamed of themselves in a few years, when 
 they had outgrown this verdant period. There 
 was, moreover, a singular disposition to wit and 
 humor, but rarely the slightest real success ; and 
 the apparent success was a terrible satire on the 
 attempt; the Evil Genius of man laughed the 
 loudest at his best jokes. The advertisements, 
 as I have said, such as were serious, and not 
 of the modern quack kind, suggested pleasing 
 and poetic thoughts; for commerce_ is really as 
 _intexestiag_as nature. The very names of the 
 commodities were poetic, and as suggestive as 
 if they had been inserted in a pleasing poem, 
 Lumber, Cotton, Sugar, Hides, Guano, 
 Logwood. Some sober, private, and original 
 thought would have been grateful to read there, 
 and as much in harmony with the circumstances 
 
TUESDA Y 243 
 
 as if it had been written on a mountain-top ; for 
 it is of a fashion which never changes, and as 
 respectable as hides and logwood, or any nat 
 ural product. What an inestimable companion 
 such a scrap of paper would have been, contain 
 ing some fruit of a mature life ! What a relic ! 
 What a recipe ! It seemed a divine invention, 
 by which not mere shining coin, but shining 
 and current thoughts, could be brought up and 
 left there. 
 
 As it was cold, I collected quite a pile of 
 wood and lay down on a board against the side 
 of the building, not having any blanket to cover 
 me, with my head to the fire, that I might look 
 after it, which is not the Indian rule. But as 
 it grew colder towards midnight, I at length 
 encased myself completely in boards, managing 
 even to put a board on top of me, with a large 
 stone on it, to keep it down, and so slept com 
 fortably. I was reminded, it is true, of the 
 Irish children, who inquired what their neigh 
 bors did who had no door to put over them in 
 winter nights as they had; but I am convinced 
 that there was nothing very strange in the in 
 quiry. Those who have never tried it can have 
 no idea how far a door, which keeps the single 
 blanket down, may go toward making one com 
 fortable. We are constituted a good deal like 
 chickens, which, taken from the hen, and put in 
 
244 A WEEK 
 
 a basket of cotton in the chimney-corner, will 
 often peep till they die, nevertheless ; but if you 
 put in a book, or anything heavy, which will 
 press down the cotton, and feel like the hen, 
 they go to sleep directly. My only companions 
 were the mice, which came to pick up the 
 crumbs that had been left in those scraps of 
 paper; still, as everywhere, pensioners on man, 
 and not unwisely improving this elevated tract 
 for their habitation. They nibbled what was 
 for them ; I nibbled what was for me. Once or 
 twice in the night, when I looked up, I saw a 
 white cloud drifting through the windows, and 
 filling the whole upper story. 
 
 This observatory was a building of consider 
 able size, erected by the students of Williams- 
 town College, whose buildings might be seen by 
 daylight gleaming far down in the valley. It 
 would be no small advantage if every college 
 were thus located at the base of a mountain, as 
 good at least as one well-endowed professorship. 
 It were as well to be educated in the shadow of 
 a mountain as in more classical shades. Some 
 will remember, no doubt, not only that they 
 went to the college, but that they went to the 
 mountain. Every visit to its summit would, as \ 
 it were, generalize the particular information 
 gained below, and subject it to more catholic 
 tests. ^J 
 
TUESDA Y 245 
 
 I was up early and perched upon the top of 
 this tower to see the daybreak, for some time 
 reading the names that had been engraved 
 there, before I could distinguish more distant 
 objects. An "untamable fly" buzzed at my 
 elbow with the same nonchalance as on a mo 
 lasses hogshead at the end of Long Wharf. 
 Even there I must attend to his stale humdrum. 
 But now I come to the pith of this long di 
 gression. As the light increased, I discovered 
 around me an ocean of mist, which by chance 
 reached up exactly to the base of the tower, and 
 shut out every vestige of the earth, while I was 
 left floating on this fragment of the wreck of a 
 world, on my carved plank, in cloudland ; a sit 
 uation which required no aid from the imagina 
 tion to render it impressive. As the light in 
 the east steadily increased, it revealed to me 
 more clearly the new world into which I had 
 risen in the night, the new terra firma per 
 chance of my future life. There was not a 
 crevice left through which the trivial places we 
 name Massachusetts or Vermont or New York 
 could be seen, while I still inhaled the clear at 
 mosphere of a July morning, if it were July 
 there. All around beneath me was spread for 
 a hundred miles on every side, as far as the eye 
 could reach, an undulating country of clouds, 
 answering in the varied swell of its surface to 
 
246 A WEEK 
 
 the terrestrial world it veiled. It was such 
 a country as we might see in dreams, with all 
 the delights of paradise. There were immense 
 snowy pastures, apparently smooth shaven and 
 firm, and shady vales between the vaporous 
 mountains ; and far in the horizon I could see 
 where some luxurious misty timber jutted into 
 the prairie, and trace the windings of a water 
 course, some unimagined Amazon or Orinoko, 
 by the misty trees on its brink. As there was 
 wanting the symbol, so there was not the sub 
 stance of impurity, no spot nor stain. It was 
 a favor for which to be forever silent to be 
 shown this vision. The earth beneath had be~ 
 come such a flitting thing of lights and shadows 
 as the clouds had been before. It was not 
 merely veiled to me, but it had passed away like 
 the phantom of a shadow, cr/aas oVap, and this 
 new platform was gained. As I had climbed 
 above storm and cloud, so by successive days 
 journeys I might reach the region of eternal 
 day, beyond the tapering shadow of the earth; 
 ay, 
 
 " Heaven itself shall slide, 
 And roll away like melting stars that glide 
 Along their oily threads." 
 
 But when its own sun began to rise on this pure 
 world, I found myself a dweller in the dazzling 
 halls of Aurora, into which poets have had but 
 
TUESDA Y 247 
 
 a partial glance over the eastern hills, drifting 
 amid the saffron -colored clouds, and playing 
 with the rosy fingers of the Dawn, in the very 
 path of the Sun s chariot, and sprinkled with 
 its dewy dust, enjoying the benignant smile, 
 and near at hand the far-darting glances of the 
 god. The inhabitants of earth behold com 
 monly but the dark and shadowy under-side of 
 heaven s pavement; it is only when seen at a 
 favorable angle in the horizon, morning or even 
 ing, that some faint streaks of the rich lining of 
 the clouds are revealed. But my muse would 
 fail to convey an impression of the gorgeous 
 tapestry by which I was surrounded, such as 
 men see faintly reflected afar off in the cham 
 bers of the east. Here, as on earth, I saw the 
 gracious god 
 
 " Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, 
 Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy." 
 
 But never here did "Heaven s sun" stain 
 himself. 
 
 But, alas, owing, as I think, to some un- 
 wortjiinpss in rnyaftlf^ my private sun did stain 
 himself, and 
 
 " Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 
 With ugly wrack on his celestial face," 
 
 for before the god had reached the zenith the 
 heavenly pavement rose and embraced my wa- 
 
248 A WEEK 
 
 vering virtue, or rather I sank down again into 
 that "forlorn world," from which the celestial 
 sun had hid his visage, 
 
 " How may a worm that crawls along the dust, 
 Clamber the azure mountains, thrown so high, 
 And fetch from thence thy fair idea just, 
 That in those sunny courts doth hidden lie, 
 Clothed with such light as blinds the angel s eye ? 
 How may weak mortal ever hope to file 
 His unsmooth tongue, and his deprostrate style ? 
 Oh, raise thou from his corse thy now entombed exile ! " 
 
 In the preceding evening I had seen the 
 summits of new and yet higher mountains, the 
 Catskills, by which I might hope to climb to 
 heaven again, and had set my compass for a 
 fair lake in the southwest, which lay in my way, 
 for which I now steered, descending the moun 
 tain by my own route, on the side opposite to 
 that by which I had ascended, and soon found 
 myself in the region of cloud and drizzling rain, 
 and the inhabitants affirmed that it had been a 
 cloudy and drizzling day wholly. 
 
 But now we must make haste back before the 
 fog disperses to the blithe Merrimack water. 
 
 Since that first " Away ! away ! " 
 
 Many a lengthy reach we ve rowed, 
 
 Still the sparrow on the spray 
 
 Hastes to usher in the day 
 
 With her simple stanza d ode. 
 
 We passed a canal-boat before sunrise, grop 
 
TUESDAY 249 
 
 ing its way to the seaboard, and, though we 
 could not see it on account of the fog, the few 
 dull, thumping, stertorous sounds which we 
 heard impressed us with a sense of weight and 
 irresistible motion. One little rill of commerce 
 already awake on this distant New Hampshire 
 river. The fog, as it required more skill in the 
 steering, enhanced the interest of our early voy 
 age, and made the river seem indefinitely broad. 
 A slight mist, through which objects are faintly 
 visible, has the effect of expanding even ordi 
 nary streams, by a singular mirage, into arms 
 of the sea or inland lakes. In the present in 
 stance, it was even fragrant and invigorating, 
 and we enjoyed it as a sort of earlier sunshine, 
 or dewy and embryo light. 
 
 Low-anchored cloud, 
 
 Newfoundland air, 
 
 Fountain-head and source of rivers, 
 
 Dew-cloth, dream drapery, 
 
 And napkin spread by fays ; 
 
 Drifting meadow of the air, 
 
 Where bloom the daisied banks and violets, 
 
 And in whose fenny labyrinth 
 
 The bittern booms and heron wades ; 
 
 Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers, 
 
 Bear only perfumes and the scent 
 
 Of healing herbs to just men s fields ! 
 
 The same pleasant and observant historian 
 whom we quoted above says that, "In the 
 mountainous parts of the country, the ascent of 
 
250 A WEEK 
 
 vapors, and their formation into clouds, is a cu 
 rious and entertaining object. The vapors are 
 seen rising in small columns like smoke from 
 many chimneys. When risen to a certain 
 height, they spread, meet, condense, and are 
 attracted to the mountains, where they either 
 distill in gentle dews, and replenish the springs, 
 or descend in showers, accompanied with thun 
 der. After short intermissions, the process is 
 repeated many times in the course of a summer 
 day, affording to travelers a lively illustration 
 of what is observed in the Book of Job, They 
 are wet with the showers of the mountains. 
 
 Fogs and clouds which conceal the overshad 
 owing mountains lend the breadth of the plains 
 to mountain vales. Even a small-featured 
 country acquires some grandeur in stormy 
 weather when clouds are seen drifting between 
 the beholder and the neighboring hills. When, 
 in traveling toward Haverhill through Hamp- 
 stead in this State, on the height of land be 
 tween the Merrimack and the Piscataqua or the 
 sea, you commence the descent eastward, the 
 view toward the coast is so distant and unex 
 pected, though the sea is invisible, that you at 
 first suppose the unobstructed atmosphere to be 
 a fog in the lowlands concealing hills of corre 
 sponding elevation to that you are upon ; but it 
 is the mist of prejudice alone, which the winds 
 
TUESDAY 251 
 
 will not disperse. The most stupendous scenery 
 ceases to be sublime when it becomes distinct, 
 or in other words limited, and the imagination 
 is no longer encouraged to exaggerate it. The 
 actual height and breadth of a mountain or a 
 waterfall are always ridiculously small; they 
 are the imagined only that content us. Nature 
 is not made after such a fashion as we would 
 have her. We piously exaggerate her wonders, 
 as the scenery around our home. 
 
 Such was the heaviness of the dews along this 
 river that we were generally obliged to leave 
 our tent spread over the bows of the boat till 
 the sun had dried it, to avoid mildew. We 
 passed the mouth of Penichook Brook, a wild 
 salmon-stream, in the fog, without seeing it. 
 At length the sun s rays struggled through the 
 mist and showed us the pines on shore dripping 
 with dew, and springs trickling from the moist 
 banks, 
 
 " And now the taller sons, whom Titan warms, 
 Of unshorn mountains blown with easy winds, 
 Dandle the morning s childhood in their arms, 
 And, if they chanced to slip the prouder pines, 
 The under corylets did catch their shines, 
 To gild their leaves." 
 
 We rowed for some hours between glistening 
 banks before the sun had dried the grass and 
 leaves, or the day had established its character. 
 Its serenity at last seemed the more profound 
 
252 A WEEK 
 
 and secure for the denseness of the morning s 
 fog. The river became swifter, and the scenery 
 more pleasing than before. The banks were 
 steep and clayey for the most part, and trickling 
 with water, and where a spring oozed out a few 
 feet above the river the boatmen had cut a 
 trough out of a slab with their axes, and placed 
 it so as to receive the water and fill their jugs 
 conveniently. Sometimes this purer and cooler 
 water, bursting out from under a pine or a 
 rock, was collected into a basin close to the 
 edge of and level with the river, a fountain- 
 head of the Merrimack. So near along life s 
 stream are the fountains of innocence and youth 
 making fertile its sandy margin ; and the voy- 
 ageur will do well to replenish his vessels often 
 at these uncontaminated sources. Some youth 
 ful spring, perchance, still empties with tin 
 kling music into the oldest river, even when it 
 is falling into the sea, and we imagine that its 
 music is distinguished by the river-gods from 
 the general lapse of the stream, and falls sweeter 
 on their ears in proportion as it is nearer to the 
 ocean. As the evaporations of the river feed 
 thus these unsuspected springs which filter 
 through its banks, so, perchance, our aspira 
 tions fall back again in springs on the margin 
 of life s stream to refresh and purify it. The 
 yellow and tepid river may float his scow, and 
 
TUESDA Y 253 
 
 cheer Ms eye with its reflections and its ripples, 
 but the boatman quenches his thirst at this 
 small rill alone. It is this purer and cooler 
 element that chiefly sustains his life. The race 
 will long survive that is thus discreet. 
 
 Our course this morning lay between the ter 
 ritories of Merrimack, on the west, and Litch- 
 field, once called Brenton s Farm, on the east, 
 which townships were anciently the Indian 
 Naticook. Brenton was a fur-trader among the 
 Indians, and these lands were granted to him 
 in 1656. The latter township contains about 
 five hundred inhabitants, of whom, however, 
 we saw none, and but few of their dwellings. 
 Being on the river, whose banks are always 
 high and generally conceal the few houses, the 
 country appeared much more wild and primi 
 tive than to the traveler on the neighboring 
 roads. The river is by far the most attractive 
 highway, and those boatmen who have spent 
 twenty or twenty-five years on it must have had 
 a much fairer, more wild, and memorable ex 
 perience than the dusty and jarring one of the 
 teamster who has driven, during the same time, 
 on the roads which run parallel with the stream. 
 As one ascends the Merrimack he rarely sees a 
 village, but for the most part alternate wood 
 and pasture lands, and sometimes a field of corn 
 or potatoes, of rye or oats or English grass, 
 
254 A WEEK 
 
 with a few straggling apple-trees, and, at still 
 longer intervals, a farmer s house. The soil, 
 excepting the best of the interval, is commonly 
 as light and sandy as a patriot could desire. 
 Sometimes this forenoon the country appeared 
 in its primitive state, and as if the Indian still 
 inhabited it, and, again, as if many free, new 
 settlers occupied it, their slight fences straggling 
 down to the water s edge; and the barking of 
 dogs, and even the prattle of children, were 
 heard, and smoke was seen to go up from some 
 hearthstone, and the banks were divided into 
 patches of pasture, mowing, tillage, and wood 
 land. But when the river spread out broader, 
 with an uninhabited islet, or a long, low, sandy 
 shore which ran on single and devious, not an 
 swering to its opposite, but far off as if it were 
 sea-shore or single coast, and the land no longer 
 nursed the river in its bosom, but they con 
 versed as equals, the rustling leaves with rip 
 pling waves, and few fences were seen, but high 
 oak woods on one side, and large herds of cattle, 
 and all tracks seemed a point to one centre be 
 hind some statelier grove, we imagined that 
 the river flowed through an extensive manor, 
 and that the few inhabitants were retainers to a 
 lord, and a feudal state of things prevailed. 
 
 When there was a suitable reach, we caught 
 sight of the Goffstown mountain, the Indian 
 
TUESDA Y 255 
 
 Uncannunuc, rising before us on the west side. 
 It was a calm and beautiful day, with only a 
 slight zephyr to ripple the surface of the water, 
 and rustle the woods on shore, and just warmth 
 enough to prove the kindly disposition of Nature 
 to her children. With buoyant spirits and vig 
 orous impulses we tossed our boat rapidly along 
 into the very middle of this forenoon. The 
 fish-hawk sailed and screamed overhead. The 
 chipping or striped squirrel, Sciurus striatus 
 (Tamias Lysteri, Aud.), sat upon the end of 
 some Virginia fence or rider reaching over the 
 stream, twirling a green nut with one paw, as 
 in a lathe, while the other held it fast against 
 its incisors as chisels. Like an independent 
 russet leaf, with a will of its own, rustling 
 whither it could; now under the fence, now 
 over it, now peeping at the voyageurs through a 
 crack with only its tail visible, now at its lunch 
 deep in the toothsome kernel, and now a rod off 
 playing at hide-and-seek, with the nut stowed 
 away in its chops, where were half a dozen more 
 besides, extending its cheeks to a ludicrous 
 breadth, as if it were devising through what 
 safe valve of frisk or somerset to let its super 
 fluous life escape ; the stream passing harmlessly 
 off, even while it sits, in constant electric flashes 
 through its tail. And now with a chuckling 
 squeak it dives into the root of a hazel, and we 
 
256 A WEEK 
 
 see no more of it. Or the larger red squirrel 
 or chickaree, sometimes called the Hudson Bay 
 squirrel (Sciurus Hudsonius), gave warning of 
 our approach by that peculiar alarum of his, 
 like the winding up of some strong clock, in the 
 top of a pine-tree, and dodged behind its stem, 
 or leaped from tree to tree with such caution 
 and adroitness, as if much depended on the 
 fidelity of his scout, running along the white- 
 pine boughs sometimes twenty rods by our side, 
 with such speed, and by such unerring routes, 
 as if it were some well-worn familiar path to 
 him; and presently, when we have passed, he 
 returns to his work of cutting off the pine-cones, 
 and letting them fall to the ground. 
 
 We passed Cromwell s Falls, the first we met 
 with on this river, this forenoon, by means of 
 locks, without using our wheels. These falls 
 are the Nesenkeag of the Indians. Great Ne- 
 senkeag Stream comes in on the right just 
 above, and Little Nesenkeag some distance be 
 low, both in Litchfield. We read in the Gaz 
 etteer, under the head of Merrimack, that "The 
 first house in this town was erected on the mar 
 gin of the river [soon after 1665] for a house 
 of traffic with the Indians. For some time one 
 Cromwell carried on a lucrative trade with 
 them, weighing their furs with his foot, till, 
 enraged at his supposed or real deception, they 
 
TUESDAY 257 
 
 formed the resolution to murder him. This in 
 tention being communicated to Cromwell, he 
 buried his wealth and made his escape. Within 
 a few hours after his flight, a party of the Pena- 
 cook tribe arrived, and, not finding the object 
 of their resentment, burnt his habitation." 
 Upon the top of the high bank here, close to the 
 river, was still to be seen his cellar, now over 
 grown with trees. It was a convenient spot for 
 such a traffic, at the foot of the first falls above 
 the settlements, and commanding a pleasant 
 view up the river, where he could see the In 
 dians coming down with their furs. The lock- 
 man told us that his shovel and tongs had been 
 ploughed up here, and also a stone with his 
 name on it. But we will not vouch for the 
 truth of this story. In the New Hampshire 
 Historical Collections for 1815 it says, "Some 
 time after, pewter was found in the well, and an 
 iron pot and trammel in the sand; the latter are 
 preserved." These were the traces of the white 
 trader. On the opposite bank, where it jutted 
 over the stream cape-wise, we picked up four 
 arrow-heads, and a small Indian tool made of 
 stone, as soon as we had climbed it, where 
 plainly there had once stood a wigwam of the 
 Indians with whom Cromwell traded, and who 
 fished and hunted here before he came. 
 1 As usual, the gossips have not been silent 
 
258 A WEEK 
 
 respecting Cromwell s buried wealth, and it is 
 said that some years ago a farmer s plough, not 
 far from here, slid over a flat stone which 
 emitted a hollow sound, and, on its being raised, 
 a small hole six inches in diameter was discov 
 ered, stoned about, from which a sum of money 
 was taken. The lock-man told us another sim 
 ilar story about a farmer in a neighboring 
 town, who had been a poor man, but who sud 
 denly bought a good farm, and was well to do 
 in the world, and, when he was questioned, did 
 not give a satisfactory account of the matter; 
 how few, alas, could! This caused his hired 
 man to remember that one day, as they were 
 ploughing together, the plough struck some 
 thing, and his employer, going back to look, 
 concluded not to go round again, saying that the 
 sky looked rather lowering, and so put up his 
 team. The like urgency has caused many things 
 to be remembered which never transpired. The 
 truth is, there is money buried everywhere, and 
 you have only to go to work to find it. 
 
 Not far from these falls stands an oak-tree, 
 on the interval, about a quarter of a mile from 
 the river, on the farm of a Mr. Lund, which 
 was pointed out to us as the spot where French, 
 the leader of the party which went in pursuit of 
 the Indians from Dunstable, was killed. Far- 
 well dodged them in the thick woods near. It 
 
TUESDAY 259 
 
 did not look as if men had ever had to run 
 for their lives on this now open and peaceful 
 interval. 
 
 Here too was another extensive desert by the 
 side of the road in Litchfield, visible from the 
 bank of the river. The sand was blown off in 
 some places to the depth of ten or twelve feet, 
 leaving small grotesque hillocks of that height, 
 where there was a clump of bushes firmly 
 rooted. Thirty or forty years ago, as we were 
 told, it was a sheep - pasture, but the sheep, 
 being worried by the fleas, began to paw the 
 ground, till they broke the sod, and so the sand 
 began to blow, till now it had extended over 
 forty or fifty acres. This evil might easily have 
 been remedied, at first, by spreading birches 
 with their leaves on over the sand, and fasten 
 ing them down with stakes, to break the wind. 
 The fleas bit the sheep, and the sheep bit the 
 ground, and the sore had spread to this extent. 
 It is astonishing what a great sore a little 
 scratch breedeth. Who knows but Sahara, 
 where caravans and cities are buried, began 
 with the bite of an African flea? This poor 
 globe, how it must itch in many places ! Will 
 no god be kind enough to spread a salve of 
 birches over its sores? Here too we noticed 
 where the Indians had gathered a heap of 
 stones, perhaps for their council-fire, which, by 
 
200 A WEEK 
 
 their weight having prevented the sand under 
 them from blowing away, were left on the sum 
 mit of a mound. They told us that arrow 
 heads, and also bullets of lead and iron, had 
 been found here. We noticed several other 
 sandy tracts in our voyage; and the course of 
 the Merrimack can be traced from the nearest 
 mountain by its yellow sand-banks, though the 
 river itself is for the most part invisible. Law 
 suits, as we hear, have in some cases grown out 
 of these causes. Railroads have been made 
 through certain irritable districts, breaking 
 their sod, and so have set the sand to blowing, 
 till it has converted fertile farms into deserts, 
 and the company has had to pay the damages. 
 
 This sand seemed to us the connecting link 
 between land and water. It was a kind of water 
 on which you could walk, and you could see the 
 ripple-marks on its surface, produced by the 
 winds, precisely like those at the bottom of a 
 brook or lake. We had read that Mussulmans 
 are permitted by the Koran to perform their 
 ablutions in sand when they cannot get water, 
 a necessary indulgence in Arabia, and we now 
 understood the propriety of this provision. 
 
 Plum Island, at the mouth of this river, to 
 whose formation, perhaps, these very banks 
 have sent their contribution, is a similar desert 
 of drifting sand, of various colors, blown into 
 
TUESDAY 261 
 
 graceful curves by the wind. It is a mere 
 sand-bar exposed, stretc*hing nine miles parallel 
 to the coast, and, exclusive of the marsh on 
 the inside, rarely more than half a mile wide. 
 There are but half a dozen houses on it, and it 
 is almost without a tree, or a sod, or any green 
 thing with which a countryman is familiar. 
 The thin vegetation stands half buried in sand, 
 as in drifting snow. The only shrub, the 
 beach-plum, which gives the island its name, 
 grows but a few feet high; but this is so abun 
 dant that parties of a hundred at once come 
 from the main-land and down the Merrimack, 
 in September, pitch their tents, and gather the 
 plums, which are good to eat raw and to pre 
 serve. The graceful and delicate beach-pea, 
 too, grows abundantly amid the sand, and sev 
 eral strange, moss-like and succulent plants. 
 The island for its whole length is scolloped into 
 low hills, not more than twenty feet high, by 
 the wind, and, excepting a faint trail on the 
 edge of the marsh, is as trackless as Sahara. 
 There are dreary bluffs of sand and valleys 
 ploughed by the wind, where you might expect 
 to discover the bones of a caravan. Schooners 
 come from Boston to load with the sand for 
 masons uses, and in a few hours the wind ob 
 literates all traces of their work. Yet you have 
 only to dig a foot or two anywhere to come to 
 
262 A WEEK 
 
 fresh water; and you are surprised to learn that 
 woodchucks abound here, and foxes are found, 
 though you see not where they can burrow or 
 hide themselves. I have walked down the 
 whole length of its broad beach at low tide, at 
 which time alone you can find a firm ground to 
 walk on, and probably Massachusetts does not 
 furnish a more grand and dreary walk. On the 
 seaside there are only a distant sail and a few 
 coots to break the grand monotony. A solitary 
 stake stuck up, or a sharper sand-hill than 
 usual, is remarkable as a landmark for miles; 
 while for music you hear only the ceaseless 
 sound of the surf, and the dreary peep of the 
 beach-birds. 
 
 There were several canal-boats at Cromwell s 
 Falls passing through the locks, for which we 
 waited. In the forward part of one stood a 
 brawny New Hampshire man, leaning on his 
 pole, bareheaded and in shirt and trousers only, 
 a rude Apollo of a man, coming down from that 
 "vast uplandish country," to the main; of 
 nameless age, with flaxen hair, and vigorous, 
 weather-bleached countenance, in whose wrin 
 kles the sun still lodged, as little touched by the 
 heats and frosts and withering cares of life as a 
 maple of the mountain ; an undressed, unkempt, 
 uncivil man, with whom we parleyed awhile, 
 
TUESDA Y 263 
 
 and parted not without a sincere interest in one 
 another. His humanity was genuine and in 
 stinctive, and his rudeness only a manner. He 
 inquired, just as we were passing out of ear 
 shot, if we had killed anything, and we shouted 
 after him that we had shot a buoy, and could 
 see him for a long while scratching his head in 
 vain to know if he had heard aright. 
 
 There is reason in the distinction of civil and 
 uncivil. The manners are sometimes so rough 
 a rind that we doubt whether they cover any 
 core or sap-wood at all. We sometimes meet 
 uncivil men, children of Amazons, who dwell by 
 mountain paths, and are said to be inhospitable 
 to strangers ; whose salutation is as rude as the 
 grasp of their brawny hands, and who deal with 
 men as unceremoniously as they are wont to 
 deal with the elements. They need only to ex 
 tend their clearings, and let in more sunlight, 
 to seek out the southern slopes of the hills, 
 from which they may look down on the civil 
 plain or ocean, and temper their diet duly with 
 the cereal fruits, consuming less wild meat and 
 acorns, to become like the inhabitants of cities. 
 A true politeness does not result from any hasty 
 and artificial polishing, it is true, but grows 
 naturally in characters of the right grain and 
 quality, through a long fronting of men and 
 events, and rubbing on good and bad fortune. 
 
264 A WEEK 
 
 Perhaps I can tell a tale to the purpose while 
 the lock is filling, for our voyage this fore 
 noon furnishes but few incidents of importance. 
 
 Early one summer morning I had left the 
 shores of the Connecticut, and for the livelong 
 day traveled up the bank of a river, which 
 came in from the west; now looking down on 
 the stream, foaming and rippling through the 
 forest a mile off, from the hills over which the 
 road led, and now sitting on its rocky brink 
 and dipping my feet in its rapids, or bathing 
 adventurously in mid-channel. The hills grew 
 more and more frequent, and gradually swelled 
 into mountains as I advanced, hemming in the 
 course of the river, so that at last I could not 
 see where it came from, and was at liberty to 
 imagine the most wonderful meanderings and 
 descents. At noon I slept on the grass in the 
 shade of a maple, where the river had found a 
 broader channel than usual, and was spread out 
 shallow, with frequent sand-bars exposed. In 
 the names of the towns I recognized some which 
 I had long ago read on teamsters wagons, that 
 had come from far up country ; quiet uplandish 
 towns, of mountainous fame. I walked along, 
 musing and enchanted, by rows of sugar-maples, 
 through the small and uninquisitive villages, 
 and sometimes was pleased with the sight of a 
 
TUESDAY 265 
 
 boat drawn up on a sand-bar, where there ap 
 peared no inhabitants to use it. It seemed, 
 however, as essential to the river as a fish, and 
 to lend a certain dignity to it. It was like the 
 trout of mountain streams to the fishes of the 
 sea, or like the young of the land-crab born far 
 in the interior, who have never yet heard the 
 sound of the ocean s surf. The hills approached 
 nearer and nearer to the stream, until at last 
 they closed behind me, and I found myself just 
 before nightfall in a romantic and retired val 
 ley, about half a mile in length, and barely wide 
 enough for the stream at its bottom. I thought 
 that there could be no finer site for a cottage 
 among mountains. You could anywhere run 
 across the stream on the rocks, and its constant 
 murmuring would quiet the passions of man 
 kind forever. Suddenly the road, which seemed 
 aiming for the mountain-side, turned short to 
 the left, and another valley opened, concealing 
 the former, and of the same character with it. 
 It was the most remarkable and pleasing scen 
 ery I had ever seen. I found here a few mild 
 and hospitable inhabitants, who, as the day was 
 not quite spent, and I was anxious to improve 
 the light, directed me four or five miles farther 
 on my way to the dwelling of a man whose 
 name was Rice, who occupied the last and high 
 est of the valleys that lay in my path, and who, 
 
266 A WEEK 
 
 they said, was a rather rude and uncivil man. 
 But "what is a foreign country to those who 
 have science ? Who is a stranger to those who 
 have the habit of speaking kindly? " 
 
 At length, as the sun was setting behind the 
 mountains in a still darker and more solitary 
 vale, I reached the dwelling of this man. Ex 
 cept for the narrowness of the plain, and that 
 the stones were solid granite, it was the counter 
 part of that retreat to which Belpho3be bore the 
 wounded Timias, 
 
 " In a pleasant glade, 
 With mountains round about environed, 
 And mighty woods, which did the valley shade, 
 And like a stately theatre it made, 
 Spreading itself into a spacious plain ; 
 And in the midst a little river played 
 Amongst the pumy stones which seemed to plain, 
 With gentle murmur, that his course they did restrain." 
 
 I observed, as I drew near, that he was not 
 so rude as I had anticipated, for he kept many 
 cattle, and dogs to watch them, and I saw 
 where he had made maple-sugar on the sides of 
 the mountains, and above all distinguished the 
 voices of children mingling with the murmur of 
 the torrent before the door. As I passed his 
 stable, I met one whom I supposed to be a hired 
 man, attending to his cattle, and I inquired 
 if they entertained travelers at that house. 
 "Sometimes we do," he answered gruffly, and 
 
TUESDAY 267 
 
 immediately went to the farthest stall from me, 
 and I perceived that it was Eiee himself whom 
 I had addressed. But pardoning this incivility 
 to the wildness of the scenery, I bent my steps 
 to the house. There was no sign -post before 
 it, nor any of the usual invitations to the trav 
 eler, though I saw by the road that many went 
 and came there, but the owner s name only was 
 fastened to the outside; a sort of implied and 
 sullen invitation, as I thought. I passed from 
 room to room without meeting any one, till I 
 came to what seemed the guests apartment, 
 which was neat, and even had an air of refine 
 ment about it, and I was glad to find a map 
 against the wall which would direct me on my 
 journey on the morrow. At length I heard a 
 step in a distant apartment, which was the first 
 I had entered, and went to see if the landlord 
 had come in ; but it proved to be only a child, 
 one of those whose voices I had heard, probably 
 his son, and between him and me stood in the 
 doorway a large watch-dog, which growled at 
 me, and looked as if he would presently spring, 
 but the boy did not speak to him ; and when I 
 asked for a glass of water, he briefly said, " It 
 runs in the corner." So I took a mug from the 
 counter and went out of doors, and searched 
 round the corner of the house, but could find 
 neither well nor spring, nor any water but the 
 
268 A WEEK 
 
 stream which ran all along the front. I came 
 back, therefore, and, setting down the mug, 
 asked the child if the stream was good to drink ; 
 whereupon he seized the mug, and, going to the 
 corner of the room, where a cool spring which 
 issued from the mountain behind trickled 
 through a pipe into the apartment, filled it, and 
 drank, and gave it to me empty again, and, 
 calling to the dog, rushed out of doors. Ere 
 long some of the hired men made their appear 
 ance, and drank at the spring, and lazily washed 
 themselves and combed their hair in silence, 
 and some sat down as if weary, and fell asleep 
 in their seats. But all the while I saw no wo 
 men, though I sometimes heard a bustle in that 
 part of the house from which the spring came. 
 
 At length Rice himself came in, for it was 
 now dark, with an ox-whip in his hand, breath 
 ing hard, and he too soon settled down into his 
 seat not far from me, as if, now that his day s 
 work was done, he had no farther to travel, but 
 only to digest his supper at his leisure. When 
 I asked him if he could give me a bed, he said 
 there was one ready, in such a tone as implied 
 that I ought to have known it, and the less said 
 about that the better. So far so good. And 
 yet he continued to look at me as if he would 
 fain have me say something further like a trav 
 eler. I remarked that it was a wild and rug- 
 
TUESDAY 269 
 
 ged ceurtry he inhabited, and worth coming 
 many miles to see. "Not so very rough nei 
 ther," said he, and appealed to his men to bear 
 witness to the breadth and smoothness of his 
 fields, which consisted in all of one small inter 
 val, and to the size of his crops; "and if we 
 have some hills," added he, "there s no better 
 pasturage anywhere." I then asked if this 
 place was the one I had heard of, calling it by 
 a name I had seen on the map, or if it was a 
 certain other; and he answered, gruffly, that it 
 was neither the one nor the other; that he had 
 settled it and cultivated it, and made it what it 
 was, and I could know nothing about it. Ob 
 serving some guns and other implements of 
 hunting hanging on brackets around the room, 
 and his hounds now sleeping on the floor, I took 
 occasion to change the discourse, and inquired 
 if there was much game in that country, and he 
 answered this question more graciously, having 
 some glimmering of my drift ; but when I in 
 quired if there were any bears, he answered im 
 patiently that he was no more in danger of los 
 ing his sheep than his neighbors ; he had tamed 
 and civilized that region. After a pause, think 
 ing of my journey on the morrow, and the few 
 hours of daylight in that hollow and mountain 
 ous country, which would require me to be on 
 m J wa J betimes, I remarked that the day must 
 
270 A WEEK 
 
 be shorter by an hour there than on the neigh 
 boring plains ; at which he gruffly asked what I 
 knew about it, and affirmed that he had as much 
 daylight as his neighbors ; he ventured to say, 
 the days were longer there than where I lived, 
 as I should find if I stayed ; that in some way, 
 I could not be expected to understand how, the 
 sun came over the mountains half an hour ear 
 lier, and stayed half an hour later there than on 
 the neighboring plains. And more of like sort 
 he said. He was, indeed, as rude as a fabled 
 satyr. But I suffered him to pass for what he 
 was, for why should I quarrel with nature? 
 and was even pleased at the discovery of 
 such a singular natural phenomenon. I dealt 
 with him as if to me all manners were indiffer 
 ent, and he had a sweet, wild way with him. I 
 would not question nature, and I would rather 
 have him as he was than as I would have him. 
 For I had come up here not for sympathy, or 
 kindness, or society, but for novelty and adven 
 ture, and to see what nature had produced here. 
 I therefore did not repel his rudeness, but quite 
 innocently welcomed it all, and knew how to 
 appreciate it, as if I were reading in an old 
 drama a part well sustained. He was indeed a 
 coarse and sensual man, and, as I have said, 
 uncivil, but he had his just quarrel with nature 
 and mankind, I have no doubt, only he had no 
 
TUESDAY 271 
 
 artificial covering to Ms ill-humors. He was 
 earthy enough, but yet there was good soil in 
 him, and even a long-suffering Saxon probity 
 at bottom. If you could represent the case to 
 him, he would not let the race die out in him, 
 like a red Indian. 
 
 At length I told him that he was a fortunate 
 man, and I trusted that he was grateful for so 
 much light; and, rising, said I would take a 
 lamp, and that I would pay him then for my 
 lodging, for I expected to recommence my jour 
 ney even as early as the sun rose in his country ; 
 but he answered in haste, and this time civilly, 
 that I should not fail to find some of his house 
 hold stirring, however early, for they were no 
 sluggards, and I could take my breakfast with 
 them before I started, if I chose; and as he 
 lighted the lamp I detected a gleam of true hos 
 pitality and ancient civility, a beam of pure and 
 even gentle humanity, from his bleared and 
 moist eyes. It was a look more intimate with 
 me, and more explanatory, than any words of 
 his could have been if he had tried to his dying 
 day. It was more significant than any Rice of 
 those parts could even comprehend, and long 
 anticipated this man s culture, a glance of 
 his pure genius, which did not much enlighten 
 him, but did impress and rule him for the mo 
 ment, and faintly constrain his voice and man- 
 
272 A WEEK 
 
 ner. He cheerfully led the way to my apart 
 ment, stepping over the limbs of his men, who 
 were asleep on the floor in an intervening cham 
 ber, and showed me a clean and comfortable 
 bed. For many pleasant hours after the house 
 hold was asleep I sat at the open window, for it 
 was a sultry night, and heard the little river 
 
 " Amongst the pumy stones, which seemed to plain, 
 With gentle murmur, that his course they did restrain." 
 
 But I arose as usual by starlight the next morn 
 ing, before my host, or his men, or even his 
 dogs, were awake ; and, having left a ninepence 
 on the counter, was already half-way over the 
 mountain with the sun before they had broken 
 their fast. 
 
 Before I had left the country of my host, 
 while the first rays of the sun slanted over the 
 mountains, as I stopped by the wayside to gather 
 some raspberries, a very old man, not far from 
 a hundred, came along with a milking-pail in 
 his hand, and turning aside began to pluck the 
 berries near me : 
 
 " His reverend locks 
 In comelye curies did wave ; 
 And on his aged temples grew 
 The blossoms of the grave." 
 
 But when I inquired the way, he answered in a 
 low, rough voice, without looking up or seeming 
 to regard my presence, which I imputed to his 
 
TUESDAY 273 
 
 years; and presently, muttering to himself, he 
 proceeded to collect his cows in a neighboring 
 pasture ; and when he had again returned near 
 to the wayside, he suddenly stopped, while his 
 cows went on before, and, uncovering his head, 
 prayed aloud in the cool morning air, as if he 
 had forgotten this exercise before, for his daily 
 bread, and also that He who letteth his rain fall 
 on the just and on the unjust, and without 
 whom not a sparrow f alleth to the ground, would 
 not neglect the stranger (meaning me), and 
 with even more direct and personal applications, 
 though mainly according to the long-established 
 formula common to lowlanders and the inhabit 
 ants of mountains. When he had done pray 
 ing, I made bold to ask him if he had any cheese 
 in his hut which he would sell me, but he an 
 swered without looking up, and in the same low 
 and repulsive voice as before, that they did not 
 make any, and went to milking. It is written, 
 " The stranger who turneth away from a house 
 with disappointed hopes, leaveth there his own 
 offenses, and departeth, taking with him all the 
 good actions of the owner." 
 
 Being now fairly in the stream of this week s 
 commerce, we began to meet with boats more 
 frequently, and hailed them from time to time 
 with the freedom of sailors. The boatmen ap- 
 
274 A WEEK 
 
 peared to lead an easy and contented life, and 
 we thought that we should prefer their employ 
 ment ourselves to many professions which are 
 much more sought after. They suggested how 
 few circumstances are necessary to the well-be 
 ing and serenity of man, how indifferent all em 
 ployments are, and that any may seem noble 
 and poetic to the eyes of men, if pursued with 
 sufficient buoyancy and freedom. With liberty 
 and pleasant weather, the simplest occupation, 
 any unquestioned country mode of life which 
 detains us in the open air, is alluring. The 
 man who picks peas steadily for a living is more 
 than respectable, he is even envied by his shop 
 worn neighbors. We are as happy as the birds 
 when our Good Genius permits us to pursue any 
 outdoor work, without a sense of dissipation. 
 Our penknife glitters in the sun; our voice is 
 echoed by yonder wood ; if an oar drops, we are 
 fain to let it drop again. 
 
 The canal-boat is of very simple construction, 
 requiring but little ship-timber, and, as we were 
 told, costs about two hundred dollars. They 
 are managed by two men. In ascending the 
 stream they use poles fourteen or fifteen feet 
 long, pointed with iron, walking about one third 
 the length of the boat from the forward end. 
 Going down, they commonly keep in the middle 
 of the stream, using an oar at each end; or if 
 
TUESDAY 275 
 
 the wind is favorable they raise their broad sail, 
 and have only to steer. They commonly carry 
 down wood or bricks, fifteen or sixteen cords 
 of wood, and as many thousand bricks, at a 
 time, and bring back stores for the country, 
 consuming two or three days each way between 
 Concord and Charlestown. They sometimes 
 pile the wood so as to leave a shelter in one part 
 where they may retire from the rain. One can 
 hardly imagine a more healthful employment, or 
 one more favorable to contemplation and the 
 observation of nature. Unlike the mariner, 
 they have the constantly varying panorama of 
 the shore to relieve the monotony of their labor, 
 and it seemed to us that as they thus glided 
 noiselessly from town to town, with all their 
 furniture about them, for their very homestead 
 is a movable, they could comment on the char 
 acter of the inhabitants with greater advantage 
 and security to themselves than the traveler in 
 a coach, who would be unable to indulge in such 
 broadsides of wit and humor in so small a ves 
 sel for fear of the recoil. They are not subject 
 to great exposure, like the lumberers of Maine, 
 in any weather, but inhale the healthfulest 
 breezes, being slightly incumbered with cloth 
 ing, frequently with the head and feet bare. 
 When we met them at noon, as they were lei 
 surely descending the stream, their busy com- 
 
276 A WEEK 
 
 merce did not look like toil, but rather like 
 some ancient Oriental game still played on a 
 large scale, as the game of chess, for instance, 
 handed down to this generation. From morn 
 ing till night, unless the wind is so fair that his 
 single sail will suffice without other labor than 
 steering, the boatman walks backwards and for 
 wards on the side of his boat, now stooping with 
 his shoulder to the pole, then drawing it back 
 slowly to set it again, meanwhile moving stead 
 ily forward through an endless valley and an 
 ever-changing scenery, now distinguishing his 
 course for a mile or two, and now shut in by a 
 sudden turn of the river in a small woodland 
 lake. All the phenomena which surround him 
 are simple and grand, and there is something 
 impressive, even majestic, in the very motion he 
 causes, which will naturally be communicated to 
 his own character, and he feels the slow, irre 
 sistible movement under him with pride, as if it 
 were his own energy. 
 
 The news spread like wildfire among us 
 youths, when formerly, once in a year or two, 
 one of these boats came up the Concord River, 
 and was seen stealing mysteriously through the 
 meadows and past the village. It came and 
 departed as silently as a cloud, without noise or 
 dust, and was witnessed by few. One summer 
 day this huge traveler might be seen moored at 
 
TUESDAY 277 
 
 some meadow s wharf, and another summer day 
 it was not there. Where precisely it came 
 from, or who these men were who knew the 
 rocks and soundings better than we who bathed 
 there, we could never tell. We knew some 
 river s bay only, but they took rivers from end 
 to end. They were a sort of fabulous river- 
 men to us. It was inconceivable by what sort 
 of mediation any mere landsman could hold 
 communication with them. Would they heave 
 to, to gratify his wishes? No, it was favor 
 enough to know faintly of their destination, or 
 the time of their possible return. I have seen 
 them in the summer, when the stream ran low, 
 mowing the weeds in mid-channel, and with 
 hayers jests cutting broad swaths in three feet 
 of water, that they might make a passage for 
 their scow, while the grass in long windrows 
 was carried down the stream, undried by the 
 rarest hay-weather. We admired unweariedly 
 how their vessel would float, like a huge chip, 
 sustaining so many casks of lime, and thousands 
 of bricks, and such heaps of iron ore, with 
 wheelbarrows aboard, and that, when we stepped 
 on it, it did not yield to the pressure of our feet. 
 It gave us confidence in the prevalence of the 
 law of buoyancy, and we imagined to what in 
 finite uses it might be put. The men appeared 
 to lead a kind of life on it, and it was whispered 
 
278 A WEEK 
 
 that they slept aboard. Some affirmed that it 
 carried sail, and that such winds blew here as 
 filled the sails of vessels on the ocean; which 
 again others much doubted. They had been 
 seen to sail across our Fair Haven bay by lucky 
 fishers who were out, but unfortunately others 
 were not there to see. We might then say that 
 our river was navigable, why not? In after 
 years I read in print, with no little satisfaction, 
 that it was thought by some that, with a little 
 expense in removing rocks and deepening the 
 channel, "there might be a profitable inland 
 navigation." /then lived somewhere to tell of. 
 Such is Commerce, which shakes the cocoa- 
 nut and bread-fruit tree in the remotest isle, 
 and sooner or later dawns on the duskiest and 
 most simple-minded savage. If we may be par 
 doned the digression, who can help being af 
 fected at the thought of the very fine and slight, 
 but positive relation, in which the savage inhab 
 itants of some remote isle stand to the mysteri 
 ous white mariner, the child of the sun? as if 
 we were to have dealings with an animal higher 
 in the scale of being than ourselves. It is a 
 barely recognized fact to the natives that he ex 
 ists, and has his home far away somewhere, and 
 is glad to buy their fresh fruits with his super 
 fluous commodities. Under the same catholic 
 sun glances his white ship over Pacific waves 
 
TUESDAY 279 
 
 into their smooth bays, and the poor savage s 
 paddle gleams in the air. 
 
 Man s little acts are grand, 
 Beheld from land to land, 
 There as they lie in time, 
 Within their native clime. 
 
 Ships with the noontide weigh, 
 
 And glide before its ray 
 
 To some retired bay, 
 
 Their haunt, 
 
 Whence, under tropic sun, 
 
 Again they run, 
 
 Bearing gum Senegal and Tragicant 
 For this was ocean meant, 
 For this the sun was sent, 
 And moon was lent, 
 And winds in distant caverns pent. 
 
 Since our voyage the railroad on the bank has 
 been extended, and there is now but little boat 
 ing on the Merrimack. All kinds of produce 
 and stores were formerly conveyed by water, 
 but now nothing is carried up the stream, and 
 almost wood and bricks alone are carried down, 
 and these are also carried on the railroad. The 
 locks are fast wearing out, and will soon be im 
 passable, since the tolls will not pay the expense 
 of repairing them, and so in a few years there 
 will be an end of boating on this river. The 
 boating at present is principally between Merri 
 mack and Lowell, or Hooksett and Manchester. 
 They make two or three trips in a week, accord 
 ing to wind and weather, from Merrimack to 
 
280 A WEEK 
 
 Lowell and back, about twenty-five miles each 
 way. The boatman comes singing in to shore 
 late at night, and moors his empty boat, and 
 gets his supper and lodging in some house near 
 at hand, and again early in the morning, by 
 starlight perhaps, he pushes away upstream, 
 and, by a shout, or the fragment of a song, 
 gives notice of his approach to the lock-man, 
 with whom he is to take his breakfast. If he 
 gets up to his wood-pile before noon he proceeds 
 to load his boat, with the help of his single 
 "hand," and is on his way down again before 
 night. When he gets to Lowell he unloads his 
 boat, and gets his receipt for his cargo, and, 
 having heard the news at the public house at 
 Middlesex or elsewhere, goes back with his 
 empty boat and his receipt in his pocket to the 
 owner, and to get a new load. We were fre 
 quently advertised of their approach by some 
 faint sound behind us, and looking round saw 
 them a mile off, creeping stealthily up the side 
 of the stream like alligators. It was pleasant 
 to hail these sailors of the Merrimack from time 
 to time, and learn the news which circulated 
 with them. We imagined that the sun shining 
 on their bare heads had stamped a liberal and 
 public character on their most private thoughts. 
 The open and sunny interval still stretched 
 away from the river sometimes by two or more 
 
TUESDAY 281 
 
 terraces, to the distant hill-country, and when 
 we climbed the bank, we commonly found an 
 irregular copse-wood skirting the river, the 
 primitive having floated downstream long ago 
 
 to the "King s navy." Sometimes we 
 
 saw the river-road a quarter or half a mile dis 
 tant, and the particolored Concord stage, with 
 its cloud of dust, its van of earnest traveling 
 faces, and its rear of dusty trunks, reminding 
 us that the country had its places of rendezvous 
 for restless Yankee men. There dwelt along at 
 considerable distances on this interval a quiet 
 agricultural and pastoral people, with every 
 house its well, as we sometimes proved, and 
 every household, though never so still and re 
 mote it appeared in the noontide, its dinner 
 about these times. There they lived on, those 
 New England people, farmer lives, father and 
 grandfather and great-grandfather, on and on 
 without noise, keeping up tradition, and expect 
 ing, beside fair weather and abundant harvests, 
 we did not learn what. They were contented 
 to live, since it was so contrived for them, and 
 where their lines had fallen. 
 
 Our uninquiring corpses lie more low 
 Than our life s curiosity doth go. 
 
 Yet these men had no need to travel to be as 
 wise as Solomon in all his glory, so similar are 
 the lives of men in all countries, and fraught 
 
282 A WEEK 
 
 with the same homely experiences. One half 
 the world knows how the other half lives. 
 
 About noon we passed a small village in Mer- 
 rimack at Thornton s Ferry, and tasted of the 
 waters of Naticook Brook on the same side, 
 where French and his companions, whose grave 
 we saw in Dunstable, were ambuscaded by the 
 Indians. The humble village of Litchfield, with 
 its steepleless meeting-house, stood on the oppo 
 site or east bank, near where a dense grove of 
 willows backed by maples skirted the shore. 
 There also we noticed some shagbark-trees, 
 which, as they do not grow in Concord, were as 
 strange a sight to us as the palm would be, 
 whose fruit only we have seen. Our course now 
 curved gracefully to the north, leaving a low, 
 flat shore on the Merrimack side, which forms 
 a sort of harbor for canal-boats. We observed 
 some fair elms and particularly large and hand 
 some white-maples standing conspicuously on 
 this interval ; and the opposite shore, a quarter 
 of a mile below, was covered with young elms 
 and maples six inches high, which had probably 
 sprung from the seeds which had been washed 
 across. 
 
 Some carpenters were at work here mending 
 a scow on the green and sloping bank. The 
 strokes of their mallets echoed from shore to 
 shore, and up and down the river, and their 
 
TUESDA Y 283 
 
 tools gleamed in the sun a quarter of a mile 
 from us, and we realized that boat-building was 
 as ancient and honorable an art as agriculture, 
 and that there might be a naval as well as a 
 pastoral life. The whole history of commerce 
 was made manifest in that scow turned bottom 
 upward on the shore. Thus did men begin to 
 go down upon the sea in ships ; quceque diu ste- 
 terant in montibus altis, Fluctibus ignotis in- 
 sultavere carince; "and keels which had long 
 stood on high mountains careered insultingly 
 (insultavere) over unknown waves." 1 
 
 We thought that it would be well for the 
 traveler to build his boat on the bank of a 
 stream, instead of finding a ferry or a bridge. 
 In the Adventures of Henry the fur-trader, it 
 is pleasant to read that when with his Indians 
 he reached the shore of Ontario, they consumed 
 two days in making two canoes of the bark of 
 the elm-tree, in which to transport themselves 
 to Fort Niagara. It is a worthy incident in a 
 journey, a delay as good as much rapid travel 
 ing. A good share of our interest in Xeno- 
 phon s story of his retreat is in the manoeuvres 
 to get the army safely over the rivers, whether 
 on rafts of logs or fagots, or sheep-skins blown 
 up. And where could they better afford to 
 tarry meanwhile than on the banks of a river ? 
 
 1 Ovid, Met. I. 133. 
 
284 A WEEK 
 
 As we glided past at a distance, these out 
 door workmen appeared to have added some 
 dignity to their labor by its very publicness. It 
 was a part of the industry of nature, like the 
 work of hornets and mud-wasps. 
 
 The waves slowly beat, 
 Just to keep the noon sweet, 
 And no sound is floated o er, 
 Save the mallet on shore, 
 Which echoing on high 
 Seems a-calking the sky. 
 
 The haze, the sun s dust of travel, had a Le 
 thean influence on the land and its inhabitants, 
 and all creatures resigned themselves to float 
 upon the inappreciable tides of nature. 
 
 Woof of the sun, ethereal gauze, 
 Woven of Nature s richest stuffs, 
 Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea, 
 Last conquest of the eye ; 
 Toil of the day displayed, sun-dust, 
 Aerial surf upon the shores of earth, 
 Ethereal estuary, frith of light, 
 Breakers of air, billows of heat, 
 Fine summer spray on inland seas ; 
 Bird of the sun, transparent-winged 
 Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned, 
 From heath or stubble rising without song ; 
 Establish thy serenity o er the fields. 
 
 The routine which is in the sunshine and the 
 finest days, as that which has conquered and 
 prevailed, commends itself to us by its very 
 antiquity and apparent solidity and necessity. 
 
TUESDAY 285 
 
 Our weakness needs it, and our strength uses 
 it. We cannot draw on our boots without brac 
 ing ourselves against it. If there were but one 
 erect and solid standing tree in the woods, all 
 creatures would go to rub against it and make 
 sure of their footing. During the many hours 
 which we spend in this waking sleep, the hand 
 stands still on the face of the clock, and we 
 grow like corn in the night. Men are as busy 
 as the brooks or bees, and postpone everything 
 to their business ; as carpenters discuss politics 
 between the strokes of the hammer while they 
 are shingling a roof. 
 
 This noontide was a fit occasion to make 
 some pleasant harbor, and there read the journal 
 of some voyageur like ourselves, not too moral 
 nor inquisitive, and which would not disturb 
 the noon ; or else some old classic, the very 
 flower of all reading, which we had postponed 
 to such a season 
 
 "Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure." 
 
 But, alas, our chest, like the cabin of a coaster, 
 contained only its well-thumbed "Navigator" 
 for all literature, and we were obliged to draw 
 on our memory for these things. 
 
 We naturally remembered Alexander Henry s 
 Adventures here, as a sort of classic among 
 
286 A WEEK 
 
 books of American travel. It contains scenery 
 and rough sketching of men and incidents 
 enough to inspire poets for many years, and 
 to my fancy is as full of sounding names as 
 any page of history, Lake Winnipeg, Hud 
 son s Bay, Ottaway, and portages innumerable ; 
 Chippeways, Gens de Terres, Les Pilleurs, The 
 Weepers; with reminiscences of Hearne s jour 
 ney, and the like ; an immense and shaggy but 
 sincere country, summer and winter, adorned 
 with chains of lakes and rivers, covered with 
 snows, with hemlocks, and fir-trees. There is 
 a naturalness, an unpretending and cold life in 
 this traveler, as in a Canadian winter, what life 
 was preserved through low temperatures and 
 frontier dangers by furs within a stout heart. 
 He has truth and moderation worthy of the fa 
 ther of history, which belong only to an intimate 
 experience, and he does not defer too much to 
 literature. The unlearned traveler may quote 
 his single line from the poets with as good right 
 as the scholar. He too may speak of the stars, 
 for he sees them shoot perhaps when the astron 
 omer does not. The good sense of this author 
 is very conspicuous. He is a traveler who does 
 not exaggerate, but writes for the information 
 of his readers, for science, and for history. 
 His story is told with as much good faith and 
 directness as if it were a report to his brother 
 
TUESDAY 287 
 
 traders, or the Directors of the Hudson s Bay 
 Company, and is fitly dedicated to Sir Joseph 
 Banks. It reads like the argument to a great 
 poem on the primitive state of the country and 
 its inhabitants, and the reader imagines what 
 in each case, with the invocation of the Muse, 
 might be sung, and leaves off with suspended 
 interest, as if the full account were to follow. 
 In what school was this fur-trader educated? 
 He seems to travel the immense snowy country 
 with such purpose only as the reader who ac 
 companies him, and to the latter s imagination, 
 it is, as it were, momentarily created to be the 
 scene of his adventures. What is most inter 
 esting and valuable in it, however, is not the 
 materials for the history of Pontiac, or Brad- 
 dock, or the Northwest, which it furnishes ; not 
 the annals of the country, but the natural facts, 
 or perennials, which are ever without date. 
 When out of history the truth shall be ex 
 tracted, it will have shed its dates like withered 
 leaves. 
 
 The Souhegan, or Crooked River, as some 
 translate it, comes in from the west about a 
 mile and a half above Thornton s Ferry. Bab- 
 boosuck Brook empties into it near its mouth. 
 There are said to be some of the finest water 
 privileges in the country still unimproved on the 
 
288 A WEEK 
 
 former stream, at a short distance from the 
 Merrimack. One spring morning, March 22, 
 in the year 1677, an incident occurred on the 
 banks of the river here, which is interesting to 
 us as a slight memorial of an interview between 
 two ancient tribes of men, one of which is now 
 extinct, while the other, though it is still repre 
 sented by a miserable remnant, has long since 
 disappeared from its ancient hunting-grounds. 
 A Mr. James Parker, at "Mr. Hinchmanne s 
 farme ner Meremack," wrote thus "to the 
 Honred Governer and Council at Bostown, 
 Hast, Post Hast:" 
 
 "Sagamore Wanalancet come this morning to 
 informe me, and then went to Mr. Tyng s to in- 
 forme him, that his son being on ye other sid of 
 Meremack river over against Souhegan upon the 
 22 day of this instant, about tene of the clock 
 in the morning, he discovered 15 Indians on 
 this sid the river, which he soposed to be Mo- 
 hokes by ther spech. He called to them ; they 
 answered but he could not understand ther 
 spech ; and he having a conow ther in the river, 
 he went to breck his conow that they might not 
 have ani ues of it. In the mean time they shot 
 about thirty guns at him, and he being much 
 frighted fled, and come home forthwith to Na- 
 hamcock [Pawtucket Falls or Lowell], wher ther 
 wigowames now stand." 
 
TUESDA Y 289 
 
 Penacooks and Mohawks! ubique gentium 
 sunt? In the year 1670, a Mohawk warrior 
 scalped a Naamkeak or else a Wamesit Indian 
 maiden near where Lowell now stands. She, 
 however, recovered. Even as late as 1685, 
 John Hogkins, a Penacook Indian, who de 
 scribes his grandfather as having lived " at place 
 called Malamake rever, other name chef Natuk- 
 kog and Panukkog, that one rever great many 
 names," wrote thus to the governor: 
 
 "May 15th, 1685. 
 "Honor governor my friend, 
 
 "You my friend I desire your worship and 
 your power, because I hope you can do som 
 great matters this one. I am poor and naked 
 and I have no men at my place because I afraid 
 allwayes Mohogs he will kill me every day and 
 night. If your worship when please pray help 
 me you no let Mohogs kill me at my place at 
 Malamake river called Pannukkog and Natuk- 
 kog, I will submit your worship and your 
 power. And now I want pouder and such al- 
 minishon shatt and guns, because I have forth 
 at my horn and I plant theare. 
 
 "This all Indian hand, but pray you do con 
 sider your humble servant, 
 
 JOHN HOGKINS." 
 
 Signed also by Simon Detogkom, King Hary, 
 
290 A WEEK 
 
 Sam Linis, Mr. Jorge Rodunnonukgus, John 
 Owamosimmin, and nine other Indians, with 
 their marks against their names. 
 
 But now, one hundred and fifty-four years 
 having elapsed since the date of this letter, we 
 went unalarmed on our way without " breaking " 
 our "conow," reading the New England Gaz 
 etteer, and seeing no traces of "Mohogs" on 
 the banks. 
 
 The Souhegan, though a rapid river, seemed 
 to-day to have borrowed its character from the 
 noon. 
 
 Where gleaming fields of haze 
 Meet the voyageur s gaze, 
 And above, the heated air 
 Seems to make a river there, 
 The pines stand up with pride 
 By the Souhegan s side, 
 And the hemlock and the larch 
 With their triumphal arch 
 Are waving o er its march 
 
 To the sea. 
 
 No wind stirs its waves, 
 But the spirits of the braves 
 
 Hov ring o er, 
 Whose antiquated graves 
 Its still water laves 
 
 On the shore. 
 
 With an Indian s stealthy tread 
 It goes sleeping in its bed, 
 Without joy or grief, 
 Or the rustle of a leaf, 
 Without a ripple or a billow, 
 Or the sigh of a willow, 
 
TUESDAY 291 
 
 From the Lyndeboro hills 
 
 ^To the Merrimack mills. 
 
 With a louder din 
 
 Did its current begin, 
 
 When melted the snow 
 
 On the far mountain s brow. 
 
 And the drops came together 
 
 In that rainy weather. 
 
 Experienced river, 
 
 Hast thou flowed forever ? 
 
 Souhegan soundeth old, 
 
 But the half is not told, 
 
 What names hast thou borne, 
 
 In the ages far gone, 
 
 When the Xanthus and Meander 
 
 Commenced to wander, 
 
 Ere the black bear haunted 
 
 Thy red forest-floor, 
 Or Nature had planted 
 
 The pines by thy shore ? 
 
 During the heat of the day, we rested on a 
 large island a mile above the mouth of this 
 river, pastured by a herd of cattle, with steep 
 banks and scattered elms and oaks, and a suf 
 ficient channel for canal - boats on each side. 
 When we made a fire to boil some rice for our 
 dinner, the flames spreading amid the dry grass, 
 and the smoke curling silently upward and cast 
 ing grotesque shadows on the ground, seemed 
 phenomena of the noon, and we fancied that we 
 progressed up the stream without effort, and as 
 naturally as the wind and tide went down, not 
 outraging the calm days by unworthy bustle or 
 
292 A WEEK 
 
 impatience. The woods on the neighboring 
 shore were alive with pigeons, which were mov 
 ing south, looking for mast, but now, like our 
 selves, spending their noon in the shade. We 
 could hear the slight, wiry, winnowing sound of 
 their wings as they changed their roosts from 
 time to time, and their gentle and tremulous 
 cooing. They sojourned with us during the 
 noontide, greater travelers far than we. You 
 may frequently discover a single pair sitting 
 upon the lower branches of the white-pine in 
 the depths of the wood, at this hour of the day, 
 so silent and solitary, and with such a hermit- 
 like appearance, as if they had never strayed 
 beyond its skirts, while the acorn which was 
 gathered in the forests of Maine is still undi 
 gested in their crops. We obtained one of 
 these handsome birds, which lingered too long 
 upon its perch, and plucked and broiled it here 
 with some other game, to be carried along for 
 our supper; for, beside the provisions which 
 we carried with us, we depended mainly on the 
 river and forest for our supply. It is true, it 
 did not seem to be putting this bird to its right 
 use to pluck off its feathers, and extract its en 
 trails, and broil its carcass on the coals ; but we 
 heroically persevered, nevertheless, waiting for 
 further information. The same regard for Na 
 ture which excited our sympathy for her crea- 
 
TUESDAY 293 
 
 tures nerved our hands to carry through what 
 we had begun. For we would be honorable to 
 the party we deserted ; we would fulfill fate, and 
 so at length, perhaps, detect the secret inno 
 cence of these incessant tragedies which Heaven 
 allows. 
 
 " Too quick resolves do resolution wrong, 
 What, part so soon to be divorced so long ? 
 Things to be done are long to be debated ; 
 Heaven is not day d, Repentance is not dated." 
 
 We are double-edged blades, and every time we 
 whet our virtue the return stroke straps our 
 vice. Where is the skillful swordsman who can 
 give clean wounds, and not rip up his work with 
 the other edge? 
 
 Nature herself has not provided the most 
 graceful end for her creatures. What becomes 
 of all these birds that people the air and forest 
 for our solacement ? The sparrows seem always 
 chipper, never infirm. We do not see their 
 bodies lie about. Yet there is a tragedy at the 
 end of each one of their lives. They must per 
 ish miserably; not one of them is translated. 
 True, "not a sparrow falleth to the ground 
 without our Heavenly Father s knowledge," but 
 they do fall, nevertheless. 
 
 The carcasses of some poor squirrels, how 
 ever, the same that frisked so merrily in the 
 morning, which we had skinned and emboweled 
 
294 A WEEK 
 
 for our dinner, we abandoned in disgust, with 
 tardy humanity, as too wretched a resource for 
 any but starving men. It was to perpetuate 
 the practice of a barbarous era. If they had 
 been larger, our crime had been less. Their 
 small red bodies, little bundles of red tissue, 
 mere gobbets of venison, would not have "fat 
 tened fire." With a sudden impulse we threw 
 them away, and washed our hands, and boiled 
 some rice for our dinner. " Behold the differ 
 ence between the one who eateth flesh, and him 
 to whom it belonged ! The first hath a momen 
 tary enjoyment, whilst the latter is deprived of 
 existence ! " " Who would commit so great a 
 crime against a poor animal, who is fed only by 
 the herbs which grow wild in the woods, and 
 whose belly is burnt up with hunger? " We 
 remembered a picture of mankind in the hunter 
 age, chasing hares down the mountains ; O me 
 miserable ! Yet sheep and oxen are but larger 
 squirrels, whose hides are saved and meat is 
 salted, whose souls perchance are not so large 
 in proportion to their bodies. 
 
 There should always be some flowering and 
 maturing of the fruits of nature in the cooking 
 process. Some simple dishes recommend them 
 selves to our imaginations as well as palates. 
 In parched corn, for instance, there is a mani 
 fest sympathy between the bursting seed and 
 
TUESDAY 295 
 
 the more perfect developments of vegetable life. 
 It is a perfect flower with its petals, like the 
 houstonia or anemone. On my warm hearth 
 these cerealian blossoms expanded; here is the 
 bank whereon they grew. Perhaps some such 
 visible blessing would always attend the simple 
 and wholesome repast. 
 
 Here was that "pleasant harbor" which we 
 had sighed for, where the weary voyageur could 
 read the journal of some other sailor, whose 
 bark had ploughed, perchance, more famous 
 and classic seas. At the tables of the gods, 
 after feasting follow music and song; we will 
 recline now under these island trees, and for 
 our minstrel call on 
 
 ANACREON. 
 
 " Nor has he ceased his charming song, for still that lyre, 
 Though he is dead, sleeps not in Hades." 1 
 
 I lately met with an old volume from a Lon 
 don bookshop, containing the Greek Minor 
 Poets, and it was a pleasure to read once more 
 only the words, Orpheus, Linus, Musaeus, 
 those faint poetic sounds and echoes of a name, 
 dying away on the ears of us modern men ; and 
 those hardly more substantial sounds, Mimner- 
 mus, Ibycus, Alcaeus, Stesichorus, Menander. 
 They lived not in vain. We can converse with 
 
 1 Simonides Epigram on Anacreon. 
 
296 A WEEK 
 
 these bodiless fames without reserve or person- 
 ality. 
 
 I know of no studies so composing as those of 
 the classical scholar. When we have sat down 
 to them, life seems as still and serene as if it 
 were very far off, and I believe it is not habitu 
 ally seen from any common platform so truly 
 and unexaggerated as in the light of literature. 
 In serene hours we contemplate the tour of the 
 Greek and Latin authors with more pleasure 
 than the traveler does the fairest scenery of 
 Greece or Italy. Where shall we find a more 
 refined society? That highway down from 
 Homer and Hesiod to Horace and Juvenal is 
 more attractive than the Appian. Reading the 
 classics, or conversing with those old Greeks 
 and Latins in their surviving works, is like 
 walking amid the stars and constellations, a 
 high and by way serene to travel. Indeed, the 
 true scholar will be not a little of an astronomer 
 in his habits. Distracting cares will not be 
 lowed to obstruct the field of his vision, for the 
 higher regions of literature, like astronomy, are, 
 above storm and darkness. 
 
 But passing by these rumors of bards, let us 
 pause for a moment at the Teian poet. 
 
 There is something strangely modern about 
 him. He is very easily turned into English. 
 
TUESDAY 297 
 
 Is it that our lyric poets have resounded but 
 that lyre, which would sound only light sub 
 jects, and which Simonides tells us does not 
 sleep in Hades? His odes are like gems of 
 pure ivory. They possess an ethereal and 
 evanescent beauty like summer evenings, o xpj 
 ere voelv voov avflei, which you must perceive with 
 the flower of the mind, and show how slight 
 a beauty could be expressed. You have to con 
 sider them, as the stars of lesser magnitude, 
 with the side of the eye, and look aside from 
 them to behold them. They charm us by their 
 serenity and freedom from exaggeration and 
 passion, and by a certain flower-like beauty, 
 which does not propose itself, but must be ap 
 proached and studied like a natural object. 
 But perhaps their chief merit consists in the 
 lightness and yet security of their tread, 
 
 " The young and tender stalk 
 Ne er bends when they do walk." 
 
 True, our nerves are never strung by them ; 
 it is too constantly the sound of the lyre, and 
 never the note of the trumpet; but they are 
 not gross, as has been presumed, but always 
 elevated above the sensual. 
 
 These are some of the best that have come 
 down to us. 
 
298 A WEEK 
 
 ON HIS LYRE. 
 
 I wish to sing the Atridae, 
 
 And Cadmus I wish to sing ; 
 
 But my lyre sounds 
 
 Only love with its chords. 
 
 Lately I changed the strings 
 
 And all the lyre ; 
 
 And I began to sing the labors 
 
 Of Hercules ; but my lyre 
 
 Resounded loves. 
 
 Farewell, henceforth, for me, 
 
 Heroes ! for my lyre 
 
 Sings only loves. 
 
 TO A SWALLOW. 
 
 Thou indeed, dear swallow, 
 Yearly going and coming, 
 In summer weavest thy nest, 
 And in winter go st disappearing 
 Either to Nile or to Memphis. 
 But Love always weaveth 
 His nest in my heart. . . 
 
 ON A SILVER CUP. 
 
 Turning the silver, 
 
 Vulcan, make for me, 
 
 Not indeed a panoply, 
 
 For what are battles to me ? 
 
 But a hollow cup, 
 
 As deep as thou canst. 
 
 And make for me in it 
 
 Neither stars, nor wagons, 
 
 Nor sad Orion ; 
 
 What are the Pleiades to me ? 
 
 What the shining Bootes ? 
 
TUESDAY 299 
 
 Make vines for me, 
 
 And clusters of grapes in it, 
 
 And of gold Love and Bathyllua 
 
 Treading the grapes 
 
 With the fair Lyseus. 
 
 ON HIMSELF. 
 
 Thou sing st the affairs of Thebes, 
 
 And he the battles of Troy, 
 
 But I of my own defeats. 
 
 No horse have wasted me, 
 
 Nor foot, nor ships ; 
 
 But a new and different host, 
 
 From eyes smiting me. 
 
 TO A DOVE. 
 
 Lovely dove, 
 
 Whence, whence dost thou fly ? 
 
 Whence, running on air, 
 
 Dost thou waft and diffuse 
 
 So many sweet ointments ? 
 
 Who art ? What thy errand ? 
 
 Anacreon sent me 
 
 To a boy, to Bathyllus, 
 
 Who lately is ruler and tyrant of all. 
 
 Cythere has sold me 
 
 For one little song, 
 
 And I m doing this service 
 
 For Anacreon. 
 
 And now, as you see, 
 
 I bear letters from him. 
 
 And he says that directly 
 
 He 11 make me free, 
 
 But though he release me, 
 
 His slave will I tarry with him. 
 
 For why should I fly 
 
300 A WEEK 
 
 Over mountains and fields, 
 
 And perch upon trees, 
 
 Eating some wild thing ? 
 
 Now indeed I eat bread, 
 
 Plucking it from the hands 
 
 Of Anacreon himself ; 
 
 And he gives me to drink 
 
 The wine which he tastea 
 
 And drinking, I dance, 
 
 And shadow my master s 
 
 Face with my wings ; 
 
 And, going to rest, 
 
 On the lyre itself I sleep. 
 
 That is all ; get thee gone. 
 
 Thou hast made me more talkative, 
 
 Man, than a crow. 
 
 ON LOVE. 
 
 Love walking swiftly, 
 
 With hyacinthine staff, 
 
 Bade me to take a run with him ; 
 
 And hastening through swift torrents, 
 
 And woody places, and over precipices, 
 
 A water-snake stung me. 
 
 And my heart leaped up to 
 
 My mouth, and I should have fainted ; 
 
 But Love, fanning my brows 
 
 With his soft wings, said, 
 
 Surely, thou art not able to love. 
 
 ON WOMEN. 
 
 Nature has given horns 
 To bulls, and hoofs to horses, 
 Swiftness to hares, 
 To lions yawning teeth, 
 To fishes swimming, 
 
TUESDAY 301 
 
 To birds flight, 
 
 To men wisdom. 
 
 For woman she had nothing beside ; 
 
 What then does she give ? Beauty, 
 
 Instead of all shields, 
 
 Instead of all spears ; 
 
 And she conquers even iron 
 
 And fire, who is beautiful. 
 
 ON LOVERS. 
 
 Horses have the mark 
 
 Of fire on their sides, 
 
 And some have distinguished 
 
 The Parthian men by their crests ; 
 
 So I, seeing lovers, . 
 
 Know them at once, 
 
 For they have a certain slight 
 
 Brand on their hearts. 
 
 TO A SWALLOW. 
 
 What dost thou wish me to do to thee, 
 
 What, thou loquacious swallow ? 
 
 Dost thou wish me taking thee 
 
 Thy light pinions to clip ? 
 
 Or rather to pluck out 
 
 Thy tongue from within, 
 
 As that Tereus did ? 
 
 Why with thy notes in the dawn 
 
 Hast thou plundered Bathyllus 
 
 From my beautiful dreams ? 
 
 TO A COLT. 
 
 Thracian colt, why at me 
 
 Looking aslant with thy eyes, 
 
 Dost thou cruelly flee, 
 
 And think that I know nothing wise ? 
 
302 A WEEK 
 
 Know I could well 
 Put the bridle on thee, 
 And holding 1 the reins, turn 
 Round the bounds of the course. 
 But now thou browsest the meads, 
 And gamboling lightly dost play, 
 For thou hast no skillful horseman 
 Mounted upon thy back. 
 
 CUPID WOUNDED. 
 
 Love once among roses 
 
 Saw not 
 
 A sleeping bee, but was stung- ; 
 
 And being wounded in the finger 
 
 Of his hand, cried for pain. 
 
 Running as well as flying 
 
 To the beautiful Venus, 
 
 I am killed, mother, said he, 
 
 I am killed, and I die. 
 
 A little serpent has stung me, 
 
 Winged, which they call 
 
 A bee, the husbandmen. 
 
 And she said, If the sting 
 
 Of a bee afflicts you, 
 
 How, think you, are they afflicted, 
 
 Love, whom you smite ? 
 
 Late in the afternoon, for we had lingered 
 long on the island, we raised our sail for the 
 first time, and for a short hour the southwest 
 wind was our ally; but it did not please Hea 
 ven to abet us long. With one sail raised we 
 swept slowly up the eastern side of the stream, 
 steering clear of the rocks, while, from the top 
 
TUESDAY 303 
 
 of a hill which formed the opposite bank, some 
 lumberers were rolling down timber to be rafted 
 down the stream. We could see their axes 
 and levers gleaming in the sun, and the logs 
 came down with a dust and a rumbling sound, 
 which was reverberated through the woods be 
 yond us on our side, like the roar of artillery. 
 But Zephyr soon took us out of sight and hear 
 ing of this commerce. Having passed Read s 
 Ferry, and another island called McGaw s 
 Island, we reached some rapids called Moore s 
 Falls, and entered on "that section of the river, 
 nine miles in extent, converted, by law, into 
 the Union Canal, comprehending in that space 
 six distinct falls ; at each of which, and at sev 
 eral intermediate places, work has been done." 
 After passing Moore s Falls by means of locks, 
 we again had recourse to our oars, and went 
 merrily on our way, driving the small sandpiper 
 from rock to rock before us, and sometimes 
 rowing near enough to a cottage on the bank, 
 though they were few and far between, to see 
 the sunflowers, and the seed vessels of the 
 poppy, like small goblets filled with the water 
 of Lethe, before the door, but without disturb 
 ing the sluggish household behind. Thus we 
 held on, sailing or dipping our way along with 
 the paddle up this broad river, smooth and 
 placid, flowing over concealed rocks, where we 
 
304 A WEEK 
 
 could see the pickerel lying low in the transpar 
 ent water, eager to double some distant cape, 
 to make some great bend as in the life of man, 
 and see what new perspective would open ; look 
 ing far into a new country, broad and serene, 
 the cottages of settlers seen afar for the first 
 time, yet with the moss of a century on their 
 roofs, and the third or fourth generation in their 
 shadows. Strange was it to consider how the 
 sun and the summer, the buds of spring and the 
 seared leaves of autumn, were related to these 
 cabins along the shore ; how all the rays which 
 paint the landscape radiate from them, and the 
 flight of the crow and the gyrations of the hawk 
 have reference to their roofs. Still the ever 
 rich and fertile shores accompanied us, fringed 
 with vines and alive with small birds and frisk 
 ing squirrels, the edge of some farmer s field or 
 widow s wood-lot, or wilder, perchance, where 
 the muskrat, the little medicine of the river, 
 drags itself along stealthily over the alder-leaves 
 and muscle-shells, and man and the memory of 
 man are banished far. 
 
 At length the unwearied, never-sinking 
 shore, still holding on without break, with its 
 cool copses and serene pasture -grounds, tempted 
 us to disembark; and we adventurously landed 
 on this remote coast, to survey it, without the 
 knowledge of any human inhabitant probably to 
 
TUESDA Y 305 
 
 this day. But we still remember the gnarled 
 and hospitable oaks which grew even there for 
 our entertainment, and were no strangers to us, 
 the lonely horse in his pasture, and the patient 
 cows, whose path to the river, so judiciously 
 chosen to overcome the difficulties of the way, 
 we followed, and disturbed their ruminations in 
 the shade ; and, above all, the cool, free aspect 
 of the wild apple-trees, generously proffering 
 their fruit to us, though still green and crude, 
 the hard, round, glossy fruit, which, if not 
 ripe, still was not poison, but New English too, 
 brought hither its ancestors by ours once. 
 These gentler trees imparted a half-civilized 
 and twilight aspect to the otherwise barbarian 
 land. Still farther on we scrambled up the 
 rocky channel of a brook, which had long served 
 nature for a sluice there, leaping like it from 
 rock to rock, through tangled woods, at the bot 
 tom of a ravine, which grew darker and darker, 
 and more and more hoarse the murmurs of the 
 stream, until we reached the ruins of a mill, 
 where now the ivy grew, and the trout glanced 
 through the crumbling flume; and there we 
 imagined what had been the dreams and specu 
 lations of some early settler. But the waning 
 day compelled us to embark once more, and re 
 deem this wasted time with long and vigorous 
 sweeps over the rippling stream. 
 
306 A WEEK 
 
 It was still wild and solitary, except that at 
 intervals of a mile or two the roof of a cottage 
 might be seen over the bank. This region, as 
 we read, was once famous for the manufacture 
 of straw bonnets of the Leghorn kind, of which 
 it claims the invention in these parts ; and oc 
 casionally some industrious damsel tripped down 
 to the water s edge, to put her straw a-soak, as 
 it appeared, and stood awhile to watch the re 
 treating voyageurs, and catch the fragment of a 
 boat-song which we had made, wafted over the 
 water. 
 
 Thus, perchance, the Indian hunter, 
 
 Many a lagging year agone, 
 Gliding o er thy rippling waters, 
 
 Lowly hummed a natural song. 
 
 Now the sun s behind the willows, 
 Now he gleams along the waves, 
 
 Faintly o er the wearied billows 
 Come the spirits of the braves. 
 
 Just before sundown we reached some more 
 falls in the town of Bedford, where some stone 
 masons were employed repairing the locks in a 
 solitary part of the river. They were interested 
 in our adventure, especially one young man of 
 our own age, who inquired at first if we were 
 bound up to " Skeag; " and when he had heard 
 our story, and examined our outfit, asked us 
 other questions, but temperately still, and al 
 ways turning to his work again, though as if it 
 
TUESDAY 307 
 
 were become his duty. It was plain that he 
 would like to go with us, and, as he looked up 
 the river, many a distant cape and wooded shore 
 were reflected in his eye, as well as in his 
 thoughts. When we were ready he left his 
 work, and helped us through the locks with a 
 sort of quiet enthusiasm, telling us that we were 
 at Coos Falls, and we could still distinguish the 
 strokes of his chisel for many sweeps after we 
 had left him. 
 
 We wished to camp this night on a large rock 
 in the middle of the stream, just above these 
 falls, but the want of fuel, and the difficulty of 
 fixing our tent firmly, prevented us ; so we made 
 our bed on the main-land opposite, on the west 
 bank, in the town of Bedford, in a retired place, 
 as we supposed, there being no house in sight. 
 
WEDNESDAY. 
 
 " Man is man s foe and destiny." 
 
 COTTON. 
 
 EARLY this morning, as we were rolling up 
 our buffaloes and loading our boat amid the dew, 
 while our embers were still smoking, the masons 
 who worked at the locks, and whom we had 
 seen crossing the river in their boat the even 
 ing before while we were examining the rock, 
 came upon us as they were going to their work, 
 and we found that we had pitched our tent di 
 rectly in the path to their boat. This was the 
 only time that we were observed on our camp 
 ing-ground. Thus, far from the beaten high 
 ways and the dust and din of travel, we beheld 
 the country privately, yet freely, and at our 
 leisure. Other roads do some violence to Na 
 ture, and bring the traveler to stare at her, but 
 the river steals into the scenery it traverses 
 without intrusion, silently creating and adorn" 
 ing it, and is as free to come and go as the 
 zephyr. 
 
 As we shoved away from this rocky coast, 
 before sunrise, the smaller bittern, the genius 
 of the shore, was moping along its edge, or 
 
810 A WEEK 
 
 stood probing the mud for its food, with ever an 
 eye on us, though so demurely at work, or else 
 he ran along over the wet stones like a wrecker 
 in his storm coat, looking out for wrecks of 
 snails and cockles. Now away he goes, with a 
 limping flight, uncertain where he will alight, 
 until a rod of clear sand amid the alders invites 
 his feet; and now our steady approach compels 
 him to seek a new retreat. It is a bird of the 
 oldest Thalesian school, and no doubt believes 
 in the priority of water to the other elements ; 
 the relic of a twilight antediluvian age which 
 yet inhabits these bright American rivers with 
 us Yankees. There is something venerable in 
 this melancholy and contemplative race of birds, 
 which may have trodden the earth while it was 
 yet in a slimy and imperfect state. Perchance 
 their tracks, too, are still visible on the stones. 
 It still lingers into our glaring summers, 
 bravely supporting its fate without sympathy 
 from man, as if it looked forward to some sec 
 ond advent of which he has no assurance. One 
 wonders if, by its patient study by rocks and 
 sandy capes, it has wrested the whole of her se 
 cret from Nature yet. What a rich experience 
 it must have gained, standing on one leg and 
 looking out from its dull eye so long on sunshine 
 and rain, moon and stars ! What could it tell 
 of stagnant pools and reeds and dank night- 
 
WEDNESDAY 311 
 
 fogs! It would be worth the while to look 
 closely into the eye which has been open and 
 seeing at such hours, and in such solitudes, its 
 dull, yellowish, greenish eye. Methinks my own 
 soul must be a bright invisible green. I have 
 seen these birds stand by the half dozen together 
 in the shallower water along the shore, with 
 their bills thrust into the mud at the bottom, 
 probing for food, the whole head being con 
 cealed, while the neck and body formed an arch 
 above the water. 
 
 Cohass Brook, the outlet of Massabesic Pond, 
 which last is five or six miles distant, and 
 contains fifteen hundred acres, being the largest 
 body of fresh water in Rockingham County, 
 comes in near here from the east. Rowing be 
 tween Manchester and Bedford, we passed, at 
 an early hour, a ferry and some falls, called 
 Goff s Falls, the Indian Cohasset, where there 
 is a small village, and a handsome green islet 
 in the middle of the stream. From Bedford 
 and Merrimack have been boated the bricks of 
 which Lowell is made. About twenty years 
 before, as they told us, one Moore, of Bedford, 
 having clay on his farm, contracted to furnish 
 eight millions of bricks to the founders of that 
 city within two years. He fulfilled his contract 
 in one year, and since then bricks have been the 
 principal export from these towns. The farm- 
 
312 A WEEK 
 
 ers found thus a market for their wood, and 
 when they had brought a load to the kilns, they 
 could cart a load of bricks to the shore, and so 
 make a profitable day s work of it. Thus all 
 parties were benefited. It was worth the while 
 to see the place where Lowell was "dug out." 
 So, likewise, Manchester is being built of bricks 
 made still higher up the river at Hooksett. 
 
 There might be seen here on the bank of the 
 Merrimack, near Goff s Falls, in what is now 
 the town of Bedford, famous "for hops and for 
 its fine domestic manufactures," some graves of 
 the aborigines. The land still bears this scar 
 here, and time is slowly crumbling the bones of 
 a race. Yet, without fail, every spring, since 
 they first fished and hunted here, the brown 
 thrasher has heralded the morning from a birch 
 or alder spray, and the undying race of reed- 
 birds still rustles through the withering grass. 
 But these bones rustle not. These mouldering 
 elements are slowly preparing for another met 
 amorphosis, to serve new masters, and what 
 was the Indian s will erelong be the white man s 
 sinew. 
 
 We learned that Bedford was not so famous 
 for hops as formerly, since the price is fluctuat 
 ing, and poles are now scarce. Yet if the trav 
 eler goes back a few miles from the river, the 
 hop kilns will still excite his curiosity. 
 
WEDNESDAY 313 
 
 There were few incidents in our voyage this 
 forenoon, though the river was now more rocky 
 and the falls more frequent than before. It 
 was a pleasant change, after rowing incessantly 
 for many hours, to lock ourselves through in 
 some retired place, for commonly there was 
 no lock-man at hand, one sitting in the boat, 
 while the other, sometimes with no little labor 
 and heave-yo-ing, opened and shut the gates, 
 waiting patiently to see the locks fill. We did 
 not once use the wheels which we had provided. 
 Taking advantage of the eddy, we were some 
 times floated up to the locks almost in the face 
 of the falls ; and, by the same cause, any float 
 ing timber was carried round in a circle and 
 repeatedly drawn into the rapids before it finally 
 went down the stream. These old gray struc 
 tures, with their quiet arms stretched over the 
 river in the sun, appeared like natural objects 
 in the scenery, and the kingfisher and sandpiper 
 alighted on them as readily as on stakes or 
 rocks. 
 
 We rowed leisurely up the stream for several 
 hours, until the sun had got high in the sky, 
 our thoughts monotonously beating time to our 
 oars. For outward variety there was only the 
 river and the receding shores, a vista continu 
 ally opening behind and closing before us, as 
 we sat with our backs upstream; and, for in- 
 
314 A WEEK 
 
 ward, such thoughts as the muses grudgingly 
 lent us. We were always passing some low, 
 inviting shore, or some overhanging bank, on 
 which, however, we never landed. 
 
 Such near aspects had we 
 Of our life s scenery. 
 
 It might be seen by what tenure men held 
 the earth. The smallest stream is mediterra 
 nean sea, a smaller ocean creek within the land, 
 where men may steer by their farm bounds and 
 cottage lights. For my own part, but for the 
 geographers, I should hardly have known how 
 large a portion of our globe is water, my life has 
 chiefly passed within so deep a cove. Yet I 
 have sometimes ventured as far as to the mouth 
 of my Snug Harbor. From an old ruined fort 
 on Staten Island, I have loved to watch all day 
 some vessel whose name I had read in the morn 
 ing through the telegraph glass, when she first 
 came upon the coast, and her hull heaved up 
 and glistened in the sun, from the moment when 
 the pilot and most adventurous news-boats met 
 her, past the Hook, and up the narrow channel 
 of the wide outer bay, till she was boarded by 
 the health officer, and took her station at Quar 
 antine, or held on her unquestioned course to 
 the wharves of New York. It was interesting, 
 too, to watch the less adventurous newsman, 
 who made his assault as the vessel swept through 
 
WEDNESDA Y 315 
 
 the Narrows, defying plague and quarantine 
 law, and, fastening his little cockboat to her 
 huge side, clambered up and disappeared in the 
 cabin. And then I could imagine what momen 
 tous news was being imparted by the captain, 
 which no American ear had ever heard, that 
 Asia, Africa, Europe were all sunk ; for 
 which at length he pays the price, and is seen 
 descending the ship s side with his bundle of 
 newspapers, but not where he first got up, for 
 these arrivers do not stand still to gossip; and 
 he hastes away with steady sweeps to dispose of 
 his wares to the highest bidder, and we shall 
 erelong read something startling, " By the 
 
 latest arrival," "by the good ship ." 
 
 On Sunday I beheld, from some interior hill, 
 the long procession of vessels getting to sea, 
 reaching from the city wharves through the 
 Narrows, and past the Hook, quite to the ocean 
 stream, far as the eye could reach, with stately 
 march and silken sails, all counting on lucky 
 voyages, but each time some of the number, 
 no doubt, destined to go to Davy s locker, and 
 never come on this coast again. And, again, 
 in the evening of a pleasant day, it was my 
 amusement to count the sails in sight. But as 
 the setting sun continually brought more and 
 more to light, still farther in the horizon, the 
 last count always had the advantage, till, by the 
 
816 A WEEK 
 
 time the last rays streamed over the sea, I had 
 doubled and trebled my first number ; though I 
 could no longer class them all under the several 
 heads of ships, barks, brigs, schooners, and 
 sloops, but most were faint generic vessels only. 
 And then the temperate twilight light, per 
 chance, revealed the floating home of some 
 sailor whose thoughts were already alienated 
 from this American coast, and directed towards 
 the Europe of our dreams. I have stood upon 
 the same hill-top, when a thunder-shower, roll 
 ing down from the Catskills and Highlands, 
 passed over the island, deluging the land ; and, 
 when it had suddenly left us in sunshine, have 
 seen it overtake successively, with its huge 
 shadow and dark, descending wall of rain, the 
 vessels in the bay. Their bright sails were sud 
 denly drooping and dark, like the sides of 
 barns, and they seemed to shrink before the 
 storm ; while still far beyond them on the sea, 
 through this dark veil, gleamed the sunny sails 
 of those vessels which the storm had not yet 
 reached. And at midnight, when all around 
 and overhead was darkness, I have seen a field 
 of trembling, silvery light far out on the sea, 
 the reflection of the moonlight from the ocean, 
 as if beyond the precincts of our night, where 
 the moon traversed a cloudless heaven, and 
 sometimes a dark speck in its midst, where 
 
WEDNESDAY 317 
 
 some fortunate vessel was pursuing its happy 
 voyage by night. 
 
 But to us river sailors the sun never rose out 
 of ocean waves, but from some green coppice, 
 and went down behind some dark mountain 
 line. We, too, were but dwellers on the shore, 
 like the bittern of the morning; and our pur 
 suit, the wrecks of snails and cockles. Never 
 theless, we were contented to know the better 
 one fair particular shore. 
 
 My life is like a stroll upon the beach, 
 
 As near the ocean s edge as I can go, 
 My tardy steps its waves sometimes o erreach, 
 
 Sometimes I stay to let them overflow. 
 
 My sole employment t is, and scrupulous care, 
 To place my gains beyond the reach of tides, 
 
 Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare, 
 Which ocean kindly to my hand confides. 
 
 I have but few companions on the shore, 
 
 They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea, 
 
 Yet oft I think the ocean they ve sailed o er 
 Is deeper known upon the strand to me. 
 
 The middle sea contains no crimson dulse, 
 Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view, 
 
 Along the shore my hand is on its pulse, 
 
 And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew. 
 
 The small houses which were scattered along 
 the river at intervals of a mile or more were 
 commonly out of sight to us, but sometimes, 
 
318 A WEEK 
 
 when we rowed near the shore, we heard the 
 peevish note of a hen, or some slight domestic 
 sound, which betrayed them. The lock-men s 
 houses were particularly well placed, retired, 
 and high, always at falls or rapids, and com 
 manding the pleasantest reaches of the river, 
 for it is generally wider and more lake-like just 
 above a fall, and there they wait for boats. 
 These humble dwellings, homely and sincere, in 
 which a hearth was still the essential part, were 
 more pleasing to our eyes than palaces or castles 
 would have been. In the noon of these days, 
 as we have said, we occasionally climbed the 
 banks and approached these houses, to get a 
 glass of water and make acquaintance with their 
 inhabitants. High in the leafy bank, sur 
 rounded commonly by a small patch of corn and 
 beans, squashes and melons, with sometimes a 
 graceful hop-yard on one side, and some run 
 ning vine over the windows, they appeared like 
 beehives set to gather honey for a summer. I 
 have not read of any Arcadian life which sur 
 passes the actual luxury and serenity of these 
 New England dwellings. For the outward gild 
 ing, at least, the age is golden enough. As 
 you approach the sunny doorway, awakening 
 the echoes by your steps, still no sound from 
 these barracks of repose, and you fear that the 
 gentlest knock may seem rude to the Oriental 
 
WEDNESDAY 319 
 
 dreamers. The door is opened, perchance, by 
 some Yankee - Hindoo woman, whose small- 
 voiced but sincere hospitality, out of the bot 
 tomless depths of a quiet nature, has traveled 
 quite round to the opposite side, and fears only 
 to obtrude its kindness. You step over the 
 white-scoured floor to the bright "dresser" 
 lightly, as if afraid to disturb the devotions of 
 the household, for Oriental dynasties appear 
 to have passed away since the dinner-table was 
 last spread here, and thence to the frequented 
 curb, where you see your long-forgotten, un 
 shaven face at the bottom, in juxtaposition 
 with new-made butter and the trout in the well. 
 "Perhaps you would like some molasses and 
 ginger," suggests the faint noon voice. Some 
 times there sits the brother who follows the sea, 
 their representative man ; who knows only how 
 far it is to the nearest port, no more distances, 
 all the rest is sea and distant capes, patting 
 the dog, or dandling the kitten in arms that 
 were stretched by the cable and the oar, pull 
 ing against Boreas or the trade -winds. He 
 looks up at the stranger, half pleased, half as 
 tonished, with a mariner s eye, as if he were a 
 dolphin within cast. If men will believe it, 
 sua si bona nbrint, there are no more quiet 
 Tempes, nor more poetic and Arcadian lives, 
 than may be lived in these New England dwell* 
 
320 A WEEK 
 
 ings. We thought that the employment of 
 their inhabitants by day would be to tend the 
 flowers and herds, and at night, like the shep 
 herds of old, to cluster and give names to the 
 stars from the river banks. 
 
 We passed a large and densely wooded island 
 this forenoon, between Short s and Griffith s 
 Falls, the fairest which we had met with, with a 
 handsome grove of elms at its head. If it had 
 been evening, we should have been glad to camp 
 there. Not long after, one or two more were 
 passed. The boatmen told us that the current 
 had recently made important changes here. An 
 island always pleases my imagination, even the 
 smallest, as a small continent and integral por 
 tion of the globe. I have a fancy for building 
 my hut on one. Even a bare, grassy isle, 
 which I can see entirely over at a glance, has 
 some undefined and mysterious charm for me. 
 There is commonly such a one at the junction 
 of two rivers, whose currents bring down and 
 deposit their respective sands in the eddy at 
 their confluence, as it were the womb of a con 
 tinent. By what a delicate and far-stretched 
 contribution every island is made! What an 
 enterprise of Nature thus to lay the foundations 
 of and to build up the future continent, of 
 golden and silver sands and the ruins of forests, 
 with ant-like industry. Pindar gives the fol- 
 
WEDNESDA Y 321 
 
 lowing account of the origin of Thera, whence, 
 in after times, Libyan Gyrene was settled by 
 Battus. Triton, in the form of Eurypylus, 
 presents a clod to Euphemus, one of the Argo 
 nauts, as they are about to return home. 
 
 " He knew of our haste, 
 And immediately seizing a clod 
 With his right hand, strove to give it 
 As a chance stranger s gift. 
 
 Nor did the hero disregard him, but leaping on the shore, 
 Stretching hand to hand, 
 Received the mystic clod. 
 But I hear it sinking from the deck, 
 Qo with the sea brine 
 At evening, accompanying the watery sea. 
 Often indeed I urged the careless 
 Menials to guard it, but their minds forgot. 
 And now in this island the imperishable seed of spacious 
 
 Libya 
 Is spilled before its hour." 
 
 It is a beautiful fable, also related by Pindar, 
 how Helius, or the Sun, looked down into the 
 sea one day, when perchance his rays were 
 first reflected from some increasing, glittering 
 sandbar, and saw the fair and fruitful island 
 of Rhodes 
 
 " springing up from the bottom, 
 Capable of feeding many men, and suitable for flocks ;" 
 
 and at the nod of Zeus, 
 
 " The island sprang from the watery 
 Sea ; and the genial Father of penetrating beams 
 Ruler of fire-breathing horses, has it." 
 
322 A WEEK 
 
 The shifting islands ! who would not be will 
 ing that his house should be undermined by 
 such a foe! The inhabitant of an island can 
 tell what currents formed the land which he cul 
 tivates; and his earth is still being created or 
 destroyed. There before his door, perchance, 
 still empties the stream which brought down 
 the material of his farm ages before, and is still 
 bringing it down or washing it away, the 
 graceful, gentle robber! 
 
 Not long after this we saw the Piscataquoag, 
 or Sparkling Water, emptying in on our left, 
 and heard the Falls of Amoskeag above. 
 Large quantities of lumber, as we read in the 
 Gazetteer, were still annually floated down the 
 Piscataquoag to the Merrimack, and there are 
 many fine mill privileges on it. Just above 
 the mouth of this river we passed the artificial 
 falls where the canals of the Manchester Manu 
 facturing Company discharge themselves into 
 the Merrimack. They are striking enough to 
 have a name, and, with the scenery of a Bash- 
 pish, would be visited from far and near. The 
 water falls thirty or forty feet over seven or 
 eight steep and narrow terraces of stone, prob 
 ably to break its force, and is converted into 
 one mass of foam. This canal water did not 
 seem to be the worse for the wear, but foamed 
 and fumed as purely, and boomed as savagely 
 
WEDNESDAY 323 
 
 and impressively, as a mountain torrent, and, 
 though it came from under a factory, we saw a 
 rainbow here. These are now the Amoskeag 
 Falls, removed a mile downstream. But we 
 did not tarry to examine them minutely, mak 
 ing haste to get past the village here collected, 
 and out of hearing of the hammer which was 
 laying the foundation of another Lowell on the 
 banks. At the time of our voyage Manchester 
 was a village of about two thousand inhabit 
 ants, where we landed for a moment to get 
 some cool water, and where an inhabitant told 
 us that he was accustomed to go across the river 
 into Goffstown for his water. But now, as I 
 have been told, and indeed have witnessed, it 
 contains fourteen thousand inhabitants. From 
 a hill on the road between Goffstown and Hook- 
 sett, four miles distant, I have seen a thunder- 
 shower pass over, and the sun break out and 
 shine on a city there, where I had landed nine 
 years before in the fields; and there was wav 
 ing the flag of its Museum, where "the only 
 perfect skeleton of a Greenland or river whale 
 in the United States " was to be seen, and I also 
 read in its directory of a "Manchester Athe 
 naeum and Gallery of the Fine Arts." 
 
 According to the Gazetteer, the descent of 
 Amoskeag Falls, which are the most consider 
 able in the Merrimack, is fifty-four feet in half 
 
324 A WEEK 
 
 a mile. We locked ourselves through here with 
 much ado, surmounting the successive watery 
 steps of this river s staircase in the midst of a 
 crowd of villagers, jumping into the canal to 
 their amusement, to save our boat from upset 
 ting, and consuming much river water in our 
 service. Amoskeag, or Namaskeak, is said to 
 mean "great fishing-place." It was hereabouts 
 that the Sachem Wannalancet resided. Tradi 
 tion says that his tribe, when at war with the 
 Mohawks, concealed their provisions in the 
 cavities of the rocks in the upper part of these 
 falls. The Indians, who hid their provisions in 
 these holes, and affirmed "that God had cut 
 them out for that purpose," understood their 
 origin and use better than the Royal Society, 
 who in their Transactions, in the last century, 
 speaking of these very holes, declare that "they 
 seem plainly to be artificial." Similar "pot 
 holes " may be seen at the Stone Flume on this 
 river, on the Ottaway, at Bellows Falls on the 
 Connecticut, and in the limestone rock at Shel- 
 burne Falls on Deerfield River in Massachu 
 setts, and more or less generally about all falls. 
 Perhaps the most remarkable curiosity of this 
 kind in New England is the well-known Basin 
 on the Pemigewasset, one of the head-waters of 
 this river, twenty by thirty feet in extent and 
 proportionably deep, with a smooth and rounded 
 
WEDNESDAY 325 
 
 brim, and filled with a cold, pellucid, and 
 greenish water. At Amoskeag the river is di 
 vided into many separate torrents and trickling 
 rills by the rocks, and its volume is so much re 
 duced by the drain of the canals that it does not 
 fill its bed. There are many pot-holes here on 
 a rocky island which the river washes over in 
 high freshets. As at Shelburne Falls, where I 
 first observed them, they are from one foot to 
 four or five in diameter, and as many in depth, 
 perfectly round and regular, with smooth and 
 gracefully curved brims, like goblets. Their 
 origin is apparent to the most careless observer. 
 A stone which the current has washed down, 
 meeting with obstacles, revolves as on a pivot 
 where it lies, gradually sinking in the course of 
 centuries deeper and deeper into the rock, and 
 in new freshets receiving the aid of fresh stones, 
 which are drawn into this trap and doomed to 
 revolve there for an indefinite period, doing 
 Sisyphus-like penance for stony sins, until they 
 either wear out, or wear through the bottom of 
 their prison, or else are released by some revo 
 lution of nature. There lie the stones of vari 
 ous sizes, from a pebble to a foot or two in 
 diameter, some of which have rested from their 
 labor only since the spring, and some higher up 
 which have lain still and dry for ages, we no 
 ticed some here at least sixteen feet above the 
 
326 A WEEK 
 
 present level of the water, while others are 
 still revolving, and enjoy no respite at any sea 
 son. In one instance, at Shelburne Falls, they 
 have worn quite through the rock, so that a 
 portion of the river leaks through in anticipa 
 tion of the fall. Some of these pot-holes at 
 Amoskeag, in a very hard brown-stone, had an 
 oblong, cylindrical stone of the same material 
 loosely fitting them. One, as much as fifteen 
 feet deep and seven or eight in diameter, which 
 was worn quite through to the water, had a 
 huge rock of the same material, smooth but of 
 irregular form, lodged in it. Everywhere there 
 were the rudiments or the wrecks of a dimple in 
 the rock; the rocky shells of whirlpools. As if 
 by force of example and sympathy after so many 
 lessons, the rocks, the hardest material, had 
 been endeavoring to whirl or flow into the forms 
 of the most fluid. The finest workers in stone 
 are not copper or steel tools, but the gentle 
 touches of air and water working at their leisure 
 with a liberal allowance of time. 
 
 Not only have some of these basins been 
 forming for countless ages, but others exist 
 which must have been completed in a former 
 geological period. In deepening the Pawtucket 
 Canal, in 1822, the workmen came to ledges 
 with pot-holes in them, where probably was 
 once the bed of the river, and there are some, 
 
WEDNESDA Y 327 
 
 we are told, in the town of Canaan in this State, 
 with the stones still in them, on the height of 
 land between the Merrimack and Connecticut, 
 and nearly a thousand feet above these rivers, 
 proving that the mountains and the rivers have 
 changed places. There lie the stones which 
 completed their revolutions perhaps before 
 thoughts began to revolve in the brain of man. 
 The periods of Hindoo and Chinese history, 
 though they reach back to the time when the 
 race of mortals is confounded with the race of 
 gods, are as nothing compared with the periods 
 which these stones have inscribed. That which 
 commenced a rock when time was young shall 
 conclude a pebble in the unequal contest. With 
 such expense of time and natural forces are our 
 very paving-stones produced. They teach us 
 lessons, these dumb workers; verily there are 
 "sermons in stones, and books in the running 
 brooks." In these very holes the Indians hid 
 their provisions; but now there is no bread, 
 but only its old neighbor stones at the bottom. 
 Who knows how many races they have served 
 thus ? By as simple a law, some accidental by 
 law, perchance, our system itself was made 
 ready for its inhabitants. 
 
 These, and such as these, must be our an 
 tiquities, for lack of human vestiges. The 
 monuments of heroes and the temples of the 
 
328 A WEEK 
 
 gods which may once have stood on the banks 
 of this river are now, at any rate, returned to 
 dust and primitive soil. The murmur of un- 
 chronicled nations has died away along these 
 shores, and once more Lowell and Manchester 
 are on the trail of the Indian. 
 
 The fact that Romans once inhabited her re 
 flects no little dignity on Nature herself; that 
 from some particular hill the Roman once looked 
 out on the sea. She need not be ashamed of the 
 vestiges of her children. How gladly the an 
 tiquary informs us that their vessels penetrated 
 into this frith, or up that river of some remote 
 isle! Their military monuments still remain 
 on the hills and under the sod of the valleys. 
 The oft-repeated Roman story is written in still 
 legible characters in every quarter of the Old 
 World, and but to-day, perchance, a new coin 
 is dug up whose inscription repeats and con 
 firms their fame. Some "Judaea Capta," with 
 a woman mourning under a palm-tree, with si 
 lent argument and demonstration confirms the 
 pages of history. 
 
 " Rome living was the world s sole ornament ; 
 And dead is now the world s sole monument. 
 
 With her own weight down pressed now she lies, 
 And by her heaps her hugeness testifies." 
 
 If one doubts whether Grecian valor and pa- 
 
WEDNESDA Y 329 
 
 triotism are not a fiction of the poets, he may 
 go to Athens and see still upon the walls of the 
 temple of Minerva the circular marks made by 
 the shields taken from the enemy in the Persian 
 war, which were suspended there. We have not 
 far to seek for living and unquestionable evi 
 dence. The very dust takes shape and confirms 
 some story which we had read. As Fuller said, 
 commenting on the zeal of Camden, "A broken 
 urn is a whole evidence ; or an old gate still sur 
 viving out of which the city is run out." When 
 Solon endeavored to prove that Salamis had for 
 merly belonged to the Athenians, and not to the 
 Megareaiis, he caused the tombs to be opened, 
 and showed that the inhabitants of Salamis 
 turned the faces of their dead to the same side 
 with the Athenians, but the Megareans to the 
 opposite side. There they were to be interro 
 gated. 
 
 Some minds are as little logical or argumen 
 tative as nature; they can offer no reason or 
 "guess," but they exhibit the solemn and incon 
 trovertible fact. If a historical question arises, 
 they cause the tombs to be opened. Their silent 
 and practical logic convinces the reason and the 
 understanding at the same time. Of such sort 
 is always the only pertinent question and the 
 only satisfactory reply. 
 
 Our own country furnishes antiquities as an- 
 
330 A WEEK 
 
 cient and durable, and as useful, as any ; rocks 
 at least as well covered with lichens, and a soil 
 which, if it is virgin, is but virgin mould, the 
 very dust of nature. What if we cannot read 
 Rome, or Greece, Etruria, or Carthage, or 
 Egypt, or Babylon, on these; are our cliffs 
 bare? The lichen on the rocks is a rude and 
 simple shield which beginning and imperfect 
 Nature suspended there. Still hangs her wrin 
 kled trophy. And here too the poet s eye may 
 still detect the brazen nails which fastened 
 Time s inscriptions, and if he has the gift, de 
 cipher them by this clue. The walls that fence 
 our fields, as well as modern Rome, and not less 
 the Parthenon itself, are all built of ruins. 
 Here may be heard the din of rivers, and ancient 
 winds which have long since lost their names 
 sough through our woods, the first faint 
 sounds of spring, older than the summer of 
 Athenian glory, the titmouse lisping in the 
 wood, the jay s scream, and bluebird s warble, 
 and the hum of 
 
 "bees that fly 
 About the laughing blossoms of sallowy." 
 
 Here is the gray dawn for antiquity, and our 
 to-morrow s future should be at least paulo-post 
 to theirs which we have put behind us. There 
 are the red-maple and birchen leaves, old runes 
 which are not yet deciphered; catkins, pine- 
 
WEDNESDAY 331 
 
 cones, vines, oak leaves, and acorns; the very 
 things themselves, and not their forms in stone, 
 so much the more ancient and venerable. 
 And even to the current summer there has come 
 down tradition of a hoary -headed master of all 
 art, who once filled every field and grove with 
 statues and godlike architecture, of every de 
 sign which Greece has lately copied; whose 
 ruins are now mingled with the dust, and not 
 one block remains upon another. The century 
 sun and unwearied rain have wasted them, till 
 not one fragment from that quarry now exists ; 
 and poets perchance will feign that gods sent 
 down the material from heaven. 
 
 What though the traveler tell us of the ruins 
 of Egypt, are we so sick or idle that we must 
 sacrifice our America and to-day to some man s 
 ill-remembered and indolent story? Carnac 
 and Luxor are but names, or if their skeletons 
 remain, still more desert sand and at length a 
 wave of the Mediterranean Sea are needed to 
 wash away the filth that attaches to their gran 
 deur. Carnac! Carnac! here is Carnac for 
 me. I behold the columns of a larger and purer 
 temple. 
 
 This is my Carnac, whose unmeasured dome 
 Shelters the measuring art and measurer s home. 
 Behold these flowers, let us be up with time, 
 Not dreaming of three thousand years ago, 
 Erect ourselves and let those columns lie, 
 
332 A WEEK 
 
 Not stoop to raise a foil against the sky. 
 Where is the spirit of that time but in 
 This present day, perchance the present line ? 
 Three thousand years ago are not agone, 
 They are still lingering in this summer morn, 
 And Memnon s Mother sprightly greets us now, 
 Wearing her youthful radiance on her hrow. 
 If Carnac s columns still stand on the plain, 
 To enjoy our opportunities they remain. 
 
 In these parts dwelt the famous Sachem Pas- 
 aconaway, who was seen by Gookin "at Paw- 
 tucket, when he was about one hundred and 
 twenty years old." He was reputed a wise man 
 and a powwow, and restrained his people from 
 going to war with the English. They believed 
 "that he could make water burn, rocks move, 
 and trees dance, and metamorphose himself 
 into a flaming man; that in winter he could 
 raise a green leaf out of the ashes of a dry one, 
 and produce a living snake from the skin of a 
 dead one, and many similar miracles." In 
 1660, according to Gookin, at a great feast and 
 dance, he made his farewell speech to his peo 
 ple, in which he said that as he was not likely 
 to see them met together again, he would leave 
 them this word of advice, to take heed how they 
 quarreled with their English neighbors, for 
 though they might do them much mischief at 
 first, it would prove the means of their own 
 destruction. He himself, he said, had been as 
 
WEDNESDAY 333 
 
 much an enemy to the English at their first 
 coming as any, and had used all his arts to de 
 stroy them, or at least to prevent their settle 
 ment, but could by no means effect it. Gookin 
 thought that he "possibly might have such a 
 kind of spirit upon him as was upon Balaam, 
 who, in Numbers xxiii. 23, said, Surely, there 
 is no enchantment against Jacob, neither is 
 there any divination against Israel. His son 
 Wannalancet carefully followed his advice, and 
 when Philip s war broke out, he withdrew his 
 followers to Penacook, now Concord in New 
 Hampshire, from the scene of the war. On his 
 return afterwards, he visited the minister of 
 Chelmsford, and, as is stated in the history of 
 that town, "wished to know whether Chelms 
 ford had suffered much during the war; and 
 being informed that it had not, and that God 
 should be thanked for it, Wannalancet replied, 
 Me next. " 
 
 Manchester was the residence of John Stark, 
 a hero of two wars, and survivor of a third, 
 and at his death the last but one of the Ameri 
 can generals of the Revolution. He was born 
 in the adjoining town of Londonderry, then 
 Nutfield, in 1728. As early as 1752, he was 
 taken prisoner by the Indians while hunting 
 in the wilderness near Baker s River; he per 
 formed notable service as a captain of rangers 
 
334 A WEEK 
 
 in the French war; commanded a regiment of 
 the New Hampshire militia at the battle of 
 Bunker Hill; and fought and won the battle 
 of Bennington in 1777. He was past service in 
 the last war, and died here in 1822, at the age 
 of ninety -four. His monument stands upon the 
 second bank of the river, about a mile and a 
 half above the falls, and commands a prospect^ 
 several miles up and down the Merrimack. It 
 suggested how much more impressive in the 
 landscape is the tomb of a hero than the dwell 
 ings of the inglorious living. Who is most 
 dead, a hero by whose monument you stand, 
 or his descendants of whom you have never 
 heard? 
 
 The graves of Pasaconaway and Wannalan- 
 cet are marked by no monument on the bank of 
 their native river. 
 
 Every town which we passed, if we may be 
 lieve the Gazetteer, had been the residence of 
 some great man. But though we knocked at 
 many doors, and even made particular inqui 
 ries, we could not find that there were any now 
 living. Under the head of Litchfield we 
 read : 
 
 "The Hon. Wyseman Clagett closed his life 
 in this town." According to another, "He was 
 a classical scholar, a good lawyer, a wit, and a 
 poet." We saw his old gray house just below 
 
WEDNESDAY 335 
 
 Great Nesenkeag Brook. Under the head of 
 Merrimack: "Hon. Mathew Thornton, one of 
 the signers of the Declaration of American In 
 dependence, resided many years in this town." 
 His house too we saw from the river. " Dr. 
 Jonathan Gove, a man distinguished for his ur 
 banity, his talents and professional skill, resided 
 in this town [Goffstown]. He was one of the 
 oldest practitioners of medicine in the county. 
 He was many years an active member of the 
 legislature." "Hon. Robert Means, who died 
 January 24, 1823, at the age of 80, was for a 
 long period a resident in Amherst. He was a 
 native of Ireland. In 1764 he came to this 
 country, where, by his industry and application 
 to business, he acquired a large property, and 
 great respect." "William Stinson [one of the 
 first settlers of Dunbarton], born in Ireland, 
 came to Londonderry with his father. He was 
 much respected and was a useful man. James 
 Rogers was from Ireland, and father to Major 
 Robert Rogers. He was shot in the woods, 
 being mistaken for a bear." "Rev. Matthew 
 Clark, second minister of Londonderry, was a 
 native of Ireland, who had in early life been an 
 officer in the army, and distinguished himself in 
 the defense of the city of Londonderry, when 
 besieged by the army of King James II., A. D. 
 1688-89. He afterwards relinquished a mili- 
 
336 A WEEK 
 
 tary life for the clerical profession. He pos 
 sessed a strong mind, marked by a considerable 
 degree of eccentricity. He died January 25, 
 1735, and was borne to the grave, at his particu 
 lar request, by his former companions in arms, 
 of whom there were a considerable number 
 among the early settlers of this town; several 
 of them had been made free from taxes through 
 out the British dominions by King William, 
 for their bravery in that memorable siege." 
 Colonel George Reid and Captain David 
 M Clary, also citizens of Londonderry, were 
 "distinguished and brave" officers. "Major 
 Andrew M Clary, a native of this town [Epsom], 
 fell at the battle of Breed s Hill." Many of 
 these heroes, like the illustrious Roman, were 
 ploughing when the news of the massacre at 
 Lexington arrived, and straightway left their 
 ploughs in the furrow, and repaired to the scene 
 of action. Some miles from where we now 
 were, there once stood a guide-post on which 
 were the words, " 3 miles to Squire Mac- 
 Gaw s." 
 
 But, generally speaking, the land is now, at 
 any rate, very barren of men, and we doubt if 
 there are as many hundreds as we read of. It 
 may be that we stood too near. 
 
 Uncannunuc Mountain in Goffstown was vis 
 ible from Amoskeag, five or six miles westward. 
 
WEDNESDAY 337 
 
 It is the northeasternmost in the horizon, which 
 we see from our native town, but seen from 
 there is too ethereally blue to be the same which 
 the like of us have ever climbed. Its name is 
 said to mean "The Two Breasts," there being 
 two eminences some distance apart. The high 
 est, which is about fourteen hundred feet above 
 the sea, probably affords a more extensive view 
 of the Merrimack valley and the adjacent coun 
 try than any other hill, though it is somewhat 
 obstructed by woods. Only a few short reaches 
 of the river are visible, but you can trace its 
 course far downstream by the sandy tracts on 
 its banks. 
 
 A little south of Uncannunuc, about sixty 
 years ago, as the story goes, an old woman who 
 went out to gather pennyroyal tripped her foot 
 in the bail of a small brass kettle in the dead 
 grass and bushes. Some say that flints and 
 charcoal and some traces of a camp were also 
 found. This kettle, holding about four quarts, 
 is still preserved and used to dye thread in. It 
 is supposed to have belonged to some old French 
 or Indian hunter, who was killed in one of his 
 hunting or scouting excursions, and so never 
 returned to look after his kettle. 
 
 But we were most interested to hear of the 
 pennyroyal; it is soothing to be reminded that 
 wild nature produces anything ready for the use 
 
338 A WEEK 
 
 of man. Men know that something is good. 
 One says that it is yellow-dock, another that it 
 is bitter-sweet, another that it is slippery -elm 
 bark, burdock, catnip, calamint, elecampane, 
 thoroughwort, or pennyroyal. A man may es 
 teem himself happy when that which is his food 
 is also his medicine. There is no kind of herb, 
 but somebody or other says that it is good. I 
 am very glad to hear it. It reminds me of the 
 first chapter of Genesis. But how should they 
 know that it is good? That is the mystery to 
 me. I am always agreeably disappointed; it is 
 incredible that they should have found it out. 
 Since all things are good, men fail at last to 
 distinguish which is the bane and which the 
 antidote. There are sure to be two prescrip 
 tions diametrically opposite. Stuff a cold and 
 starve a cold are but two ways. They are the 
 two practices both always in full blast. Yet 
 you must take advice of the one school as if 
 there was no other. In respect to religion and 
 the healing art, all nations are still in a state of 
 barbarism. In the most civilized countries the 
 priest is still but a Powwow, and the physi 
 cian a Great Medicine. Consider the deference 
 which is everywhere paid to a doctor s opinion. 
 Nothing more strikingly betrays the credulity 
 of mankind than medicine. Quackery is a thing 
 universal, and universally successful. In this 
 
WEDNESDAY 339 
 
 case it becomes literally true that no imposition 
 is too great for the credulity of men. Priests 
 and physicians should never look one another in 
 the face. They have no common ground, nor 
 
 is there any to mediate between them. When 
 
 the one comes, the other goes. They could not I 
 come together without laughter, or a significant 
 silence, for the one s profession is a satire on I 
 the other s, and cither s success would be the / 
 other s failure. It is wonderful that the physi- " 
 cian should ever die, and that the priest should 
 ever live. Why is it that the priest is never 
 called to consult with the physician? Is it 
 because men believe practically that matter is 
 independent of spirit? But what is quackery? 
 It is commonly an attempt to cure the diseases 
 of a man by addressing his body alone. There 
 is need of a physician who shall minister to both 
 soul and body at once, that is, to man. Now 
 he falls between two stools. 
 
 After passing through the locks, we had poled 
 ourselves through the canal here, about half a 
 mile in length, to the boatable part of the river. 
 Above Amoskeag the river spreads out into a 
 lake reaching a mile or two without a bend. 
 There were many canal-boats here bound up to 
 Hooksett, about eight miles, and as they were 
 going up empty, with a fair wind, one boatman 
 offered to take us in tow if we would wait. But 
 
840 A WEEK 
 
 when we came alongside, we found that they 
 meant to take us on board, since otherwise we 
 should clog their motions too much; but as our 
 boat was too heavy to be lifted aboard, we pur 
 sued our way up the stream, as before, while 
 the boatmen were at their dinner, and came to 
 anchor at length under some alders on the op 
 posite shore, where we could take our lunch. 
 Though far on one side, every sound was wafted 
 over to us from the opposite bank, and from the 
 harbor of the canal, and we could see every 
 thing that passed. By and by came several 
 canal-boats, at intervals of a quarter of a mile, 
 standing up to Hooksett with a light breeze, 
 and one by one disappeared round a point 
 above. With their broad sails set, they moved 
 slowly up the stream in the sluggish and fitful 
 breeze, like one-winged antediluvian birds, and 
 as if impelled by some mysterious counter-cur 
 rent. It was a grand motion, so slow and 
 stately, this "standing out," as the phrase is, 
 expressing the gradual and steady progress of 
 a vessel, as if it were by mere rectitude and dis 
 position, without shuffling. Their sails, which 
 stood so still, were like chips cast into the cur 
 rent of the air to show which way it set. At 
 length the boat which we had spoken came 
 along, keeping the middle of the stream, and 
 when within speaking distance, the steersman 
 
WEDNESDAY 341 
 
 called out ironically to say that if we could 
 come alongside now, he would take us in tow; 
 but not heeding his taunt, we still loitered in the 
 shade till we had finished our lunch, and when 
 the last boat had disappeared round the point 
 with flapping sail, for the breeze had now sunk 
 to a zephyr, with our own sails set, and plying 
 our oars, we shot rapidly up the stream in pur 
 suit, and as we glided close alongside, while 
 they were vainly invoking 2Eolus to their aid, 
 we returned their compliment by proposing, if 
 they would throw us a rope, to "take them in 
 tow," to which these Merrimack sailors had no 
 suitable answer ready. Thus we gradually over 
 took and passed each boat in succession until 
 we had the river to ourselves again. 
 
 Our course this afternoon was between Man 
 chester and Goffstown. 
 
 While we float here, far from that tributary 
 stream on whose banks our Friends and kindred 
 dwell, our thoughts, like the stars, come out of 
 their horizon still; for there circulates a finer 
 blood than Lavoisier has discovered the laws of, 
 the blood, not of kindred merely, but of 
 kindness, whose pulse still beats at any distance 
 and forever. 
 
342 A WEEK 
 
 True kindness is a pure divine affinity, 
 Not founded upon human consanguinity. 
 It is a spirit, not a blood relation, 
 Superior to family and station. 
 
 After years of vain familiarity, some distant 
 gesture or unconscious behavior, which we re 
 member, speaks to us with more emphasis than 
 the wisest or kindest words. We are sometimes 
 made aware of a kindness long passed, and real 
 ize that there have been times when our Friends 
 thoughts of us were of so pure and lofty a char 
 acter that they passed over us like the winds of 
 heaven unnoticed ; when they treated us not as 
 what we were, but as what we aspired to be. 
 There has just reached us, it may be, the no 
 bleness of some such silent behavior, not to be 
 forgotten, not to be remembered, and we shud 
 der to think how it fell on us cold, though in 
 some true but tardy hour we endeavor to wipe 
 off these scores. 
 
 In my experience, persons, when they are 
 made the subject of conversation, though with 
 a Friend, are commonly the most prosaic and 
 trivial of facts. The universe seems bankrupt 
 as soon as we begin to discuss the character of 
 individuals. Our discourse all runs to slander, 
 and our limits grow narrower as we advance. 
 How is it that we are impelled to treat our old 
 Friends so ill when we obtain new ones? The 
 
WEDNESDAY 343 
 
 housekeeper says, I never had any new crockery 
 in my life but I began to break the old. I say, 
 let us speak of mushrooms and forest trees 
 rather. Yet we can sometimes afford to re 
 member them in private. 
 
 Lately, alas, I knew a gentle boy, 
 
 Whose features all were cast in Virtue s mould, 
 As one she had designed for Beauty s toy, 
 
 But after manned him for her own strong-hold. 
 
 On every side he open was as day, 
 
 That you might see no lack of strength within, 
 
 For walls and ports do only serve alway 
 For a pretense to feebleness and sin,. 
 
 Say not that Caesar was victorious, 
 
 With toil and strife who stormed the House of Fame, 
 In other sense this youth was glorious, 
 
 Himself a kingdom wheresoe er he came. 
 
 No strength went out to get him victory, 
 
 When all was income of its own accord ; 
 For where he went none other was to see, 
 
 But all were parcel of their noble lord. 
 
 He forayed like the subtile haze of summer, 
 That stilly shows fresh landscapes to our eyes, 
 
 And revolutions works without a murmur, 
 Or rustling of a leaf beneath the skies. 
 
 So was I taken unawares by this, 
 
 I quite forgot my homage to confess ; 
 Yet now am forced to know, though hard it is, 
 
 I might havejoved him had I loved him less. __ 
 
 Each moment as we nearer drew to each, 
 A stern respect withheld us farther yet, 
 
844 A WEEK 
 
 So that we seemed beyond each other s reach, 
 And less acquainted than when first we met 
 
 We two were one while we did sympathize, ^S 
 So could we not the simplest bargain drive ; i 
 
 And what avails it now that we are wise, 
 
 If absence doth this doubleness contrive ?^/ 
 
 Eternity may not the chance repeat, 
 But I must tread my single way alone, 
 
 In sad remembrance that we once did meet, 
 And know that bliss irrevocably gone. 
 
 Th 
 
 e spheres henceforth my elegy shall sing, 
 For elegy has other subject none ; 
 Each strain of music in my ears shall ring 
 Knell of departure from that other one. 
 
 Make haste andj 
 
 With fitting strain resound ye woods and fields ; 
 Sorrow is dearer Jn such case to me 
 
 Than all the joys other occasion yields. 
 
 Is t then too late the damage to repair ? 
 
 Distance, forsooth, from my weak grasp hath reft 
 The empty husk, and clutched the useless tare, 
 
 But in my hands the wheat and kernel left. 
 
 If I but love that virtue which he is, 
 
 Though it be scented in the morning air, 
 
 Still shall we be truest acquaintances, 
 Nor mortals know a sympathy more rare. 
 
 Friendship is evanescent in every man s ex 
 perience, and remembered like heat lightning in 
 past^ummers. Fair and flitting like a summer 
 cloud ;j there is always some vapor in the air, 
 
WEDNESDAY 34 
 
 no matter how long the drought ; there are even 
 April showers. Surely from time to time, for 
 its vestiges never depart, it floats through our 
 atmosphere. It takes place, like vegetation in 
 so many materials, because there is such a law, 
 but always without permanent form, though an 
 cient and familiar as the sun and moon, and as 
 sure to come again. _The heart is forever inex 
 perienced.. They silently gather as by magic, 
 these never failing, never quite deceiving vi 
 sions, like the bright and fleecy clouds in the 
 calmest and clearest days. The Friend is some 
 fair floating isle of palms eluding the mariner 
 in Pacific seas. Many are the dangers to be 
 encountered, equinoctial gales and coral reefs, 
 ere he may sail before the constant trades. But 
 who would not sail through mutiny and storm, 
 even over Atlantic waves, to reach the fabulous 
 retreating shores of some continent man ? / The 
 imagination still clings to the faintest tradition 
 of 
 
 THE ATLANTIDES. 
 
 The smothered streams of love, which flow 
 
 More bright than Phlegethon, more low, 
 
 Island us ever, like the sea, 
 
 In an Atlantic mystery. 
 
 Our fabled shores none ever reach, 
 
 No mariner has found our beach, 
 
 Scarcely our mirage now is seen, 
 
 And neighboring waves with floating green, 
 
 Yet still the oldest charts contain 
 
346 A WEEK 
 
 Some dotted outline of our main ; 
 
 In ancient times midsummer days 
 
 Unto the western islands gaze, 
 
 To Teneriffe and the Azores, 
 
 Have shown our faint and cloud-like shores. 
 
 But sink not yet, ye desolate isles, 
 Anon your coast with commerce smiles, 
 And richer freights ye 11 furnish far 
 Than Africa or Malabar. 
 Be fair, be fertile evermore, 
 Ye rumored but untrodden shore, 
 Princes and monarchs will contend 
 Who first unto your land shall send, 
 And pawn the jewels of the crown 
 To call your distant soil their own. 
 
 Columbus has sailed westward of these isles 
 by the mariner s compass, but neither he nor 
 his successors have found them. We are no 
 nearer than Plato was. The earnest seeker 
 and hopeful discoverer of this New World al 
 ways haunts the outskirts of his time, and walks 
 through the densest crowd uninterrupted, and, 
 as it were, in a straight line. 
 
 Sea and land are but his neighbors, 
 
 And companions in his labors, 
 
 Who on the ocean s verge and firm land s end 
 
 Doth long and truly seek his Friend. 
 
 Many men dwell far inland, 
 
 But he alone sits on the strand. 
 
 Whether he ponders men or books 
 
 Always still he seaward looks, 
 
 Marine news he ever reads, 
 
 And the slightest glances heeds, 
 
WEDNESDAY 347 
 
 Feels the sea breeze on his cheek, 
 At each word the landsmen speak 
 In every companion s eye 
 A sailing vessel doth descry ; 
 In the ocean s sullen roar 
 From some distant port he hears 
 Of wrecks upon a distant shore, 
 And the ventures of past years. 
 
 Who does not walk on the plain as amid the 
 columns of Tadmore of the desert? There is t 
 on the earth no institution which Friendship 1 
 has established; it is not taught by any reli- * 
 gion ; no scripture contains its maxims. It has 
 no temple, nor even a solitary column. There 
 goes a rumor that the earth is inhabited, but 
 the shipwrecked mariner has not seen a foot 
 print on the shore. The hunter has found only 
 fragments of pottery and the monuments of 
 inhabitants. 
 
 However, our fates at least are social. Our 
 courses do not diverge; but as the web of des 
 tiny is woven it is fulled, and we are cast more 
 and more into the centre. Men naturally, 
 though feebly, seek this alliance, and their ac 
 tions faintly foretell it. We are inclined to lay 
 the chief stress on likeness and not on differ 
 ence, and in foreign bodies we admit that there 
 are many degrees of warmth below blood heat, 
 but none of cold above it. 
 
 Mencius says: "If one loses a fowl or a dog, 
 
348 A WEEK 
 
 he knows well how to seek them again; if one 
 loses the sentiments of his heart, he does not 
 know how to seek them again. . . . The duties^ 
 of practical philosophy consist only in seeking 1 
 after those sentiments of the heart which we/ 
 have lost; that is all." ^ J 
 
 One or two persons come to my house from 
 time to time, there being proposed to them the 
 faint possibility of intercourse. They are as 
 full as they are silent, and wait for my plectrum 
 to stir the strings of their lyre. If they could 
 ever come to the length of a sentence, or hear 
 one, on that ground they are dreaming of! 
 They speak faintly, and do not obtrude them 
 selves. They have heard some news, which 
 none, not even they themselves, can impart. 
 It is a wealth they can bear about them which 
 can be expended in various ways. What came 
 they out to seek? 
 
 /No word is oftener on the lips of men than 
 Friendship, and indeed no thought is more fa- I 
 miliar to their aspirations. All men are dream- * 
 ing of it, and its drama, which is always a trag 
 edy, is enacted daily. ; It is the secret of the 
 universe. You may thread the town, you may 
 wander the country, and none shall ever speak 
 of it, yet thought is everywhere busy about it, 
 and the idea of what is possible in this respect 
 
WEDNESDAY 349 
 
 affects our behavior toward all new men and 
 women, and a great many old ones. Neverthe 
 less, I can remember only two or three essays 
 on this subject in all literature. No wonder 
 that the Mythology, and Arabian Nights, and 
 Shakespeare, and Scott s novels entertain us, 
 we are poets and fablers and dramatists and 
 novelists ourselves. We are continually acting 
 a part in a more interesting drama than any 
 written. We are dreaming that our Friends ; 
 are our Friends , and that we are our Friends 
 Friends. Our actual Friends are but distant 
 relations of those to whom we are pledged. 
 We never exchange more than three words with 
 . a Friend in our lives on that level to which our 
 thoughts and feelings almost habitually rise. 
 One goes forth prepared to say, "Sweet 
 Friends!" and the salutation is, "Damn your 
 eyes! " But never mind; faint heart never won 
 true Friend. O my Friend, may it come to 
 pass once, that when you are my Friend I may, 
 be yours J 
 
 Of what use the friendliest dispositions even, 
 if there are no hours given to Friendship, if it 
 is forever postponed to unimportant duties and 
 relations? Friendship is first, Friendship last. 
 But it is equally impossible to forget our 
 Friends, and to make them answer to our ideal. 
 When they say farewell, then indeed we begin 
 
350 A WEEK 
 
 r 
 to keep them company. How often we find 
 
 ourselves turning our backs on our actual 
 Friends, that we may go and meet their ideal 
 cousins. I would that I were worthy to be any 
 man s Friend. 
 
 What is commonly honored with the name 
 of Friendship is no very profound or powerful 
 instinct. Men do not, after all, love their 
 Friends greatly. I do not often see the farmers 
 made seers and wise to the verge of insanity by 
 their Friendship for one another. They are 
 not often transfigured and translated by love in 
 each other s presence. I do not observe them 
 purified, refined, and elevated by the love of a 
 man. If one abates a little the price of his 
 wood, or gives a neighbor his vote at town- 
 meeting, or a barrel of apples, or lends him his 
 wagon frequently, it is esteemed a rare instance 
 of Friendship. Nor do the farmers wives lead 
 lives consecrated to Friendship. I do not see 
 the pair of farmer Friends of either sex pre 
 pared to stand against the world. There are 
 only two or three couples in history. To say 
 that a man is your Friend means commonly no 
 more than this, that he is not your enemv^. 
 Most contemplate only what would be the acci 
 dental and trifling advantages of Friendship, 
 so that the Friend can assist in time of need, by 
 his substance, or his influence, or his counsel; 
 
WEDNESDAY 351 
 
 but he who foresees such advantages in this 
 relation proves himself blind to its real advan 
 tage, or indeed wholly inexperienced in the re 
 lation itself. Such services are particular and 
 menial, compared with the perpetual and all- 
 embracing service which it is. Even the utmost 
 good-will and harmony and practical kindness * 
 are not sufficient for Friendship, for Friends do 
 not live in harmony merely, as some say, but in 
 melody .j We do not wish for Friends to feed 
 and clothe our bodies, neighbors are kind 
 enough for that, but to do the like office to 
 our spirits. For this few are rich enough, 
 however well disposed they may be. For the 
 most part we stupidly confound one man with 
 another. The dull distinguish only races or 
 nations, or at most classes, but the wise man, 
 individuals. To his Friend a man s peculiar I 
 character appears in every feature and in every \ 
 action, and it is thus drawn out and improved/ 
 by him. 
 
 Think of the importance of Friendship in the 
 education of men. 
 
 " He that hath love and judgment too, 
 Sees more than any other doe." 
 
 It will make a man honest ; it will make him 
 a hero; it will make him a saint. It is the 
 state of the just dealing with the just, the mag 
 nanimous with the magnanimous, the sincere 
 with the sincere, man with man. 
 
352 A WEEK 
 
 And it is well said by another poet, 
 
 " Why love among the virtues is not known, 
 It is that love contracts them all in one." 
 
 All the abuses which are the object of reform 
 with the philanthropist, the statesman, and the 
 housekeeper are unconsciously amended in the 
 intercourse of Friends. A Friend is one who 
 incessantly pays us the compliment of expecting 
 from us all the virtues, and who can appreciate 
 them in us. It takes two to speak the truth, w ^ 
 7 one to speak, and another to hear. How can 
 one treat with magnanimity mere wood and 
 stone? If we dealt only with the false and dis 
 honest, we should at last forget how to speak 
 truth. Only lovers know the value and mag-^X 
 
 Vnanimity of truth, while traders prize a cheap I 
 honesty, and neighbors and acquaintance a 
 cheap civility. In our daily intercourse with 
 men, our nobler faculties are dormant and suf 
 fered to rust. None will pay us the compliment 
 to expect nobleness from us. Though we have 
 gold to give, they demand only copper. We 
 ask our neighbor to suffer himself to be dealt 
 with truly, sincerely, nobly ; but he answers no 
 by his deafness. He does not even hear this 
 prayer. He says practically, I will be content 
 if you treat me as "no better than I should be," 
 as deceitful, mean, dishonest, and selfish. For 
 the most part, we are contented so to deal and 
 
WEDNESDA Y 353 
 
 to be dealt with, and we do not think that for 
 ^the mass of men there is any truer and nobler 
 relation possible. A man may have good neigh 
 bors, so called, and acquaintances, and even 
 companions, wife, parents, brothers, sisters, 
 ^children, who meet himself and one another on 
 this ground only. The State does not demand 
 justice of its members, but thinks that it suc 
 ceeds very well with the least degree of it, 
 hardly more than rogues practice ; and so do the 
 neighborhood and the family. What is com 
 monly called Friendship even is only a little 
 more honor among rogues. 
 
 But sometimes we are said to love another, 
 that is, to stand in a true relation to him, so 
 that we give the best to, and receive the best 
 from, him. Between whom there is hearty 
 truth, there is love; and in proportion to our 
 truthfulness and confidence in one another, our 
 lives are divine and miraculous, and answer to 
 our ideal. There are passages of affection in 
 our intercourse with mortal men and women 
 such as no prophecy had taught us to expect, 
 which transcend our earthly life, and anticipate 
 Heaven for us. What is this Love that may 
 come right into the middle of a prosaic Goffs- 
 town day, equal to any of the gods? that dis 
 covers a new world, fair and fresh and eternal, 
 occupying the place of the old one, when to the 
 
 j 
 
 , y fo^ / 
 
 e] 
 
354 A WEEK 
 
 common eye a dust has settled on the universe? 
 which world cannot else be reached, and does 
 not exist. What other words, we may almost 
 ask, are memorable and worthy to be repeated 
 than those which love has inspired? It is won 
 derful that they were ever uttered. They are 
 few and rare indeed, but, like a strain of music, 
 they are incessantly repeated and modulated by 
 the memory. All other words crumble off with 
 the stucco which overlies the heart. We should 
 not dare to repeat these now aloud. We are 
 not competent to hear them at all times. 
 
 The books for young people say a great deal 
 about the selection of Friends; it is because 
 they really have nothing to say about Friends. 
 They mean associates and confidants merely. 
 "Know that the contrariety of foe and Friend 
 proceeds from God." Friendship takes place 
 between those who have an affinity for one an 
 other, and is a perfectly natural and inevitable 
 result. No professions nor advances will avail. 
 Even speech, at first, necessarily has nothing to 
 do with it ; but it follows after silence, as the 
 buds in the graft do not put forth into leaves 
 till long after the graft has taken. It is a 
 drama in which the parties have no part to act. 
 We are all Mussulmans and fatalists in this 
 respect. Impatient and uncertain lovers think 
 that they must say or do something kind when- 
 
WEDNESDAY 355 
 
 ever they meet; they must never be [cold/ But 
 they who are Friends do not do what they think 
 they must, but what they must. Even their 
 Friendship is to some extent but a sublime phe 
 nomenon to them. 
 
 The true and not despairing Friend will ad 
 dress his Friend in some such terms as these. 
 
 "I never asked thy leave to let me love thee, 
 I have a right. I love thee not as something 
 private and personal, which is your own, but as 
 something universal and worthy of love, which 
 I have found. Oh, how I think of you ! You 
 are purely good, you are infinitely good. I 
 can trust you forever. I did not think that hu 
 manity was so rich. Give me an opportunity 
 to live." 
 
 "You are the fact in a fiction, you are the 
 truth more strange and admirable than fiction. 
 Consent only to be what you are. I alone will 
 never stand in your way." 
 
 "This is what I would like, to be as inti 
 mate with you as our spirits are intimate, 
 respecting you as I respect my ideal. Never to 
 profane one another by word or action, even by 
 a thought. Between us, if necessary, let there 
 be no acquaintance." 
 
 " I have discovered you ; how can you be con- 
 cealed from me?" 
 
856 A WEEK 
 
 The Friend asks no return but that his Friend 
 will religiously accept and wear and not dis 
 grace his apotheosis of him. They cherish each 
 other s hopes. They are kind to each other s 
 dreams. 
 
 Though the poet says, " T is the preeminence 
 of Friendship to impute excellence," yet we can 
 never praise our Friend, nor esteem him praise 
 worthy, nor let him think that he can please us 
 by any behavior, or ever treat us well enough. 
 That kindness which has so good a reputation 
 elsewhere can least of all consist with this rela 
 tion, and no such affront can be offered to a 9 
 Friend, as a conscious good-will, a friendliness ( 
 which is not a necessity of the Friend s nature. ^) 
 
 The sexes are naturally most strongly at 
 tracted to one another by constant constitu 
 tional differences, and are most commonly and 
 surely the complements of each other. How 
 natural and easy it is for man to secure the 
 attention of woman to what interests himself. 
 Men and women of equal culture, thrown to 
 gether, are sure to be of a certain value to one 
 another, more than men to men. There exists 
 already a natural disinterestedness and liberal 
 ity in such society, and I think that any man 
 will more confidently carry his favorite books to 
 read to some circle of intelligent women, than 
 to one of his own sex. The visit of man to man 
 
WEDNESDAY 357 
 
 is wont to be an interruption, but the sexes nat 
 urally expect one another. Yet Friendship is 
 no respecter of sex ; and perhaps it is more rare 
 between the sexes than between two of the same 
 sex. 
 
 [Friendship is, at any rate, a relation of per- - 
 feet equality. It cannot well spare any outward 
 sign of equal obligation and advantage. The 
 nobleman can never have a Friend among his 
 retainers, nor the king among his subjects.; 
 Not that the parties to it are in all respects 
 equal, but they are equal in all that respects or 
 affects their Friendship. The one s love is ex 
 actly balanced and represented by the other s. , 
 Persons are only the vessels which contain the 
 nectar, and the hydrostatic paradox is the sym 
 bol of love s law. It finds its level and rises to 
 its fountain-head in all breasts, and its slender 
 est column balances the ocean. 
 
 " And love as well the shepherd can 
 As can the mighty nobleman." 
 
 The one sex is not, in this respect, more tender 
 than the other. A hero s love is as delicate as 
 a maiden s. 
 
 Confucius said, "Never contract Friendship 
 with a man who is not better than thyself." It 
 is the merit and preservation of Friendship, that 
 it takes place on a level higher than the actual 
 characters of the parties would seem to warrant. 
 
358 A WEEK 
 
 The rays of light come to us in such a curve 
 that every man whom we meet appears to be 
 taller than he actually is. Such foundation has 
 civility. My Friend is that one whom I can 
 associate with my choicest thought. ^ I always 
 assign to him a nobler employment in my ab 
 sence than I ever find him engaged in ; and I 
 imagine that the hours which he devotes to me 
 were snatched from a higher society. The sorest 
 insult which I ever received from a Friend was 
 when he behaved with the license which only 
 long and cheap acquaintance allows to one s 
 faults, in my presence, without shame, and still 
 addressed me in friendly accents. Beware, lest 
 thy Friend learn at last to tolerate one frailty 
 of thine, and so an obstacle be raised to the 
 progress of thy love. There are times when we 
 have had enough even of our Friends, when we 
 begin inevitably to profane one another, and 
 must withdraw religiously into solitude and 
 silence, the better to prepare ourselves forja, 
 loftier intimacy.J Silence is the ambrosial 
 night in the intercourse of Friends, in which 
 their sincerity is recruited and takes deeper 
 
 Friendship is never established as an 
 stood relation. JDo^j^u^leniand that I be less 
 your Friend that you may know-4t? Yet what 
 right have I to think that another cherishes so 
 
WEDNESDA Y 359 
 
 rare a sentiment for me? It is a miracle which 
 requires constant proofs. It is an exercise of 
 the purest imagination and the rarest faith. It 
 says by a silent but eloquent behavior, "I 
 will be so related to thee as thou canst imagine ; 
 even so thou mayest believe. I will spend 
 truth, all my wealth on thee," and the 
 Friend responds silently through his nature and 
 life, and treats his Friend with the same divine 
 courtesy. He knows us literally through thick 
 and thin. He neverasks for a sign of love, but 
 can distinguish it by tne features which it nat 
 urally^ wears. We never need to stand upon 
 ceremony with him with regard to his visits. 
 Wait not till I invite thee, but observe that I 
 am glad to see thee when thou comest. It 
 would be paying too dear for thy visit to ask for 
 it. Where my Friend lives there are all riches 
 and every attraction, and no slight obstacle can 
 keep me from him. Let me never have to tell 
 thee what I have not to tell. Let our inter 
 course be wholly above ourselves, and draw us 
 up to it. 
 
 The language of Friendship is not words, but? 
 meanings. It is an intelligence above language.^ 
 One imagines endless conversations with his 
 Friend, in which the tongue shall be loosed, and 
 thoughts be spoken without hesitancy or end; 
 but the experience is commonly far otherwise. 
 
360 A WEEK 
 
 Acquaintances may come and go, and have a 
 word ready for every occasion ; but what puny 
 
 word shall he utter whose very breath is thought 
 
 f""^ rft, 
 
 and meaning? {Suppose you go to bid farewell*^ 
 
 to your Friend who is setting out on a journey; 
 what other outward sign do you know than to 
 shake his hand ? Have you any palaver ready 
 for him then ? any box of salve to commit to his 
 pocket? any particular message to send by him? 
 any statement which you had forgotten to 
 make ? as if you could forget anything. No, 
 it is much that you take his hand and say Fare 
 well ; that you could easily omit ; so far custom 
 has prevailed. It is even painful, if he is to 
 go, that he should linger so long. If he must 
 go, let him go quickly. Have you any last 
 words? Alas, it is only the word of words, 
 which you have so long sought and found not; 
 you have not a first word yelTj There are few 
 even whom I should venture to call earnestly 
 by their most proper names. A name pro 
 nounced is the recognition of the individual to 
 whom it belongs. He who can pronounce my 
 name aright, he can call me, and is entitled to 
 my love and service. Yet reserve is the free 
 dom and abandonment of lovers. It is the re 
 serve of what is hostile or indifferent in their 
 natures, to give place to what is kindred and 
 harmonious. / 
 
WEDNESDAY 361 
 
 The violence of love is as much to be dreaded 
 as that of hate. When it is durable it is serene 
 and equable* Even its famous pains begin only 
 with the ebb of love, for few are indeed lovers, 
 though all would fain be. It is one proof of a 
 man s fitness for Friendship that he is able to 
 
 do without that which is cheap and passionate^ 
 
 - * * f\ 
 
 A true Friendship is as wise as it is tender. * 
 The parties to it yield implicitly to the guidance / 
 of their love, and know no other law nor kind 
 ness. It is not extravagant and insane, but 
 what it says is something established henceforth, 
 and will bear to be stereotyped. It is a truer 
 truth, it is better and fairer news, and no time 
 will ever shame it, or prove it false. This is a 
 plant which thrives best in a temperate zone, 
 where summer and winter alternate with one 
 another. The Friend is a necessarius, and 
 meets his Friend on homely ground; not on 
 carpets and cushions, but on the ground and 
 on rocks they will sit, obeying the natural and 
 primitive laws. They will meet without any 
 outcry, and part without loud sorrow. Their 
 relationimplies such qualities as the warrior 
 "tor it takes a valor to open the hearts of 
 asTweH as the gates of castles. It is not 
 an idle sympathy and mutual consolation merely, 
 but a heroic sympathy of aspiration and en 
 deavor. 
 
A WEEK 
 
 " When manhood shall be matched so / 
 That fear can take no place, / 
 Then weary works make warriors / 
 
 Each other to embrace." i 
 
 The Friendship which Wawatam testified for 
 Henry the fur-trader, as described in the lat 
 ter s Adventures, so almost bare and leafless, 
 yet not blossomless nor fruitless, is remem 
 bered with satisfaction and security. The 
 stern, imperturbable warrior, after fasting, soli 
 tude, and mortification of body, comes to the 
 white man s lodge, and affirms that he is the 
 white brother whom he saw in his dream, and 
 adopts him henceforth. He buries the hatchet 
 as it regards his friend, and they hunt and 
 feast and make maple sugar together. "Met 
 als unite from fluxility ; birds and beasts from 
 motives of convenience; fools from fear and 
 stupidity; and just men at sight." If Wawa 
 tam would taste the "white man s milk" with 
 his tribe, or take his bowl of human broth 
 made of the trader s fellow-countrymen, he first 
 finds a place of safety for his Friend, whom he 
 has rescued from a similar fate. At length, 
 after a long winter of undisturbed and happy 
 intercourse in the family of the chieftain in the 
 wilderness, hunting and fishing, they return in 
 the spring to Michilimackinac to dispose of 
 their furs; and it becomes necessary for Wawa- 
 
WEDNESDAY 363 
 
 tarn to take leave of his Friend at the Isle aux 
 Outardes, when the latter, to avoid his enemies, 
 proceeded to the Sault de Sainte Marie, suppos 
 ing that they were to be separated for a short 
 time only. "We now exchanged farewells," 
 says Henry, "with an emotion entirely recipro 
 cal. I did not quit the lodge without the most 
 grateful sense of the many acts of goodness 
 which I had experienced in it, nor without the 
 sincerest respect for the virtues which I had 
 witnessed among its members. All the family 
 accompanied me to the beach; and the canoe 
 had no sooner put off than Wawatam com 
 menced an address to the Kichi Manito, be 
 seeching him to take care of me, his brother, 
 till we should next meet. We had proceeded 
 to too great a distance to allow of our hearing 
 his voice, before Wawatam had ceased to offer 
 up his prayers." We never hear of him again. 
 Friendship is not so kind as is imagined ; it 
 has not much human blood in it, but consists 
 with a certain disregard for men and their erec 
 tions, theJ21n3stiatt-4iu^ while 
 it purifies the air like electricity. There may 
 be the sternest tragedy in the relation of two 
 more than usually innocent and true to their 
 highest instincts. We may call it an essen 
 tially heathenish intercourse, free and irrespon 
 sible in its nature, and practicing all the virtues 
 
364 A WEEK 
 
 gratuitously. It is not the highest sympathy 
 merely, but a pure and lofty society, a frag 
 mentary and godlike intercourse of ancient 
 date, still kept up at f intervals, wliio.h T remem 
 bering itself, does not hesitate to disregard the 
 ^rnihlar rights and dntifta nf hiin^prjy. It re 
 quires immaculate and godlike qualities full- 
 grown, and exists at all only by condescension 
 and anticipation of the remotest future. We 
 love nothing which is merely good and not fair, 
 if such a thing is possible. Nature puts some 
 kind of blossom before every fruit, not simply 
 a calyx behind it. When the Friend comes 
 out of his heathenism and superstition, and 
 breaks his idols, being converted by the pre 
 cepts of a newer testament; when he forgets his 
 mythology, and treats his ,FriV^d like, a, ChH^i 
 tian^ or as he can afford; then Friendship 
 ceases to be Friendship, and becomes charity; 
 that principle which established the almshouse 
 is now beginning with its charity at home, and 
 establishing an almshouse and pauper relations 
 there. 
 
 As for the number which this society admits, 
 it is at any rate to be begun with one, the no 
 blest and greatest that we know, and whether 
 the world will ever carry it further, whether, as 
 Chaucer affirms, 
 
WEDNESDAY 365 
 
 " There be mo sterres in the skie than a pair," 
 
 remains to be proved ; 
 
 " And certaine he is well begone 
 Among a thousand that findeth one." 
 
 We shall not surrender ourselves heartily to any 
 while we are conscious that another is more ^ 
 deserving of our love. Yet Friendship does no 
 stand for numbers ; the Friend does not count 
 his Friends on his fingers ; they are not numera 
 ble. The more there are included by this bond, 
 if they are indeed included, the rarer and di 
 viner the quality of the love that binds them. 
 J am ready to believe that as private and inti 
 mate a relation may exist by which three are 
 embraced, as between two. Indeed, we cannot 
 have too many friends; the virtue which we ap 
 preciate we to some extent appropriate, so that 
 thus we are made at last more fit for every rela 
 tion of life. A base Friendship is of a narrow 
 ing and exclusive tendency, but a noble one is 
 not exclusive ; its very superfluity and dispersed 
 love is the humanity which sweetens society, 
 dnd sympathizes with foreign nations; for 
 though its foundations are private, it^ is, in 
 ^effect, a public affair and a public advantage, 
 and the Friend, more than the father of^Jam- 
 ily, deserves well of the state. 
 
 The only danger in Friendship is that it will 
 3nd. It is a delicate plant, though a native. 
 
366 A WEEK 
 
 The least unworthiness, even if it be unknown 
 to one s self, vitiates it. Let the Friend know 
 that those faults which he observes in his Friend 
 his own faults attract. There is no rule more 
 invariable than that we are paid for n^r tmspj- 
 cions by finding what we suspected. By our 
 narrowness and prejudices we say, I will have 
 so much and such of you, my Friend, no more. 
 Perhaps there are none charitable, none disin 
 terested, none wise, noble, and heroic enough, 
 for a true and lasting Friendship. 
 
 I sometimes hear my Friends complain finely 
 that I do not appreciate their fineness. I shall 
 not tell them whether I do or not. As if they 
 expected a vote of thanks for every fine thing 
 which they uttered or did. Who knows but it 
 was finely appreciated. It may be that your 
 silence was the finest thing of the two. There 
 are some things which a man never speaks of, 
 which are much finer kept silent about. To 
 the highest communications we only lend a silent 
 ear. Our finest relations are not simply kept 
 silent about, but buried under a positive depth 
 of silence never to be revealed. It may be that 
 we are not even yet acquainted. Jn_human in- 
 Jtercourse the tragedy logins, pot when there is_ 
 misunderstanding about words^lxut-whejx silence 
 isjnot understood. Then there can never be an 
 explanation What avails it that another lovoa 
 
WEDNESDA Y 367 
 
 j ^ ^ 
 you, if he does not understand_you ? Such love 
 
 is a curse. What sort of companions are they 
 who are presuming always that their silence is 
 more expressive than yours?^ How foolish, and 
 inconsiderate, and unjust, to conduct as if you 
 were the only party aggrieved^ Has not your i 
 
 always equal ground of complaint ? No 
 ~ doubt my Friends sometimes speak to me in 
 vain, but they do not know what things I hear 
 which they are not aware that they have spoken. 
 I know that I have frequently disappointed 
 them by not giving them words when they ex 
 pected them, or such as they expected. When 
 ever I see my Friend I speak to him; but the 
 expecter, the man with the ears, is not he. 
 They will complain too that you are hard. O 
 ye that would have the cocoanut wrong side 
 outwards, when next I weep I will let you 
 know. They ask for words and deeds, when a * 
 true relation (is word_and_deed. If they know 
 not of these things, how can they be informed ? 
 Je._Q.ften forbear to confess our feelings, not 
 -from pride, but for fear that we could not con 
 tinue to love the one who required us to give 
 such proof of our affection. 
 
 I know a woman who possesses a restless and 
 intelligent mind, interested in her own culture, 
 and earnest to enjoy the highest possible advan- 
 
368 A WEEK 
 
 tages, and I meet her with pleasure as a natural 
 person who not a little provokes me, and I sup 
 pose is stimulated in turn by myself. Yet our 
 acquaintance plainly does not attain to that de 
 gree of confidence and sentiment which women, 
 which all, in fact, covet. I am glad to help 
 her, as I am helped by her ; I like very well to 
 know her with a sort of stranger s privilege, 
 and hesitate to visit her often, like her other 
 Friends. My nature pauses here, I do not well 
 know why. Perhaps she does not_make_-the. 
 highest demand on me^j,__religigus_ demand. 
 Some, with whose prejudices or peculiar bias I 
 have no sympathy, yet inspire me with confi 
 dence, and I trust that they confide in me also 
 as a religious heathen at least, a good Greek. 
 I, too, have principles as well founded as their 
 own. If this person could conceive that, with 
 out willfulness, I associate with her as far as our 
 destinies are coincident, as far as our Good 
 Geniuses permit, and still value such inter 
 course, it would be a grateful assurance to me. 
 I feel as if I appeared careless, indifferent, and 
 without principle to her, not expecting more, 
 and yet not content with less. If she could 
 know that I make an infinite demand on myself, 
 as well as on all others, she would see that this 
 
 is infinitely 
 but 
 
WEDNESDA Y 369 
 
 grounded one, without the principle of growth^ 
 in ifr. For a companion, I require one who will 
 make an equal demand on me with my own gen 
 ius. Such a one will always be rightly tolerant. 
 It is suicide, and corrupts good manners, to 
 welcome any less than this. I value and trust 
 those_who love and_praise my aspiration rather 
 Jha.n my performance. If you would not stop to 
 look at me, but look whither T am looking, and 
 farther, then my education could not dispense 
 with your company. 
 
 My love must be as free 
 
 As is the eagle s wing", 
 Hovering- o er land and sea 
 
 And everything. 
 
 I must not dim my eye 
 
 In thy saloon, 
 I must not leave my sky 
 
 And nightly moon. 
 
 Be not the fowler s net 
 
 Which stays my flight, 
 And craftily is set 
 
 T allure the sight. 
 
 But be the favoring gale 
 
 That bears me on, 
 And still doth fill my sail 
 r When thou art gone_T 
 
 I cannot leave my sky 
 
 For thy caprice, 
 True love would soar as high 
 
 As heaven is. 
 
370 A WEEK 
 
 The eagle would not brook 
 
 Her mate thus won, 
 Who trained his eye to look 
 
 Beneath the sun. 
 
 Few tilings are more difficult than to help a 
 Friend in matters which do not require the aid 
 of Friendship, but only a cheap and trivial ser 
 vice, if your Friendship wants the basis of a 
 thorough practical acquaintance. I stand in 
 the friendliest relation, on social and spiritual 
 grounds, to one who does not perceive what 
 practical skill I have, but when he seeks my 
 assistance in such matters, is wholly ignorant of 
 that one with whom he deals ; does not use my 
 skill, which in such matters is much greater 
 than his, but only my hands. I know another, 
 who, on the contrary, is remarkable for his dis 
 crimination in this respect; who knows how to 
 make use of the talents of others when he does 
 not possess the same; knows when not to look 
 after or oversee, and stops short at his man. It 
 is a rare pleasure to serve him, which all labor 
 ers know. I am not a little pained by the other 
 kind of treatment. It is as if, after the friend 
 liest and most ennobling intercourse, your 
 Friend should use you as a hammer, and drive 
 a nail with your head, all in good faith ; not 
 withstanding that you are a tolerable carpenter, 
 as well as his good Friend, and would use a 
 
WEDNESDAY 371 
 
 hammer cheerfully in his service. This want of 
 perception is a defect which all the virtues of 
 the heart cannot supply : 
 
 The Good how can we trust ? 
 
 Only the Wise are just. 
 
 The Good we use, 
 
 The Wise we cannot choose. 
 
 These there are none above ; 
 
 The Good they know and love, 
 
 But are not known again 
 
 By those of lesser ken. 
 
 They do not charm us with their eyes, 
 
 But they transfix with their advice ; 
 
 No partial sympathy they feel, 
 
 With private woe or private weal, 
 
 But with the universe joy and sigh, 
 
 Whose knowledge is their sympathy. 
 
 Confucius said : " To contract ties of Friend 
 ship with any one is to contract Friendship 
 with his virtue. There ought not to be any 
 other motive in Friendship." ^^men_wish us 
 to contract Friendship with_t^irvicealso. I 
 nave a, Friend who wishes mejbo see that to be 
 right whicff I know_to be wrong. But if 
 Friendship is to rob me of my eyes, if it is to 
 darken the day, I will have none of it. It 
 should be expansive and inconceivably liberaliz 
 ing in its effects. True Friendship can afford 
 true knowledge. It does not depend on dark 
 ness and ignorance. A want of discernment 
 cannot be an ingredient in it. If I can see my 
 
872 A WEEK 
 
 Friend s virtues more distinctly than another s, 
 his faults too are made more conspicuous by 
 contrast. We have not so^good a right to hate 
 anyas our^lMencL Faults are not the less 
 faults because they are invariably balanced by 
 corresponding virtues, and for a fault there is 
 no excuse, though it may appear greater than it 
 is in many ways. I have never known one who 
 could bear criticism, who could not be flattered, 
 who would not bribe his judge, .or was content 
 that the truth should be loved always better 
 than himself,, 
 
 If two travelers would go their way harmoni 
 ously together, the one must take as true and 
 just a view of things as the other, else their 
 path will not be strewn with roses. Yet you 
 can travel profitably and pleasantly even with 
 a blind man, if he practices common courtesy, 
 and when you converse about the scenery will 
 remember that he is blind but that you can see ; 
 and you will not forget that his sense of hearing 
 is probably quickened by his want of sight. 
 Otherwise you will not long keep company. A 
 blind man, and a man in whose eyes there was 
 no defect, were walking together, when they 
 came to the edge of a precipice. "Take care, 
 my friend," said the latter, "here is a steep 
 precipice; go no farther this way." "I know 
 better," said the other, and stepped off. 
 
WEDNESDAY 373 
 
 It is impossible to say all that we think, 
 even to our truest Friend. We may bid him 
 farewell forever sooner than complain, for our 
 complaint is too well grounded to be uttered. 
 There is not so good an understanding between 
 any two, but the exposure by the one of a seri 
 ous fault in the other will produce a misunder 
 standing in proportion to its heinousness. ^The 
 constitutional differences wJiielL. always exist, 
 ^andjareTobstacles tpja_perfect Friendship, are 
 - forever a forbidden theme to the lips of Friends. 
 They advise by their whole behavior. Nothing 
 can_reconcile_them but love. They are fatally 
 late when they undertake to explain and treat 
 with one another like foes. Who will take an 
 f apology_for_ j^JFriend ? They must apologize 
 like dew and frost, which are off again with the 
 sun, and which all men know in their hearts to 
 be beneficent. The necessity itself for explana 
 tion, what explanation will atone for that? 
 
 True love does not quarrel for slight reasons, 
 such mistakes as mutual acquaintances can ex 
 plain away, but, alas, however slight the appar 
 ent cause, only for adequate and fatal and ever 
 lasting reasons, which can never be set aside. 
 Its quarrel, if there is any, is ever recurring, 
 notwithstanding the beams of affection which 
 invariably come to gild its tears; as the rain 
 bow, however beautiful and unerring a sign, 
 
374 A WEEK 
 
 does not promise fair weather forever, but only 
 for a season. I have known two or three per 
 sons pretty well, and yet I have never known 
 advice to be of use but in trivial and transient 
 matters. One may know what another does 
 not, but the utmost kindness cannot impart 
 what is requisite to make the advice useful. 
 We must accept or refuse one another as we 
 are. I could tame a hyena more easily than my 
 Friend. He is a material which no tool of mine 
 will work. A naked savage will fell an oak 
 with a firebrand, and wear a hatchet out of a 
 rock by friction, but I cannot hew the smallest 
 chip out of the character of my Friend, either 
 to beautify or deform it. 
 
 The lover learns at last that there is no per 
 son quite transparent and trustworthy, but 
 every one has a devil in him that is capable of 
 any crime in the long run. Yet, as an Oriental 
 philosopher has said, "Although Friendship be 
 tween good men is interrupted, their principles 
 remain unaltered. The stalk of the lotus may 
 be broken, and the fibres remain connected." 
 
 Ignorance and bungling with love are better 
 than wisdom and skill without. There may be 
 courtesy, there may be even temper, and wit, 
 and talent, and sparkling conversation, there 
 may be good-will even, and yet the humanest 
 
WEDNESDAY 875 
 
 and divinest faculties pine for exercise. Our 
 life without love is like coke and ashes. Men 
 may be pure as alabaster and Parian marble, 
 elegant as a Tuscan villa, sublime as Niagara, 
 and yet if there is no milk mingled with the 
 wine at their entertainments, better is the hos 
 pitality of Goths and Vandals. 
 
 My Friend is not of some other race or fam 
 ily of men, but flesh of my flesh, bone of my 
 bone. He is my real brother. I see his nature 
 groping yonder so like mine. We do not live 
 far apart. Have not the fates associated us in 
 many ways? It says, in the Vishnu Purana: 
 "Seven paces together is sufficient for the 
 friendship of the virtuous, but thou and I have 
 dwelt together." Is it of no significance that 
 we have so long partaken of the same loaf, 
 drank at the same fountain, breathed the same 
 air summer and winter, felt the same heat and 
 cold; that the same fruits have been pleased 
 to refresh us both, and we have never had a 
 thought of different fibre the one from the 
 other ! 
 
 Nature doth have her dawn each day, 
 
 But mine are far between ; 
 Content, I cry, for sooth to say, 
 
 Mine brightest are I ween. 
 
 For when my sun doth deign to rise, 
 
 Though it be her noontide, 
 Her fairest field in shadow lies 
 
 Nor can my light abide. 
 
876 A WEEK 
 
 Sometimes I bask me in her day, 
 
 Conversing with my mate, 
 But if we interchange one ray, 
 
 Forthwith her heats abate. 
 
 Through his discourse I climb and see 
 
 As from some eastern hill, 
 A brighter morrow rise to me 
 
 Than lieth in her skill. 
 
 As t were two summer days in one, 
 
 Two Sundays come together, 
 Our rays united make one sun, 
 
 With fairest summer weather. 
 
 As surely as the sunset in my latest Novem 
 ber shall translate me to the ethereal world, 
 and remind me of the ruddy morning of youth ; 
 as surely as the last strain of music which falls 
 on my decaying ear shall make age tq be for 
 gotten, or, in short, the manifold influences of 
 nature survive during the term of our natural 
 life, so surely my Friend shall forever be my 
 Friend, and reflect a ray of God to me, and 
 time shall foster and adorn and consecrate our 
 Friendship, no less than the ruins of temples. 
 As I love nature, as I love singing birds, and 
 gleaming stubble, and flowing rivers, and morn 
 ing and evening, and summer and winter, I 
 love thee, my Friend. 
 
 But all that can be said of Friendship is like 
 botany to flowers. How can the understanding 
 take account of its friendliness ? 
 
WEDNESDAY 377 
 
 Even the death of Friends will inspire us as 
 much as their lives. They will leave consola 
 tion to the mourners, as the rich leave money to 
 defray the expenses of their funerals, and their 
 memories will be incrusted over with sublime 
 and pleasing thoughts, as monuments of other 
 men are overgrown with moss ; for our Friends 
 have no place in the graveyard.^ 
 
 This to our cis - Alpine and cis - Atlantic 
 Friends. 
 
 Also this other word of entreaty and advice 
 to the large and respectable nation of Acquaint 
 ances, beyond the mountains ; Greeting. 
 
 My most serene and irresponsible neighbors, 
 let us see that we have the whole advantage of 
 each other; we will be useful, at least, if not 
 admirable, to one another. I know that the 
 mountains which separate us are high, and cov 
 ered with perpetual snow, but despair not. Im 
 prove the serene winter weather to scale them. 
 If need be, soften the rocks with vinegar. For 
 here lie the verdant plains of Italy ready to re 
 ceive you. Nor shall I be slow on my side to 
 penetrate to your Provence. Strike then boldly 
 at head or heart or any vital part. Depend 
 upon it, the timber is well seasoned and tough, 
 and will bear rough usage; and if it should 
 crack, there is plenty more where it came from. 
 
378 A WEEK 
 
 I am no piece of crockery that cannot be jostled 
 against my neighbor without danger of being 
 broken by the collision, and must needs ring 
 false and jarringly to the end of my days, 
 when once I am cracked ; but rather one of the 
 old-fashioned wooden trenchers, which one while 
 stands at the head of the table, and at another 
 is a milking-stool, and at another a seat for 
 children, and finally goes down to its grave not 
 unadorned with honorable scars, and does not 
 die till it is worn out. Nothing can shock a 
 brave man but dullness. Think how many re 
 buffs every man has experienced in his day; 
 perhaps has fallen into a horse -pond, eaten 
 fresh-water clams, or worn one shirt for a week 
 without washing. Indeed, you cannot receive 
 a shock unless you have an electric affinity for 
 that which shocks you. Use me, then, for I 
 am useful in my way, and stand as one of many 
 petitioners, from toadstool and henbane up to 
 dahlia and violet, supplicating to be put to my 
 use, if by any means ye may find me service 
 able; whether for a medicated drink or bath, 
 as balm and lavender ; or for fragrance, as ver 
 bena and geranium ; or for sight, as cactus ; or 
 for thoughts, as pansy. These humbler, at 
 least, if not those higher uses. 
 
 Ah, my dear Strangers and Enemies, I would 
 not forget you. I can well afford to welcome 
 
WEDNESDAY 379 
 
 you. Let me subscribe myself Yours ever _ 
 truly, your much obliged servant. We have 
 nothing to fear from our foes; God keeps a 
 standing army for that service ; but we have no 
 ally against our Friends, those ruthless Vandals. 
 
 Once more to one and all, 
 
 "Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers." 
 
 Let such pure hate still underprop 
 Our love, that we may be 
 Each other s conscience, 
 And have our sympathy 
 Mainly from thence. 
 
 We 11 one another treat like gods, 
 And all the faith we have 
 In virtue and in truth, bestow 
 On either, and suspicion leave 
 To gods below. 
 
 Two solitary stars, 
 Unmeasured systems far 
 Between us roll, 
 
 But by our conscious light we are 
 Determined to one pole. 
 
 What need confound the sphere, 
 
 Love can afford to wait, 
 
 For it no hour s too late 
 
 That witnesseth one duty s end, 
 
 Or to another doth beginning lend 
 
 It will subserve no use, 
 
 More than the tints of flowers, 
 
580 A WEEK 
 
 Only the independent guest 
 Frequents its bowers, 
 Inherits its bequest. 
 
 No speech though kind has it, 
 But kinder silence doles 
 Unto its mates, 
 By night consoles, 
 By day congratulates. 
 
 What saith the tongue to tongue ? 
 What heareth ear of ear ? 
 By the decrees of fate 
 From year to year, 
 Does it communicate. 
 
 Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns, 
 No trivial bridge of words, 
 Or arch of boldest span, 
 Can leap the moat that girds 
 The sincere man. 
 
 No show of bolts and bars 
 Can keep the f oeman out, 
 Or scape his secret mine 
 Who entered with the doubt 
 That drew the line. 
 
 No warder at the gate 
 Can let the friendly in, 
 But, like the sun, o er all 
 He will the castle win, 
 And shine along the wall. 
 
 There s nothing in the world I know 
 That can escape from love, 
 For every depth it goes below, 
 And every height above. 
 
WEDNESDA Y 381 
 
 It waits as waits the sky, 
 Until the clouds go by, 
 Yet shines serenely on 
 With an eternal day, 
 Alike when they are gone, 
 And when they stay. 
 
 Implacable is Love, 
 Foes may be bought or teased 
 From their hostile intent, 
 But he goes unappeased 
 Who is on kindness bent. 
 
 Having rowed five or six miles above Amos- 
 keag before sunset, and reached a pleasant part 
 of the river, one of us landed to look for a farm 
 house, where we might replenish our stores, 
 while the other remained cruising about the 
 stream, and exploring the opposite shores to 
 find a suitable harbor for the night. In the 
 mean while the canal-boats began to come round 
 a point in our rear, poling their way along close 
 to the shore, the breeze having quite died away. 
 This time there was no offer of assistance, but 
 one of the boatmen only called out to say, as 
 the truest revenge for having been the losers in 
 the race, that he had seen a wood-duck, which 
 we had scared up, sitting on a tall, white pine, 
 half a mile downstream; and he repeated the 
 assertion several times, and seemed really cha 
 grined at the apparent suspicion with which this 
 information was received. But there sat the 
 summer duck still, undisturbed by us. 
 
382 A WEEK 
 
 By and by the other voyageur returned from 
 his inland expedition, bringing one of the na 
 tives with him, a little flaxen-headed boy, with 
 some tradition, or small edition, of Robinson 
 Crusoe in his head, who had been charmed by 
 the account of our adventures, and asked his fa 
 ther s leave to join us. He examined, at first 
 from the top of the bank, our boat and furni 
 ture, with sparkling eyes, and wished himself 
 already his own man. He was a lively and 
 
 y nteresting boy, and we should have been glad 
 o ship him; but Nathan was still his father s 
 K>y, and had not come to years of discretion. 
 
 We had got a loaf of home-made bread, and 
 musk and water melons for dessert. For this 
 farmer, a clever and well-disposed man, culti 
 vated a large patch of melons for the Hooksett 
 and Concord markets. He hospitably enter 
 tained us the next day, exhibiting his hop-fields 
 and kiln and melon patch, warning us to step 
 over the tight rope which surrounded the latter 
 at a foot from the ground, while he pointed to a 
 little bower at one corner, where it connected 
 rith the lock of a gun ranging with the line, 
 tw nd where, as he informed us, he sometimes 
 sat in pleasant nights to defend his premises 
 against thieves. We stepped high over the line, 
 and sympathized with our host s on the whole 
 quite human, if not humane, interest in the sue- 
 
WEDNESDAY 883 
 
 cess of his experiment. That night especially 
 thieves were to be expected, from rumors in the 
 atmosphere, and the priming was not wet. He 
 was a Methodist man, who had his dwelling 
 between the river and Uncannunuc Mountain; 
 who there belonged, and stayed at home there 
 and by the encouragement of distant political 7 
 organizations, and by his own tenacity, held a 
 property in his melons, and continued to plant. 
 We suggested melon seeds of new varieties and 
 fruit of foreign flavor to be added to his stock. 
 We had come away up here among the hills to 
 learn the impartial and unbribable beneficence 
 of Nature. Strawberries and melons grow as 
 well in one man s garden as another s, and the 
 sun lodges as kindly under his hillside, when 
 we had imagined that she inclined rather to 
 some few earnest and faithful souls whom we 
 know. 
 
 We found a convenient harbor for our boat 
 on the opposite or east shore, still in Hooksett, 
 at the mouth of a small brook which emptied 
 into the Merrimack, where it would be out of 
 the way of any passing boat in the night, for 
 they commonly hug the shore if bound up 
 stream, either to avoid the current, or touch the 
 bottom with their poles, and where it would 
 be accessible without stepping on the clayey 
 shore. We set one of our largest melons to 
 
384 A WEEK 
 
 cool in the still water among the alders at the 
 mouth of this creek, but when our tent was 
 pitched and ready, and we went to get it, it had 
 floated out into the stream, and was nowhere to 
 be seen. So taking the boat in the twilight, we 
 went in pursuit of this property, and at length, 
 after long straining of the eyes, its green disk 
 was discovered far down the river, gently float 
 ing seaward with many twigs and leaves from 
 the mountains that evening, and so perfectly 
 balanced that it had not keeled at all, and no 
 water had run in at the tap which had been 
 taken out to hasten its cooling. 
 
 As we sat on the bank eating our supper, the 
 clear light of the western sky fell on the eastern 
 trees, and was reflected in the water, and we 
 enjoyed so serene an evening as left nothing to 
 describe. For the most part we think that 
 there are few degrees of sublimity, and that the 
 highest is but little higher than that which we 
 now behold ; but we are always deceived. Sub- 
 limer visions appear, and the former pale and 
 fade away. We are grateful when we are re 
 minded by interior evidence of the permanence 
 of universal laws; for our faith is but faintly 
 remembered, indeed, is not a remembered as 
 surance, but a use and enjoyment of knowledge. 
 It is when we do not have to believe, but come 
 into actual contact with Truth, and are related 
 
WEDNESDAY 385 
 
 to her in the most direct and intimate way. 
 Waves of serener life pass over us from time 
 to time, like flakes of sunlight over the fields 
 in cloudy weather. In some happier moment, 
 when more sap flows in the withered stalk of 
 our life, Syria and India stretch away from our 
 present as they do in history. All the events 
 which make the annals of the nations are but 
 the shadows of our private experiences. Sud 
 denly and silently the eras which we call history 
 awake and glimmer in us, and there is room for 
 Alexander and Hannibal to march and conquer. 
 In short, the history which we read is only a 
 fainter memory of events which have happened 
 in our own experience. Tradition is a more 
 interrupted and feebler memory. 
 
 This world is but canvas to our imaginations. 
 I^see men with infinite pains endeavoring ta 
 realize to their bodies, what_j, with at least 
 j?qual pains,w^ldjreajizjLJax-jny imagination, 
 "^ its-capacities : for certainly there is a life of 
 the mind above the wants of the body, and inde 
 pendent of it. Often the body is warmed, but 
 the imagination is torpid ; the body is fat, but 
 the imagination is lean and shrunk. But what 
 avails all other wealth if this is wanting ? " Im 
 agination is the air of mind," in which it lives 
 and breathes. All things are a&I am. Wharg^ 
 tibfi Fm of Change? The past is only so 
 
386 A WEEK 
 
 heroic as we see it. It is the canvas on which 
 our idea of heroism is painted, and so, in one 
 sense, the dim prospectus of our future field. 
 Our circumstances answer to our expectations 
 and the demand of our natures. I have noticed 
 that if a man thinks that he needs a thousand 
 dollars, and cannot be convinced that he does 
 not, he will commonly be found to have them ; 
 if he lives and thinks, a thousand dollars will be 
 forthcoming, though it be to buy shoe-strings 
 with. A thousand mills will be just as slow to 
 come to one who finds it equally hard to con 
 vince himself that he needs them. 
 
 Men are by birth equal in this, that given 
 Themselves and. their condition, they are even. 
 
 I am astonished at the singular pertinacity 
 and endurance of our lives. 
 
 ^ 
 
 that what is is, when it is so difficult, if not im 
 possible, for anything else to be ; that we walk 
 on in our parti(mlar_athssoj^r, before we fall 
 on death and fate, merely because we inust 
 jamjfc in pnmn pntVi ?, f.Tiflt. every man can get a 
 living, and so few can do anything more, ^o 
 much only can I accomplish ere health and 
 fll nf| yet thisjmffices. The 
 
 bird now sits just out of gunshot. I am never 
 rich in money, and I am never meanly poor. 
 If debts are incurred, why, debts are in the 
 course of events canceled, as it were, by the 
 
WEDNESDA Y 387 
 
 same law by which they were incurred. I heard 
 that an engagement was entered into between a 
 certain youth and a maiden, and then I heard 
 that it was broken off, but I did not know the 
 reason in either case. We are hedged about, 
 we think, by accident and circumstance ; now we 
 creep as in a dream, and now again we run, as 
 if there were a fate in it, and all things thwarted 
 or assisted. I cannot change my clothes but 
 when I do, and yet I do change them, and soil 
 the new ones. It is wonderful that this gets 
 done, when some admirable deeds which I could 
 mention do not get done. Our particular lives 
 seem of such fortune and confident strength and 
 durability as piers of solid rock thrown forward 
 into the tide of circumstance. When every 
 other path would fail, with singular and unerr 
 ing confidence we advance on our particular 
 course. What risks we run! famine and fire 
 and pestilence, and the thousand forms of a 
 cruel fate, and yet every man lives till he 
 jdies. How did he manage that? Is there no 
 immediate danger? We wonder superfluously 
 when we hear of a somnambulist walking a 
 plank securely, we have walked a plank all 
 our lives up to this particular string-piece where 
 we are. My life will wait for nobody, but is 
 being matured still without delay, while I go 
 about the streets, and chaffer with this man and 
 
388 A WEEK 
 
 that to secure it a living. It is as indifferent 
 and easy meanwhile as a poor man s dog, and 
 making acquaintance with its kind. It will cut 
 its own channel like a mountain stream, and by 
 the longest ridge is not kept from the sea at 
 last. I have found all things thus far, persons 
 and inanimate matter, elements and seasons, 
 strangely adapted to my resources. No matter 
 what imprudent haste in my career; I am per 
 mitted to be rash. Gulfs are bridged in a 
 twinkling, as if some unseen baggage train car 
 ried pontoons for my convenience, and while 
 from the heights I scan the tempting but unex 
 plored Pacific Ocean of Futurity, the ship is 
 being carried over the mountains piecemeal on 
 the backs of mules and lamas, whose keel shall 
 plough its waves, and bear me to the Indies. 
 Day would not dawn if it were not for 
 
 THE INWARD MORNING. 
 
 Packed in my mind lie all the clothes 
 
 Which outward nature wears, 
 And in its fashion s hourly change 
 
 It all things else repairs. 
 
 In vain I look for change abroad, 
 
 And can no difference find, 
 Till some new ray of peace uncalled 
 
 Illumes my inmost mind. 
 
 What is it gilds the trees and clouds, 
 And paints the heavens so gay, 
 
WEDNESDAY 389 
 
 But yonder fast-abiding light 
 With its unchanging ray ? 
 
 Lo, when the sun streams through the wood 
 
 Upon a winter s morn, 
 Where er his silent beams intrude 
 
 The murky night is gone. 
 
 How could the patient pine have known 
 The morning breeze would come, 
 
 Or humble flowers anticipate 
 The insect s noonday hum, 
 
 Till the new light with morning cheer 
 From far streamed through the aisles, 
 
 And nimbly told the forest trees 
 For many stretching miles ? 
 
 I Ve heard within my inmost soul 
 
 Such cheerful morning news, 
 In the horizon of my mind 
 
 Have seen such orient hues, 
 
 As in the twilight of the dawn, 
 
 When the first birds awake, 
 Are heard within some silent wood, 
 
 Where they the small twigs break, 
 
 Or in the eastern skies are seen, 
 
 Before the sun appears, 
 The harbingers of summer heats 
 
 Which from afar he bears. 
 
 Whole weeks and months of my summer life 
 slide away in thin volumes like mist and smoke, 
 till at length, some warm morning, perchance, 
 I see a sheet of mist blown down the brook to 
 
890 A WEEK 
 
 the swamp, and I float as high above the fields 
 with it. I can recall to mind the stillest sum 
 mer hours, in which the grasshopper sings over 
 the mulleins, and there is a valor in that time 
 the bare memory of which is armor that can 
 laugh at any blow of fortune. For our lifetime 
 the strains of a harp are heard to swell and die 
 alternately, and death is but "the pause when 
 the blast is recollecting itself." 
 
 We lay awake a long while listening to the 
 murmurs of the brook, in the angle formed by 
 whose bank with the river our tent was pitched, 
 and there was a sort of man interest in its story, 
 which ceases not in freshet or in drought the 
 livelong summer, and the profounder lapse of 
 the river was quite drowned by its din. But 
 the rill, whose 
 
 " Silver sands and pebbles sing 
 Eternal ditties with the spring," 
 
 is silenced by the first frosts of winter, while 
 mightier streams, on whose bottom the sun never 
 shines, clogged with sunken rocks and the ruins 
 of forests, from whose surface comes up no mur 
 mur, are strangers to the icy fetters which bind 
 fast a thousand contributory rills. 
 
 I dreamed this night of an event which had 
 occurred long before. It was a difference with 
 a Friend, which had not ceased to give me pain, 
 
WEDNESDA Y 391 
 
 though I had no cause to blame myself. But 
 in my dream ideal justice was at length done 
 me for his suspicions, and I received that com 
 pensation which I had never obtained in my 
 waking hours. I was unspeakably soothed and 
 rejoiced, even after I awoke, because in dreams 
 we never deceive ourselves, nor are deceived, 
 and this seemed to have the authority of a final 
 judgment. 
 
 We bless and curse ourselves. Some dreams 
 are divine, as well as some waking thoughts. 
 Donne sings of one 
 
 " Who dreamt devoutlier than moat use to pray." 
 
 Dreams are the touchstones of our characters. 
 We are scarcely less afflicted when we remem 
 ber some unworthiness in our conduct in a 
 dream, than if it had been actual, and the in 
 tensity of our grief, which is our atonement, 
 measures the degree by which this is separated 
 from an actual unworthiness. For in dreams 
 we but act a part which must have been learned 
 and rehearsed in our waking hours, and no 
 doubt could discover some waking consent 
 thereto. If this meanness had not its founda 
 tion in us, why are we grieved at it? In dreams 
 we see ourselves naked and acting out our real 
 characters, even more clearly than we see others 
 awake. But an unwavering and commanding 
 
892 A WEEK 
 
 virtue would compel even its most fantastic and 
 faintest dreams to respect its ever-wakeful au 
 thority; as we are accustomed to say carelessly, 
 we should never have dreamed of such a thing. 
 Our truest life is when we are in dreams awake. 
 
 " And, more to lulle him in his slumber soft, 
 A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe, 
 And ever-drizzling raine upon the loft, 
 Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne 
 Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne. 
 No other noyse, nor people s troublous cryes, 
 As still are wont t annoy the walled towne, 
 Might there be heard ; but careless Quiet lyes 
 Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enemyea." 
 
THUKSDAY. 
 
 * 4 He trode the unplanted forest floor, whereon 
 The all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone, 
 Where feeds the moose, and walks the surly bear, 
 And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker. 
 
 Where darkness found him he lay glad at night ; 
 There the red morning touched him with its light. 
 
 Go where he will, the wise man is at home, 
 Hie hearth the earth, his hall the azure dome ; 
 Where his clear spirit leads him, there s his road, 
 By God s own light illumined and foreshowed." 
 
 WHEN we awoke this morning, we heard the 
 faint, deliberate, and ominous sound of rain 
 drops on our cotton roof. The rain had pattered 
 all night, and now the whole country wept, the 
 drops falling in the river, and on the alders, 
 and in the pastures, and instead of any bow 
 in the heavens, there was the trill of the hair- 
 bird all the morning. The cheery faith of this 
 little bird atoned for the silence of the whole 
 woodland choir beside. When we first stepped 
 abroad, a flock of sheep, led by their rams, 
 came rushing down a ravine in our rear, with 
 heedless haste and unreserved frisking, as if 
 unobserved by man, from some higher pasture 
 where they had spent the night, to taste the 
 
894 A WEEK 
 
 herbage by the river-side ; but when their lead 
 ers caught sight of our white tent through the 
 mist, struck with sudden astonishment, with 
 their fore-feet braced, they sustained the rush 
 ing torrent in their rear, and the whole flock 
 stood stock-still, endeavoring to solve the mys 
 tery in their sheepish brains. At length, con 
 cluding that it boded no mischief to them, they 
 spread themselves out quietly over the field. 
 We learned afterward that we had pitched our 
 tent on the very spot which a few summers be 
 fore had been occupied by a party of Penob- 
 scots. We could see rising before us through 
 the mist a dark conical eminence called Hook- 
 sett Pinnacle, a landmark to boatmen, and also 
 Uncannunuc Mountain, broad off on the west 
 side of the river. 
 
 This was the limit of our voyage, for a few 
 hours more in the rain would have taken us to 
 the last of the locks, and our boat was too heavy 
 to be dragged around the long and numerous 
 rapids which would occur. On foot, however, 
 we continued up along the bank, feeling our 
 way with a stick through the showery and foggy 
 day, and climbing over the slippery logs in our 
 path with as much pleasure and buoyancy as 
 in brightest sunshine; scenting the fragrance 
 of the pines and the wet clay under our feet, 
 and cheered by the tones of invisible waterfalls; 
 
THURSDAY 395 
 
 with visions of toadstools, and wandering frogs, 
 and festoons of moss hanging from the spruce- 
 trees, and thrushes flitting silent under the 
 leaves ; our road still holding together through 
 that wettest of weather, like faith, while we 
 confidently followed its lead. We managed te 
 keep our thoughts dry, however, and only our 
 clothes were wet. It was altogether a cloudy 
 and drizzling day, with occasional brightenings 
 in the mist, when the trill of the tree-sparrow 
 seemed to be ushering in sunny hours. 
 
 "Nothing that naturally happens to man can 
 hurt him, earthquakes and thunderstorms not 
 exeepted," said a man of genius, who at this 
 time lived a few miles farther on our road. 
 When compelled by a shower to take shelter 
 under a tree, we may improve that opportunity 
 for a more minute inspection of some of Na 
 ture s works. I have stood under a tree in the 
 woods half a day at a time, during a heavy rain 
 in the summer, and yet employed myself happily 
 and profitably there prying with microscopic eye 
 into the crevices of the bark or the leaves of the 
 fungi at my feet. " Riches are the attendants 
 of the miser; and the heavens rain plenteously 
 upon the mountains." I can fancy that it 
 would be a luxury to stand up to one s chin in 
 some retired swamp a whole summer day, scent 
 ing the wild honeysuckle and bilberry blows, 
 
396 A WEEK 
 
 and lulled by the minstrelsy of gnats and mos 
 quitoes ! A day passed in the society of those 
 Greek sages, such as described in the Banquet 
 of Xenophon, would not be comparable with 
 the dry wit of decayed cranberry vines, and the 
 fresh Attic salt of the moss-beds. Say twelve 
 hours of genial and familiar converse with the 
 leopard frog; the sun to rise behind alder and 
 dogwood, and climb buoyantly to his meridian 
 of two hands breadth, and finally sink to rest 
 behind some bold western hummock. To hear 
 the evening chant of the mosquito from a thou 
 sand green chapels, and the bittern begin to 
 boom from some concealed fort like a sunset 
 gun ! Surely one may as profitably be soaked 
 in the juices of a swamp for one day as pick his 
 way dry-shod over sand. Cold and damp, 
 are they not as rich experience as warmth and 
 dryness ? 
 
 At present, the drops come trickling down 
 the stubble while we lie drenched on a bed of 
 withered wild oats, by the side of a bushy hill, 
 and the gathering in of the clouds, with the last 
 rush and dying breath of the wind, and then 
 the regular dripping of twigs and leaves the 
 country over, enhance the sense of inward com 
 fort and sociableness. The birds draw closer 
 and are more familiar under the thick foliage, 
 seemingly composing new strains upon their 
 
THURSDAY 397 
 
 roosts against the sunshine. What were the 
 amusements of the drawing-room and the library 
 in comparison, if we had them here? We 
 should still sing as of old, 
 
 My books I d fain cast off, I cannot read, 
 Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large 
 Down in the meadow, where is richer feed, 
 And will not mind to hit their proper targe. 
 
 Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too, 
 Our Shakespeare s life were rich to live again, 
 What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true, 
 Nor Shakespeare s books, unless his books were men. 
 
 Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough, 
 What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town, 
 If juster battles are enacted now 
 Between the ants upon this hummock s crown ? 
 
 Bid Homer waft till I the issue learn, 
 If red or black the gods will favor most, 
 Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn, 
 Struggling to heave some rock against the host. 
 
 Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour, 
 For now I ve business with this drop of dew, 
 And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower, 
 I 11 meet him shortly when the sky is blue. 
 
 This bed of herd s-grass and wild oats was spread 
 Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use, 
 A clover tuft is pillow for my head, 
 And violets quite overtop my shoes. 
 
 And now the cordial clouds have shut all in, 
 And gently swells the wind to say all s well, 
 
398 A WEEK 
 
 The scattered drops are falling fast and thin, 
 Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell. 
 
 I am well drenched upon my bed of oats ; 
 But see that globe come rolling down its stem ; 
 Now like a lonely planet there it floats, 
 And now it sinks into my garment s hem. 
 
 Drip, drip the trees for all the country round, 
 And richness rare distills from every bough, 
 The wind alone it is makes every sound, 
 Shaking down crystals on the leaves below. 
 
 For shame the sun will never show himself, 
 Who could not with his beams e er melt me so, 
 My dripping locks, they would become an elf, 
 Who in a beaded coat does gayly go. 
 
 The Pinnacle is a small wooded hill which 
 rises very abruptly to the height of about two 
 hundred feet, near the shore at Hooksett Falls. 
 As Uncannunuc Mountain is perhaps the best 
 point from which to view the valley of the 
 Merrimack, so this hill affords the best view of 
 the river itself. I have sat upon its summit, a 
 precipitous rock only a few rods long, in fairer 
 weather, when the sun was setting and filling 
 the river valley with a flood of light. You can 
 see up and down the Merrimack several miles 
 each way. The broad and straight river, full 
 of light and life, with its sparkling and foaming 
 falls, the islet which divides the stream, the vil 
 lage of Hooksett on the shore almost directly 
 
 
THURSDAY 399 
 
 under your feet, so near that you can converse 
 with its inhabitants or throw a stone into its 
 yards, the woodland lake at its western base, 
 and the mountains in the north and northeast, 
 make a scene of rare beauty and completeness, 
 which the traveler should take pains to behold. 
 
 We were hospitably entertained in Concord, 
 New Hampshire, which we persisted in calling 
 New Concord, as we had been wont, to distin 
 guish it from our native town, from which we 
 had been told that it was named and in part 
 originally settled. This would have been the 
 proper place to conclude our voyage, uniting 
 Concord with Concord by these meandering 
 rivers, but our boat was moored some miles 
 below its port. 
 
 The richness of the intervals at Penacook, 
 now Concord, New Hampshire, had been ob 
 served by explorers, and, according to the histo 
 rian of Haverhill, in" the "year 1726, considera 
 ble progress was made in the settlement, and a 
 road was cut through the wilderness from Ha 
 verhill to Penacook. In the fall of 1727, the 
 first family, that of Captain Ebenezer Eastman, 
 moved into the place. His team was driven by 
 Jacob Shute, who was by birth a Frenchman, 
 and he is said to have been the first person who 
 drove a team through the wilderness. Soon 
 after, says tradition, one Ayer, a lad of eigh- 
 
400 A WEEK 
 
 teen drove a team consisting of ten yoke of oxen 
 to Penacook, swam the river, and ploughed a 
 portion of the interval. He is supposed to have 
 been the first person who ploughed land in that 
 place. After he had completed his work, he 
 started on his return at sunrise, drowned a yoke 
 of oxen while recrossing the river, and arrived 
 at Haverhill about midnight. The crank of the 
 first saw-mill was manufactured in Haverhill, 
 and carried to Penacook on a horse." 
 
 But we found that the frontiers were not this 
 way any longer. This generation has come 
 into the world fatally late for some enterprises. 
 Go where we will on the surface of things, men 
 have been there before us. We cannot now 
 have the pleasure of erecting the last house; 
 that was long ago set up in the suburbs of As 
 toria City, and our boundaries have literally 
 been run to the South Sea, according to the old 
 patents. But the lives of men, though more 
 extended laterally in their range, are still as 
 shallow as ever. Undoubtedly, as a Western 
 orator said, "Men generally live over about the 
 same surface ; some live long and narrow, and 
 others live broad and short;" but it is all su 
 perficial living. A worm is as good a traveler 
 as a grasshopper or a cricket, and a much wiser 
 settler. With all their activity these do not 
 hop away from drought nor forward to summer. 
 
THURSDAY 401 
 
 We do not avoid evil by fleeing before it, but 
 by rising above or diving below its plane; as 
 the worm escapes drought and frost by boring a 
 few inches deeper. The frontiers are not east 
 or west, north or south, but wherever a man 
 fronts a fact, though that fact be his neighbor, 
 there is an unsettled wilderness between him 
 and Canada, between him and the setting sun, 
 or, farther still, between him and it. Let him 
 build himself a log-house with the bark on 
 where he is, fronting IT, and wage there an 
 Old French war for seven or seventy years, 
 with Indians and Rangers, or whatever else may 
 come between him and the reality, and save his 
 scalp if he can. 
 
 We now no longer sailed or floated on the 
 river, but trod the unyielding land like pil 
 grims. Sadi tells who may travel; among 
 others, "A common mechanic, who can earn a 
 subsistence by the industry of his hand, and 
 shall not have to stake his reputation for every 
 morsel of bread, as philosophers have said." 
 He may travel who can subsist on the wild 
 fruits and game of the most cultivated country. 
 A man may travel fast enough and earn his liv 
 ing on the road. I have at times been applied 
 to, to do work when on a journey; to do tinker 
 ing and repair clocks, when I had a knapsack 
 
402 A WEEK 
 
 on my back. A man once applied to me to go 
 into a factory, stating conditions and wages, 
 observing that I succeeded in shutting the win 
 dow of a railroad car in which we were trav 
 eling, when the other passengers had failed. 
 "Hast thou not heard of a Sufi, who was 
 hammering some nails into the sole of his 
 sandal; an officer of cavalry took him by the 
 sleeve, saying, Come along and shoe my horse." 
 Farmers have asked me to assist them in haying 
 when I was passing their fields. A man once 
 applied to me to mend his umbrella, taking me 
 for an umbrella-mender, because, being on a 
 journey, I carried an umbrella in my hand 
 while the sun shone. Another wished to buy 
 a tin cup of me, observing that I had one 
 strapped to my belt, and a sauce-pan on my 
 back. The cheapest way to travel, and the way 
 to travel the farthest in the shortest distance, 
 is to go afoot, carrying a dipper, a spoon, and 
 a fish-line, some Indian meal, some salt, and 
 some sugar. When you come to a brook or 
 pond, you can catch fish and cook them ; or you 
 can boil a hasty-pudding ; or you can buy a loaf 
 of bread at a farmer s house for fourpence, 
 moisten it in the next brook that crosses the 
 road, and dip into it your sugar, this alone 
 will last you a whole day ; or, if you are ac 
 customed to heartier living, you can buy a 
 
THURSDAY 403 
 
 quart of milk for two cents, crumb your bread 
 or cold pudding into it, and eat it with your 
 own spoon out of your own dish. Any one of 
 these things I mean, not all together. I have 
 traveled thus some hundreds of miles without 
 taking any meal in a house, sleeping on the 
 ground when convenient, and found it cheaper, 
 and in many respects more profitable, than 
 staying at home. So that some have inquired 
 why it would not be best to travel always. But 
 I never thought of traveling simply as a means 
 of getting a livelihood. A simple woman down 
 in Tyngsborough, at whose house I once stopped 
 to get a draught of water, when I said, recog 
 nizing the bucket, that I had stopped there nine 
 years before for the same purpose, asked if I 
 was not a traveler, supposing that I had been 
 traveling ever since, and had now come round 
 again; that traveling was one of the profes 
 sions, more or less productive, which her hus 
 band did not follow. But continued traveling 
 is far from productive. It begins with wearing 
 away the soles of the shoes, and making the feet 
 sore, and erelong it will wear a man clean up, 
 after making his heart sore into the bargain. I 
 have observed that the after-life of those who 
 have traveled much is very pathetic. True 
 and sincere traveling is no pastime, but it is as 
 serious as the grave, or any part of the human 
 
404 A WEEK 
 
 journey, and it requires a long probation to be 
 broken into it. I do not speak of those that 
 travel sitting, the sedentary travelers whose legs 
 hang dangling the while, mere idle symbols 
 of the fact, any more than when we speak of 
 sitting hens we mean those that sit standing, 
 but I mean those to whom traveling is life for 
 the legs, and death too, at last. The traveler 
 must be born again on the road, and earn a 
 passport from the elements, the principal powers 
 that be for him. He shall experience at last 
 that old threat_pf his mother fulfilled^jthat he 
 shall be skinned alive. His sores shalTgrad- 
 ually deepen themselves that they may heal in 
 wardly, while he gives no rest to the sole of his 
 foot, and at night weariness must be his pillow, 
 that so he may acquire experience against his 
 rainy days. So was it with us. 
 
 Sometimes we lodged at an inn in the woods, 
 where trout fishers from distant cities had ar 
 rived before us, and where, to our astonish 
 ment, the settlers dropped in at nightfall to 
 have a chat and hear the news, though there 
 was but one road, and no other house was visi 
 ble, as if they had come out of the earth. 
 There we sometimes read old newspapers, who 
 never before read new ones, and in the rustle of 
 their leaves heard the dashing of the surf along 
 the Atlantic shore, instead of the sough of the 
 
THURSDAY 405 
 
 wind among the pines. But then walking had 
 given us an appetite even for the least palatable 
 and nutritious food. 
 
 Some hard and dry book in a dead language, 
 which you have found it impossible to read at 
 home, but for which you have still a lingering 
 regard, is the best to carry with you on a jour 
 ney. At a country inn, in the barren society 
 of ostlers and travelers, I could undertake the 
 writers of the silver or the brazen age with con 
 fidence. Almost the last regular service which 
 I performed in the cause of literature was to 
 read the works of 
 
 AULUS PERSIUS FLACCUS. 
 
 If you have imagined what a divine work is 
 spread out for the poet, and approach this au 
 thor too, in the hope of finding the field at length 
 fairly entered on, you will hardly dissent from 
 the words of the prologue, 
 
 " Ipse semipaganus 
 Ad sacra Vatum carmen affero nostrum. * 
 
 I half pagan 
 Bring my verses to the shrine of the poets. 
 
 Here is none of the interior dignity of Virgil, 
 nor the elegance and vivacity of Horace, nor 
 will any sibyl be needed to remind you, that 
 from those older Greek poets there is a sad de 
 scent to Persius. You can scarcely distinguish 
 
406 A WEEK 
 
 one harmonious sound amid this unmusical bick 
 ering with the follies of men. 
 
 One sees that music has its place in thought, 
 but hardly as yet in language. When the 
 Muse arrives, we wait for her to remould lan 
 guage, and impart to it her own rhythm. 
 Hitherto the verse groans and labors with its 
 load, and goes not forward blithely, singing by 
 the way. The best ode may be parodied, in 
 deed is itself a parody, and has a poor and triv 
 ial sound, like a man stepping on the rounds of 
 a ladder. Homer and Shakespeare and Milton 
 and Marvell and Wordsworth are but the rub- 
 tling of leaves and crackling of twigs in the for 
 est, and there is not yet the sound of any bird. 
 The Muse has never lifted up her voice to sing. 
 Most of all, satire will not be sung. A Juvenal 
 or Persius do not marry music to their verse, 
 but are measured fault-finders at best; stand 
 but just outside the faults they condemn, and 
 so are concerned rather about the monster which 
 they have escaped, than the fair prospect before 
 them. Let them live on an age, and they will 
 have traveled out of his shadow and reach, and 
 found other objects to ponder. 
 
 As long as there is satire, the poet is, as it 
 were, particeps criminis. One sees not but he 
 had best let bad take care of itself, and have 
 to do only with what is beyond suspicion. If 
 
THURSDAY 407 
 
 you light on the least vestige of truth, and it is 
 the weight of the whole body still which stamps 
 the faintest trace, an eternity will not suffice to 
 extol it, while no evil is so huge, but you grudge 
 to bestow on it a moment of hate. Truth never 
 turns to rebuke falsehood ; her own straightfor 
 wardness is the severest correction, Horace 
 would not have written satire so well if he had 
 not been inspired by it, as by a passion, and 
 fondly cherished his vein. In his odes, the love 
 always exceeds the hate, so that the severest 
 satire still sings itself, and the poet is satisfied, 
 though the folly be not corrected. 
 
 A sort of necessary order in the development 
 of Genius is, first, Complaint; second, Plaint; 
 third, Love. Complaint, which is the condition 
 of Persius, lies not in the province of poetry. 
 Erelong the enjoyment of a superior good would 
 have changed his disgust into regret. We can 
 never have much sympathy with the complainer ; 
 for after searching nature through, we conclude 
 that he must be both plaintiff and defendant 
 too, and so had best come to a settlement with 
 out a hearing. He who receives an injury is to 
 some extent an accomplice of the wrong-doer. 
 
 Perhaps it would be truer to say, that the 
 highest strain of the muse is essentially plain 
 tive. The saint s are still tears of joy. Who 
 has ever head the Innocent sing? 
 
408 A WEEK 
 
 But the divinest poem, or the life of a great 
 man, is the severest satire; as impersonal as 
 Nature herself, and like the sighs of her winds 
 in the woods, which convey ever a slight reproof 
 to the hearer. The greater the genius, the 
 keener the edge of the satire. 
 
 Hence we have to do only with the rare and 
 fragmentary traits, which least belong to Per- 
 sius, or shall we say, are the properest utter 
 ances of his muse ; since that which he says best 
 at any time is what he can best say at all times. 
 The Spectators and Ramblers have not failed to 
 cull some quotable sentences from this garden 
 too, so pleasant is it to meet even the most fa 
 miliar truth in a new dress, when, if our neigh 
 bor had said it, we should have passed it by as 
 hackneyed. Out of these six satires, you may 
 perhaps select some twenty lines, which fit so 
 well as many thoughts, that they will recur to 
 the scholar almost as readily as a natural image ; 
 though when translated into familiar language, 
 they lose that insular emphasis, which fitted 
 them for quotation. Such lines as the follow 
 ing, translation cannot render commonplace. 
 Contrasting the man of true religion with those 
 jvho, with jealous privacy, would fain carry on 
 a secret commerce with the gods, he says : 
 
 ** Haud cuivis promptum est, murmurque humilesque susurroa 
 Tollere de templis ; et aperto vivere voto." 
 
THURSDAY 409 
 
 It is not easy for every one to take murmurs and low 
 Whispers out of the temples, and live with open vow. 
 
 To the virtuous man, the universe is the only 
 sanctum, sanctorum^ and the penetralia of the 
 temple are the broad noon of his existence. 
 Why should he betake himself to a subterranean 
 crypt, as if it were the only holy ground in all 
 the world which he had left unprofaned? The 
 obedient soul would only the more discover and 
 familiarize things, and escape more and more 
 into light and air, as having henceforth done 
 with secrecy, so that the universe shall not seem 
 open enough for it. At length, it is neglectful 
 even of that silence which is consistent with true 
 modesty, but by its independence of all confi 
 dence in its disclosures makes that which it im 
 parts so private to the hearer, that it becomes 
 the care of the whole world that modesty be not 
 infringed. 
 
 To the man who cherishes a secret in his 
 breast, there is a still greater secret unexplored. 
 Our most indifferent acts may be matter for 
 secrecy, but whatever we do with the utmost 
 truthfulness and integrity, by virtue of its pure- 
 ness, must be transparent as light. 
 
 In the third satire, he asks : 
 
 " Est aliquid quo tendis, et in quod dirigis arcum ? 
 An passim sequeris corvos, teststve, lutove, 
 Securus quo pes f erat, atque ex tempore vivis ? " 
 
410 A WEEK 
 
 Is there anything to which thou tendest, and against which 
 
 thou directest thy bow ? 
 
 Or dost thou pursue crows, at random, with pottery or clay, 
 Careless whither thy feet bear thee, and live ex tempore ? 
 
 The bad sense is always a secondary one. 
 Language does not appear to have justice done 
 it, but is obviously cramped and narrowed in its 
 significance, when any meanness is described. 
 The truest construction is not put upon it. 
 What may readily be fashioned into a rule of 
 wisdom is here thrown in the teeth of the slug 
 gard, and constitutes the front of his offense. 
 Universally, the innocent man will come forth 
 from the sharpest inquisition and lecturing, the 
 combined din of reproof and commendation, 
 with a faint sound of eulogy in his ears. Our 
 vices always lie in the direction of our virtues, 
 and in their best estate are but plausible imita 
 tions of the latter. Falsehood never attains to 
 the dignity of entire falseness, but is only an 
 inferior sort of truth ; if it were more thoroughly 
 false, it would incur danger of becoming true. 
 
 " Securus quo pes ferat, atque ex tempore vivit, " 
 
 is then the motto of a wise man. For first, as 
 the subtle discernment of the language would 
 have taught us, with all his negligence he is still 
 secure; but the sluggard, notwithstanding his 
 heedlessness, is insecure. 
 
 The life of a wise man is most of all extern- 
 
THURSDAY 411 
 
 poraneous, for he lives out of an eternity which 
 includes all time. The cunning mind travels 
 further back than Zoroaster each instant, and 
 comes quite down to the present with its revela 
 tion. The utmost thrift and industry of think 
 ing give no man any stock in life; his credit 
 with the inner world is no better, his capital no 
 larger. He must try his fortune again to-day 
 as yesterday. All questions rely on the present 
 for their solution. Time measures nothing but 
 itself. The word that is written may be post 
 poned, but not that on the lip. If this is what 
 the occasion says, let the occasion say it. All 
 the world is forward to prompt him who gets up 
 to live without his creed in his pocket. 
 
 In the fifth satire, which is the best, I find, 
 
 "Stat contra ratio, et secretam garrit in aurem, 
 Ne liceat facere id, quod quis vitiabit agendo." 
 
 Reason opposes, and whispers in the secret ear, 
 
 That it is not lawful to do that which one will spoil by doing. 
 
 Only they who do not see how anything might 
 be better done are forward to try their hand 
 on it. Even the master workman must be en 
 couraged by the reflection that his awkwardness 
 will be incompetent to do that thing harm, to 
 which his skill may fail to do justice. Here is 
 no apology for neglecting to do many things 
 from a sense of our incapacity, for what deed 
 
412 A WEEK 
 
 does not fall maimed and imperfect from our 
 hands? but only a warning to bungle less. 
 
 The satires of Persius are the furthest pos 
 sible from inspired; evidently a chosen, not 
 imposed subject. Perhaps I have given him 
 credit for more earnestness than is apparent; 
 but it is certain that that which alone we can 
 call Persius, which is forever independent and 
 consistent, was in earnest, and so sanctions the 
 sober consideration of all. The artist and his 
 work are not to be separated. The most will 
 fully foolish man cannot stand aloof from his 
 folly, but the deed and the doer together make 
 ever one sober fact. There is but one stage for 
 the peasant and the actor. The buffoon cannot 
 bribe you to laugh always at his grimaces ; they 
 shall sculpture themselves in Egyptian granite, 
 to stand heavy as the pyramids on the ground 
 of his character. 
 
 Suns rose and set and found us still on the 
 dank forest path which meanders up the Pemige- 
 wasset, now more like an otter s or a marten s 
 trail, or where a beaver had dragged his trap, 
 than where the wheels of travel raise a dust; 
 where towns begin to serve as gores, only to 
 hold the earth together. The wild pigeon sat 
 secure above our heads, high on the dead limbs 
 
THURSDAY 413 
 
 of naval pines, reduced to a robin s size. The 
 very yards of our hostelries inclined upon the 
 skirts of mountains, and, as we passed, we 
 looked up at a steep angle at the stems of maples 
 waving in the clouds. 
 
 Far up in the country, for we would be 
 faithful to our experience, in Thornton, per 
 haps, we met a soldier lad in the woods, going 
 to muster in full regimentals, and holding the 
 middle of the road; deep in the forest, with 
 shouldered musket and military step, and 
 thoughts of war and glory all to himself. It 
 was a sore trial to the youth, tougher than many 
 a battle, to get by us creditably and with sol 
 dier-like bearing. Poor man! He actually 
 shivered like a reed in his thin military pants, 
 and by the time we had got up with him, all the 
 sternness that becomes the soldier had forsaken 
 his face, and he skulked past as if he were 
 driving his father s sheep under a sword-proof 
 helmet. It was too much for him to carry 
 any extra armor then, who could not easily dis 
 pose of his natural arms. And for his legs, 
 they were like heavy artillery in boggy places ; 
 better to cut the traces and forsake them. His 
 greaves chafed and wrestled one with another 
 for want of other foes. But he did get by and 
 get off with all his munitions, and lived to fight 
 another day ; and I do not record this as casting 
 
414 A WEEK 
 
 any suspicion on his honor and real bravery in 
 che field. 
 
 Wandering on through notches which the 
 streams had made, by the side and over the 
 brows of hoar hills and mountains, across the 
 stumpy, rocky, forested, and bepastured coun 
 try, we at length crossed on prostrate trees over 
 the Amonoosuck, and breathed the free air of 
 Unappropriated Land. Thus, in fair days as 
 well as foul, we had traced up the river to 
 which our native stream is a tributary, until 
 from Merrimack it became the Pemigewasset 
 that leaped by our side, and when we had passed 
 its fountain-head, the Wild Amonoosuck, whose 
 puny channel was crossed at a stride, guiding 
 us toward its distant source among the moun 
 tains, at length, without its guidance, we were 
 enabled to reach the summit of AGIOCOCHOOK. 
 
 " Sweet day; so cool, so calm, so bright, 
 The bridal of the earth and sky, 
 The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, 
 For thou must die." 
 
 HERBERT. 
 
 When we returned to Hooksett, a week after 
 ward, the melon man, in whose corn-barn we 
 had hung our tent and buffaloes and other 
 things to dry, was already picking his hops, 
 
THURSDAY 415 
 
 with many women and children to help him. 
 We bought one watermelon, the largest in his 
 patch, to carry with us for ballast. It was 
 gatkan s, which he might sell if he wished, 
 having been conveyed to him in the green state, 
 and owned daily by his eyes. After due con 
 sultation with "Father," the bargain was con 
 cluded, we to buy it at a venture on the vine, 
 green or ripe, our risk, and pay "what the 
 gentlemen pleased." It proved to be ripe; for 
 we had had honest experience in selecting this 
 fruit. 
 
 Finding our boat safe in its harbor, under 
 Uncannunuc Mountain, with a fair wind and 
 the current in our favor, we commenced our re 
 turn voyage at noon, sitting at our ease and 
 conversing, or in silence watching for the last 
 trace of each reach in the river as a bend con 
 cealed it from our view. As the season was 
 further advanced, the wind now blew steadily 
 from the north, and with our sail set we could 
 occasionally lie on our oars without loss of time. 
 The lumbermen throwing down wood from the 
 top of the high bank, thirty or forty feet above 
 the water, that it might be sent downstream, 
 paused in their work to watch our retreating 
 sail. By this time, indeed, we were well known 
 to the boatmen, and were hailed as the Revenue 
 Cutter of the stream. As we sailed rapidly 
 
416 A WEEK 
 
 down the river, shut in between two mounds of 
 earth, the sounds of this timber rolled down the 
 bank enhanced the silence and vastness of the 
 noon, and we fancied that only the primeval 
 echoes were awakened. The vision of a distant 
 scow just heaving in sight round a headland alsc 
 increased by contrast the solitude. 
 
 Through the din and desultoriness of noon, 
 even in the most Oriental city, is seen the fresh 
 and primitive and savage nature, in which Scy 
 thians and Ethiopians and Indians dwell. 
 What is echo, what are light and shade, day 
 and night, ocean and stars, earthquake and 
 eclipse, there? The works of man are every 
 where swallowed up in the immensity of nature. 
 The ^Egean Sea is but Lake Huron still to the 
 Indian. Also there is all the refinement of 
 civilized life in the woods under a sylvan garb. 
 The wildest scenes have an air of domesticity 
 and homeliness even to the citizen, and when 
 the flicker s cackle is heard in the clearing, he 
 is reminded that civilization has wrought but 
 little change there. Science is welcome to the 
 deepest recesses of the forest, for there too na 
 ture obeys the same old civil laws. The little 
 red bug on the stump of a pine, for it the 
 wind shifts and the sun breaks through the 
 clouds. In the wildest nature, there is not only 
 the material of the most cultivated life, and a 
 
THURSDA Y 417 
 
 sort of anticipation of the last result, but a 
 greater refinement already than is ever attained 
 by man. There is papyrus by the river-side, 
 and rushes for light, and the goose only flies 
 overhead, ages before the studious are born or 
 letters invented, and that literature which the 
 former suggest, and even from the first have 
 rudely served, it may be man does not yet use 
 them to express. Nature is prepared to wel 
 come into her scenery the finest work of human 
 art, for she is herself an art so cunning that the 
 artist never appears in his work. 
 
 Art is not tame, and Nature is not wild, in 
 the ordinary sense. A perfect work of man s 
 art would also be wild or natural in a good 
 sense. Man tames Nature only that he may at 
 last make her more free even than he found her, 
 though he may never yet have succeeded. 
 
 With this propitious breeze, and the help of 
 our oars, we soon reached the Falls of Amos- 
 keag, and the mouth of the Piscataquoag, and 
 recognized, as we swept rapidly by, many a fair 
 bank and islet on which our eyes had rested in 
 the upward passage. Our boat was like that 
 which Chaucer describes in his Dream, in which 
 the knight took his departure from the island, 
 
 "To journey for his marriage, 
 And return with such an host, 
 
418 A WEEK 
 
 That wedded might be least and most. . 
 
 Which barge was as a man s thought, 
 
 After his pleasure to him brought, 
 
 The queene herself accustomed aye 
 
 In the same barge to play, 
 
 It needed neither mast lie rother, 
 
 I have not heard of such another, 
 
 No master for the governance, 
 
 Hie sayled by thought and pleasaunce, 
 
 Without labor east and west, 
 
 All was one, calme or tempest." 
 
 So we sailed this afternoon, thinking of the say 
 ing of Pythagoras, though we had no peculiar 
 right to remember it, "It is beautiful when 
 prosperity is present with intellect, and when 
 sailing as it were with a prosperous wind, ac 
 tions are performed looking to virtue ; just as a 
 pilot looks to the motions of the stars." All 
 the world reposes in beauty to him who pre 
 serves equipoise in his life, and moves serenely 
 on his path without secret violence; as he who 
 sails down a stream, he has only to steer, keep 
 ing his bark in the middle, and carry it round 
 the falls. The ripples curled away in our wake, 
 like ringlets from the head of a child, while we 
 steadily held on our course, and under the bows 
 we watched 
 
 " The swaying soft, 
 
 Made by the delicate wave parted in front, 
 As through the gentle element we move 
 Like shadows gliding through untroubled realms." 
 
 The forms of beauty fall naturally around the 
 
THURSDAY 419 
 
 path of him who is in the performance of his 
 proper work; as the curled shavings drop from 
 the plane, and borings cluster round the auger. 
 Undulation is the gentlest and most ideal of mo 
 tions, produced by one fluid falling on another. 
 Rippling is a more graceful flight. From a 
 hill-top you may detect in it the wings of birds 
 endlessly repeated. The two waving lines 
 which represent the flight of birds appear to 
 have been copied from the ripple. 
 
 The trees made an admirable fence to the 
 landscape, skirting the horizon on every side. 
 The single trees and the groves left standing on 
 the interval appeared naturally disposed, though 
 the farmer had consulted only his convenience, 
 for he too falls into the scheme of Nature. Art 
 can never match the luxury and superfluity of 
 Nature. In the former all is seen; it cannot 
 afford concealed wealth, and is niggardly iu 
 comparison ; but Nature, even when she is scant 
 and thin outwardly, satisfies us still by the as 
 surance of a certain generosity at the roots. In 
 swamps, where there is only here and there an 
 evergreen tree amid the quaking moss and cran 
 berry beds, the bareness does not suggest pov 
 erty. The single-spruce, which I had hardly 
 noticed in gardens, attracts me in such places, 
 and now first I understand why men try to make 
 them grow about their houses. But though 
 
420 A WEEK 
 
 there may be very perfect specimens in front- 
 yard plots, their beauty is for the most part in 
 effectual there, for there is no such assurance 
 of kindred wealth beneath and around them, to 
 make them show to advantage. As we have 
 said, Nature is a greater and more perfect art, 
 the art of God; though, referred to herself, she 
 is genius ; and there is a similarity between her 
 operations and man s art even in the details and 
 trifles. When the overhanging pine drops into 
 the water, by the sun and water, and the wind 
 rubbing it against the shore, its boughs are worn 
 into fantastic shapes, and white and smooth, as 
 if turned in a lathe. Man s art has wisely imi 
 tated those forms into which all matter is most 
 inclined to run, as foliage and fruit. A ham 
 mock swung in a grove assumes the exact form 
 of a canoe, broader or narrower, and higher 
 or lower at the ends, as more or fewer persons 
 are in it, and it rolls in the air with the motion 
 of the body, like a canoe in the water. Our 
 art leaves its shavings and its dust about; her 
 art exhibits itself even in the shavings and the 
 dust which we make. She has perfected herself 
 by an eternity of practice. The world is well 
 kept ; no rubbish accumulates ; the morning air 
 is clear even at this day, and no dust has settled 
 on the grass. Behold how the evening now 
 steals over the fields, the shadows of the trees 
 
THURSDAY 421 
 
 creeping farther and farther into the meadow, 
 and erelong the stars will come to bathe in these 
 retired waters. Her undertakings are secure 
 and never fail. If I were awakened from a 
 deep sleep, I should know which side of the 
 meridian the sun might be by the aspect of na 
 ture, and by the chirp of the crickets, and yet 
 no painter can paint this difference. The land 
 scape contains a thousand dials which indicate 
 the natural divisions of time, the shadows of a 
 thousand styles point to the hour. 
 
 "Not only o er the dial s face, 
 
 This silent phantom day by day, 
 With slow, unseen, unceasing- pace 
 
 Steals moments, months, and years away ; 
 From hoary rock and aged tree, 
 
 From proud Palmyra s mouldering 1 walls, 
 From Teneriffe, towering o er the sea, 
 
 From every blade of grass it falls." 
 
 It is almost the only game which the trees play 
 at, this tit-for-tat, now this side in the sun, 
 now that, the drama of the day. In deep ra 
 vines under the eastern sides of cliffs, Night for- 
 wardly plants her foot even at noonday, and as 
 Day retreats she steps into his trenches, skulk 
 ing from tree to tree, from fence to fence, until 
 at last she sits in his citadel and draws out her 
 forces into the plain. It may be that the fore 
 noon is brighter than the afternoon, not only 
 because of the greater transparency of its at- 
 
422 A WEEK 
 
 mosphere, but because we naturally loolnnost 
 into thejrrflflt, n,pj forward .into the^jjay^and so 
 in the forenoon see the sunny side of things, but 
 in the afternoon the shadow of every tree. 
 
 The afternoon is now far advanced, and a 
 fresh and leisurely wind is blowing over the 
 river, making long reaches of bright ripples. 
 The river has done its stint, and appears not to 
 flow, but lie at its length reflecting the light, 
 and the haze over the woods is like the inaudible 
 panting, or rather the gentle perspiration of 
 resting nature, rising from a myriad of pores 
 into the attenuated atmosphere. 
 
 On the thirty-first day of March, one hundred 
 and forty-two years before this, probably about 
 this time in the afternoon, there were hurriedly 
 paddling down this part of the river, between 
 the pine woods which then fringed these banks, 
 two white women and a boy, who had left an 
 island at the mouth of the Contoocook before 
 daybreak. They were slightly clad for the 
 season, in the English fashion, and handled 
 their paddles unskillfully, but with nervous en 
 ergy and determination, and at the bottom of 
 their canoe lay the still bleeding scalps of ten 
 of the aborigines. They were Hannah Dustan, 
 and her nurse, Mary Neff, both of Haverhill, 
 eighteen miles from the mouth of this river, and 
 
THURSDAY 423 
 
 an English boy, named Samuel Lennardson, 
 escaping from captivity among the Indians. 
 On the 15th of March previous, Hannah Dus- 
 tan had been compelled to rise from childbed, 
 and half dressed, with one foot bare, accom 
 panied by her nurse, commence an uncertain 
 march, in still inclement weather, through the 
 snow and the wilderness. She had seen her 
 seven elder children flee with their father, but 
 knew not of their fate. She had seen her in 
 fant s brains dashed out against an apple-tree, 
 and had left her own and her neighbors dwell 
 ings in ashes. When she reached the wigwam 
 of her captor, situated on an island in the Mer- 
 rimack, more than twenty miles above where 
 we now are, she had been told that she and her 
 nurse were soon to be taken to a distant Indian 
 settlement, and there made to run the gauntlet 
 naked. The family of this Indian consisted of 
 two men, three women, and seven children, 
 besides an English boy, whom she found a 
 prisoner among them. Having determined to 
 attempt her escape, she instructed the boy to 
 inquire of one of the men, how he should dis 
 patch an enemy in the quickest manner, and 
 take his scalp. " Strike em there," said he, 
 placing his finger on his temple, and he also 
 showed him how to take off the scalp. On the 
 morning of the 31st she arose before daybreak, 
 
424 A WEEK 
 
 and awoke her nurse and the boy, and taking 
 the Indians tomahawks, they killed them all in 
 their sleep, excepting one favorite boy, and one 
 squaw who fled wounded with him to the woods. 
 The English boy struck the Indian who had 
 given him the information, on the temple, as he 
 had been directed. They then collected all the 
 provision they could find, and took their mas 
 ter s tomahawk and gun, and scuttling all the 
 canoes but one, commenced their flight to Ha- 
 verhill, distant about sixty miles by the river. 
 But after having proceeded a short distance, 
 fearing that her story would not be believed if 
 she should escape to tell it, they returned to the 
 silent wigwam, and taking off the scalps of the 
 dead, put them into a bag as proofs of what 
 they had done, and then, retracing their steps 
 to the shore in the twilight, recommenced their 
 voyage. 
 
 Early this morning this deed was performed, 
 and now, perchance, these tired women and this 
 boy, their clothes stained with blood, and their 
 minds racked with alternate resolution and fear, 
 are making a hasty meal of parched corn and 
 moose-meat, while their canoe glides under these 
 pine roots whose stumps are still standing on 
 the bank. They are thinking of the dead whom 
 they have left behind on that solitary isle far up 
 the stream, and of the relentless living warriors 
 
THURSDAY 425 
 
 who are in pursuit. Every withered leaf which 
 the winter has left seems to know their story, 
 and in its rustling to repeat it and betray them. 
 An Indian lurks behind every rock and pine, 
 and their nerves cannot bear the tapping of a 
 woodpecker. Or they forget their own dangers 
 and their deeds in conjecturing the fate of their 
 kindred, and whether, if they escape the Indi 
 ans, they shall find the former still alive. They 
 do not stop to cook their meals upon the bank, 
 nor land, except to carry their canoe about the 
 falls. The stolen birch forgets its master and 
 does them good service, and the swollen current 
 bears them swiftly along with little need of the 
 paddle, except to steer and keep them warm by 
 exercise. For ice is floating in the river; the 
 spring is opening; the musk-rat and the beaver 
 are driven out of their holes by the flood; deer 
 gaze at them from the bank ; a few faint-sing 
 ing forest birds, perchance, fly across the river 
 to the northernmost shore; the fish-hawk sails 
 and screams overhead, and geese fly over with 
 a startling clangor; but they do not observe 
 these things, or they speedily forget them. 
 They do not smile or chat all day. Sometimes 
 they pass an Indian grave surrounded by its 
 paling on the bank, or the frame of a wigwam, 
 with a few coals left behind, or the withered 
 stalks still rustling in the Indian s solitary corn- 
 
426 A WEEK 
 
 field on the interval. The birch stripped of its 
 bark, or the charred stump where a tree has 
 been burned down to be made into a canoe, 
 these are the only traces of man, a fabulous 
 wild man to us. On either side, the primeval 
 forest stretches away uninterrupted to Canada, 
 or to the "South Sea; " to the white man a 
 drear and howling wilderness, but to the Indian 
 a home, adapted to his nature, and cheerful as 
 the smile of the Great Spirit. 
 
 While we loiter here this autumn evening, 
 looking for a spot retired enough, where we 
 shall quietly rest to-night, they thus, in that 
 chilly March evening, one hundred and forty- 
 two years before us, with wind and current 
 favoring, have already glided out of sight, not 
 to camp, as we shall, at night, but while two 
 sleep one will manage the canoe, and the swift 
 stream bear them onward to the settlements, it 
 may be, even to old John Love well s house on 
 Salmon Brook to-night. 
 
 According to the historian, they escaped as 
 by a miracle all roving bands of Indians, and 
 reached their homes in safety, with their tro 
 phies, for which the General Court paid them 
 fifty pounds. The family of Hannah Dustan 
 all assembled alive once more, except the infant 
 whose brains were dashed out against the apple- 
 tree, and there have been many who in later 
 
THURSDAY 427 
 
 times have lived to say that they had eaten of 
 the fruit of that apple-tree. 
 
 This seems a long while ago, and yet it hap 
 pened since Milton wrote his Paradise Lost. 
 But its antiquity is not the less great for that, 
 for we do not regulate our historical time by 
 the English standard, nor did the English by 
 the Roman, nor the Roman by the Greek. 
 "We must look a long way back," says Ra 
 leigh, "to find the Romans giving laws to na 
 tions, and their consuls bringing kings and 
 princes bound in chains to Rome in triumph ; to 
 see men go to Greece for wisdom, or Ophir for 
 gold; when now nothing remains but a poor 
 paper remembrance of their former condition." 
 And yet, in one sense, not so far back as to 
 find the Penacooks and Pawtuckets using bows 
 and arrows and hatchets of stone, on the banks 
 of the Merrimack. From this September after 
 noon, and from between these now cultivated 
 shores, those times seemed more remote than 
 the dark ages. On beholding an old picture of 
 Concord, as it appeared but seventy-five years 
 ago, with a fair open prospect and a light on 
 trees and river, as if it were broad noon, I find 
 that I had not thought the sun shone in those 
 days, or that men lived in broad daylight then. 
 Still less do we imagine the sun shining on hill 
 
428 A WEEK 
 
 and valley during Philip s war, on the war-path 
 of Church or Philip, or later of Lovewell or 
 Paugus, with serene summer weather, but they 
 must have lived and fought in a dim twilight or 
 night. 
 
 The age of the world is great enough for our 
 imaginations, even according to the Mosaic ac 
 count, without borrowing any years from the 
 geologist. From Adam and Eve at one leap 
 sheer down to the deluge, and then through the 
 ancient monarchies, through Babylon and 
 Thebes, Brahma and Abraham, to Greece and 
 the Argonauts; whence we might start again 
 with Orpheus and the Trojan war, the Pyra 
 mids and the Olympic games, and Homer and 
 Athens, for our stages; and after a breathing 
 space at the building of Home, continue our 
 journey down through Odin and Christ to 
 America. It is a wearisome while. And yet 
 the lives of but sixty old women, such as live 
 under the hill, say of a century each, strung 
 together, are sufficient to reach over the whole 
 ground. Taking hold of hands they would 
 span the interval from Eve to my own mother. 
 A respectable tea-party merely, whose gossip 
 would be Universal History. The fourth old 
 woman from myself suckled Columbus, the 
 ninth was nurse to the Norman Conqueror, 
 the nineteenth was the Virgin Mary, the 
 
THURSDAY 429 
 
 twenty -fourth the Cumaean Sibyl, the thirti 
 eth was at the Trojan war and Helen her name, 
 the thirty -eighth was Queen Semiramis, 
 the sixtieth was Eve, the mother of mankind. 
 So much for the 
 
 " Old woman that lives under the hill, 
 And if she s not gone she lives there still." 
 
 It will not take a very great-granddaughter of 
 hers to be in at the death of Time. 
 
 We can never safely exceed the actual facts 
 in our narratives. Of pure invention, such as 
 some suppose, there is no instance. To write 
 a true work of fiction even is only to take lei 
 sure and liberty to describe some things more 
 exactly as they are. A true account of the 
 actual is the rarest poetry, for common sense 
 always takes a hasty and superficial view. 
 Though I am not much acquainted with the 
 works of Goethe, I should say that it was one 
 of his chief excellences as a writer, that he was 
 satisfied with giving an exact description of 
 things as they appeared to him, and their effect 
 upon him. Most travelers have not self-respect 
 enough to do this simply, and make objects and 
 events stand around them as the centre, but 
 still imagine more favorable positions and re 
 lations than the actual ones, and so we get no 
 valuable report from them at all. In his Ital 
 ian Travels Goethe jogs along at a snail s pace, 
 
430 A WEEK 
 
 but always mindful that the earth is beneath 
 and the heavens are above him. His Italy is 
 not merely the fatherland of lazzaroni and vir 
 tuosi, and scene of splendid ruins, but a solid 
 turf-clad soil, daily shined on by the sun, and 
 nightly by the moon. Even the few showers 
 are faithfully recorded. He speaks as an un 
 concerned spectator, whose object is faithfully 
 to describe what he sees, and that, for the most 
 part, in the order in which he sees it. Even 
 his reflections do not interfere with his descrip 
 tions. In one place he speaks of himself as 
 giving so glowing and truthful a description of 
 an old tower to the peasants who had gathered 
 around him, that they who had been born and 
 brought up in the neighborhood must needs look 
 over their shoulders, "that," to use his own 
 words, "they might behold with their eyes, 
 what I had praised to their ears," "and I 
 added nothing, not even the ivy which for cen 
 turies had decorated the walls." It would thus 
 be possible for inferior minds to produce inval 
 uable books, if this very moderation were not 
 the evidence of superiority ; for the wise are not 
 jBoinuch^wiser than others as respecters of tEeir 
 own wisdom. Some, poor in spirit, record 
 plaintively only what has happened to them: 
 but others how they have happened to the uni 
 verse, and the judgment which they have 
 
THURSDAY 431 
 
 awarded to circumstances. Above all, he pos 
 sessed a hearty good-will to all men, and never 
 wrote a cross or even careless word. On one 
 occasion the post-boy sniveling, " Signor, per- 
 donate, questa e la mia patria," he confesses 
 that "to me poor northerner came something 
 tear-like into the eyes." 
 
 Goethe s whole education and life were those 
 of the artist. He lacks the unconsciousness of 
 the poet. In his autobiography he describes 
 accurately the life of the author of Wilhelm 
 Meister. For as there is in that book, mingled 
 with a rare and serene wisdom, a certain petti 
 ness or exaggeration of trifles, wisdom applied 
 to produce a constrained and partial and merely 
 well-bred man, a magnifying of the theatre 
 till life itself is turned into a stage, for which 
 it is our duty to study our parts well, and con 
 duct with propriety and precision, so in the 
 autobiography, the fault of his education is, so 
 to speak, its merely artistic completeness. Na 
 ture is hindered, though she prevails at last in 
 making an unusually catholic impression on the 
 boy. It is the life of a city boy, whose toys are 
 pictures and works of art, whose wonders are 
 the theatre and kingly processions and crown 
 ings. As the youth studied minutely the order 
 and the degrees in the imperial procession, and 
 suffered none of its effect to be lost on him, so 
 
432 A WEEK 
 
 the man aimed to secure a rank in society which 
 would satisfy his notion of fitness and respecta 
 bility. He was defrauded of much which the 
 savage boy enjoys. Indeed, he himself has oc 
 casion to say in this very autobiography, when 
 at last he escapes into the woods without the 
 gates: "Thus much is certain, that only the 
 undefinable, wide-expanding feelings of youth 
 and of uncultivated nations are adapted to the 
 sublime, which, whenever it may be excited in 
 us through external objects, since it is either 
 formless, or else moulded into forms which are 
 incomprehensible, must surround us with a 
 grandeur which we find above our reach." He 
 further says of himself: "I had lived among 
 painters from my childhood, and had accus 
 tomed myself to look at objects, as they did, 
 with reference to art." And this was his prac 
 tice to the last. He was even too well-bred to 
 be thoroughly bred. He says that he had had 
 no intercourse with the lowest class of his towns- 
 boys. The child should have the advantage of 
 ignorance as well as of knowledge, and is fortu 
 nate if he gets his share of neglect and expo 
 sure. 
 
 " The laws of Nature break the rules of Art." 
 
 The Man of Genius may at the same time be, 
 indeed is commonly, an Artist, but the two are 
 not to be confounded. The Man of Genius, 
 
THURSDAY 433 
 
 referred to mankind, is an originator, an in 
 spired or demonic man, who produces a per 
 fect work in obedience to laws yet unexplored. 
 The Artist is he who detects and applies the 
 law from observation of the works of Genius, 
 whether of man or nature. The Artisan is he 
 who merely applies the rules which others have 
 detected. There has been no man of pure Gen 
 ius ; as there has been none wholly destitute of 
 Genius. 
 
 Poetry is the mysticism of mankind. 
 
 The expressions of the poet cannot be ana 
 lyzed; his sentence is one word, whose syllables 
 are words. There are indeed no words quite 
 worthy to be set to his music. But what mat 
 ter if we do not hear the words always, if we 
 hear the music? 
 
 Much verse fails of being poetry because it 
 was not written exactly at the right crisis, 
 though it may have been inconceivably near to 
 it. It is only by a miracle that poetry is written 
 at all. It is not recoverable thought, but a hue 
 caught from a vaster receding thought. 
 
 A poem is one undivided, unimpeded expres 
 sion fallen ripe into literature, and it is undi- 
 videdly and unimpededly received by those for 
 whom it was matured. 
 
 If you can speak what you will never hear, if 
 you can write what you will never read, you 
 have done rare things. 
 
434 A WEEK 
 
 The work we choose should be our own, 
 God lets alone. 
 
 The unconsciousness of man is the conscious 
 ness of God. 
 
 Deep are the foundations of sincerity. Even 
 stone walls have their foundation below the 
 frost. 
 
 What is produced by a free stroke charms us, 
 like the forms of lichens and leaves. There is 
 a certain perfection in accident which we never 
 consciously attain. Draw a blunt quill filled 
 with ink over a sheet of paper, and fold the 
 paper before the ink is dry, transversely to this 
 line, and a delicately shaded and regular figure 
 will be produced, in some respects more pleas 
 ing than an elaborate drawing. 
 
 The talent of composition is very dangerous, 
 the striking out the heart of life at a blow, 
 as the Indian takes off a scalp. I feel as if 
 my life had grown more outward when I can ex 
 press it. 
 
 On his journey from Brenner to Verona, 
 Goethe writes: "The Tees flows now more 
 gently, and makes in many places broad sands. 
 On the land, near to the water, upon the hill 
 sides, everything is so closely planted one to 
 another, that you think they must choke one 
 another, vineyards, maize, mulberry - trees, 
 
THURSDAY 435 
 
 apples, pears, quinces, and nuts. The dwarf 
 elder throws itself vigorously over the walls. 
 Ivy grows with strong stems up the rocks, and 
 spreads itself wide over them, the lizard glides 
 through the intervals, and everything that wan 
 ders to and fro reminds one of the loveliest pic 
 tures of art. The women s tufts of hair bound 
 up, the men s bare breasts and light jackets, 
 the excellent oxen which they drive home from 
 market, the little asses with their loads, 
 everything forms a living, animated Heinrich 
 Roos. And now that it is evening, in the mild 
 air a few clouds rest upon the mountains, in the 
 heavens more stand still than move, and imme 
 diately after sunset the chirping of crickets be 
 gins to grow more loud ; then one feels for once 
 at home in the world, and not as concealed or 
 in exile. I am contented as though I had been 
 born and brought up here, and were now re 
 turning from a Greenland or whaling voyage. 
 Even the dust of my Fatherland, which is often 
 whirled about the wagon, and which for so long 
 a time I had not seen, is greeted. The clock- 
 and-bell jingling of the crickets is altogether 
 lovely, penetrating, and agreeable. It sounds 
 bravely when roguish boys whistle in emulation 
 of a field of such songstresses. One fancies 
 that they really enhance one another. Also the 
 evening is perfectly mild as the day. 
 
436 A WEEK 
 
 "If one who dwelt in the south, and came 
 hither from the south, should hear of my rap 
 ture hereupon, he would deem me very childish. 
 Alas ! what I here express I have long known 
 while I suffered under an unpropitious heaven, 
 and now may I joyful feel this joy as an excep 
 tion, which we should enjoy everforth as an 
 eternal necessity of our nature." 
 
 Thus we "sayled by thought and pleasaunce," 
 as Chaucer says, and all things seemed with us 
 to flow; the shore itself and the distant cliffs 
 were dissolved by the undiluted air. The hard 
 est material seemed to obey the same law with 
 the most fluid, and so indeed in the long run it 
 does. Trees were but rivers of sap and woody 
 fibre, flowing from the atmosphere, and empty 
 ing into the earth by their trunks, as their roots 
 flowed upward to the surface. And in the 
 heavens there were rivers of stars, and milky 
 ways, already beginning to gleam and ripple 
 over our heads. There were rivers of rock on 
 the surface of the earth, and rivers of ore in its 
 bowels, and our thoughts flowed and circulated, 
 and this portion of time was but the current 
 hour. Let us wander where we will, the uni 
 verse is built round about us, and we are cen 
 tral still. If we look into the heavens they are 
 concave, and if we were to look into a gulf as 
 
THURSDA Y 437 
 
 bottomless, it would be concave also. The sky 
 is curved downward to the earth in the horizon, 
 because we stand on the plain. I draw down 
 its skirts. The stars so low there seem loath to 
 depart, but by a circuitous path to be remem 
 bering me, and returning on their steps. 
 
 We had already passed by broad daylight the 
 scene of our encampment at Coos Falls, and at 
 length we pitched our camp on the west bank, 
 in the northern part of Merrimack, nearly oppo 
 site to the large island on which we had spent 
 the noon in our way up the river. 
 
 There we went to bed that summer evening, 
 on a sloping shelf in the bank, a couple of rods 
 from our boat, which was drawn up on the sand, 
 and just behind a thin fringe of oaks which bor 
 dered the river ; without having disturbed any 
 inhabitants but the spiders in the grass, which 
 came out by the light of our lamp, and crawled 
 over our buft aloes. When we looked out from 
 under the tent, the trees were seen dimly through 
 the mist, and a cool dew hung upon the grass, 
 which seemed to rejoice in the night, and with 
 the damp air we inhaled a solid fragrance. 
 Having eaten our supper of hot cocoa and bread 
 and watermelon, we soon grew weary of con 
 versing, and writing in our journals, and, put 
 ting out the lantern which hung from the tent- 
 pole, fell asleep. 
 
438 A WEEK 
 
 Unfortunately, many things have been 
 omitted which should have been recorded in our 
 journal; for though we made it a rule to set 
 down all our experiences therein, yet such a res 
 olution is very hard to keep, for the important 
 experience rarely allows us to remember such 
 obligations, and so indifferent things get re 
 corded, while that is frequently neglected. It 
 is not easy to write in a journal what interests 
 us at any time, because to write it is not what 
 interests us. 
 
 Whenever we awoke in the night, still eking 
 out our dreams with half -awakened thoughts, it 
 was not till after an interval, when the wind 
 breathed harder than usual, flapping the cur 
 tains of the tent, and causing its cords to vi 
 brate, that we remembered that we lay on the 
 bank of the Merrimack, and not in our chamber 
 at home. With our heads so low in the grass, 
 we heard the river whirling and sucking, and 
 lapsing downward, kissing the shore as it went, 
 sometimes rippling louder than usual, and again 
 its mighty current making only a slight limpid, 
 trickling sound, as if our water-pail had sprung 
 a leak, and the water were flowing into the 
 grass by our side. The wind, rustling the oaks 
 and hazels, impressed us like a wakeful and 
 inconsiderate person up at midnight, moving 
 about, and putting things to rights, occasionally 
 
THURSDAY 439 
 
 stirring up whole drawers full of leaves at a 
 puff. There seemed to be a great haste and 
 preparation throughout Nature, as for a distin 
 guished visitor; all her aisles had to be swept 
 in the night by a thousand handmaidens, and 
 a thousand pots to be boiled for the next day s 
 feasting ; such a whispering bustle, as if ten 
 thousand fairies made their fingers fly, silently 
 sewing at the new carpet with which the earth 
 was to be clothed, and the new drapery which 
 was to adorn the trees. And then the wind 
 would lull and die away, and we like it fell 
 asleep again. 
 
FRIDAY. 
 
 " The Boteman strayt 
 
 Held on his course with stayed stedfastnesse, 
 Ne ever shroucke, ne ever sought to bayt 
 His tryed armes for toylesome wearinesse ; 
 But with his oarea did sweepe the watry wildernesse." 
 
 SPENBHB. 
 
 " Summer s robe grows 
 Dusky, and like an oft-dyed garment shows." 
 
 DONNE. 
 
 As we lay awake long before daybreak, lis 
 tening to the rippling of the river and the rus 
 tling of the leaves, in suspense whether the wind 
 blew up or down the stream, was favorable or 
 unfavorable to our voyage, we already suspected 
 that there was a change in the weather, from a 
 freshness as of autumn in these sounds. The 
 wind in the woods sounded like an incessant 
 waterfall dashing and roaring amid rocks, and 
 we even felt encouraged by the unusual activity 
 of the elements. He who hears the rippling of 
 rivers in these degenerate days will not utterly 
 despair. That night was the turning-point in 
 the season. We had gone to bed in summer, 
 and we awoke in autumn; for summer passes 
 into autumn in some unimaginable point of 
 ^ime, like the turning of a leaf. 
 
442 A WEEK 
 
 We found our boat in the dawn just as we 
 had left it, and as if waiting for us, there on the 
 shore, in autumn, all cool and dripping with 
 dew, and our tracks still fresh in the wet sand 
 around it, the fairies all gone or concealed. 
 Before five o clock we pushed it into the fog, 
 and, leaping in, at one shove were out of sight 
 of the shores, and began to sweep downward 
 with the rushing river, keeping a sharp lookout 
 for rocks. We could see only the yellow gur 
 gling water, and a solid bank of fog on every 
 side, forming a small yard around us. We 
 soon passed the mouth of the Souhegan, and 
 the village of Merrimack, and as the mist grad 
 ually rolled away, and we were relieved from 
 the trouble of watching for rocks, we saw by the 
 flitting clouds, by the first russet tinge on the 
 hills, by the rushing river, the cottages on 
 shore, and the shore itself, so coolly fresh and 
 shining with dew, and later in the day, by the 
 hue of the grape-vine, the goldfinch on the wil 
 low, the flickers flying in flocks, and when we 
 passed near enough to the shore, as we fancied, 
 by the faces of men, that the Fall had com 
 menced. The cottages looked more snug and 
 comfortable, and their inhabitants were seen 
 only for a moment, and then went quietly in 
 and shut the door, retreating inward to the 
 haunts of summer. 
 
FRIDAY 443 
 
 " And now the cold autumnal dews are seen 
 
 To cobweb ev ry green ; 
 And by the low-shorn rowens doth appear 
 The fast-declining year." 
 
 We heard the sigh of the first autumnal wind, 
 and even the water had acquired a grayer hue. 
 The sumach, grape, and maple were already 
 changed, and the milkweed had turned to a 
 deep, rich yellow. In all woods the leaves were 
 fast ripening for their fall ; for their full veins 
 and lively gloss mark the ripe leaf and not the 
 sered one of the poets; and we knew that the 
 maples, stripped of their leaves among the ear 
 liest, would soon stand like a wreath of smoke 
 along the edge of the meadow. Already the 
 cattle were heard to low wildly in the pastures 
 and along the highways, restlessly running to 
 and fro, as if in apprehension of the wither* 
 ing of the grass and of the approach of winter. 
 Our thoughts, too, began to rustle. 
 
 As I pass along the streets of our village of 
 Concord on the day of our annual Cattle-Show, 
 when it usually happens that the leaves of the 
 elms and buttonwoods begin first to strew the 
 ground under the breath of the October wind, 
 the lively spirits in their sap seem to mount as 
 high as any plough-boy s let loose that day; 
 and they lead my thoughts away to the rustling 
 Woods, where the trees are preparing for their 
 
444 A WEEK 
 
 winter campaign. This autumnal festival, when 
 men are gathered in crowds in the streets as 
 regularly and by as natural a law as the leaves 
 cluster and rustle by the wayside, is naturally 
 associated in my mind with the fall of the year. 
 The low of cattle in the streets sounds like a 
 hoarse symphony or running bass to the rustling 
 of the leaves. The wind goes hurrying down 
 the country, gleaning every loose straw that is 
 left in the fields, while every farmer lad too 
 appears to scud before it, having donned his 
 best pea-jacket and pepper-and-salt waistcoat, 
 his unbent trousers, outstanding rigging of duck 
 or kerseymere or corduroy, and his furry hat 
 withal, to country fairs and cattle-shows, to 
 that Rome among the villages where the trea 
 sures of the year are gathered. All the land 
 over they go leaping the fences with their tough, 
 idle palms, which have never learned to hang 
 by their sides, amid the low of calves and the 
 bleating of sheep, Amos, Abner, Elnathan, 
 Elbridge, 
 
 " From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain." 
 
 I love these sons of earth, every mother s son of 
 them, with their great hearty hearts rushing 
 tumultuously in herds from spectacle to specta 
 cle, as if fearful lest there should not be time 
 between sun and sun to see them all, and the 
 sun does not wait more than in haying-time. 
 
FRIDAY 445 
 
 " Wise Nature s darlings, they live in the world 
 Perplexing not themselves how it is hurled." 
 
 Running hither and thither with appetite for 
 the coarse pastimes of the day, now with bois 
 terous speed at the heels of the inspired negro 
 from whose larynx the melodies of all Congo 
 and Guinea Coast have broke loose into our 
 streets ; now to see the procession of a hundred 
 yoke of oxen, all as august and grave as Osiris, 
 or the droves of neat cattle and milch cows as 
 unspotted as Isis or lo. Such as had no love 
 for Nature 
 
 " at all, 
 Came lovers home from this great festival." 
 
 They may bring their fattest cattle and richest 
 fruits to the fair, but they are all eclipsed by 
 the show of men. These are stirring autumn 
 days, when men sweep by in crowds, amid the 
 rustle of leaves, like migrating finches ; this is 
 the true harvest of the year, when the air is but 
 the breath of men, and the rustling of leaves is 
 as the trampling of the crowd. We read nowa 
 days of the ancient festivals, games, and pro 
 cessions of the Greeks and Etruscans with a 
 little incredulity, or at least with little sympa 
 thy; but how natural and irrepressible in every 
 people is some hearty and palpable greeting of 
 Nature. The Corybantes, the Bacchantes, the 
 rude primitive tragedians with their procession 
 
446 A WEEK 
 
 and goat-song, and the whole paraphernalia of 
 the Panathensea, which appear so antiquated 
 and peculiar, have their parallel now. The 
 husbandman is always a better Greek than the 
 scholar is prepared to appreciate, and the old 
 custom still survives, while antiquarians and 
 scholars grow gray in commemorating it. The 
 farmers crowd to the fair to-day in obedience to 
 the same ancient law, which Solon or Lycurgus 
 did not enact, as naturally as bees swarm and 
 follow their queen. 
 
 It is worth the while to see the country s 
 people, how they pour into the town, the so 
 ber farmer folk, now all agog, their very shirt 
 and coat collars pointing forward, collars so 
 broad as if they had put their shirts on wrong 
 end upward, for the fashions always tend to 
 superfluity, and with an unusual springiness 
 in their gait, jabbering earnestly to one another. 
 The more supple vagabond, too, is sure to ap 
 pear on the least rumor of such a gathering, 
 and the next day to disappear, and go into his 
 hole like the seventeen-year locust, in an ever- 
 shabby coat, though finer than the farmer s 
 best, yet never dressed ; come to see the sport, 
 and have a hand in what is going, to know 
 "what s the row," if there is any; to be where 
 some men are drunk, some horses race, some 
 cockerels fight; anxious to be shaking props 
 
FRIDAY 447 
 
 under a table, and above all to see the "striped 
 pig." He especially is the creature of the oc 
 casion. He empties both his pockets and his 
 character into the stream, and swims in such a 
 day. He dearly loves the social slush. There 
 is no reserve of soberness in him. 
 
 I love to see the herd of men feeding heartily 
 on coarse and succulent pleasures, as cattle on 
 the husks and stalks of vegetables. Though 
 there are many crooked and crabbed specimens 
 of humanity among them, run all to thorn and 
 rind, and crowded out of shape by adverse cir 
 cumstances, like the third chestnut in the burr, 
 so that you wonder to see some heads wear a 
 whole hat, yet fear not that the race will fail 
 or waver in them ; like the crabs which grow in 
 hedges, they furnish the stocks of sweet and 
 thrifty fruits still. Thus is nature recruited 
 from age to age, while the fair and palatable 
 varieties die out, and have their period. This 
 is that mankind. How cheap must be the 
 material of which so many men are made. 
 
 The wind blew steadily down the stream, so 
 that we kept our sails set, and lost not a mo 
 ment of the forenoon by delays, but from early 
 morning until noon were continually dropping 
 downward. With our hands on the steering- 
 paddle, which was thrust deep into the river, 01 
 
448 A WEEK 
 
 bending to the oar, which indeed we rarely re 
 linquished, we felt each palpitation in the veins 
 of our steed, and each impulse of the wings 
 which drew us above. The current of our 
 thoughts made as sudden bends as the river, 
 which was continually opening new prospects to 
 the east or south, but we are aware that rivers 
 flow most rapidly and shallowest at these points. 
 The steadfast shores never once turned aside 
 for us, but still trended as they were made; 
 why then should we always turn aside for them ? 
 
 A man cannot wheedle nor overawe his Gen 
 ius. It requires to be conciliated by nobler 
 conduct than the world demands or can appre 
 ciate. These winged thoughts are like birds, 
 and will not be handled ; even hens will not let 
 you touch them like quadrupeds. Nothing was 
 ever so unfamiliar and startling to a man as his 
 own thoughts. 
 
 To the rarest genius it is the most expensive 
 to succumb and conform to the ways of the 
 world. Genius is the worst of lumber, if the 
 poet would float upon the breeze of popularity. 
 The bird of paradise is obliged constantly to 
 fly against the wind, lest its gay trappings, 
 pressing close to its body, impede its free 
 movements. 
 
 He is the best sailor who can steer within the 
 fewest points of the wind, and extract a motive 
 
FRIDAY 449 
 
 power out of the greatest obstacles. Most be 
 gin to veer and tack as soon as the wind changes 
 from aft, and as within the tropics it does not 
 blow from all points of the compass, there are 
 some harbors which they can never reach. 
 
 The poet is no tender slip of fairy stock, who 
 requires peculiar institutions and edicts for his 
 defense, but the toughest son of earth and of 
 Heaven, and by his greater strength and endur 
 ance his fainting companions will recognize the 
 God in him. It is the worshipers of beauty, 
 after all, who have done the real pioneer work 
 of the world. 
 
 The poet will prevail to be popular in spite 
 of his faults, and in spite of his beauties too. 
 He will hit the nail on the head, and we shall 
 not know the shape of his hammer. He makes 
 us free of his hearth and heart, which is greater 
 than to offer one the freedom of a city. 
 
 Great men, unknown to their generation, 
 have their fame among the great who have pre 
 ceded them, and all true worldly fame subsides 
 from their high estimate beyond the stars. 
 
 Orpheus does not hear the strains which issue 
 from his lyre, but only those which are breathed 
 into it; for the original strain precedes the 
 sound, by as much as the echo follows after. 
 The rest is the perquisite of the rocks and trees 
 and beasts. 
 
450 A WEEK 
 
 When I stand in a library where is all the 
 recorded wit of the world, but none of the re 
 cording, a mere accumulated, and not truly 
 cumulative treasure, where immortal works 
 stand side by side with anthologies which did 
 not survive their month, and cobweb and mil 
 dew have already spread from these to the bind 
 ing of those; and happily I am reminded oi 
 what poetry is, I perceive that Shakespeare 
 and Milton did not foresee into what company 
 they were to fall. Alas 1 that so soon the work 
 of a true poet should be swept into such a dust- 
 hole! 
 
 The poet will write for his peers alone. He 
 will remember only that he saw truth and 
 beauty from his position, and expect the time 
 when a vision as broad shall overlook the same 
 field as freely. 
 
 We are often prompted to speak our thoughts 
 to our neighbors, or the single travelers whom 
 we meet on the road, but poetry is a communi 
 cation from our home and solitude addressed to 
 all Intelligence. It never whispers in a private 
 ear. Knowing this, we may understand those 
 sonnets said to be addressed to particular per 
 sons, or "To a Mistress s Eyebrow." Let none 
 feel flattered by them. For poetry write love, 
 and it will be equally true. 
 
 No doubt it is an important difference be- 
 
FRIDAY 451 
 
 tween men of genius or poets, and men not of 
 genius, that the latter are unable to grasp 
 and confront the thought which visits them. 
 But it is because it is too faint for expression, 
 or even conscious impression. What merely 
 quickens or retards the blood in their veins and 
 fills their afternoons with pleasure, they know 
 not whence, conveys a distinct assurance to the 
 finer organization of the poet. 
 
 We talk of genius as if it were a mere knack, 
 and the poet could only express what other men 
 conceived. But in comparison with his task, 
 the poet is the least talented of any ; the writer 
 of prose has more skill. See what talent the 
 smith has. His material is pliant in his hands. 
 When the poet is most inspired, is stimulated 
 by an aura which never even colors the after 
 noons of common men, then his talent is all 
 gone, and he is no longer a poet. The gods do 
 not grant him any skill more than another. 
 They never put their gifts into his hands, but 
 they encompass and sustain him with their 
 breath. 
 
 To say that God has given a man many and 
 great talents frequently means that he has 
 brought his heavens down within reach of his 
 hands. 
 
 When the poetic frenzy seizes us, we run and 
 scratch with our pen, intent only on worms, 
 
452 A WEEK 
 
 calling our mates around us, like the cock, and 
 delighting in the dust we make, but do not de 
 tect where the jewel lies, which, perhaps, we 
 have in the mean time cast to a distance, or 
 quite covered up again. 
 
 The poet s body even is not fed like other 
 men s, but he sometimes tastes the genuine nec 
 tar and ambrosia of the gods, and lives a divine 
 life. By the healthful and invigorating thrills 
 of inspiration his life is preserved to a serene 
 old age. 
 
 Some poems are for holidays only. They are 
 polished and sweet, but it is the sweetness of 
 sugar, and not such as toil gives to sour bread. 
 The breath with which the poet utters his verse 
 must be that by which he lives. 
 
 Great prose, of equal elevation, commands 
 our respect more than great verse, since it im 
 plies a more permanent and level height, a life 
 more pervaded with the grandeur of the thought. 
 The poet often only makes an irruption, like a 
 Parthian, and is off again, shooting while he 
 retreats ; but tlie^rose writer has conquered like 
 a Koman, and settled colonies. 
 
 The true poem is not that which the public 
 read. There is always a poem not printed on 
 paper, coincident with the production of this, 
 stereotyped in the poet s life. It is what he 
 has become through his work. Not how is the 
 
FRIDAY 453 
 
 idea expressed in stone, or on canvas or paper, 
 is the question, but how far it has obtained form 
 and expression in the life of the artist. His 
 true work will not stand in any prince s gallery. 
 
 My life has been the poem I would have writ, 
 
 But I could not both live and utter it. 
 
 THE POET S DELAY. 
 
 In vain I see the morning rise, 
 In vain observe the western blaze, 
 
 Who idly look to other skies, 
 Expecting life by other ways. 
 
 Amidst such boundless wealth without, 
 
 I only still am poor within, 
 The birds have sung their summer out, 
 
 But still my spring does not begin. 
 
 Shall I then wait the autumn wind, 
 
 Compelled to seek a milder day, 
 And leave no curious nest behind, 
 
 No woods still echoing to my lay ? 
 
 This raw and gusty day, and the creaking of 
 the oaks and pines on shore, reminded us of 
 more northern climes than Greece, and more 
 wintry seas than the ^Egean. 
 
 The genuine remains of Ossian, or those an 
 cient poems which bear his name, though of less 
 fame and extent, are, in many respects, of the 
 same stamp with the Iliad itself. He asserts 
 
454 A WEEK 
 
 the dignity of the bard no less than Homer, and 
 in his era we hear of no other priest than he. 
 It will not avail to call him a heathen, because he 
 personifies the sun and addresses it; and what 
 if his heroes did "worship the ghosts of their 
 fathers," their thin, airy, and unsubstantial 
 forms? we worsiiip but the ghosts QJJ)U f atherf 
 in more substantial forms. We cannot but re 
 spect the vigorous faith of those heathen, who 
 sternly believed somewhat, and are inclined to 
 say to the critics, who are offended by their su 
 perstitious rites, Don t interrupt these men s 
 prayers. As if we knew more about human life 
 and a God, than the heathen and ancients! 
 Does English theology contain the recent dis 
 coveries ? 
 
 Ossian reminds us of the most refined and 
 rudest eras, of Homer, Pindar, Isaiah, and the 
 American Indian. In his poetry, as in Ho 
 mer s, only the simplest and most enduring fea 
 tures of humanity are seen, such essential parts 
 of a man as Stonehenge exhibits of a temple; 
 we see the circles of stone, and the upright shaft 
 alone. The phenomena of life acquire almost 
 an unreal and gigantic size seen through his 
 mists. Like all older and grander poetry, it is 
 distinguished by the few elements in the lives 
 of its heroes. They stand on the heath, be 
 tween the stars and the earth, shrunk to the 
 
FRIDA Y 455 
 
 bones and sinews. The earth is a boundless 
 plain for their deeds. They lead such a simple, 
 dry, and everlasting life, as hardly needs depart 
 with the flesh, but is transmitted entire from 
 age to age. There are but few objects to dis 
 tract their sight, and their life is as unincum- 
 bered as the course of the stars they gaze at. 
 
 " The wrathful kings, on cairns apart, 
 Look forward from behind their shields, 
 And mark the wandering stars, 
 That brilliant westward move." 
 
 It does not cost much for these heroes to live ; 
 they do not want much furniture. They are 
 such forms of men only as can be seen afar 
 through the mist, and have no costume nor dia 
 lect, but for language there is the tongue itself, 
 and for costume there are always the skins of 
 beasts and the bark of trees to be had. They 
 live out their years by the vigor of their consti 
 tutions. They survive storms and the spears of 
 their foes, and perform a few heroic deeds, and 
 then 
 
 " Mounds will answer questions of them, 
 For many future years." 
 
 Blind and infirm, they spend the remnant of 
 their days listening to the lays of the bards, and 
 feeling the weapons which laid their enemies 
 low, and when at length they die, by a convul 
 sion of nature, the bard allows us a short and 
 
456 A WEEK 
 
 misty glance into futurity, yet as clear, per* 
 chance, as their lives had been. When Mac- 
 Roine was slain, 
 
 " His soul departed to his warlike sires, 
 To follow misty forms ot boars, 
 In tempestuous islands bleak." 
 
 The hero s cairn is erected, and the bard sings 
 a brief significant strain, which will suffice for 
 epitaph and biography. 
 
 " The weak will find his bow in the dwelling, 
 The feeble will attempt to bend it." 
 
 Compared with this simple, fibrous life, our 
 civilized history appears the chronicle of debil 
 ity, of fashion, and the arts of luxury. But 
 the civilized man misses no real refinement in 
 the poetry of the rudest era. It reminds him 
 that civilization does but dress men. It makes 
 shoes, but it does not toughen the soles of the 
 feet. It makes cloth of finer texture, but it 
 does not touch the skin. Inside the civilized 
 man stands the savage still in the place of honor. 
 We are those blue-eyed, yellow-haired Saxons, 
 those slender, dark-haired Normans. 
 
 The profession of the bard attracted more re 
 spect in those days from the importance attached 
 to fame. It was his province to record the 
 deeds of heroes. When Ossian hears the tradi 
 tions of inferior bards, he exclaims, 
 
 " I straightway seize the unfutile tales, 
 AnH send them down in faithful verse. * 
 
FRIDAY 457 
 
 His philosophy of life is expressed in the open 
 ing of the third Duan of Ca-Lodin. 
 
 " Whence have sprung the things that are ? 
 And whither roll the passing years ? 
 Where does Time conceal its two heads, 
 In dense impenetrable gloom, 
 Its surface marked with heroes deeds alone ? 
 I view the generations gone ; 
 The past appears but dim ; 
 As objects by the moon s faint beams, 
 Reflected from a distant lake. 
 I see, indeed, the thunderbolts of war, 
 But there the unmighty joyless dwell, 
 All those who send not down their deeds 
 To far, succeeding times." 
 
 The ignoble warriors die and are forgotten; 
 
 " Strangers come to build a tower, 
 
 And throw their ashes overhand ; 
 
 Some rusted swords appear in dust, 
 
 One, bending forward, says, 
 * The arms belonged to heroes gone ; 
 
 We never heard their praise in song. " 
 
 The grandeur of the similes is another feature 
 which characterizes great poetry. Ossian seems 
 to speak a gigantic and universal language. 
 The images and pictures occupy even much 
 space in the landscape, as if they could be seen 
 only from the sides of mountains, and plains 
 with a wide horizon, or across arms of the sea. 
 The machinery is so massive that it cannot be 
 less than natural. Oivana says to the spirit of 
 her father, "Gray-haired Torkil of Tome," 
 seen in the skies, 
 
458 A WEEK 
 
 " Thou glidest away like receding ships." 
 
 So when the hosts of Fingal and Starne ap 
 proach to battle, 
 
 " With murmurs loud, like rivers far, 
 The race of Torne hither moved." 
 
 And when compelled to retire, 
 
 " dragging his spear behind, 
 Cudulin sank in the distant wood, 
 Like a fire upblazing ere it dies." 
 
 Nor did Fingal want a proper audience when 
 he spoke, 
 
 " A thousand orators inclined 
 To hear the lay of Fingal." 
 
 The threats too would have deterred a man. 
 Vengeance and terror were real. Trenmore 
 threatens the young warrior whom he meets on 
 a foreign strand, 
 
 " Thy mother shall find thee pale on the shore, 
 While lessening on the waves she spies 
 The sails of him who slew her son." 
 
 If Ossian s heroes weep, it is from excess of 
 strength, and not from weakness, a sacrifice or 
 libation of fertile natures, like the perspiration 
 of stone in summer s heat. We hardly know 
 that tears have been shed, and it seems as if 
 weeping were proper only for babes and heroes. 
 Their joy and their sorrow are made of one 
 stuff, like rain and snow, the rainbow and the 
 mist. When Fillan was worsted in fight, and 
 ashamed in the presence of Fingal, fc 
 
FRIDAY 459 
 
 " He strode away forthwith, 
 And bent in grief above a stream, 
 His cheeks bedewed with tears. 
 From time to time the thistles gray 
 He lopped with his inverted lance." 
 
 Crodar, blind and old, receives Ossian, son of 
 Fingal, who comes to aid him in war : 
 
 " My eyes have failed, says he, Crodar is blind, 
 Is thy strength like that of thy fathers ? 
 Stretch, Ossian, thine arm to the hoary-haired. 
 
 I gave my arm to the king. 
 The aged hero seized my hand ; 
 He heaved a heavy sigh ; 
 Tears flowed incessant down his cheek. 
 * Strong art thou, son of the mighty, 
 Though not so dreadful as Morven s prince. 
 
 Let my feast be spread in the hall, 
 Let every sweet-voiced minstrel sing ; 
 Great is he who is within my walls, 
 Sons of wave-echoing Croma. " 
 
 Even Ossian himself, the hero-bard, pays trib 
 ute to the superior strength of his father Fingal. 
 
 " How beauteous, mighty man, was thy mind, 
 Why succeeded Ossian without its strength ? " 
 
 While we sailed fleetly before the wind, with 
 the river gurgling under our stern, the thoughts 
 of autumn coursed as steadily through our 
 minds, and we observed less what was passing 
 on the shore, than the dateless associations and 
 impressions which the season awakened, antici 
 pating in some measure the progress of the year. 
 
460 A WEEK 
 
 I hearing get, who had but ears, 
 
 And sight, who had but eyes before, 
 I moments live, who lived but years, 
 
 And truth discern, who knew but learning s lore. 
 
 Sitting with our faces now upstream, we stud 
 ied the landscape by degree?, as one unrolls a 
 map, rock, tree, house, hill, and meadow, as 
 suming new and varying positions as wind and 
 water shifted the scene, and there was variety 
 enough for our entertainment in the metamor 
 phoses of the simplest objects. Viewed from 
 this side the scenery appeared new to us. 
 
 The most familiar sheet of water, viewed from 
 a new hill-top, yields a novel and unexpected 
 pleasure. When we have traveled a few miles, 
 we do not recognize the profiles even of the hills 
 which overlook our native village, and perhaps 
 no man is quite familiar with the horizon as 
 seen from the hill nearest to his house, and can 
 recall its outline distinctly when in the valley. 
 We do not commonly know, beyond a short dis 
 tance, which way the hills range which take in 
 our houses and farms in their sweep. As if 
 our birth had at first sundered things, and we 
 had been thrust up through into nature like 
 a wedge, and not till the wound heals and the 
 scar disappears do we begin to discover where 
 we are, and that nature is one and continuous 
 everywhere. It is an important epoch when a 
 
FRIDAY 461 
 
 man who has always lived on the east side of a 
 mountain, and seen it in the west, travels round 
 and sees it in the east. Yet the universe is a 
 sphere whose centre is wherever there is intel 
 ligence. The. sun_Js not so central as a man. 
 Upon an isolated hiU-tbp,~ in ~ah open country, 
 we seem to ourselves to be standing on the boss 
 of an immense shield, the immediate landscape 
 being apparently depressed below the more re 
 mote, and rising gradually to the horizon, which 
 is the rim of the shield, villas, steeples, forests, 
 mountains, one above another, till they are swal 
 lowed up in the heavens. The most distant 
 mountains in the horizon appear to rise directly 
 from the shore of that lake in the woods by 
 which we chance to be standing, while from the 
 mountain-top, not only this, but a thousand 
 nearer and larger lakes, are equally unobserved. 
 Seen through this clear atmosphere, the 
 works of the farmer, his ploughing and reap 
 ing, had a beauty to our eyes which he never 
 saw. How fortunate were we who did not own 
 an acre of these shores, who had not renounced 
 ur title to the whole. One who knew how to 
 appropriate the true value of this world would 
 be the poorest man in it. The poor rich man ! 
 all he has is what he has bought. What I see 
 is mine. I am a large owner in the Merrimack 
 intervals. 
 
462 A WEEK 
 
 Men dig and dive but cannot my wealth spend, 
 Who yet no partial store appropriate, 
 
 Who no armed ship into the Indies send, 
 To rob me of my orient estate. 
 
 He is the rich man, and enjoys the fruits of 
 riches, who summer and winter forever can find 
 delight in his own thoughts. Buy a farm! 
 What have I to pay for a farm which a farmer 
 will take? 
 
 When I visit again some haunt of my youth, 
 I am glad to find that nature wears so well. 
 The landscape is indeed something real, and 
 solid, and sincere, and I have not put my foot 
 through it yet. There is a pleasant tract on 
 the bank of the Concord, called Conantum, 
 which I have in my mind ; the old deserted 
 farm-house, the desolate pasture with its bleak 
 cliff, the open wood, the river-reach, the green 
 meadow in the midst, and the moss-grown wild- 
 apple orchard, places where one may have 
 many thoughts and not decide anything. It is 
 a scene which I cannot only remember, as I 
 might a vision, but when I will can bodily re 
 visit, and find it even so, unaccountable, yet 
 unpretending in its pleasant dreariness. When 
 my thoughts are sensible of change, I love to 
 see and sit on rocks which I have known, and 
 pry into their moss, and see unchangeableness 
 so established. I not yet gray on rocks forever 
 
FRIDAY 463 
 
 gray, I no longer green under the evergreens. 
 There is something even in the lapse of time by 
 which time recovers itself. 
 
 As we have said, it proved a cool as well as 
 breezy day, and by the time we reached Peni- 
 chook Brook we were obliged to sit muffled in 
 our cloaks, while the wind and current carried 
 us along. We bounded swiftly over the rip 
 pling surface, far by many cultivated lands and 
 the ends of fences which divided innumerable 
 farms, with hardly a thought for the various 
 lives which they separated; now by long rows 
 of alders or groves of pines or oaks, and now 
 by some homestead where the women and chil 
 dren stood outside to gaze at us, till we had swept 
 out of their sight, and beyond the limit of their 
 longest Saturday ramble. We glided past the 
 mouth of the Nashua, and not long after, of 
 Salmon Brook, without more pause than the 
 wind. 
 
 Salmon Brook, 
 Penichook, 
 
 Ye sweet waters of my brain, 
 When shall I look, 
 Or cast the hook, 
 In your waves again ? 
 
 Silver eels, 
 Wooden creels, 
 
 These the baits that still allure, 
 And dragon-fly 
 That floated by, 
 May they still endure ? 
 
464 A WEEK 
 
 The shadows chased one another swiftly over 
 wood and meadow, and their alternation har 
 monized with our mood. We could distinguish 
 the clouds which cast each one, though never 
 so high in the heavens. When a shadow flits 
 across the landscape of the soul, where is the 
 substance? Probably, if we were wise enough, 
 we should see to what virtue we are indebted 
 for any happier moment we enjoy. No doubt 
 we have earned it at some time ; for the gifts 
 of Heaven are never quite gratuitous. The 
 constant abrasion and decay of our lives makes 
 the soil of our future growth. The wood which 
 we now mature, when it becomes virgin mould, 
 determines the character of our second growth, 
 whether that be oaks or pines. Every man 
 casts a shadow ; not his body only, but his im 
 perfectly mingled spirit. This is his grief. 
 Let him turn which way he will, it falls oppo 
 site to the sun ; short at noon, long at eve. Did 
 you never see it? But, referred to the sun, it 
 is widest at its base, which is no greater than 
 his own opacity. The divine light is diffused 
 almost entirely around us, and by means of the 
 refraction of light, or else by a certain self- 
 luminousness, or, as some will have it, trans- 
 parency, if we preserve ourselves untarnished, 
 we are able to enlighten our shaded side. At 
 \ any rate, our darkest grief has that bronze color 
 
FRIDAY 465 
 
 of the moon eclipsed. There is no ill which 
 may not be dissipated, like the dark, if you let 
 in a stronger light upon it. Shadows, referred 
 to the source of light, are pyramids whose bases 
 are never greater than those of the substances 
 which cast them, but light is a spherical con 
 geries of pyramids, whose very apexes are the 
 sun itself, and hence the system shines with un 
 interrupted light. But if the light we use is 
 but a paltry and narrow taper, most objects will 
 cast a shadow wider than themselves. 
 
 The places where we had stopped or spent 
 the night in our way up the river had already 
 acquired a slight historical interest for us; for 
 many upward days voyaging were unraveled 
 in this rapid downward passage. When one 
 landed to stretch his limbs by walking, he soon 
 found himself falling behind his companion, and 
 was obliged to take advantage of the curves, 
 and ford the brooks and ravines in haste, to 
 recover his ground. Already the banks and the 
 distant meadows wore a sober and deepened 
 tinge, for the September air had shorn them of 
 their summer s pride. 
 
 " And what s a life ? The flourishing array 
 Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day 
 Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay." 
 
 The air was really the "fine element" which 
 the poets describe. It had a finer and sharper 
 
466 A WEEK 
 
 grain, seen against the russet pastures and 
 meadows, than before, as if cleansed of the 
 summer s impurities. 
 
 Having passed the New Hampshire line and 
 reached the Horseshoe Interval in Tyngsbor- 
 ough, where there is a high and regular second 
 bank, we climbed up this in haste to get a 
 nearer sight of the autumnal flowers, asters, 
 golden-rod, and yarrow, and blue-curls (Trichos- 
 tema dichotomum), humble roadside blossoms, 
 and, lingering still, the harebell and the Rhexia 
 Virginica. The last, growing in patches of 
 lively pink flowers on the edge of the meadows, 
 had almost too gay an appearance for the rest 
 of the landscape, like a pink ribbon on the bon 
 net of a Puritan woman. Asters and golden- 
 rods were the livery which nature wore at pres 
 ent. The latter alone expressed all the ripeness 
 of the season, and shed their mellow lustre over 
 the fields, as if the now declining summer s sun 
 had bequeathed its hues to them. It is the 
 floral solstice a little after midsummer, when 
 the particles of golden light, the sun-dust, have, 
 as it were, fallen like seeds on the earth, and 
 produced these blossoms. On every hillside, 
 and in every valley, stood countless asters, core- 
 opses, tansies, golden-rods, and the whole race 
 of yellow flowers, like Brahminical devotees, 
 turning steadily with their luminary from morn 
 ing till night. 
 
FRIDAY 467 
 
 ** I see the golden-rod shine hright, 
 
 As sun-showers at the birth of day, 
 A golden plume of yellow light, 
 
 That robs the Day-god s splendid ray. 
 
 "The aster s violet rays divide 
 
 The bank with many stars for me, 
 And yarrow in blanch tints is dyed, 
 As moonlight floats across the sea. 
 
 " I see the emerald woods prepare 
 
 To shed their vestiture once more, 
 And distant elm-trees spot the air 
 With yellow pictures softly o er. 
 
 "No more the water-lily s pride 
 
 In milk-white circles swims content, 
 No more the blue- weed s clusters ride 
 And mock the heavens element. 
 
 * Autumn, thy wreath and mine are blent 
 
 With the same colors, for to me 
 A richer sky than all is lent, 
 
 While fades my dream-like company. 
 
 " Our skies glow purple, but the wind 
 
 Sobs chill through green trees and bright grass, 
 To-day shines fair, and lurk behind 
 The times that into winter pass. 
 
 " So fair we seem, so cold we are, 
 
 So fast we hasten to decay, 
 Yet through our night glows many a star, 
 That still shall claim its sunny day." 
 
 So sang a Concord poet once. 
 
468 A WEEK 
 
 There is a peculiar interest belonging to the 
 still later flowers, which abide with us the ap 
 proach of winter. There is something witch- 
 like in the appearance of the witch hazel, which 
 blossoms late in October and in November, with 
 its irregular and angular spray and petals like 
 furies hair, or small ribbon streamers. Its 
 blossoming, too, at this irregular period, when 
 other shrubs have lost their leaves, as well as 
 blossoms, looks like witches craft. Certainly 
 it blooms in no garden of man s. There is a 
 whole fairy -land on the hillside where it grows. 
 
 Some have thought that the gales do not at 
 present waft to the voyager the natural and 
 original fragrance of the land, such as the early 
 navigators described, and that the loss of many 
 odoriferous native plants, sweet-scented grasses 
 and medicinal herbs, which formerly sweetened 
 the atmosphere, and rendered it salubrious, 
 by the grazing of cattle and the rooting of 
 swine, is the source of many diseases which now 
 prevail; the earth, say they, having been long 
 subjected to extremely artificial and luxurious 
 modes of cultivation, to gratify the appetite, 
 converted into a stye and hot-bed, where men 
 for profit increase the ordinary decay of nature. 
 
 According to the record of an old inhabitant 
 of Tyngsborough, now dead, whose farm we 
 
FRIDAY 469 
 
 were now gliding past, one of the greatest 
 freshets on this river took place in October, 
 1785, and its height was marked by a nail driven 
 into an apple-tree behind his house. One of his 
 descendants has shown this to me, and I judged 
 it to be at least seventeen or eighteen feet above 
 the level of the river at the time. According 
 to Barber, the river rose twenty -one feet above 
 the common high -water mark at Bradford in 
 the year 1818. Before the Lowell and Nashua 
 railroad was built, the engineer made inquiries 
 of the inhabitants along the banks as to how 
 high they had known the river to rise. When 
 he came to this house he was conducted to the 
 apple-tree, and as the nail was not then visible, 
 the lady of the house placed her hand on the 
 trunk where she said that she remembered the 
 nail to have been from her childhood. In the 
 mean while the old man put his arm inside 
 the tree, which was hollow, and felt the point of 
 the nail sticking through, and it was exactly 
 opposite to her hand. The spot is now plainly 
 marked by a notch in the bark. But as no one 
 else remembered the river to have risen so high 
 as this, the engineer disregarded this statement, 
 and I learn that there has since been a freshet 
 which rose within nine inches of the rails at 
 Biscuit Brook, and such a freshet as that of 
 1785 would have covered the railroad two feet 
 deep. 
 
470 A WEEK 
 
 The revolutions of nature tell as fine tales, 
 and make as interesting revelations, on this 
 river s banks, as on the Euphrates or the Nile. 
 This apple-tree, which stands within a few rods 
 of the river, is called "Elisha s apple-tree," 
 from a friendly Indian, who was anciently in 
 the service of Jonathan Tyng, and, with one 
 other man, was killed here by his own race in 
 one of the Indian wars, the particulars of 
 which affair were told us on the spot. He was 
 buried close by, no one knew exactly where, but 
 in the flood of 1785, so great a weight of water 
 standing over the grave caused the earth to set 
 tle where it had once been disturbed, and when 
 the flood went down, a sunken spot, exactly of 
 the form and size of the grave, revealed its 
 locality; but this was now lost again, and no 
 future flood can detect it; yet, no doubt, na 
 ture will know how to point it out in due time, 
 if it be necessary, by methods yet more search 
 ing and unexpected. Thus there is not only 
 the crisis when the spirit ceases to inspire and 
 expand the body, marked by a fresh mound in 
 the churchyard, but there is also a crisis when 
 the body ceases to take up room as such in 
 nature, marked by a fainter depression in the 
 earth. 
 
 We sat awhile to rest us here upon the brink 
 of the western bank, surrounded by the glossy 
 
FRIDAY 471 
 
 leaves of the red variety of the mountain laurel, 
 just above the head of Wicasuck Island, where 
 we could observe some scows which were load 
 ing with clay from the opposite shore, and also 
 overlook the grounds of the farmer, of whom I 
 have spoken, who once hospitably entertained 
 us for a night. He had on his pleasant farm, 
 besides an abundance of the beach-plum, or 
 Prunus littoralis, which grew wild, the Canada 
 plum under cultivation, fine Porter apples, some 
 peaches, and large patches of musk and water 
 melons, which he cultivated for the Lowell mar 
 ket. Elisha s apple - tree, too, bore a native 
 fruit, which was prized by the family ; he raised 
 the blood peach, which, as he showed us with 
 satisfaction, was more like the oak in the color 
 of its bark and in the setting of its branches, and 
 was less liable to break down under the weight 
 of the fruit, or the snow, than other varieties. 
 It was of slower growth, and its branches strong 
 and tough. There, also, was his nursery of 
 native apple-trees, thickly set upon the bank, 
 which cost but little care, and which he sold to 
 the neighboring farmers when they were five or 
 six years old. To see a single peach upon its 
 stem makes an impression of paradisaical fer 
 tility and luxury. This reminded us even of 
 an old Roman farm, as described by Varro : 
 M Caesar Vopiscus ^iEdilicius, when he pleaded 
 
472 A WEEK 
 
 before the Censors, said that the grounds of 
 Rosea were the garden (sumen, the tid-bit) of 
 Italy, in which a pole being left would not be 
 visible the day after, on account of the growth 
 of the herbage." This soil may not have been 
 remarkably fertile, yet at this distance we 
 thought that this anecdote might be told of the 
 Tyngsborough farm. 
 
 When we passed Wicasuck Island, there was 
 a pleasure boat containing a youth and a maiden 
 on the island brook, which we were pleased to 
 see, since it proved that there were some here 
 abouts to whom our excursion would not be 
 wholly strange. Before this, a canal-boatman, 
 of whom we made some inquiries respecting 
 Wicasuck Island, and who told us that it was 
 disputed property, suspected that we had a 
 claim upon it, and though we assured him that 
 all this was news to us, and explained, as well 
 as we could, why we had come to see it, he be 
 lieved not a word of it, and seriously offered us 
 one hundred dollars for our title. The only 
 other small boats which we met with were used 
 to pick up drift-wood. Some of the poorer class 
 ilong the stream collect, in this way, all the 
 fuel which they require. While one of us landed 
 not far from this island to forage for provisions 
 among the farm-houses whose roofs we saw, for 
 our supply was now exhausted, the other, sitting 
 
FRIDAY 473 
 
 in the boat, which was moored to the shore, was 
 left alone to his reflections. 
 
 If there is nothing new on the earth, still the 
 traveler always has a resource in the skies. 
 They are constantly turning a new page to 
 view. The wind sets the types on this blue 
 ground, and the inquiring may always read a 
 new truth there. There are things there written 
 with such fine and subtile tinctures, paler than 
 the juice of limes, that to the diurnal eye they 
 leave no trace, and only the chemistry of night 
 reveals them. Every man s daylight firmament 
 answers in his mind to the brightness of the 
 vision in his starriest hour. 
 
 These continents and hemispheres are soon 
 run over, but an always unexplored and infinite 
 region makes off on every side from the mind, 
 further than to sunset, and we can make no 
 highway or beaten track into it, but the grass 
 immediately springs up in the path, for we 
 travel there chiefly with our wings. 
 
 Sometimes we see objects as through a thin 
 haze, in their eternal relations, and they stand 
 like Palenque and the Pyramids, and we won 
 der who set them up, and for what purpose. If 
 we see the reality in things, of what moment 
 is the superficial and apparent longer? What 
 are the earth and all its interests beside the 
 deep surmise which pierces and scatters them? 
 
474 A WEEK 
 
 While I sit here listening to the waves which 
 ripple and break on this shore, I am absolved 
 from all obligation to the past, and the council 
 of nations may reconsider its votes. The grat 
 ing of a pebble annuls them. Still occasionally 
 in my dreams I remember that rippling water. 
 
 Oft, as I turn me on my pillow o er, 
 I hear the lapse of waves upon the shore, 
 Distinct as if it were at broad noonday, 
 And I were drifting down from Nashua. 
 
 With a bending sail we glided rapidly by 
 Tyngsborough and Chelmsford, each holding in 
 one hand half of a tart country apple-pie which 
 we had purchased to celebrate our return, and 
 in the other a fragment of the newspaper in 
 which it was wrapped, devouring these with 
 divided relish, and learning the news which 
 had transpired since we sailed. The river here 
 opened into a broad and straight reach of great 
 length, which we bounded merrily over before 
 a smacking breeze, with a devil-may-care look 
 in our faces, and our boat a white bone in its 
 mouth, and a speed which greatly astonished 
 some scow boatmen whom we met. The wind 
 in the horizon rolled like a flood over valley and 
 plain, and every tree bent to the blast, and the 
 mountains like school-boys turned their cheeks 
 to it. They were great and current motions, 
 the flowing sail, the running stream, the waving 
 
FRIDA Y 475 
 
 tree, the roving wind. The north wind stepped 
 readily into the harness which we had provided, 
 and pulled us along with good will. Sometimes 
 we sailed as gently and steadily as the clouds 
 overhead, watching the receding shores and the 
 motions of our sail ; the play of its pulse so like 
 our own lives, so thin and yet so full of life, so 
 noiseless when it labored hardest, so noisy and 
 impatient when least effective; now bending to 
 some generous impulse of the breeze, and then 
 fluttering and flapping with a kind of human 
 suspense. It was the scale on which the vary 
 ing temperature of distant atmospheres was 
 graduated, and it was some attraction for us 
 that the breeze it played with had been out of 
 doors so long. Thus we sailed, not being able 
 to fly, but as next best, making a long furrow 
 in the fields of the Merrimack toward our home, 
 with our wings spread, but never lifting our 
 heel from the watery trench ; gracefully plough 
 ing homeward with our brisk and willing team, 
 wind and stream, pulling together, the former 
 yet a wild steer, yoked to his more sedate fel 
 low. It was very near flying, as when the duck 
 rushes through the water with an impulse of her 
 wings, throwing the spray about her before she 
 can rise. How we had stuck fast if drawn up 
 but a few feet on the shore ! 
 
 When we reached the great bend just above 
 
476 A WEEK 
 
 Middlesex, where the river runs east thirty -five 
 miles to the sea, we at length lost the aid of this 
 propitious wind, though we contrived to make 
 one long and judicious tack carry us nearly to 
 the locks of the canal. We were here locked 
 through at noon by our old friend, the lover of 
 the higher mathematics, who seemed glad to see 
 us safe back again through so many locks ; but 
 we did not stop to consider any of his problems, 
 though we could cheerfully have spent a whole 
 autumn in this way another time, and never 
 have asked what his religion was. It is so rare 
 to meet with a man out-doors who cherishes a 
 worthy thought in his mind, which is indepen 
 dent of the labor of his hands. Behind every 
 man s busy-ness there should be a level of undis 
 turbed serenity and industry, as within the reef 
 encircling a coral isle there is always an expanse 
 of still water, where the depositions are going 
 on which will finally raise it above the surface. 
 
 The eye which can appreciate the naked and 
 absolute beauty of a scientific truth is far more 
 rare than that which is attracted by a moral one. 
 Few detect the morality in the former, or the 
 science in the latter. Aristotle defined art to 
 be Aoyos TOV cpyov avev vA^s, The principle of the 
 work without the wood ; but most men prefer to 
 have some of the wood along with the principle ; 
 
FRIDAY 477 
 
 they demand that the truth be clothed in flesh 
 and blood and the warm colors of life. They 
 prefer the partial statement because it fits and 
 measures them and their commodities best. 
 But science still exists everywhere as the sealer 
 of weights and measures at least. 
 
 We have heard much about the poetry of 
 mathematics, but very little of it has yet been 
 sung. The ancients had a juster notion of their 
 poetic value than we. The most distinct and 
 beautiful statement of any truth must take at 
 last the mathematical form. We might so sim 
 plify the rules of moral philosophy, as well as 
 of arithmetic, that one formula would express 
 them both. All the moral laws are readily 
 translated into natural philosophy, for often we 
 have only to restore the primitive meaning of 
 the words by which they are expressed, or to 
 attend to their literal instead of their metaphor 
 ical sense. They are already supernatural phi 
 losophy. The whole body of what is now called 
 tooral or ethical truth existed in the golden age 
 as abstract science. Or, if we prefer, we may 
 say that the laws of Nature are the purest mo 
 rality. The Tree of Knowledge is a Tree of 
 Knowledge of good and evil. He is not a true 
 man of science who does not bring some sympa 
 thy to his studies, and expect to learn some 
 thing by behavior as well as by application. Il 
 
478 A WEEK 
 
 is childish to rest in the discovery of mere coin 
 cidences, or of partial and extraneous laws. The 
 study of geometry is a petty and idle exercise of 
 the mind, if it is applied to no larger system 
 than the starry one. Mathematics should be 
 mixed not only with physics but with ethics, 
 that is mixed mathematics. The fact which 
 interests us most is the life of the naturalist. 
 The purest science is still biographical. No 
 thing will dignify and elevate science while it is 
 sundered so wholly from the moral life of its 
 devotee, and he professes another religion than 
 it teaches, and worships at a foreign shrine. 
 Anciently the faith of a philosopher was identi 
 cal with his system, or, in other words, his view 
 of the universe. 
 
 My friends mistake when they communicate 
 facts to me with so much pains. Their pres 
 ence, even their exaggerations and loose state 
 ments, are equally good facts for me. I have 
 no respect for facts even except when I would 
 use them, and for the most part I am indepen 
 dent of those which I hear, and can afford to 
 be inaccurate, or, in other words, to substitute 
 more present and pressing facts in their place. 
 
 The poet uses the results of science and phi 
 losophy, and generalizes their widest deductions. 
 
 The process of discovery is very simple. An 
 unwearied and systematic application of known 
 
FRIDA Y 479 
 
 laws to nature causes the unknown to reveal 
 themselves. Almost any mode of observation 
 will be successful at last, for what is most 
 wanted is method. Only let something be de 
 termined and fixed around which observation 
 may rally. How many new relations a foot- 
 rule alone will reveal, and to how many things 
 still this has not been applied ! What wonder 
 ful discoveries have been and may still be made, 
 with a plumb-line, a level, a surveyor s com 
 pass, a thermometer, or a barometer! Where 
 there is an observatory and a telescope, we ex 
 pect that any eyes will see new worlds at once. 
 I should say that the most prominent scientific 
 men of our country, and perhaps of this age, 
 are either serving the arts and not pure science, 
 or are performing faithful but quite subordinate 
 labors in particular departments. They make 
 no steady and systematic approaches to the cen 
 tral fact. A discovery is made, and at once 
 the attention of all observers is distracted to 
 that, and it draws many analogous discoveries 
 in its train ; as if their work were not already 
 laid out for them, but they had been lying on 
 their oars. There is wanting constant and ac 
 curate observation with enough of theory to di 
 rect and discipline it. 
 
 But, above all, there is wanting genius. Our 
 books of science, as they improve in accuracy, 
 
480 A WEEK 
 
 are in danger of losing the freshness and vigor 
 and readiness to appreciate the real laws of Na 
 ture, which is a marked merit in the ofttimes 
 false theories of the ancients. I am attracted 
 by the slight pride and satisfaction, the emphatic 
 and even exaggerated style, in which some of 
 the older naturalists speak of the operations of 
 Nature, though they are better qualified to ap 
 preciate than to discriminate the facts. Their 
 assertions are not without value when disproved. 
 If they are not facts, they are suggestions for 
 Nature herself to act upon. "The Greeks," 
 says Gesner, "had a common proverb (Aa-yos 
 icafovSoi ), a sleeping hare, for a dissembler or 
 counterfeit; because the hare sees when she 
 sleeps ; for this is an admirable and rare work 
 of Nature, that all the residue of her bodily 
 parts take their rest, but the eye standeth con 
 tinually sentinel." 
 
 Observation is so wide awake, and facts are 
 being so rapidly added to the sum of human 
 experience, that it appears as if the theorizer 
 would always be in arrears, and were doomed 
 forever to arrive at imperfect conclusions; but 
 the power to perceive a law is equally rare in 
 all ages of the world, and depends but little on 
 the number of facts observed. The senses of 
 the savage will furnish him with facts enough 
 to set him up as a philosopher. The ancients 
 
FRIDAY 481 
 
 can still speak to us with authority, even on 
 the themes of geology and chemistry, though 
 these studies are thought to have had their birth 
 in modern times. Much is said about the prog 
 ress of science in these centuries. I should say 
 that the useful results of science had accumu 
 lated, but that there had been no accumulation 
 of knowledge, strictly speaking, for posterity; 
 for knowledge is to be acquired only by a corre 
 sponding experience. How can we know what 
 we are told merely? Each man can interpret 
 another s experience only by his own. We 
 read that Newton discovered the law of gravita 
 tion, but how many who have heard of his fa 
 mous discovery have recognized the same truth 
 that he did? It may be not one. The revela 
 tion which was then made to him has not been 
 superseded by the revelation made to any suc 
 cessor. 
 
 We see the planet fall, 
 And that is all. 
 
 In a review of Sir James Clark Boss s An 
 tarctic Voyage of Discovery, there is a passage 
 which shows how far a body of men are com 
 monly impressed by an object of sublimity, and 
 which is also a good instance of the step from 
 the sublime to the ridiculous. After describing 
 the discovery of the Antarctic Continent, at 
 first seen a hundred miles distant over fields 
 
482 A WEEK 
 
 of ice, stupendous ranges of mountains from 
 seven and eight to twelve and fourteen thousand 
 feet high, covered with eternal snow and ice, 
 in solitary and inaccessible grandeur, at one 
 time the weather being beautifully clear, and 
 the sun shining on the icy landscape ; a conti 
 nent whose islands only are accessible, and these 
 exhibited "not the smallest trace of vegeta 
 tion," only in a few places the rocks protruding 
 through their icy covering, to convince the be 
 holder that land formed the nucleus, and that 
 it was not an iceberg ; the practical British 
 reviewer proceeds thus, sticking to his last, " On 
 the 22d of January, afternoon, the Expedition 
 made the latitude of 74 20 , and by 7 h P. M., 
 having ground [ground! where did they get 
 ground?] to believe that they were then in a 
 higher southern latitude than had been attained 
 by that enterprising seaman, the late Captain 
 James Weddel, and therefore higher than all 
 their predecessors, an extra allowance of grog 
 was issued to the crews as a reward for their 
 perseverance." 
 
 Let not us sailors of late centuries take upon 
 ourselves any airs on account of our Newtons 
 and our Cuviers ; we deserve an extra allowance 
 of grog only. 
 
 We endeavored in vain to persuade the wind 
 
FRIDAY 483 
 
 to blow through the long corridor of the canal, 
 which is here cut straight through the woods, 
 and were obliged to resort to our old expedient 
 of drawing by a cord. When we reached the 
 Concord, we were forced to row once more in 
 good earnest, with neither wind nor current in 
 our favor, but by this time the rawness of the 
 day had disappeared, and we experienced the 
 warmth of a summer afternoon. This change 
 in the weather was favorable to our contempla 
 tive mood, and disposed us to dream yet deeper 
 at our oars, while we floated in imagination 
 farther down the stream of time, as we had 
 floated down the stream of the Merrimack, to 
 poets of a milder period than had engaged us 
 in the morning. Chelmsford and Billerica ap 
 peared like old English towns, compared with 
 Merrimack and Nashua, and many generations 
 of civil poets might have lived and sung here. 
 
 What a contrast between the stern and deso 
 late poetry of Ossian, and that of Chaucer, and 
 even of Shakespeare and Milton, much more of 
 Dryden, and Pope, and Gray. Our summer of 
 English poetry, like the Greek and Latin before 
 it, seems well advanced toward its fall, and 
 laden with the fruit and foliage of the season, 
 with bright autumnal tints, but soon the winter 
 will scatter its myriad clustering and shading 
 
484 A WEEK 
 
 leaves, and leave only a few desolate and fibrous 
 boughs to sustain the snow and rime, and creak 
 in the blasts of ages. We cannot escape the 
 impression that the Muse has stooped a little in 
 her flight, when we come to the literature of 
 civilized eras. Now first we hear of various 
 ages and styles of poetry; it is pastoral, and 
 lyric, and narrative, and didactic ; but the poe 
 try of runic monuments is of one style, and for 
 every age. The bard has in a great measure 
 lost the dignity and sacredness of his office. 
 Formerly he was called a seer, but now it is 
 thought that one man sees as much as another. 
 He has no longer the bardic rage, and only con 
 ceives the deed, which he formerly stood ready 
 to perform. Hosts of warriors earnest for bat 
 tle could not mistake nor dispense with the an 
 cient bard. His lays were heard in the pauses 
 of the fight. There was no danger of his being 
 overlooked by his contemporaries. But now the 
 hero and the bard are of different professions. 
 When we come to the pleasant English verse, 
 the storms have all cleared away, and it will 
 never thunder and lighten more. The poet has 
 come within doors, and exchanged the forest 
 and crag for the fireside, the hut of the Gael, 
 and Stonehenge, with its circles of stones, for 
 the house of the Englishman. No hero stands 
 at the door prepared to break forth into song 01 
 
FRIDA Y 485 
 
 heroic action, but a homely Englishman, who 
 cultivates the art of poetry. We see the com 
 fortable fireside, and hear the crackling fagots, 
 in all the verse. 
 
 Notwithstanding the broad humanity of 
 Chaucer, and the many social and domestic 
 comforts which we meet with in his verse, we 
 have to narrow our vision somewhat to consider 
 him, as if he occupied less space in the land 
 scape, and did not stretch over hill and valley 
 as Ossian does. Yet, seen from the side of 
 posterity, as the father of English poetry, pre 
 ceded by a long silence or confusion in history, 
 unenlivened by any strain of pure melody, we 
 easily come to reverence him. Passing over 
 the earlier continental poets, since we are bound 
 to the pleasant archipelago of English poetry, 
 Chaucer s is the first name after that misty 
 weather in which Ossian lived, which can detain 
 us long. Indeed, though he represents so dif 
 ferent a culture and society, he may be regarded 
 as in many respects the Homer of the English 
 poets. Perhaps he is the youthfulest of them 
 all. We return to him as to the purest well, 
 the fountain farthest removed from the highway 
 of desultory life. He is so natural and cheer 
 ful, compared with later poets, that we might 
 almost regard him as a personification of spring. 
 To the faithful reader his muse has even given 
 
486 A WEEK 
 
 an aspect to his times, and when he is fresh 
 from perusing him, they seem related to the 
 golden age. It is still the poetry of youth and 
 life, rather than of thought; and though the 
 moral vein is obvious and constant, it has not 
 yet banished the sun and daylight from his 
 verse. The loftiest strains of the Muse are, for 
 the most part, sublimely plaintive, and not a 
 carol as free as Nature s. The content which 
 the sun shines to celebrate from morning to 
 evening is unsung. The Muse solaces herself, 
 and is not ravished but consoled. There is a 
 catastrophe implied, and a tragic element in 
 all our verse, and less of the lark and morning 
 dews, than of the nightingale and evening 
 shades. But in Homer and Chaucer there is 
 more of the innocence and serenity of youth 
 than in the more modern and moral poets. The 
 Iliad is not Sabbath but morning reading, and 
 men cling to this old song, because they still 
 have moments of unbaptized and uncommitted 
 life, which give them an appetite for more. To 
 the innocent there are neither cherubim nor an 
 gels. At rare intervals we rise above the ne 
 cessity of virtue into an unchangeable morning 
 light, in which we have only to live right on 
 and breathe the ambrosial air. The Iliad rep 
 resents no creed nor opinion, and we read it 
 with a rare sense of freedom and irresponsibil- 
 
FRIDA Y 487 
 
 ity, as if we trod on native ground, and were 
 autochthones of the soil. 
 
 Chaucer had eminently the habits of a liter 
 ary man and a scholar. There were never any 
 times so stirring that there were not to be found 
 some sedentary still. He was surrounded by 
 the din of arms. The battles of Hallidon Hill 
 and Neville s Cross, and the still more mem 
 orable battles of Cressy and Poictiers, were 
 fought in his youth ; but these did not concern 
 our poet much, Wickliffe and his reform much 
 more. He regarded himself always as one priv 
 ileged to sit and converse with books. He 
 helped to establish the literary class. His 
 character as one of the fathers of the English 
 language would alone make his works impor 
 tant, even those which have little poetical merit. 
 He was as simple as Wordsworth in preferring 
 his homely but vigorous Saxon tongue, when it 
 was neglected by the court, and had not yet 
 attained to the dignity of a literature, and ren 
 dered a similar service to his country to that 
 which Dante rendered to Italy. If Greek suf- 
 ficeth for Greek, and Arabic for Arabian, and 
 Hebrew for Jew, and Latin for Latin, then 
 English shall suffice for him, for any of these 
 will serve to teach truth "right as divers pathes 
 leaden divers folke the right waye to Home." 
 In the Testament of Love he writes, "Let then 
 
488 A WEEK 
 
 clerkes enditen in Latin, for they have the prop- 
 ertie of science, and the knowinge in that facul- 
 tie, and lette Frenchmen in their Frenche also 
 enditen their queinte termes, for it is kyndely 
 to their mouthes, and let us shewe our fantasies 
 in soche wordes as we lerneden of our dames 
 tonge." 
 
 He will know how to appreciate Chaucer best 
 who has come down to him the natural way, 
 through the meagre pastures of Saxon and ante- 
 Chaucerian poetry ; and yet, so human and wise 
 he appears after such diet, that we are liable to 
 misjudge him still. In the Saxon poetry ex 
 tant, in the earliest English, and the contempo 
 rary Scottish poetry, there is less to remind the 
 reader of the rudeness and vigor of youth than 
 of the feebleness of a declining age. It is for 
 the most part translation of imitation merely, 
 with only an occasional and slight tinge of 
 poetry, oftentimes the falsehood and exaggera 
 tion of fable, without its imagination to redeem 
 it, and we look in vain to find antiquity re 
 stored, humanized, and made blithe again by 
 some natural sympathy between it and the pres 
 ent. But Chaucer is fresh and modern still, 
 and no dust settles on his true passages. It 
 lightens along the line, and we are reminded 
 that flowers have bloomed, and birds sung, and 
 hearts beaten in England. Before the earnest 
 
FRIDA Y 489 
 
 gaze of the reader, the rust and moss of time 
 gradually drop off, and the original green life 
 is revealed. He was a homely and domestic 
 man, and did breathe quite as modern men do. 
 There is no wisdom that can take place of hu 
 manity, and we find that in Chaucer. We can 
 expand at last in his breadth, and we think that 
 we could have been that man s acquaintance. 
 He was worthy to be a citizen of England, 
 while Petrarch and Boccaccio lived in Italy, 
 and Tell and Tamerlane in Switzerland and 
 in Asia, and Bruce in Scotland, and Wickliffe, 
 and Gower, and Edward the Third, and John 
 of Gaunt, and the Black Prince were his own 
 countrymen as well as contemporaries ; all stout 
 and stirring names. The fame of Roger Bacon 
 came down from the preceding century, and the 
 name of Dante still possessed the influence of a 
 living presence. On the whole, Chaucer im 
 presses us as greater than his reputation, and 
 not a little like Homer and Shakespeare, for he 
 would have held up his head in their company. 
 Among early English poets he is the landlord 
 and host, and has the authority of such. The 
 affectionate mention which succeeding early 
 poets make of him, coupling him with Homer 
 and Virgil, is to be taken into the account in 
 estimating his character and influence. King 
 James and Dunbar of Scotland speak of him 
 
490 A WEEK 
 
 with more love and reverence than any modern 
 author of his predecessors of the last century. 
 The same childlike relation is without a parallel 
 now. For the most part we read him without 
 criticism, for he does not plead his own cause, 
 but speaks for his readers, and has that great 
 ness of trust and reliance which compels popu 
 larity. He confides in the reader, and speaks 
 privily with him, keeping nothing back. And 
 in return the reader has great confidence in him, 
 that he tells no lies, and reads his story with 
 indulgence, as if it were the circumlocution of a 
 child, but often discovers afterwards that he has 
 spoken with more directness and economy of 
 words than a sage. He is never heartless, 
 
 " For first the thing is thought within the hart, 
 Er any word out from the mouth astart." 
 
 And so new was all his theme in those days, 
 that he did not have to invent, but only to tell. 
 We admire Chaucer for his sturdy English 
 wit. The easy height he speaks from in his 
 Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, as if he were 
 equal to any of the company there assembled, 
 is as good as any particular excellence in it. 
 But though it is full of good sense and human 
 ity, it is not transcendent poetry. For pic 
 turesque description of persons it is, perhaps, 
 without a parallel in English poetry; yet it 
 is essentially humorous, as the loftiest genius 
 
FRIDAY 491 
 
 never is. Humor, however broad and genial, 
 takes a narrower view than enthusiasm. To 
 his own finer vein he added all the common wit 
 and wisdom of his time, and everywhere in his 
 works his remarkable knowledge of the world 
 and nice perception of character, his rare com 
 mon sense and proverbial wisdom, are apparent. 
 His genius does not soar like Milton s, but is 
 genial and familiar. It shows great tenderness 
 and delicacy, but not the heroic sentiment. It 
 is only a greater portion of humanity with all 
 its weakness. He is not heroic, as Raleigh, 
 nor pious, as Herbert, nor philosophical, as 
 Shakespeare, but he is the child of the English 
 muse, that child which is the father of the man. 
 The charm of his poetry consists often only in 
 an exceeding naturalness, perfect sincerity, with 
 the behavior of a child rather than of a man. 
 
 Gentleness and delicacy of character are 
 everywhere apparent in his verse. The simplest 
 and humblest words come readily to his lips. 
 No one can read the Prioress s tale, understand 
 ing the spirit in which it was written, and in 
 which the child sings alma redemptoris 
 mater ) or the account of the departure of Con 
 stance with her child upon the sea, in the Man 
 of Lawe s tale, without feeling the native inno 
 cence and refinement of the author. Nor can 
 we be mistaken respecting the essential purity 
 
492 A WEEK 
 
 of his character, disregarding the apology of 
 the manners of the age. A simple pathos and 
 feminine gentleness, which Wordsworth only 
 occasionally approaches, but does not equal, are 
 peculiar to him. We are tempted to say that 
 his genius was feminine, not masculine. It was 
 such a feminineness, however, as is rarest to 
 find in woman, though not the appreciation of 
 it; perhaps it is not to be found at all in 
 woman, but is only the feminine in man. 
 
 Such pure and genuine and childlike love of 
 Nature is hardly to be found in any poet. 
 - Chaucer s remarkably trustful and affection 
 ate character appears in his familiar, yet inno 
 cent and reverent, manner of speaking of his 
 God. He comes into his thought without any 
 false reverence, and with no more parade than 
 the zephyr to his ear. If Nature is our mo 
 ther, then God is our father. There is less love 
 and simple, practical trust in Shakespeare and 
 Milton. How rarely in our English tongue do 
 we find expressed any affection for God. Cer 
 tainly, there is no sentiment so rare as the love 
 of God. Herbert almost alone expresses it, 
 "Ah, my dear God!" Our poet uses similar 
 words with propriety; and whenever he sees a 
 beautiful person, or other object, prides himself 
 on the "maistry " of his God. He even recom 
 mends Dido to be his bride, 
 
FRIDAY 493 
 
 " If that God that heaven and yearth made, 
 Would have a love for beauty and goodnesse, 
 And womanhede, trouth, and semeliness." 
 
 But in justification of our praise, we must 
 refer to his works themselves; to the Prologue 
 to the Canterbury Tales, the account of Genti- 
 lesse, the Flower and the Leaf, the stories of 
 Griselda, Virginia, Ariadne, and Blanche the 
 Duchesse, and much more of less distinguished 
 merit. There are many poets of more taste, 
 and better manners, who knew how to leave out 
 their dullness; but such negative genius cannot 
 detain us long ; we shall return to Chaucer still 
 with love. Some natures, which are really 
 rude and ill-developed, have yet a higher stand 
 ard of perfection than others which are refined 
 and well balanced. Even the clown has taste, 
 whose dictates, though he disregards them, are 
 higher and purer than those which the artist 
 obeys. If we have to wander through many 
 dull and prosaic passages in Chaucer, we have 
 at least the satisfaction of knowing that it is 
 not an artificial dullness, but too easily matched 
 by many passages in life. We confess that 
 we feel a disposition commonly to concentrate 
 sweets, and accumulate pleasures ; but the poet 
 may be presumed always to speak as a traveler, 
 who leads us through a varied scenery, from one 
 eminence to another, and it is, perhaps, more 
 
494 A WEEK 
 
 pleasing, after all, to meet with a fine thought 
 in its natural setting. Surely fate has en 
 shrined it in these circumstances for some end. 
 Nature strews her nuts and flowers broadcast, 
 and never collects them into heaps. This was 
 the soil it grew in, and this the hour it bloomed 
 in; if sun, wind, and rain came here to cherish 
 and expand the flower, shall not we come here 
 to pluck it? 
 
 A true poem is distinguished not so much by 
 a felicitous expression, or any thought it sug 
 gests, as by the atmosphere which surrounds it. 
 Most have beauty of outline merely, and are 
 striking as the form and bearing of a stranger ; 
 but true verses come toward us indistinctly, as 
 the very breath of all friendliness, and envelop 
 us in their spirit and fragrance. Much of 
 our poetry has the very best manners, but no 
 character. It is only an unusual precision and 
 elasticity of speech, as if its author had taken, 
 not an intoxicating draught, but an electuary. 
 It has the distinct outline of sculpture, and 
 chronicles an early hour. Under the influence 
 of passion all men speak thus distinctly, but 
 wrath is not always divine. 
 
 There are two classes of men called poets. 
 The one cultivates life, the other art, one 
 seeks food for nutriment, the other for flavor* 
 
FRIDAY 495 
 
 one satisfies hunger, the other gratifies the 
 palate. There are two kinds of writing, both 
 great and rare; one that of genius, or the in 
 spired, the other of intellect and taste, in the 
 intervals of inspiration. The former is above 
 criticism, always correct, giving the law to crit 
 icism. It vibrates and pulsates with life for 
 ever. It is sacred, and to be read with rever 
 ence, as the works of nature are studied. There 
 are few instances of a sustained style of this 
 kind; perhaps every man has spoken words, but 
 the speaker is then careless of the record. Such 
 a style removes us out of personal relations with 
 its author; we do not take his words on our 
 lips, but his sense into our hearts. It is the 
 stream of inspiration, which bubbles out, now 
 here, now there, now in this man, now in that. 
 It matters not through what ice-crystals it is 
 seen, now a fountain, now the ocean stream run 
 ning underground. It is in Shakespeare, Al- 
 pheus, in Burns, Arethuse ; but ever the same. 
 The other is self-possessed and wise. It is rev 
 erent of genius, and greedy of inspiration. It 
 is conscious in the highest and the least degree. 
 It consists with the most perfect command of 
 the faculties. It dwells in a repose as of the 
 desert, and objects are as distinct in it as oases 
 or palms in the horizon of sand. The train of 
 thought moves with subdued and measured step, 
 
496 A WEEK 
 
 like a caravan. But the pen is only an instru 
 ment in its hand, and not instinct with life, like 
 a longer arm. It leaves a thin varnish or glaze 
 over all its work. The works of Goethe furnish 
 remarkable instances of the latter. 
 
 There is no just and serene criticism as yet. 
 Nothing is considered simply as it lies in the 
 lap of eternal beauty, but our thoughts, as well 
 as our bodies, must be dressed after the latest 
 fashions. Our taste is too delicate and partic 
 ular. It says nay to the poet s work, but never 
 yea to his hope. It invites him to adorn his 
 deformities, and not to cast them off by expan 
 sion, as the tree its bark. We are a people 
 who live in a bright light, in houses of pearl 
 and porcelain, and drink only light wines, whose 
 teeth are easily set on edge by the least natural 
 sour. If we had been consulted, the backbone 
 of the earth would have been made, not of gran 
 ite, but of Bristol spar. A modern author 
 would have died in infancy in a ruder age. 
 But the poet is something m<?re than a scald, 
 "a smoother and polisher of language;" he is 
 a Cincinnatus in literature, and occupies no 
 west end of the world. Like the sun, he will 
 indifferently select his rhymes, and with a lib 
 eral taste weave into his verse the planet and 
 the stubble. 
 
 In these old books the stucco has long since 
 
FRIDAY 497 
 
 crumbled away, and we read what was sculp 
 tured in the granite. They are rude and mas 
 sive in their proportions, rather than smooth 
 and delicate in their finish. The workers in 
 stone polish only their chimney ornaments, but 
 their pyramids are roughly done. There is a 
 soberness in a rough aspect, as of unhewn 
 granite, which addresses a depth in us, but a 
 polished surface hits only the ball of the eye. 
 The true finish is the work of time, and the use 
 to which a thing is put. The elements are still 
 polishing the pyramids. Art may varnish and 
 gild, but it can do no more. A work of genius 
 is rough-hewn from the first, because it antici 
 pates the lapse of time, and has an ingrained 
 polish, which still appears when fragments are 
 broken off, an essential quality of its substance. 
 Its beauty is at the same time its strength, and 
 it breaks with a lustre. 
 
 The great poem must have the stamp of 
 greatness as well as its essence. The reader 
 easily goes within the shallowest contemporary 
 poetry, and informs it with all the life and 
 promise of the day, as the pilgrim goes within 
 the temple, arid hears the faintest strains of the 
 worshipers ; but it will have to speak to poster 
 ity, traversing these deserts, through the ruins 
 of its outmost walls, by the grandeur and 
 beauty of its proportions. 
 
498 A WEEK 
 
 But here on the stream of the Concord, where 
 we have all the while been bodily, Nature, who 
 is superior to all styles and ages, is now, with 
 pensive face, composing her poem Autumn, 
 with which no work of man will bear to be com 
 pared. 
 
 In summer we live out of doors, and have 
 only impulses and feelings, which are all for 
 action, and must wait commonly for the still 
 ness and longer nights of autumn and winter 
 before any thought will subside ; we are sensible 
 that behind the rustling leaves, and the stacks 
 of grain, and the bare clusters of the grape, 
 there is the field of a wholly new life, which no 
 man has lived ; that even this earth was made 
 for more mysterious and nobler inhabitants 
 than men and women. In the hues of October 
 sunsets, we see the portals to other mansions 
 than those which we occupy, not far off geo 
 graphically, 
 
 " There is a place beyond that flaming hill, 
 
 From whence the stars their thin appearance shed^ 
 A place beyond all place, where never ill, 
 Nor impure thought was ever harbored." 
 
 Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature, 
 not his Father but his Mother stirs within him, 
 and he becomes immortal with her immortality. 
 From time to time she claims kindredship with 
 us, and some globule from her veins steals up 
 into our own. 
 
FRIDAY 499 
 
 I am the autumnal sun, 
 With autumn gales my race is run ; 
 When will the hazel put forth its flowers, 
 Or the grape ripen under my bowers ? 
 When will the harvest or the hunter s moon 
 Turn my midnight into mid-noon ? 
 
 I am all sere and yellow, 
 
 And to my core mellow. 
 The mast is dropping within my woods, 
 The winter is lurking within my moods, 
 And the rustling of the withered leaf 
 Is the constant music of my grief. 
 
 To an unskillful rhymer the Muse thus spoke 
 in prose : 
 
 The moon no longer reflects the day, but rises 
 to her absolute rule, and the husbandman and 
 hunter acknowledge her for their mistress. 
 Asters and golden -rods reign along the way, and 
 the life-everlasting withers not. The fields are 
 reaped and shorn of their pride, but an inward 
 verdure still crowns them. The thistle scatters 
 its down on the pool, and yellow leaves clothe 
 the vine, and naught disturbs the serious life of 
 men. But behind the sheaves, and under the 
 sod, there lurks a ripe fruit, which the reapers 
 have not gathered, the true harvest of the year, 
 which it bears forever, annually watering and 
 maturing it, and man never severs the stalk 
 which bears this palatable fruit. 
 
600 A WEEK 
 
 Men nowhere, east or west, live yet a natural 
 life, round which the vine clings, and which the 
 elm willingly shadows. Man would desecrate 
 it by his touch, and so the beauty of the world 
 remains veiled to him. He needs not only to 
 be spiritualized, but naturalized, on the soil of 
 earth. Who shall conceive what kind of roof 
 the heavens might extend over him, what sea 
 sons minister to him, and what employment 
 dignify his life! Only the convalescent raise 
 the veil of nature. An immortality in his life 
 would confer immortality on his abode. The 
 winds should be his breath, the seasons his 
 moods, and he should impart of his serenity to 
 Nature herself. But such as we know him he 
 is ephemeral like the scenery which surrounds 
 him, and does not aspire to an enduring exist 
 ence. When we come down into the distant 
 village, visible from the mountain-top, the no 
 bler inhabitants with whom we peopled it have 
 departed, and left only vermin in its desolate 
 streets. It is the imagination of poets which 
 puts those brave speeches into the mouths of 
 their heroes. They may feign that Cato s last 
 words were 
 
 " The earth, the air, and seas I know, and all 
 The joys and horrors of their peace and wars , 
 And now will view the Gods state and the stars," 
 
 but such are not the thoughts nor the destiny 
 
FRIDAY 501 
 
 of common men. What is this heaven which 
 they expect, if it is no better than they expect? 
 Are they prepared for a better than they can 
 now imagine? Where is the heaven of him 
 who dies on a stage, in a theatre? Here or 
 nowhere is our heaven. 
 
 "Although we see celestial bodies move 
 Above the earth, the earth we till and love." 
 
 We can conceive of nothing more fair than 
 something which we have experienced. "The 
 remembrance of youth is a sigh." We linger 
 in manhood to tell the dreams of our childhood, 
 and they are half forgotten ere we have learned 
 the language. We have need to be earth-born 
 as well as heaven -born, y^yems, as was said of 
 the Titans of old, or in a better sense than they. 
 There have been heroes for whom this world 
 seemed expressly prepared, as if creation had 
 at last succeeded ; whose daily life was the stuff 
 of which our dreams are made, and whose 
 presence enhanced the beauty and ampleness 
 of Nature herself. Where they walked, 
 
 " Largior hie campos aether et luniine vestit 
 Purpureo : Solemque suum, sua sidera norunt." 
 
 " Here a more copious air invests the fields, and 
 clothes with purple light; and they know their 
 own sun and their own stars." We love to 
 hear some men speak, though we hear not what 
 they say ; the very air they breathe is rich and 
 
502 A WEEK 
 
 perfumed, and the sound of their voices falls on 
 the ear like the rustling of leaves or the crack 
 ling of the fire. They stand many deep. They 
 have the heavens for their abettors, as those 
 who have never stood from under them, and 
 they look at the stars with an answering ray. 
 Their eyes are like glow-worms, and their mo 
 tions graceful and flowing, as if a place were 
 already found for them, like rivers flowing 
 through valleys. The distinctions of morality, 
 of right and wrong, sense and nonsense, are 
 petty, and have lost their significance, beside 
 these pure primeval natures. When I consider 
 the clouds stretched in stupendous masses across 
 the sky, frowning with darkness or glowing 
 with downy light, or gilded with the rays of the 
 setting sun, like the battlements of a city in the 
 heavens, their grandeur appears thrown away 
 on the meanness of my employment; the dra 
 pery is altogether too rich for such poor acting. 
 I am hardly worthy to be a suburban dweller 
 outside those walls. 
 
 " Unless above himself he can 
 Erect himself, how poor a thing is man ! " 
 
 With our music we would fain challenge 
 transiently another and finer sort of intercourse 
 than our daily toil permits. The strains come 
 back to us amended in the echo, as when a 
 friend reads our verse. Why have they so 
 
FRIDAY 503 
 
 painted the fruits, and freighted them with 
 such fragrance as to satisfy a more than animal 
 appetite? 
 
 " I asked the schoolman, his advice was free, 
 But scored me out too intricate a way." 
 
 These things imply, perchance, that we live on 
 the verge of another and purer realm, from 
 which these odors and sounds are wafted over 
 to us. The borders of our plot are set with 
 flowers, whose seeds were blown from more 
 Elysian fields adjacent. They are the pot-herbs 
 of the gods. Some fairer fruits and sweeter 
 fragrances wafted over to us betray another 
 realm s vicinity. There, too, does Echo dwell, 
 and there is the abutment of the rainbow s arch. 
 
 A finer race and finer fed 
 Feast and revel o er our head, 
 And we titmen are only able 
 To catch the fragments from their table. 
 Theirs is the fragrance of the fruits, 
 While we consume the pulp and roots. 
 What are the moments that we stand 
 Astonished on the Olympian land ! 
 
 We need pray for no higher heaven than the 
 pure senses can furnish, a purely sensuous life. 
 Our present senses are but the rudiments of 
 what they are destined to become. We are 
 comparatively deaf and dumb and blind, and 
 without smell or taste or feeling. Every gener 
 ation makes the discovery that its divine vigor 
 
504 A WEEK 
 
 has been dissipated, and each sense and faculty 
 misapplied and debauched. The ears were 
 made, not for such trivial uses as men are wont 
 to suppose, but to hear celestial sounds. The 
 eyes were not made for such groveling uses as 
 they are now put to and worn out by, but to 
 behold beauty now invisible. May we not see 
 God ? Are we to be put off and amused in this 
 life, as it were with a mere allegory? Is not 
 Nature, rightly read, that of which she is com 
 monly taken to be the symbol merely ? When 
 the common man looks into the sky, which he 
 has not so much profaned, he thinks it less gross 
 than the earth, and with reverence speaks of 
 "the Heavens, * but the seer will in the same 
 sense speak of "the Earths," and his Father 
 who is in them. "Did not he that made that 
 which is within make that which is without 
 also?" What is it, then, to educate but to 
 develop these divine germs called the senses? 
 for individuals and states to deal magnani 
 mously with the rising generation, leading it 
 not into temptation, not teach the eye to 
 squint, nor attune the ear to profanity. But 
 where is the instructed teacher? Where are 
 the normal schools ? 
 
 A Hindoo sage said, "As a dancer, having 
 exhibited herself to the spectator, desists from 
 the dance, so does Nature desist, having mani- 
 
FRIDAY 505 
 
 fested herself to soul . Nothing, in my opin 
 ion, is more gentle than Nature ; once aware of 
 having been seen, she does not again expose 
 herself to the gaze of soul." 
 
 It is easier to discover another such a new 
 world as Columbus did, than to go within one 
 fold of this which we appear to know so well ; 
 the land is lost sight of, the compass varies, 
 and mankind mutiny ; and still history accumu 
 lates like rubbish before the portals of nature. 
 But there is only necessary a moment s sanity 
 and sound senses, to teach us that there is a na 
 ture behind the ordinary, in which we have only 
 some vague preemption right and western re 
 serve as yet. We live on the outskirts of that 
 region. Carved wood, and floating boughs, 
 and sunset skies are all that we know of it. 
 We are not to be imposed on by the longest 
 spell of weather. Let us not, my friends, be 
 wheedled and cheated into good behavior to 
 earn the salt of our eternal porridge, whoever 
 they are that attempt it. Let us wait a little, 
 and not purchase any clearing here, trusting 
 that richer bottoms will soon be put up. It is 
 but thin soil where we stand; I have felt my 
 roots in a richer ere this. I have seen a bunch 
 of violets in a glass vase, tied loosely with a 
 straw, which reminded me of myself. 
 
606 A WEEK 
 
 I am a parcel of vain strivings tied 
 
 By a chance bond together, 
 Dangling this way and that, their links 
 Were made so loose and wide, 
 
 Methinks, 
 For milder weather. 
 
 A bunch of violets without their roots, 
 
 And sorrel intermixed, 
 Encircled by a wisp of straw 
 Once coiled about their shoots, 
 
 The law 
 By which I m fixed. 
 
 A nosegay which Time clutched from out 
 
 Those fair Elysian fields, 
 With weeds and broken stems, in haste, 
 Doth make the rabble rout 
 That waste 
 The day he yields. 
 
 And here I bloom for a short hour unseen, 
 
 Drinking my juices up, 
 With no root in the land 
 To keep my branches green, 
 
 But stand 
 In a bare cup. 
 
 Some tender buds were left upon my stem 
 
 In mimicry of life, 
 But ah ! the children will not know, 
 Till time has withered them, 
 
 The woe 
 With which they re rife. 
 
 But now I see I was not plucked for naught, 
 And after in life s vase 
 
FRIDAY 507 
 
 Of glass set while I might survive, 
 But by a kind hand brought 
 
 Alive 
 To a strange place. 
 
 That stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours, 
 
 And by another year, 
 Such as God knows, with freer air, 
 More fruits and fairer flowers 
 
 Will bear, 
 While I droop here. 
 
 This world has many rings, like Saturn, and 
 we live now on the outmost of them all. None 
 can say deliberately that he inhabits the same 
 sphere, or is contemporary, with the flower 
 which his hands have plucked, and though his 
 feet may seem to crush it, inconceivable spaces 
 and ages separate them, and perchance there is 
 no danger that he will hurt it. What do the 
 botanists know? Our lives should go between 
 the lichen and the bark. The eye may see for 
 the hand, but not for the mind. We are still 
 being born, and have as yet but a dim vision of 
 sea and land, sun, moon, and stars, and shall 
 not see clearly till after nine days at least. 
 That is a pathetic inquiry among travelers and 
 geographers after the site of ancient Troy. It 
 is not near where they think it is. When a 
 thing is decayed and gone, how indistinct must 
 be the place it occupied ! 
 
 The anecdotes of modern astronomy affect me 
 
508 A WEEK 
 
 in the same way as do those faint revelations 
 of the Real which are vouchsafed to men from 
 time to time, or rather from eternity to eternity. 
 When I remember the history of that faint 
 light in our firmament which we call Venus, 
 which ancient men regarded, and which most 
 modern men still regard, as a bright spark at 
 tached to a hollow sphere revolving about our 
 earth, but which we have discovered to be an 
 other world, in itself, how Copernicus, rea 
 soning long and patiently about the matter, pre 
 dicted confidently concerning it, before yet the 
 telescope had been invented, that if ever men 
 came to see it more clearly than they did then, 
 they would discover that it had phases like our 
 moon, and that within a century after his death 
 the telescope was invented, and that prediction 
 verified, by Galileo, I am not without hope 
 that we may, even here and now, obtain some 
 accurate information concerning that OTHER 
 WORLD which the instinct of mankind has so 
 long predicted. Indeed, all that we call science, 
 as well as all that we call poetry, is a particle 
 of such information, accurate as far as it goes, 
 though it be but to the confines of the truth. 
 If we can reason so accurately, and with such 
 wonderful confirmation of our reasoning, re 
 specting so-called material objects and events 
 infinitely removed beyond the range of our nat- 
 
FRIDAY 509 
 
 nral vision, so that the mind hesitates to trust 
 its calculations even when they are confirmed 
 by observation, why may not our speculations 
 penetrate as far into the immaterial starry 
 system, of which the former is but the out 
 ward and visible type? Surely, we are pro 
 vided with senses as well fitted to penetrate the 
 spaces of the real, the substantial, the eternal, 
 as these outward are to penetrate the material 
 universe. Veias, Menu, Zoroaster, Socrates, 
 Christ, Shakespeare, Swedenborg, these are 
 some of our astronomers. 
 
 There are perturbations in our orbits pro 
 duced by the influence of outlying spheres, and 
 no astronomer has ever yet calculated the ele 
 ments of that undiscovered world which pro 
 duces them. I perceive in the common train 
 of my thoughts a natural and uninterrupted 
 sequence, each implying the next, or, if inter 
 ruption occurs, it is occasioned by a new object 
 being presented to my senses. But a steep, 
 and sudden, and by these means unaccountable 
 transition is that from a comparatively narrow 
 and partial, what is called common -sense view 
 of things, to an infinitely expanded and liberat 
 ing one, from seeing things as men describe 
 them, to seeing them as men cannot describe 
 them. This implies a sense which is not com 
 mon, but rare in the wisest man s experience; 
 
510 A WEEK 
 
 which is sensible or sentient of more than 
 common. 
 
 In what inclosures does the astronomer loiter ! 
 His skies are shoal, and imagination, like a 
 thirsty traveler, pants to be through their des 
 ert. The roving mind impatiently bursts the 
 fetters of astronomical orbits, like cobwebs in 
 a corner of its universe, and launches itself to 
 where distance fails to follow, and law, such as 
 science has discovered, grows weak and weary. 
 The mind knows a distance and a space of which 
 all those sums combined do not make a unit 
 of measure, the interval between that which 
 appears and that which is. I know that there 
 are many stars, I know that they are far enough 
 off, bright enough, steady enough in their or 
 bits, but what are they all worth ? They 
 are more waste land in the West, star ter 
 ritory, to be made slave States, perchance, 
 if we colonize them. I have interest but for 
 six feet of star, and that interest is transient. 
 Then farewell to all ye bodies, such as I have 
 known ye. 
 
 Every man, if he is wise, will stand on such 
 bottom as will sustain him, and if one gravi 
 tates downward more strongly than another, he 
 will not venture on those meads where the lat 
 ter walks securely, but rather leave the cran- 
 
FRIDAY 511 
 
 berries which grow there unraked by himself. 
 Perchance, some spring, a higher freshet will 
 float them within his reach, though they may 
 be watery and frost-bitten by that time. Such 
 shriveled berries I have seen in many a poor 
 man s garret, ay, in many a church-bin and 
 state-coffer, and with a little water and heat 
 they swell again to their original size and fair 
 ness, and added sugar enough, stead mankind 
 for sauce to this world s dish. 
 
 What is called common sense is excellent in 
 its department, and as invaluable as the virtue 
 of conformity in the army and navy, for there 
 must be subordination, but uncommon sense, 
 that sense which is common only to the wisest, 
 is as much more excellent as it is more rare. 
 Some aspire to excellence in the subordinate 
 department, and may God speed them. What 
 Fuller says of masters of colleges is universally 
 applicable, that "a little alloy of dullness in a 
 master of a college makes him fitter to manage 
 secular affairs. * 
 
 " He that wants faith, and apprehends a, grief 
 Because he wants it, hath a true belief ; 
 And he that grieves because his grief s so small, 
 Has a true grief, and the best Faith of all." 
 
 Or be encouraged by this other poet s strain, 
 
 11 By them went Fido, marshal of the field : 
 
 Weak wag his mother when she gave him day ; 
 
512 A WEEK 
 
 And he at first a sick and weakly child, 
 
 As e er with tears welcomed the sunny ray ; 
 
 Yet when more years afford more growth and mighty 
 A champion stout he was, and puissant knight, 
 As ever came in field, or shone in armor bright. 
 
 " Mountains he flings in seas with mighty hand ; 
 
 Stops and turns back the sun s impetuous course, 
 Nature breaks Nature s laws at his command ; 
 No force of Hell or Heaven withstands his force ; 
 Events to come yet many ages hence, 
 He present makes, by wondrous prescience ; 
 Proving the senses blind by being blind to sense." 
 
 "Yesterday, at dawn," says Hafiz, "God deliv 
 ered me from all worldly affliction; and amidst 
 the gloom of night presented me with the water 
 of immortality." 
 
 In the life of Sadi by Dowlat Shah occurs 
 this sentence: "The eagle of the immaterial 
 soul of Shaikh Sadi shook from his plumage the 
 dust of his body." 
 
 Thus thoughtfully we were rowing homeward 
 to find some autumnal work to do, and help on 
 the revolution of the seasons. Perhaps Nature 
 would condescend to make use of us even with 
 out our knowledge, as when we help to scatter 
 her seeds in our walks, and carry burrs and 
 cockles on our clothes from field to field. 
 
 All things are current found 
 On earthly ground, 
 
FRIDAY 513 
 
 Spirits and elements 
 Have their descents. 
 
 Night and day, year on year, 
 High and low, far and near, 
 These are our own aspects, 
 These are our own regrets. 
 
 Ye gods of the shore, 
 Who abide evermore, 
 I see your far headland, 
 Stretching on either hand ; 
 
 I hear the sweet evening sounds 
 From your undecaying grounds ; 
 Cheat me no more with time, 
 Take me to your clime. 
 
 As it grew later in the afternoon, and we 
 rowed leisurely up the gentle stream, shut in 
 between fragrant and blooming banks, where 
 we had first pitched our tent, and drew nearer 
 to the fields where our lives had passed, we 
 seemed to detect the hues of our native sky in 
 the southwest horizon. The sun was just set 
 ting behind the edge of a wooded hill, so rich a 
 sunset as would never have ended but for some 
 reason unknown to men, and to be marked with 
 brighter colors than ordinary in the scroll of 
 time. Though the shadows of the hills were 
 beginning to steal over the stream, the whole 
 river valley undulated with mild light, purer 
 and more memorable than the noon. For so 
 day bids farewell even to solitary vales unin- 
 
514 A WEEK 
 
 habited by man. Two herons (Ardea, herodias), 
 with their long and slender limbs relieved 
 against the sky, were seen traveling high over 
 our heads, their lofty and silent flight, as 
 they were wending their way at evening, surely 
 not to alight in any marsh on the earth s sur 
 face, but, perchance, on the other side of our 
 atmosphere, a symbol for the ages to study, 
 whether impressed upon the sky, or sculptured 
 amid the hieroglyphics of Egypt. Bound to 
 some northern meadow, they held on their 
 stately, stationary flight, like tbe storks in the 
 picture, and disappeared at length behind the 
 clouds. Dense flocks of blackbirds were wing 
 ing their way along the river s course, as if on 
 a short evening pilgrimage to some shrine of 
 theirs, or to celebrate so fair a sunset. 
 
 " Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night 
 
 Hastes darkly to imprison on his way, 
 Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright 
 Of what s yet left thee of life s wasting day : 
 Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn, 
 And twice it is not given thee to be born." 
 
 The sun-setting presumed all men at leisure, 
 and in a contemplative mood; but the farmer s 
 boy only whistled the more thoughtfully as he 
 drove his cows home from pasture, and the 
 teamster refrained from cracking his whip, and 
 guided his team with a subdued voice. The 
 last vestiges of daylight at length disappeared, 
 
FRIDAY 515 
 
 and as we rowed silently along with our backs 
 toward home through the darkness, only a few 
 stars being visible, we had little to say, but sat 
 absorbed in thought, or in silence listened to 
 the monotonous sound of our oars, a sort of ru- 
 dimental music, suitable for the ear of Night 
 and the acoustics of her dimly lighted halls ; 
 
 " Pulsaa re fe runt ad sidera valles, 
 
 and the valleys echoed the sound to the stars. 
 
 As we looked up in silence to those distant 
 lights, we were reminded that it was a rare im 
 agination which first taught that the stars are 
 worlds, and had conferred a great benefit on 
 mankind. It is recorded in the Chronicle of 
 Bernaldez that in Columbus s first voyage the 
 natives "pointed towards the heavens, making 
 signs that they believed that there was all power 
 and holiness." We have reason to be grateful 
 for celestial phenomena, for they chiefly answer 
 to the ideal in man. The stars are distant and 
 unobtrusive, but bright and enduring as our 
 fairest and most memorable experiences. "Let 
 the immortal depth of your soul lead you, but 
 earnestly extend your eyes upwards." 
 
 As the truest society approaches always 
 nearer to solitude, so the most excellent speech 
 finally falls into Silence. Silence is audible to 
 
516 A WEEK 
 
 all men, at all times, and in all places. She 
 is when we hear inwardly, sound when we hear 
 outwardly. Creation has not displaced her, 
 but is her visible framework and foil. All 
 sounds are her servants, and purveyors, pro 
 claiming not only that their mistress is, but is a 
 rare mistress, and earnestly to be sought after. 
 They are so far akin to Silence that they are 
 but bubbles on her surface, which straightway 
 burst, an evidence of the strength and prolific- 
 ness of the under-current ; a faint utterance of 
 Silence, and then only agreeable to our auditory 
 nerves when they contrast themselves with and 
 relieve the former. In proportion as they do 
 this, and are heighteners and intensifiers of the 
 Silence, they are harmony and purest melody. 
 
 Silence is the universal refuge, the sequel to 
 all dull discourses and all foolish acts, a balm 
 to our every chagrin, as welcome after satiety 
 as after disappointment ; that background which 
 the painter may not daub, be he master or bun 
 gler, and which, however awkward a figure we 
 may have made in the foreground, remains ever 
 our inviolable asylum, where no indignity can 
 assail, no personality disturb us. 
 
 The orator puts off his individuality, and is 
 then most eloquent when most silent. He lis 
 tens while he speaks, and is a hearer along with 
 his audience. Who has not hearkened to her 
 
FRIDAY 517 
 
 infinite din? She is Truth s speaking-trumpet, 
 the sole oracle, the true Delphi and Dodona, 
 which kings and courtiers would do well to con 
 sult, nor will they be balked by an ambiguous 
 answer. For through her all revelations have 
 been made, and just in proportion as men have 
 consulted her oracle within, they have obtained 
 a clear insight, and their age has been marked 
 as an enlightened one. But as often as they 
 have gone gadding abroad to a strange Delphi 
 and her mad priestess, their age has been dark 
 and leaden. Such were garrulous and noisy 
 eras, which no longer yield any sound, but the 
 Grecian or silent and melodious era is ever 
 sounding and resounding in the ears of men. 
 
 A good book is the plectrum with which 
 our else silent lyres are struck. We not un- 
 frequently refer the interest which belongs to 
 our own unwritten sequel to the written and 
 comparatively lifeless body of the work. Of 
 all books this sequel is the most indispensable 
 part. It should be the author s aim to say once 
 and emphatically, "Jle said," fyy. This is 
 the most the bookmaker can attain to. If he 
 make his volume a mole whereon the waves of 
 Silence may break, it is well. 
 
 It were vain for me to endeavor to interpret 
 the Silence. She cannot be done into English. 
 For six thousand years men have translated her 
 
518 A WEEK 
 
 with what fidelity belonged to each, and still 
 she is little better than a sealed book. A man 
 may run on confidently for a time, thinking he 
 has her under his thumb, and shall one day ex 
 haust her, but he too must at last be silent, and 
 men remark only how brave a beginning he 
 made ; for when he at length dives into her, so 
 vast is the disproportion of the told to the un 
 told that the former will seem but the bubble 
 on the surface where he disappeared. Never 
 theless, we will go on, like those Chinese cliff 
 swallows, feathering our nests with the froth 
 which may one day be bread of life to such as 
 dwell by the seashore. 
 
 We had made about fifty miles this day with 
 sail and oar, and now, far in the evening, our 
 boat was grating against the bulrushes of its 
 native port, and its keel recognized the Concord 
 mud, where some semblance of its outline was 
 still preserved in the flattened flags which had 
 scarce yet erected themselves since our depar 
 ture ; and we leaped gladly on shore, drawing it 
 up, and fastening it to the wild apple-tree, 
 whose stem still bore the mark which its chain 
 had worn in the chafing of the spring freshets. 
 
TABLE OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS 
 
 USED IX 
 
 4 A WEEK ON THE CONCOED AND MERRIMACK BITERS." 
 
 PAOB 
 
 2. Fluminaque obliquis cinxit declivia ripis (He confined the 
 
 rivers). OVID. 
 
 3. Beneath low hills, in the broad interval. EMERSON. 
 12. And thou Simois, that as an arrowe, clere. 
 
 " Sure there are poets which did never dream. 
 15. Come, come, my lovely fair, and let us try. FRANCIS 
 
 QlJARLES. 
 
 17. Were it the will of Heaven, an osier bough, PINDAR, 
 
 tr. by Emerson. 
 
 18. By the rude bridge that arched the flood. EMERSON. 
 26. renning aie downward to the sea. 
 
 43. a beggar on the way. 
 
 " That bold adopts each house he views, his own. 
 
 53. The river calmly flows. W. E. CHANNING. 
 
 66. There is an inward voice that in the stream. W. E. 
 
 CHANNINO. 
 
 57. Sweet falls the summer air. W. E. CHANNINO. 
 
 60. A man that looks on glass. GEORGE HERBERT. 
 
 63. Bedford, most noble Bedford. 
 
 70. Some nation yet shut in. WILLIAM HABINQTON. 
 
 71. And ladahel, as saith the boke. JOHN GOWER. 
 
 " Jason first sayled, in story it is tolde. JOHN LYDGATB. 
 
 79. The seventh is a holy day. HESIOD. 
 
 85. Where is this love become in later age. FRANCIS Qu AKIJES. 
 
 " The world a a popul ir disease, that reigns. 
 
520 POETICAL QUOTATIONS 
 
 85. all the world s a stage. SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 109. Doth grow the greater still, the further downe. 
 
 115. So silent is the cessile air. 
 
 116. Jam Iceto turgent inpalmite gemmce. VIRGIL. 
 
 " Strata jacent passim sua quceque sub arbore poma. ViB- 
 
 GIL. 
 
 118. As from the clouds appears the full moon. HOMER. 
 
 " While it was dawn, and sacred day was advancing. 
 HOMER 
 
 119. They, thinking great things, upon the neutral ground 
 
 of war. HOMER. 
 
 " Went down the Idaean mountains to far Olympus. 
 HOMER. 
 
 120. For there are very many. HOMER. 
 
 " Then rose up to them sweet-worded Nestor, the shrill 
 orator of the Pylians. HOMER. 
 
 121. Homer is gone ; and where is Jove ? and where. 
 
 123. You grov ling worldlings, you whose wisdom trades. 
 
 124. Merchants, arise. FRANCIS QUARLES. 
 
 125. To Athens gowned he goes, and from that school. > 
 
 FRANCIS QUARLES. 
 What I have learned is mine ; I ve had my thought. 
 
 127. ask for that which is our whole life s light. 
 " Let us set so just. WILLIAM HABINGTON. 
 
 128. Olympian bards who sung. EMERSON. 
 
 129. lips of cunning fell. EMERSON. 
 
 130. That t is not in the power of kings to raise. SAMUEL 
 
 DANIEL. 
 
 And that the utmost powers of English rhyme. SAM 
 UEL DANIEL. 
 
 " And who in time knows whither we may vent. SAMUEL 
 DANIEL. 
 
 131. How many thousands never heard the name. SAMUEL 
 
 DANIEL. 
 
 143. Make bandog thy scout watch to bark at a thief. 
 
 151. I thynke for to touche also. JOHN GOWER. 
 
 The hye sheryfe of Notynghame. ROBIN HOOD BAL 
 LADS. 
 
POETICAL QUOTATIONS 521 
 
 151. His shoote it was but loosely shott. ROBIN HOOD 
 
 BALLADS. 
 " Gazed on the heavens for what he missed on earth. 
 
 WILLIAM BROWNE. 
 to All courageous knichtis. 
 
 154. He and his valian* soldiers did range the woods full 
 
 wide. OLD BALLAD OF LOVE WELL S FIGHT. 
 " Of all our valiant English, there were but thirty-four. 
 OLD BALLAD OF LOVE WELL S FIGHT. 
 
 155. And braving many dangers and hardships in the way. 
 
 OLD BALLAD OF LOVEWELL S FIGHT. 
 " A man he was of comely form. 
 157. For as we are informed, so thick and fast they fell. 
 
 OLD BALLAD OF LOVEWELL S FIGHT. 
 160. Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose 
 
 runs. TENNYSON. 
 165. Men find that action is another thing. SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 167. And round about good morrows fly. CHARLES COTTON. 
 
 168. The early pilgrim blythe he hailed. ROBIN HOOD BAL 
 
 LADS. 
 
 170. Now turn again, turn again, said the pinder. OLD BAL 
 LAD. 
 " Virtues as rivers pass. 
 
 204. Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the 
 
 younger day. TENNYSON. 
 
 205. Fragments of the lofty strain. GRAY. 
 
 217. They carried these foresters into fair Nottingham. 
 
 ROBIN HOOD BALLADS. 
 
 218. Gentle river, gentle river. SPANISH BALLAD IN PERCY : 
 
 " Rio verde, rio verde." 
 
 219. Then did the crimson streams that flowed. 
 
 225. When the drum beat at dead of night. CAMPBELL. 
 
 231. Before each van. MILTON. 
 
 233. On either side the river lie. TENNYSON. 
 
 246. Heaven itself shall slide. 
 
 247. Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye. SHAKE 
 
 SPEARE. 
 
522 POETICAL QUOTATIONS 
 
 247. Anon permit the basest clouds to ride. 
 
 248. How may a worm that crawls along the dust. GILES 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 251. And now the taller sons, whom Titan warms. GILES 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 266. In a pleasant glade. SPENSER. 
 272. Amongst the pumy stones, which seemed to plain. 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 " His reverend locks. BISHOP PERCY. 
 285. Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. EMERSON. 
 293. Too quick resolves do resolution wrong. 
 295. Nor has he ceased his charming song, for still that lyre. 
 
 SIMONIDES. 
 
 297. The young and tender stalk. 
 298-302. Translations from Anacreon. 
 809. Man is man s foe and destiny. CHARLES COTTON. 
 321. He knew of our haste. PINDAR. 
 " springing up from the bottom. PINDAR. 
 
 The island sprang from the watery. PINDAR. 
 328. Rome living was the world s sole ornament. SPENSER. 
 330. - bees that fly. 
 851. He that hath love and judgment too. 
 352. Why love among the virtues is not known. DR. DONNE. 
 357. And love as well the shepherd can. 
 362. When manhood shall be matched so. 
 365. There be mo sterres in the skie than a pair. CHAUCER. 
 390. Silver sands and pebbles sing. 
 891. Who dreamt devoutlier than most use to pray. DR. 
 
 DONNE. 
 
 392. And, more to lulle him in his slumber soft. SPENSER. 
 
 393. He trode the unplanted forest floor, whereon. EMER 
 
 SON. 
 
 409-411. Lines from Persius. 
 
 414. Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright. GEORGE HER 
 BERT. 
 
 417. To journey for his marriage. CHAUCER. 
 
 418. The swaying soft. W. E. CHANNINO. 
 
POETICAL QUOTATIONS 523 
 
 421. Not only o er the dial s face. J. MONTGOMERY. 
 429. Old woman that lives under the hill. NURSERY BAL 
 LAD. 
 432. The laws of Nature break the rules of Art. FRANCIS 
 
 QUAKLES. 
 
 441. The Boteman strayt. SPENSER. 
 
 " Summer s robe grows. DR. DONNE. 
 
 443. And now the cold autumnal dews are seen. 
 
 444. From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain. MAR 
 
 LOWE. 
 
 445. Wise Nature s darlings, they live in the world. MAR 
 
 LOWE. 
 " at all, Came lovers home from this great festival. 
 
 MARLOWE. 
 
 455-459. Lines from Ossian. 
 465. And what s a life ? The flourishing array. FRANCIS 
 
 QUARLES. 
 
 467. I see the golden-rod shine bright. W. E. CHANNINQ. 
 
 490. For first the thing is thought within the hart. CHAU 
 CER. 
 
 493. If that God that heaven and yearth made. CHAUCER. 
 
 498. There is a place beyond that flaming hill. SIR WILLIAM 
 DAVENANT. 
 
 500. The earth, the air, and seas I know, and all. 
 
 501. Although we see celestial bodies move. 
 
 Largior hie campos cether et lumine vestit. VIRGIL. 
 
 502. Unless above himself he can. SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 503. I asked the schoolman, his advice was free. FRANCIS 
 
 QUARLES. 
 
 511. He that wants faith, and apprehends a grief. FRAN 
 CIS QUARLES. 
 
 " By them went Fido, marshal of the field. PHINEAS 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 514. Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night. GILES 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 515. Pu/e referunt ad sidera voiles. VIRGIL. 
 
INDEX 
 
 " A finer race and finer fed," verse, 
 
 503. 
 Advertisements, the best part of 
 
 newspapers, 241. 
 Agassiz, Louis, 32, 39. 
 Agiocochook, 414. 
 " Ah, t is in vain the peaceful 
 
 din," verse, 18. 
 Alewives, 39, 113, 11*. 
 "All things are current found," 
 
 verse, 512. 
 
 Amesbury (Mass.), 108, 110. 
 Amonoosuck, the, 414. 
 Amoskeag Falls, 322, 323, 417. 
 Amoskeag (N. H.), 324, 325, 326, 
 
 336, 339, 381. 
 "An early unconverted saint," 
 
 verse, 53. 
 Anacreon, 295-297 ; translations 
 
 from, 298-302. 
 Andover (Mass.), 155. 
 Antiquities, 327, 330-332. 
 Apprentices, the abundance of, 160. 
 " Apple tree, Elisha s," 470. 
 Aristotle, quoted, 165, 476. 
 Armchairs for fishermen, 113. 
 Arrow-head, 22. 
 Art and nature, 419. 
 Assabeth River, North or, 4. 
 Astronomy, 507-510. 
 Atlantides, The, verse, 345. 
 Aubrey, John, quoted, 139. 
 Autumn, the coming of, 441 ; flow 
 ers of, 466-468 ; 498. 
 Average ability, man s success in 
 
 proportion to his, 166. 
 " Away ! away ! away ! away ! " 
 
 verse, 231. 
 
 Baboosuck Brook, 287. 
 Background, all lives want a, 57. 
 Baker s River, 108, 333. 
 Ball s Hill, 24, 46, 54. 
 Bass- tree, the, 207. 
 Battle-ground, first of the Revolu 
 tion, 18. 
 
 Beach-plum, the, 471. 
 Beaumont, Francis, quoted, 86. 
 Beaver River, 115. 
 Bedford (Mass.), 4, 47 ; petition of 
 
 planters of, 63 ; 66, 77. 
 Bedford (N. H.), 306, 307, 311, 312. 
 Belknap, Jeremy, quoted, 113, 159, 
 
 234, 249. 
 
 Bellows, valley called the, 235. 
 Bellows Falls (Vt.), 113. 
 Bells, the sound of Sabbath, 97. 
 Bhagvat-Geeta, the, quoted, 175; 
 
 pure thought of the, 177 ; beauty 
 
 of the, 184, 191. 
 
 Bibles of several nations, the, 90. 
 Billerica (Mass.), 4, 39, 40, 44, 47, 
 
 54 ; age of the town of, 61 ; 64, 66, 
 
 77, 148, 483. 
 Biography, autobiography the best, 
 
 204. 
 
 Biscuit Brook, 469. 
 Bittern, the, 309. 
 Boat, T. s, 15 : hints for making a, 
 
 16. 
 
 Boat-building, 283. 
 Boatmen, the pleasant lives of, 273- 
 
 280. 
 Books, the reading and writing of, 
 
 115-140. 
 
 Botta, Paul Emile, quoted, 133, 162. 
 Bound Rock, 6. 
 Bradford (N. H.), 469. 
 Brahm, the bringing to earth of. 
 
 176. 
 
 Brahman, virtue of the, 182. 
 Bream, the, 30-32. 
 Britannia s Pastorals, quoted, 151. 
 Browne, Sir Thomas, quoted, 86. 
 Buddha and Christ, 85. 
 Buried money, 258. 
 " But since we sailed," verse, 19. 
 Buttrick s Plain, 64. 
 
 Calidas, the Sacontala, quoted, 227 
 Canaan (N. H.), 327. 
 Canal, an old, 78. 
 
526 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Canal-boat, appearance of a, 187 ; 
 
 passing a, in fog, 249; later and 
 
 early thoughts about a, 274-280 ; 
 
 with sails, 340. 
 Cardinals, 22. 
 Carlisle Bridge, 24, 46. 
 Carlisle (Mass.), 4, 47, 63, 66. 
 Carnac, 331. 
 
 Cattle Show, the Concord, 443-447. 
 Channing, W. E., quoted, 53. 
 Chateaubriand, quoted, 171. 
 Chaucer, Geoffrey, quoted, 365, 417, 
 
 436 ; in praise of, 483-494. 
 Chelmsford (Mass.), 66, 78, 101, 106, 
 
 110, 114, 141, 333, 474, 483. 
 Chivin, Dace, Roach, or Cousin 
 
 Trout, 34. 
 Christianity, practical and radical, 
 
 176. 
 
 Classics, study of the, 296. 
 Coat-of-arms, a Concord, 9. 
 Cohass Brook, 311. 
 Cohasset, the Indian, 311. 
 Commerce, 278. 
 
 Common and uncommon sense, 511. 
 Conantum, 462. 
 Concord (Mass.), settlement of, 3 ; 
 
 historian of, quoted, 4 ; 6 ; coat-of- 
 
 arms for, 9 ; territory of, in 1831, 
 
 10 ; described by Johnson, 10 ; 
 
 meadows, 11 ; a port of entry, 15 ; 
 
 17 ; poet, a, 18 ; 45, 54, 62, 63, 77, 
 
 79, 102, 155 ; history of, quoted, 
 
 156 ; 211 ; Cliffs, 212 ; 282, 427 ; 
 
 Cattle Show in, 443-447 ; return 
 
 to, 518. 
 Concord (N. H.), 110, 111 ; 333, 382; 
 
 entertained in, and origin of, 399, 
 
 400. 
 
 CONCOED RlVEB, 3-13. 
 
 Concord River, 3 ; course of, 4 ; gen 
 tleness of, 8 ; 12, 13, 23, 24, 78, 112, 
 140 ; a canal-boat on, and Fair 
 Haven, 276-278; Conaiituni on 
 the, 462 ; reaching the, 483. 
 
 Confucius, quoted, 357, 371. 
 
 Connecticut River, the, 109, 111, 
 113, 264, 327. 
 
 Conscience, the, 93, 172; the chief 
 of conservatives, 175. 
 
 " Conscience is instinct bred in the 
 house," verse, 94. 
 
 Conservatism, the wisest, 174. 
 
 Contoocook, 108. 
 
 Cooking, 294. 
 
 Coos Falls, 307, 437. 
 
 Coreopsis, 22. 
 
 Cotton, Charles, quoted, 309. 
 
 Cousin Trout. See Chivin. 
 
 Cranberry Island, 6. 
 
 Criticism, 496. 
 
 Cromwell s Falls, 110 ; story of 
 
 Cromwell and, 256. 
 Crooked River, the Souhegan, or, 
 
 287. 
 Crusoe, Robinson, among the Arabs, 
 
 Cultivation, wildness and, 68. 
 Cupid Wounded, verse, 302. 
 Custom, the grave of, 170 ; imme 
 morial, 175. 
 
 Dace. See Chivin. 
 
 Daggers, looking, 29. 
 
 De Mouts, Sieur, quoted, 53. 
 
 Discovery, inner, 505. 
 
 Dogs, barking of house-, 49. 
 
 "Dong, sounds the brass in the 
 
 East," verse, 62. 
 
 Donne, Dr. John, quoted, 391, 441. 
 Dracut (Mass.), 101. 
 Dreams, 149, 391. 
 Drum, sound of a, by night, 224. 
 Dunstablc (Mass.), 80, 142, 154, 155, 
 
 160, 216, 217, 220, 258, 282 ; history 
 
 of, 218 ; quoted, 141, 157. 
 Dustan, Hannah, escape with nurse 
 
 and child from Indians, 422-427. 
 
 Eel, the common, the lamprey, 38. 
 Election birds, 71. 
 Eliot, John, 102. 
 
 Emerson, quoted, 3, 18, 128, 129, 393. 
 End of Nature s creatures, the, 293. 
 Epitaphs, 221. 
 
 Extemporaneous living, 410. 
 Eyes, movement of the, 100. 
 
 Fable, the universal appeal of, 72 ; 
 the Christian, 84. 
 
 Fair Haven, a canal boat on, 278. 
 
 Farwell of Dunstable, 217-219, 258. 
 
 Fisherman, the, 26; Account Cur 
 rent of a, 41. 
 
 Fishes, the nature of, 28. 
 
 Fish-hawk, the, 255. 
 
 Flea, deserts made by bite of a, 259. 
 
 Floating in a skiff as if in mid-air, 60. 
 
 Flowers, autumn, 4G6. 
 
 Fog, early morning, 233, 249 ; pic 
 turesque effect of, 250. 
 
 Fox Island, 54. 
 
 Framingham (Mass.), 4, 66. 
 
 Franconia (N. H.), 111. 
 
 Fresh-water or river wolf, 36. 
 
 Freshet on the Merrimack, 469. 
 
 FBIDAY, 441-518. 
 
 Friends and Friendship, 341-381. 
 
 Frontiers, wherever men front, 400. 
 
 Fuller, Thomas, quoted, 329, 511. 
 
INDEX 
 
 527 
 
 Gazetteer, reading the, 115 ; quoted, 
 256, 322, 323, 334-336. 
 
 Genius, order in the development of, 
 407 ; the man of, 432 ; a man and 
 his, 448. 
 
 Gerardia, the purple, 22. 
 
 Gesner, Konrad von, quoted, 480. 
 
 God, T. s idea of, 81, 82 ; men s im 
 pertinent knowledge of, 88, 89 ; 
 the personality of, 98. 
 
 Goethe, 429-432 ; quoted, 434-436. 
 
 Golf s Falls, 311. 
 
 Goffstown (N. H.), 254, 323, 33G, 
 341. 
 
 Gookin, Daniel, quoted, 102, 141, 
 210,218,332. 
 
 Gower, John, quoted, 71, 151. 
 
 Grape Island, 54. 
 
 Grass-ground River, 3, 40. 
 
 Graves, Indian, 312. 
 
 Graveyards, monuments and, 220. 
 
 Great Meadows, the, 3, 20. 
 
 " Greece, who am I that should re 
 member thee," verse, 68. 
 
 Griffith s Falls, 320. 
 
 Groton (Mass.), 211. 
 
 Hafiz, quoted, 512. 
 
 Half lives, how the other, 282. 
 
 Hampstead (N. H.), 230, 250. 
 
 Harebell, the, 114. 
 
 Hastings, Warren, quoted, 177, 178. 
 
 Haverhill (Mass.), 108, 109, 110, 111, 
 230, 250 ; historian of, quoted, 
 399; 422. 
 
 Haystack, the, 107. 
 
 Haze, 284. 
 
 Heaven, 501-504. 
 
 Heetopades of Veeshnoo Sarma, 
 191. 
 
 Henry, Alexander, Adventures of, 
 283, 285-287 ; Wawatam s friend 
 ship with, 362. 
 
 Herons, 514. 
 
 Hesiod, quoted, 79. 
 
 Hibiscus, 23. 
 
 History, the reading and the an 
 tiquity of, 200-203. 
 
 Homer, 121, 486. 
 
 Hooksett (N. H.),279, 312, 323,339, 
 340, 382, 383, 414; Pinnacle, 
 395 ; Falls, 398. 
 
 Hoosack Mountain, T. s ascent of, 
 235-248. 
 
 Hopkinton (Mass.), 4, 40. 
 
 " Horses have the mark," verse, 
 301. 
 
 Horseshoe Interval, the, 157, 466. 
 
 Hudson (N. H.), 188, 189, 191, 211. 
 
 Huguenots of Staten Island, 236. 
 
 "I am a parcel of vain strivings 
 tied," verse, 506. 
 
 " I am bound, I am bound for a dis 
 tant shore," verse, 2. 
 
 "I am the autumnal sun," verse, 
 499. 
 
 " I hearing get, who had but ears," 
 verse, 460. 
 
 " I make ye an offer," verse, 86. 
 
 " I sailed up a river with a pleasant 
 wind," verse, 2. 
 
 " I wish to sing the Atridse," verse, 
 298. 
 
 Iliad, enduring beauty of the, 120. 
 
 " In vain I see the morning rise," 
 verse, 453. 
 
 Indian, crowding out of the, by 
 whites, 66; civilizing the, 69; 
 conversion of the, 102-106; cap 
 ture of two Dunstable men, 216 ; 
 attacks, letters to Governor about 
 expected, 288, 289 ; captivity, es 
 cape of Hannah Dustan and 
 others from, 422-i27. 
 
 Infidelity, the real, 96. 
 
 Institutions, the burden of, 169. 
 
 Inward Morning, The, verse, 388. 
 
 Islands, 320. 
 
 " It doth expand my privacies," 
 verse, 226. 
 
 Jamblichus, quoted, 229. 
 
 Jesus Christ, effect of the story of, 
 84 ; prince of Reformers and Rad 
 icals, 177. 
 
 Johnson, Edward, quoted, 10. 
 
 Jones, Sir William, 192. 
 
 Josselyn, John, 33, 36. 
 
 Kearsarge, 107. 
 
 Kreeshna, teachings of, 179-182. 
 
 Ladies tresses, 22. 
 
 Lamprey eel, 38. 
 
 Lancaster (Mass.), 211. 
 
 " Lately, alas, 1 knew a gentle boy," 
 verse, 343. 
 
 Lawrence (Mass.), 111. 
 
 " Let such pure hate still under 
 prop," verse, 379. 
 
 Life, the world and, 385-392. 
 
 Lincoln (Mass.), 6. 
 
 Litchfield (N. H.), 253, 256, 282. 
 
 Londonderry (N. H.), 115, 333. 
 
 " Love once among roses," verse, 
 302. 
 
 " Love walking swiftly," verse, 
 300. 
 
 " Lovely dove," verse, 299. 
 
 Lovewell, Captain, and his Indian 
 
528 
 
 INDEX 
 
 fight, 154 ; John, father of, 209 ; 
 
 219. 
 
 Low-anchored cloud," verse, 249. 
 Low in the eastern sky," verse, 
 
 58. 
 Lowell (Mass.), 4, 39, 40, 49, 106, 
 
 108, 110, 111, 144, 145, 279 280, 
 
 311, 312, 328. 
 Lyceum, the, 127. 
 Lydgate, John, quoted, 71. 
 
 Mad River, 108. 
 
 Manchester (N. H.), Ill, 279, 311, 
 
 312 ; Mfg. Co., 322 ; 323, 328, 333, 
 
 341. 
 " Man s little acts are grand," verse, 
 
 279. 
 
 Massabesic Lake, 111 ; Pond, 311. 
 Massachusetts, T. s wish not to be 
 
 associated with, 168. 
 Mathematics, 477. 
 McGaw s Island, 303. 
 Meadow River, Musketaquid or, 9. 
 Melon, buying a, 414. 
 
 Men are by birth equal in this, 
 that given," verse, 386. 
 
 " Men dig and dive, but cannot my 
 wealth spend," verse, 462. 
 
 Mencius, quoted, 347. 
 
 Menu, the Laws of, 192-200. 
 
 Merrimack (N. H.), 279, 282, 311, 
 437, 442, 483. 
 
 Merrimack River, 4, 9, 24, 77, 79, 100, 
 101 ; origin and course of the, 106- 
 114 ; 140, 152, 187, 211, 212, 217, 
 220, 224, 234, 248, 250, 252, 253 ; 
 the Gazetteer quoted, 256 ; 260, 
 261, 279, 280, 282, 288, 312, 322, 
 323, 327, 334, 337, 383, 398, 427, 
 438 ; freshet on the, 469 ; 473, 483. 
 
 Mice, visited by, on Hoosack Moun 
 tain, 244. 
 
 Middlesex (Mass.), 77, 100, 280, 
 476. 
 
 Mikania, the climbing, 55. 
 
 Ministers, on Monday morning, 153. 
 
 Monadnock Mountain, 216. 
 
 MONDAY, 151-232. 
 
 Monuments, graveyards and, 220 ; 
 descendants more dead than, 334. 
 
 Moore s Falls, 303. 
 
 Moosehillock, 107. 
 
 Morning, impressions of, 53. 
 
 Music, the suggestions of, 227-230. 
 
 Musketaquid or Grass-ground River, 
 the, 3, 9. 
 
 " My books I d fain cast off, I can 
 not read," verse, 397. 
 
 " My life has been the poem I would 
 have writ," verse, 453. 
 
 " My life is like a stroll upon the 
 
 beach," verse, 317. 
 " My love must be as free." verse, 
 
 369. 
 Mythology, ancient history, 75. 
 
 Names of places, longing for Eng 
 lish, 68. 
 
 Nashua (N. H.), 108, 110, 111, 144, 
 157, 188, 190, 211, 212, 215, 222, 
 483 ; river, the, 463. 
 
 Nashville (N. H.), 218, 222. 
 
 Naticook Brook, 282. 
 
 Natural life, the, 500. 
 
 Nature, adorned, 23; laws of, for 
 man, 42 ; indifference of, 145 ; 
 provisions of, for end of her crea 
 tures, 293 ; tame and wild, 417 ; 
 and Art, 419 ; composing her poem 
 Autumn, 498. 
 
 " Nature doth have her dawn each 
 day," verse, 375. 
 
 " Nature has given horns," verse, 
 300. 
 
 Nesenkeag, 256. 
 
 Nests, fishes , 30. 
 
 New England life, the Arcadian ele 
 ment in, 318. 
 
 New Hampshire, 106 ; for the An 
 tipodes, leaving, 189 ; man, a, 262; 
 line, crossing the, 466. 
 
 New Testament, the, 89-93; 177; 
 practicalness of, 182. 
 
 Newbury (Mass.), 108. 
 
 Newburyport (Mass.), 109, 111. 
 
 Newfound Lake, 108, 111. 
 
 News, getting the, from ocean steam 
 ers, 314. 
 
 Newspapers, reading, on Hoosack 
 Mountain, 241. 
 
 Night, thoughts in the, 438. 
 
 Night-fall, 47-51 ; 146. 
 
 Nine-Acre Corner, 6. 
 
 North Adams (Mass.), 235. 
 
 North Bridge, 18, 20, 41. 
 
 North or Assabeth River, 4. 
 
 " Now chiefly is my natal hour," 
 verse, 226. 
 
 Observatory on Hoosack Mountain, 
 
 the, 244. 
 " Oft, as I turn me on my pillow 
 
 o er," verse, 474. 
 On a Silver Cup, verse, 298. 
 On Himself, verse, 299. 
 On His Lyre, verse, 298. 
 On Love, verse, 300. 
 On Lovers, verse, 301. 
 " On Ponkawtasset, since we took 
 
 our way," versa, 20. 
 
INDEX 
 
 529 
 
 On Women, verse, 300. 
 
 Oriental and Occidental, the, 183; 
 
 exclusion of the, in Western 
 
 learning, 185 ; quality in New 
 
 England life, the, 319. 
 Ossian, 453-459, 485. 
 Otternic Pond, 211. 
 " Our uninquiring corpses lie more 
 
 low," verse, 281. 
 Ovid, quoted, 2, 283. 
 
 " Packed in my mind lie all the 
 
 clothes," verse, 388. 
 Pan not dead, 81. 
 Pasaconaway, 332, 334. 
 Past, darkness of the, 204. 
 Pawtucket Falls, the lock-keeper at, 
 
 100 ; Dam, 110 ; Canal, deepening 
 
 the, 326. 
 
 Pelham (N. H.), 115. 
 Pembroke (N. H.), 154. 
 Pemigewasset, the, 106, 107, 110, 
 
 412 ; basin on the, 324. 
 Penacook, now Concord (N. H.), 
 
 founding of, 399. 
 Penichook Brook, 222, 251, 463. 
 Pennyroyal, 337. 
 Perch, the common, 32. 
 Persius Flaccus, Aulus, 405-412. 
 Philosophy, Asiatic, 175; loftiness 
 
 of the Oriental, 178. 
 Physician, priest and, 338. 
 Pickerel, the, 36. 
 Pickerel-weed, 22. 
 Pigeons, 292. 
 Pilgrim s Progress, the best sermon, 
 
 89. 
 
 Pindar, quoted, 321. 
 Pinnacle, Hooksett, 394, 398. 
 Pioneers, old and new, 155. 
 Piscataqua, The, 250. 
 Piscataquoag, 108, 322. 
 Plaistow (N. H.), 230. 
 Plum Island, 107, 109, 260. 
 Plutarch, quoted, 228. 
 "Ply the oars! away! away!" 
 
 verse, 234. 
 
 Plymouth (N.H.), 110. 
 Poet and poems, the, 449-453 ; 494- 
 
 497. 
 Poetry, the nature of, 116-122 ; the 
 
 mysticism of mankind, 433. 
 Poet s Delay, The, verse, 453. 
 Political conditions and news, 166. 
 Polygonum, 22. 
 Ponkawtasset, 20. 
 Poplar Hill, 20, 64. 
 Pot-holes, various, 324-327. 
 Pout, the horned, 37. 
 Practicalness, the triviality of, 181. 
 
 Priest, physician and, 338. 
 Prose, a poem in, 499. 
 Pythagoras, quoted, 418. 
 
 Quarles, Francis, quoted, 15. 
 
 Rabbit Island, 141. 
 
 Raleigh, Sir Walter, as a master of 
 
 style, 132. 
 Read s Ferry, 303. 
 Reformers, 162. 
 Religion and ligature, 80, 99. 
 Rhexia, the Virginian, 22. 
 Rice, story of the mountaineer, 264- 
 
 273. 
 
 River wolf, fresh-water or, 36. 
 Rivers of history, the famous, 12. 
 Roach. See Chivin. 
 Robin Hood Ballads, quoted, 151, 
 
 217. 
 
 Romans, vestiges of the, 328. 
 Ross, Sir James Clark, quoted, 482. 
 Ruff, the, 30-32. 
 Rumors from an ^Eoliau Harp. 
 
 verse, 229. 
 
 Saddleback Mountain, 234. 
 
 Sadi, quoted, 87, 99, 401 ; the life of, 
 by Dowlat Shah, quoted, 512. 
 
 St. Ann s of Concord voyageurs, 
 Ball s Hill, the, 24. 
 
 Salmon, 39, 113. 114. 
 
 Salmon Brook, 208, 209, 463 ; Love- 
 well s house on, 426. 
 
 " Salmon Brook," verse, 463. 
 
 Sand, tracts of, near Nashua, 189 ; 
 in Litchfield, N. H., 259, 260 ; on 
 Plum Island, 260-262. 
 
 Sanjay, quoted, 184. 
 
 Satire and poetry, 406-408. 
 
 SATURDAY, 15-51. 
 
 Savage instinct, the, 69. 
 
 Scene-shifter, the, 146. 
 
 Science, 477-482. 
 
 Scriptures of the world, 187. 
 
 " Sea and land are but his neigh 
 bors," verse, 346. 
 
 Seeds, the use of, 161. 
 
 Shad, 39, 44 ; train-band nicknamed 
 the, 41 ; 113, 114. 
 
 Shadows, 464. 
 
 Sheep, alarm of a flock of, 393. 
 
 Shelburne Falls, 325. 
 
 Sherman s Bridge, 4. 
 
 Shiner, the, 35. 
 
 Short s Falls, 320. 
 
 Silence, 515-518. 
 
 " Since that first Away ! Away 1 
 verse, 248. 
 
 Skies, the, 473. 
 
530 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Smith, Capt. John, quoted, 114. 
 
 Smith s River, 108. 
 
 Snake-head, 22. 
 
 Soapwort gentian, the, 22. 
 
 Society Islanders, gods of, 69, 82. 
 
 Soldier, a young, 413. 
 
 " Some tumultuous little rill," 
 verse, 77. 
 
 Sophocles, the Antigone of, quoted, 
 173. 
 
 Soucook, 108. 
 
 Souhegan, 108, 442 ; or Crooked 
 River, 287. 
 
 South Adams (Mass.), 238. 
 
 Southborough (Mass.), 4. 
 
 Spenser, Edmund, quoted, 441. 
 
 Springs, river-feeding, 252. 
 
 Squam (N. H.), 107, 108, 111. 
 
 Squirrel, the chipping or striped, 
 255 ; the red, or chickaree, the 
 Hudson Bay, 256. 
 
 Stark, Gen. John, 333. 
 
 Staten Island, view from, 236 ; look 
 ing at ships from, 314. 
 
 Sturgeon River, Merriniack or, 106, 
 
 " Such near aspects had we," verse, 
 314. 
 
 " Such water do the gods distil," 
 verse, 107. 
 
 Suckers, common and horned, 37. 
 
 Sudbury (Mass.), 4, 5, 6, 45, 66 ; 
 early church of, described by 
 Johnson, 11. 
 
 Sudbury River, 4. 
 
 Suncook, 108. 
 
 SUNDAY, 53-149. 
 
 Sunday, the keeping of, 79, 95. 
 
 Sun-fish, Bream, or Ruff, the fresh 
 water, 30-32. 
 
 Sunrise on Hoosack Mountain, 246. 
 
 Sunset, 513-515. 
 
 Swamp, the luxury of standing in a, 
 395. 
 
 Swedenborg, Emanuel, 85. 
 
 Tansy, 23. 
 
 " That Phaeton of our Day," 128. 
 
 " The Good how can we trust ? " 
 
 verse, 371. 
 
 " The respectable folks," verse, 8. 
 "The smothered streams of love, 
 
 which flow," verse, 345. 
 "The waves slowly beat," verse, 284. 
 " The western wind came lumbering 
 
 in," verse, 224. 
 " Then idle Time ran gadding by," 
 
 verse, 226. 
 " Then spend an age in whetting thy 
 
 desire," verse, 138. 
 
 " There is a vale which none hath 
 seen," verse, 229. 
 
 " Therefore a torrent of sadness 
 deep," verse, 227. 
 
 "This is my Carnac, whose un 
 measured dome," verse, 331. 
 
 Thoreau, Henry David, started on 
 week s river journey, 15 ; ascent 
 of Hoosack Mountain, 235-248 ; 
 experience with an uncivil moun 
 taineer, 264-273; invited to do 
 various sorts of work, 401 ; began 
 return voyage, 415. 
 
 Thoreau, John, brother, lines to, 2, 
 15 ; brings Nathan, a country 
 boy, to the boat, 382. 
 
 Thornton s Ferry, 217, 282, 287. 
 
 "Thou, indeed, dear swallow," 
 verse, 298. 
 
 " Thou sing st the affairs of 
 Thebes," verse, 299. 
 
 " Though all the fates should prove 
 unkind," verse, 189. 
 
 " Thracian colt, why at me," verse, 
 301. 
 
 THURSDAY, 393-439. 
 
 " Thus, perchance, the Indian hunt 
 er," verse, 306. 
 
 Time, measurement of the world s, 
 428. 
 
 To a Colt, verse, 301. 
 
 To a Dove, verse, 209. 
 
 To a Swallow, verse, 298, 301. 
 
 Traveling, the profession of, 403. 
 
 Trinity, the, 88. 
 
 "True kindness is a pure divine 
 affinity," verse, 342. 
 
 Truth, contact with, 384. 
 
 TUESDAY, 233-307. 
 
 "Turning the silver," verse, 298. 
 
 Turpentine makers, Indian capture 
 of, 216. 
 
 Tyngsborough (Mass.), origin of, 
 141 ; 142, 147, 153, 158, 189, 212, 
 216, 403, 466, 468, 472, 474. 
 
 Unappropriated Land, the, 414. 
 Uncannunuc, 211, 255, 336, 337,383, 
 
 394, 398, 415. 
 Uncivil men, 263-273. 
 Union Canal, the, 303. 
 
 Varro, quoted, 471. 
 View, the point of, 460. 
 Virgil, quoted, 116. 
 
 Wachusett Mountain, 211, 216. 
 Walton of Concord River, the, 27. 
 Wamesit, 102. 
 Wannalancet, 333, 334. 
 
INDEX 
 
 531 
 
 Water-lily, the white, 23. 
 Wawatara, the friendship of, 362. 
 Wayland (Mass.), 4, 5, 6, 45, 46. 
 " We see theplunet fall," verse, 481. 
 WEDNESDAY, 309-392. 
 Westborough (Mass.), 4, 40. 
 Westford (Mass.), 141. 
 " What dost thou wish me to do to 
 
 thee ? " verse, 301. 
 " Where gleaming fields of haze," 
 
 verse, 290. 
 " Where er thou sail st who sailed 
 
 with me," verse, 2. 
 White Mountains, the, 106, 111. 
 " Who sleeps by day and walks by 
 
 night," verse, 51. 
 
 Wicasuck Island, 141, 143, 471, 472. 
 Wilderness, the need of, 223. 
 
 Wildness and cultivation, 68. 
 Williamstown (Mass.), 238, 244. 
 Willow, the narrow-leaved, 22 ; the 
 
 water, 55. 
 
 Wiiidham(N. H.), 115. 
 Winnipiseogee, 106, 108, 111, 112, 
 
 114. 
 "With frontier strength ye stand 
 
 your ground," verse, 212. 
 Wolff, Joseph, quoted, 74, 164. 
 Wolofs, the, 136, 172. 
 " Woof of the sun, ethereal gauze," 
 
 verse, 284. 
 Work, quiet, 137. 
 Writing, grace and power in, 134- 
 
 138. 
 
 Yankees, how first called, 66. 
 
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