IC-NRLF 
 
 B 3 
 

THE WRITINGS OF 
 HENRY DAVID THOREAU 
 
 IN TWENTY VOLUMES 
 VOLUME I 
 
MANUSCRIPT EDITION 
 LIMITED TO SIX HUNDRED COPIES 
 NUMBER /b~ 
 
Harebells (page 92) 
 

THE Y 
 
 >AVID THOREAU 
 
 Carlisle fieach, Concord Riv&r 
 

 
THE WRITINGS OF 
 HENKY DAVID THOKEAU 
 
 A WEEK ON THE 
 
 CONCORD AND MERRIMACK 
 
 RIVERS 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 MDCCCCVI 
 
 LIBRAE'/ j 
 
 OF CALIFC2J1U 
 DAVIS 
 
COPYRIGHT 1893 AND 1906 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
PUBLISHERS' ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 THIS edition of the writings of Thoreau is complete 
 in a way which was impossible in the case of all pre 
 vious editions, for it contains his entire Journal, which 
 has only recently become available for publication. 
 The four volumes of selections from the Journal edited 
 by his friend and correspondent, Mr. H. G. O. Blake, 
 into whose hands the manuscript volumes passed on 
 the death of Thoreau's sister Sophia, contained only 
 a small part of the whole, and reflected to some extent, 
 as was inevitable, the tastes and interests of the editor. 
 Moreover, the manner chosen for presenting the extracts 
 afforded no such complete view of Thoreau's daily life 
 and the development of his genius as is now obtainable 
 from the entire Journal, printed in the strictly chrono 
 logical form, just as it was written. 
 
 The writings divide themselves naturally into two 
 sections, the Works and the Journal, the former con 
 taining the books, essays, lectures, addresses, and poems 
 which Thoreau himself prepared, more or less com 
 pletely, for publication. (The Letters have for con 
 venience also been included in this section.) But while 
 this division is natural when the writings are viewed in 
 their present form, there is really no inherent difference 
 between the two sections, for all Thoreau's works 
 the two books that he printed during his lifetime, as well 
 as the volumes compiled after his death from his pub- 
 
vi PUBLISHERS' ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 lished and unpublished essays and addresses were 
 drawn almost entirely from his Journal, the thoughts 
 and observations there recorded from day to day being 
 revised and reshaped to fit them for their more perma 
 nent form. By far the greater part of the earlier Journals, 
 drawn on in the writing of " A Week on the Concord and 
 Merrimack Rivers " and " Walden," appears to have 
 been destroyed by Thoreau in the process; but enough 
 remains fortunately to show something of the author's 
 methods of work, and the reader will find it interesting 
 to compare the published passages indicated in the 
 footnotes to the Journal with the original entries, to see 
 the conditions under which the matter was first written 
 and observe the alterations made in adapting the par 
 ticular to the general and giving the substance a more 
 perfect literary form. 
 
 Besides the portraits which are an indispensable 
 accompaniment of such a definitive edition, and the 
 numerous rude cuts, copied faithfully from Thoreau's 
 own sketches, which will be found in the Journal, the 
 illustrations consist of photogravures of scenes and 
 objects described by Thoreau. For these pictures the 
 reader is indebted to Mr. Herbert W. Gleason, whose 
 services in illustrating this edition the Publishers count 
 themselves especially fortunate in securing. Mr. Glea 
 son has made a careful study of all Thoreau's writings, 
 including the manuscript Journal, and has explored 
 with equal thoroughness the woods and fields of Con 
 cord, visiting the localities mentioned in the Journal and 
 getting photographs, not only of the places themselves, 
 but also of many of the fleeting phenomena of the 
 
PUBLISHERS' ADVERTISEMENT vii 
 
 natural year in the very spots where Thoreau observed 
 them. He has even succeeded in identifying a number 
 of localities described and named by Thoreau which had 
 previously been unknown to any person now living in 
 Concord. He has also followed Thoreau in his wider 
 wanderings, and his portfolio includes views of Cape 
 Cod, the Maine woods, and the banks of the Merrimack 
 River. It will be apparent that Mr. Gleason's pictures 
 are in the fullest sense illustrations of the text which 
 they accompany. 
 
 The Riverside Edition of 1893 is the basis of the 
 present edition of Thoreau's Works, but to secure a 
 more compact form several changes in arrangement 
 have been necessary. Emerson's Biographical Sketch, 
 originally published in "Excursions," and in the River 
 side Edition transferred to the volume entitled "Mis 
 cellanies," is now printed at the beginning of this first 
 volume, "A Week on the Concord and Merrimack 
 Rivers," as a most fitting introduction to the complete 
 works of his friend. "Walden" and "The Maine 
 Woods " are printed without change. The prose papers 
 included in the Riverside volume entitled "Miscella 
 nies " are now added to " Cape Cod," while the Poems 
 appear with "Excursions" in Volume V. The sixth 
 volume contains the " Familiar Letters " and a General 
 Index to the Works. The four volumes of " Journal " 
 extracts edited by Mr. Blake, " Early Spring in 
 Massachusetts," "Summer," "Autumn," and "Win 
 ter," being superseded by the publication of the com 
 plete Journal, are not included in the present edition. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 THE SUB-TITLES UNDER EACH DIVISION AEE OF THOREAU'S 
 POEMS AND SNATCHES OF VERSE THEREIN INCLUDED 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH BY R. W. EMERSON PAGE xv 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE xu 
 
 CONCORD RIVER 3 
 
 The respectable folks 7 
 
 SATURDAY 12 
 
 Ah, 't is in vain the peaceful din 15 
 
 Here then an aged shepherd dwelt 16 
 
 On Ponkawtasset, since we took our way 16 
 
 SUNDAY 42 
 
 An early unconverted Saint 42 
 
 Low in the eastern sky 46 
 
 Dong, sounds the brass in the east 50 
 
 Greece, who am I that should remember thee 54 
 
 Some tumultuous little rill 62 
 
 I make ye an offer 69 
 
 Conscience is instinct bred in the house 75 
 
 Such water do the gods distill 86 
 
 That Phaeton of our day 103 
 
 MONDAY 121 
 
 Though all the fates should prove unkind 151 
 
 With frontier strength ye stand your ground 170 
 
 The western wind came lumbering in 180 
 
x CONTENTS 
 
 Then idle Time ran gadding by 181 
 
 Now chiefly is my natal hour 182 
 
 RUMORS FROM AN ^OLIAN HARP 184 
 
 Away I away/ away I away I 186 
 
 TUESDAY 188 
 
 Ply the oars ! away I away 1 188 
 
 Since that first "Away I away I " 200 
 
 Low-anchored cloud 201 
 
 Man's little acts are grand 224 
 The waves slowly beat 
 
 Woof of the sun, ethereal gauze 229 
 
 Where gleaming fields of haze 234 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM ANACREON 240 
 
 Thus, perchance, the Indian hunter 247 
 
 WEDNESDAY 249 
 
 My life is like a strott upon the beach 255 
 
 This is my Carnac, whose unmeasured dome 267 
 
 True kindness is a pure divine affinity 275 
 
 Lately, alas, I knew a gentle boy 276 
 
 THE ATLANTIDES 278 
 
 My love must be as free 297 
 
 The Good how can we trust 298 
 
 Nature doth have her dawn each day 302 
 
 Let such pure hate still underprop 305 
 
 THE INWARD MORNING 313 
 
 THURSDAY 317 
 
 My books I 'd fain cast off, I cannot read 320 
 
 FRIDAY 356 
 
 THE POET'S DELAY 366 
 
 / hearing get who had but ears 372 
 
 Men dig and dive but cannot my wealth spend 373 
 
 Salmon Brook 375 
 
CONTENTS xi 
 
 Oft, as I turn me on my pillow o'er 884 
 
 1 am the autumnal sun 404 
 
 A finer race and finer fed 407 
 
 I am a parcel of vain strivings tied 410 
 
 All things are current found 415 
 
 TABLE OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS 423 
 
 INDEX 429 
 
 A SHEET OF THOREAU S AUTOGRAPH MANUSCRIPT 
 IS INSERTED IN THE FRONT OF THIS VOLUME 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 HAREBELLS, Carbon photograph (page 92) Frontispiece 
 
 CARLISLE REACH, CONCORD RIVER, Colored plate 
 HENRY DAVID THOREAU, FROM THE DA 
 GUERREOTYPE TAKEN BY MOXHAM OF 
 WORCESTER ABOUT 1855 1 
 
 CARLISLE REACH, CONCORD RIVER 44 
 
 WILLIAMSTOWN FROM SADDLE-BACK MOUN 
 TAIN (GREYLOCK) 198 
 
 DISTANT VIEW OF UNCANNUNUO 206 
 
 THE MERRIMAC AT GOFF ? S FALLS 250 
 
 ON THE BANKS OF THE MERRIMAC 372 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 BY R. W. EMERSON 
 
 HENRY DAVID THOREAU was the last male descend 
 ant of a French ancestor who came to this country 
 from the Isle of Guernsey. His character exhibited 
 occasional traits drawn from this blood in singular 
 combination with a very strong Saxon genius. 
 
 He was born in Concord, Massachusetts, on the 
 12th of July, 1817. He was graduated at Harvard Col 
 lege in 1837, but without any literary distinction. An 
 iconoclast in literature, he seldom thanked colleges for 
 their service to him, holding them in small esteem, whilst 
 yet his debt to them was important. After leaving the 
 University, he joined his brother in teaching a private 
 school, which he soon renounced. His father was a 
 manufacturer of lead-pencils, and Henry applied him 
 self for a time to this craft, believing he could make 
 a better pencil than was then in use. After completing 
 his experiments, he exhibited his work to chemists and 
 artists in Boston, and having obtained their certificates 
 to its excellence and to its equality with the best London 
 manufacture, he returned home contented. His friends 
 congratulated him that he had now opened his way to 
 fortune. But he replied that he should never make 
 another pencil. " Why should I ? I would not do again 
 what I have done once." He resumed his endless walks 
 
xvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 and miscellaneous studies, making every day some new 
 acquaintance with Nature, though as yet never speaking 
 of zoology or botany, since, though very studious of 
 natural facts, he was incurious of technical and textual 
 science. 
 
 At this time, a strong, healthy youth, fresh from col 
 lege, whilst all his companions were choosing their pro 
 fession, or eager to begin some lucrative employment, it 
 was inevitable that his thoughts should be exercised on 
 the same question, and it required rare decision to refuse 
 all the accustomed paths, and keep his solitary freedom 
 at the cost of disappointing the natural expectations of 
 his family and friends : all the more difficult that he had 
 a perfect probity, was exact in securing his own inde 
 pendence, and in holding every man to the like duty. 
 But Thoreau never faltered. He was a born protestant. 
 He declined to give up his large ambition of knowledge 
 and action for any narrow craft or profession, aiming at 
 a much more comprehensive calling, the art of living 
 well. If he slighted and defied the opinions of others, it 
 was only that he was more intent to reconcile his prac 
 tice with his own belief. Never idle or self-indulgent, he 
 preferred, when he wanted money, earning it by some 
 piece of manual labor agreeable to him, as building a 
 boat or a fence, planting, grafting, surveying, or other 
 short work, to any long engagements. With his hardy 
 habits and few wants, his skill in wood-craft, and his 
 powerful arithmetic, he was very competent to live in 
 any part of the world. It would cost him less time to 
 supply his wants than another. He was therefore secure 
 of his leisure. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xvii 
 
 A natural skill for mensuration, growing out of his 
 mathematical knowledge and his habit of ascertaining 
 the measures and distances of objects which interested 
 him, the size of trees, the depth and extent of ponds and 
 rivers, the height of mountains, and the air-line distance 
 of his favorite summits, this, and his intimate know 
 ledge of the territory about Concord, made him drift 
 into the profession of land-surveyor. It had the advan 
 tage for him that it led him continually into new and 
 secluded grounds, and helped his studies of Nature. 
 His accuracy and skill in this work were readily appre 
 ciated, and he found all the employment he wanted. 
 
 He could easily solve the problems of the surveyor, 
 but he was daily beset with graver questions, which he 
 manfully confronted. He interrogated every custom, and 
 wished to settle all his practice on an ideal foundation. 
 He was a protestant a entrance, and few lives contain so 
 many renunciations. He was bred to no profession ; he 
 never married; he lived alone; he never went to church; 
 he never voted; he refused to pay a tax to the State; he 
 ate no flesh, he drank no wine, he never knew the use of 
 tobacco; and, though a naturalist, he used neither trap 
 nor gun. He chose, wisely, no doubt, for himself, to be 
 the bachelor of thought and Nature. He had no talent 
 for wealth, and knew how to be poor without the least 
 hint of squalor or inelegance. Perhaps he fell into his 
 way of living without forecasting it much, but approved 
 it with later wisdom. " I am often reminded," he wrote 
 in his journal, " that, if I had bestowed on me the wealth 
 of Croesus, my aims must be still the same, and my 
 means essentially the same." He had no temptations 
 
xviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 to fight against, no appetites, no passions, no taste for 
 elegant trifles. A fine house, dress, the manners and talk 
 of highly cultivated people were all thrown away on him. 
 He much preferred a good Indian, and considered these 
 refinements as impediments to conversation, wishing to 
 meet his companion on the simplest terms. He declined 
 invitations to dinner-parties, because there each was in 
 every one's way, and he could not meet the individuals 
 to any purpose. "They make their pride," he said, 
 "in making their dinner cost much; I make my pride 
 in making my dinner cost little." When asked at table 
 what dish he preferred, he answered, "The nearest." 
 He did not like the taste of wine, and never had a vice 
 in his life. He said, "I have a faint recollection of 
 pleasure derived from smoking dried lily-stems, before 
 I was a man. I had commonly a supply of these. I have 
 never smoked anything more noxious." 
 
 He chose to be rich by making his wants few, and 
 supplying them himself. In his travels, he used the rail 
 road only to get over so much country as was unimpor 
 tant to the present purpose, walking hundreds of miles, 
 avoiding taverns, buying a lodging in farmers' and 
 fishermen's houses, as cheaper, and more agreeable to 
 him, and because there he could better find the men and 
 the information he wanted. 
 
 There was somewhat military in his nature not to be 
 subdued, always manly and able, but rarely tender, as if 
 he did not feel himself except in opposition. He wanted 
 a fallacy to expose, a blunder to pillory, I may say 
 required a little sense of victory, a roll of the drum, to 
 call his powers into full exercise. It cost him nothing to 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xix 
 
 say No ; indeed, he found it much easier than to say Yes. 
 It seemed as if his first instinct on hearing a proposition 
 was to controvert it, so impatient was he of the limita 
 tions of our daily thought. This habit, of course, is a 
 little chilling to the social affections; and though the 
 companion would in the end acquit him of any malice or 
 untruth, yet it mars conversation. Hence, no equal com 
 panion stood in affectionate relations with one so pure 
 and guileless. " I love Henry," said one of his friends, 
 " but I cannot like him ; and as for taking his arm, I 
 should as soon think of taking the arm of an elm tree." 
 
 Yet, hermit and stoic as he was, he was really fond of 
 sympathy, and threw himself heartily and childlike into 
 the company of young people whom he loved, and whom 
 he delighted to entertain, as he only could, with the 
 varied and endless anecdotes of his experiences by field 
 and river. And he was always ready to lead a huckle 
 berry party or a search for chestnuts or grapes. Talking, 
 one day, of a public discourse, Henry remarked, that 
 whatever succeeded with the audience was bad. I said, 
 " Who would not like to write something which all can 
 read, like 'Robinson Crusoe'? and who does not see 
 with regret that his page is not solid with a right mate 
 rialistic treatment, which delights everybody ? " Henry 
 objected, of course, and vaunted the better lectures 
 which reached only a few persons. But, at supper, a 
 young girl, understanding that he was to lecture at the 
 Lyceum, sharply asked him, " whether his lecture would 
 be a nice, interesting story, such as she wished to hear, or 
 whether it was one of those old philosophical things that 
 she did not care about." Henry turned to her, and be- 
 
xx BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 thought himself, and, I saw, was trying to believe that 
 he had matter that might fit her and her brother, who 
 were to sit up and go to the lecture, if it was a good one 
 for them. 
 
 He was a speaker and actor of the truth, born 
 such, and was ever running into dramatic situations 
 from this cause. In any circumstance, it interested all 
 bystanders to know what part Henry would take, and 
 what he would say; and he did not disappoint expecta 
 tion, but used an original judgment on each emergency. 
 In 1845 he built himself a small framed house on the 
 shores of Walden Pond, and lived there two years alone, 
 a life of labor and study. This action was quite native 
 and fit for him. No one who knew him would tax him 
 with affectation. He was more unlike his neighbors in 
 his thought than in his action. As soon as he had ex 
 hausted the advantages of that solitude, he abandoned 
 it. In 1847, not approving some uses to which the public 
 expenditure was applied, he refused to pay his town tax, 
 and was put in jail. A friend paid the tax for him, and 
 he was released. The like annoyance was threatened the 
 next year. But, as his friends paid the tax, notwith 
 standing his protest, I believe he ceased to resist. No 
 opposition or ridicule had any weight with him. He 
 coldly and fully stated his opinion without affecting to 
 believe that it was the opinion of the company. It was of 
 no consequence if every one present held the opposite 
 opinion. On one occasion he went to the University 
 Library to procure some books. The librarian refused 
 to lend them. Mr. Thoreau repaired to the President, 
 who stated to him the rules and usages, which permitted 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxi 
 
 the loan of books to resident graduates, to clergymen 
 who were alumni, and to some others resident within a 
 circle of ten miles' radius from the College. Mr. Tho- 
 reau explained to the President that the railroad had 
 destroyed the old scale of distances, that the library 
 was useless, yes, and President and College useless, on 
 the terms of his rules, that the one benefit he owed to 
 the College was its library, - that, at this moment, not 
 only his want of books was imperative, but he wanted a 
 large number of books, and assured him that he, Tho- 
 reau, and not the librarian, was the proper custodian of 
 these. In short, the President found the petitioner so 
 formidable, and the rules getting to look so ridiculous, 
 that he ended by giving him a privilege which in his 
 hands proved unlimited thereafter. 
 
 No truer American existed than Thoreau. His pre 
 ference of his country and condition was genuine, and 
 his aversation from English and European manners and 
 tastes almost reached contempt. He listened impatiently 
 to news or bonmots gleaned from London circles; and 
 though he tried to be civil, these anecdotes fatigued him. 
 The men were all imitating each other, and on a small 
 mould. Why can they not live as far apart as possible, 
 and each be a man by himself ? What he sought was the 
 most energetic nature; and he wished to go to Oregon, 
 not to London. "In every part of Great Britain," he 
 wrote in his diary, " are discovered traces of the Romans, 
 their funereal urns, their camps, their roads, their dwell 
 ings. But New England, at least, is not based on any 
 Roman ruins. We have not to lay the foundations of our 
 houses on the ashes of a former civilization." 
 
xxii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 But, idealist as he was, standing for abolition of 
 slavery, abolition of tariffs, almost for abolition of gov 
 ernment, it is needless to say he found himself not only 
 unrepresented in actual politics, but almost equally 
 opposed to every class of reformers. Yet he paid the 
 tribute of his uniform respect to the Anti -Slavery party. 
 One man, whose personal acquaintance he had formed, 
 he honored with exceptional regard. Before the first 
 friendly word had been spoken for Captain John Brown, 
 after the arrest, he sent notices to most houses in Con 
 cord, that he would speak in a public hall on the con 
 dition and character of John Brown, on Sunday evening, 
 and invited all people to come. The Republican Com 
 mittee, the Abolitionist Committee, sent him word that 
 it was premature and not advisable. He replied, "I 
 did not send to you for advice, but to announce that I 
 am to speak." The hall was filled at an early hour by 
 people of all parties, and his earnest eulogy of the hero 
 was heard by all respectfully, by many with a sympathy 
 that surprised themselves. 
 
 It was said of Plotinus that he was ashamed of his 
 body, and 't is very likely he had good reason for it, 
 that his body was a bad servant, and he had not skill 
 in dealing with the material world, as happens often to 
 men of abstract intellect. But Mr. Thoreau was equipped 
 with a most adapted and serviceable body. He was of 
 short stature, firmly built, of light complexion, with 
 strong, serious blue eyes, and a grave aspect, his 
 face covered in the late years with a becoming beard. 
 His senses were acute, his frame well-knit and hardy, 
 his hands strong and skillful in the use of tools. And 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxiii 
 
 there was a wonderful fitness of body and mind. He 
 could pace sixteen rods more accurately than another 
 man could measure them with rod and chain. He could 
 find his path in the woods at night, he said, better by 
 his feet than his eyes. He could estimate the measure 
 of a tree very well by his eyes; he could estimate the 
 weight of a calf or a pig, like a dealer. From a box con 
 taining a bushel or more of loose pencils, he could take 
 up with his hands fast enough just a dozen pencils at 
 every grasp. He was a good swimmer, runner, skater, 
 boatman, and would probably outwalk most country 
 men in a day's journey. And the relation of body to 
 mind was still finer than we have indicated. He said 
 he wanted every stride his legs made. The length of 
 his walk uniformly made the length of his writing. If 
 shut up in the house, he did not write at all. 
 
 He had a strong common sense, like that which Rose 
 Flammock, the weaver's daughter, in Scott's romance, 
 commends in her father, as resembling a yardstick 
 which, whilst it measures dowlas and diaper, can equally 
 well measure tapestry and cloth of gold. He had always 
 a new resource. When I was planting forest-trees, and 
 had procured half a peck of acorns, he said that only 
 a small portion of them would be sound, and pro 
 ceeded to examine them, and select the sound ones. 
 But finding this took time, he said, " I think, if you put 
 them all into water, the good ones will sink;" which 
 experiment we tried with success. He could plan a gar 
 den, or a house, or a barn; would have been competent 
 to lead a "Pacific Exploring Expedition;/' could give 
 judicious counsel in the gravest private or public affairs. 
 
xxiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 He lived for the day, not cumbered and mortified by 
 his memory. If he brought you yesterday a new propo 
 sition, he would bring you to-day another not less revo 
 lutionary. A very industrious man, and setting, like 
 all highly organized men, a high value on his time, he 
 seemed the only man of leisure in town, always ready 
 for any excursion that promised well, or for conversa 
 tion prolonged into late hours. His trenchant sense 
 was never stopped by his rules of daily prudence, but 
 was always up to the new occasion. He liked and used 
 the simplest food, yet, when some one urged a vege 
 table diet, Thoreau thought all diets a very small mat 
 ter, saying that "the man who shoots the buffalo lives 
 better than the man who boards at the Graham House." 
 He said : " You can sleep near the railroad, and never 
 be disturbed: Nature knows very well what sounds 
 are worth attending to, and has made up her mind not 
 to hear the railroad-whistle. But things respect the 
 devout mind, and a mental ecstasy was never inter 
 rupted." He noted what repeatedly befell him, that, 
 after receiving from a distance a rare plant, he would 
 presently find the same in his own haunts. And those 
 pieces of luck which happen only to good players hap 
 pened to him. One day, walking with a stranger, who 
 inquired where Indian arrowheads could be found, he 
 replied, "Everywhere," and, stooping forward, picked 
 one on the instant from the ground. At Mount Wash 
 ington, in Tuckerman's Ravine, Thoreau had a bad 
 fall, and sprained his foot. As he was in the act of 
 getting up from his fall, he saw for the first time the 
 leaves of the Arnica mollis. 
 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxv 
 
 His robust common sense, armed with stout hands, 
 keen perceptions, and strong will, cannot yet account 
 for the superiority which shone in his simple and hid 
 den life. I must add the cardinal fact, that there was 
 an excellent wisdom in him, proper to a rare class of 
 men, which showed him the material world as a means 
 and symbol. This discovery, which sometimes yields 
 to poets a certain casual and interrupted light, serving 
 for the ornament of their writing, was in him an un 
 sleeping insight; and whatever faults or obstructions 
 of temperament might cloud it, he was not disobedient 
 to the heavenly vision. In his youth, he said, one day, 
 "The other world is all my art: my pencils will draw 
 no other; my jack-knife will cut nothing else; I do not 
 use it as a means." This was the muse and genius that 
 ruled his opinions, conversation, studies, work, and 
 course of life. This made him a searching judge of men. 
 At first glance he measured his companion, and, though 
 insensible to some fine traits of culture, could very well 
 report his weight and calibre. And this made the im 
 pression of genius which his conversation often gave. 
 
 He understood the matter in hand at a glance, and 
 saw the limitations and poverty of those he talked with, 
 so that nothing seemed concealed from such terrible 
 eyes. I have repeatedly known young men of sen 
 sibility converted in a moment to the belief that this 
 was the man they were in search of, the man of men, 
 who could tell them all they should do. His own 
 dealing with them was never affectionate, but superior, 
 didactic, scorning their petty ways, very slowly 
 conceding, or not conceding at all, the promise of his 
 
xxvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 society at their houses, or even at his own. "Would he 
 not walk with them ? " " He did not know. There was 
 nothing so important to him as his walk; he had no 
 walks to throw away on company." Visits were offered 
 him from respectful parties, but he declined them. 
 Admiring friends offered to carry him at their own 
 cost to the Yellowstone River, to the West Indies, 
 to South America. But though nothing could be 
 more grave or considered than his refusals, they re 
 mind one in quite new relations of that fop Brummers 
 reply to the gentleman who offered him his carriage 
 in a shower, " But where will you ride, then ? " and 
 what accusing silences, and what searching and irre 
 sistible speeches, battering down all defenses, his com 
 panions can remember ! 
 
 Mr. Thoreau dedicated his genius with such entire 
 love to the fields, hills, and waters of his native town, 
 that he made them known and interesting to all read 
 ing Americans, and to people over the sea. The river 
 on whose banks he was born and died he knew from 
 its springs to its confluence with the Merrimack. He 
 had made summer and winter observations on it for 
 many years, and at every hour of the day and the night. 
 The result of the recent survey of the Water Commis 
 sioners appointed by the State of Massachusetts he 
 had reached, by his private experiments, several years 
 earlier. Every fact which occurs in the bed, on the 
 banks, or in the air over it; the fishes, and their spawn 
 ing and nests, their manners, their food; the shad-flies 
 which fill the air on a certain evening once a year, and 
 which are snapped at by the fishes so ravenously that 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxvii 
 
 many of these die of repletion; the conical heaps of 
 small stones on the river-shallows, the huge nests of 
 small fishes, one of which will sometimes overfill a 
 cart ; the birds which frequent the stream, heron, duck, 
 sheldrake, loon, osprey ; the snake, muskrat, otter, wood- 
 chuck, and fox, on the banks; the turtle, frog, hyla, 
 and cricket, which make the banks vocal, were all 
 known to him, and, as it were, townsmen and fellow 
 creatures; so that he felt an absurdity or violence in 
 any narrative of one of these by itself apart, and still 
 more of its dimensions on an inch-rule, or in the exhi 
 bition of its skeleton, or the specimen of a squirrel or a 
 bird in brandy. He liked to speak of the manners of the 
 river, as itself a lawful creature, yet with exactness, and 
 always to an observed fact. As he knew the river, so 
 the ponds in this region. 
 
 One of the weapons he used, more important than 
 microscope or alcohol-receiver to other investigators, 
 was a whim which grew on him by indulgence, yet 
 appeared in gravest statement, namely, of extolling his 
 own town and neighborhood as the most favored cen 
 tre for natural observation. He remarked that the 
 Flora of Massachusetts embraced almost all the im 
 portant plants of America, most of the oaks, most 
 of the willows, the best pines, the ash, the maple, the 
 beech, the nuts. He returned Kane's "Arctic Voyage" 
 to a friend of whom he had borrowed it, with the re 
 mark, that "most of the phenomena noted might be 
 observed in Concord." He seemed a little envious of 
 the Pole, for the coincident sunrise and sunset, or five 
 minutes' day after six months: a splendid fact, which 
 
xxviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 Annursnuc had never afforded him. He found red snow 
 in one of his walks, and told me that he expected to 
 find yet the Victoria regia in Concord. He was the 
 attorney of the indigenous plants, and owned to a pre 
 ference of the weeds to the imported plants, as of the 
 Indian to the civilized man, and noticed, with plea 
 sure, that the willow bean-poles of his neighbor had 
 grown more than his beans. "See these weeds," he 
 said, "which have been hoed at by a million farmers 
 all spring and summer, and yet have prevailed, and just 
 now come out triumphant over all lanes, pastures, 
 fields, and gardens, such is their vigor. We have in 
 sulted them with low names, too, as Pigweed, Worm 
 wood, Chickweed, Shad-Blossom." He says, "They 
 have brave names, too, Ambrosia, Stellaria, Ame- 
 lanchier, Amaranth, etc." 
 
 I think his fancy for referring everything to the me 
 ridian of Concord did not grow out of any ignorance or 
 depreciation of other longitudes or latitudes, but was 
 rather a playful expression of his conviction of the in- 
 differency of all places, and that the best place for each 
 is where he stands. He expressed it once in this wise: 
 "I think nothing is to be hoped from you, if this bit of 
 mould under your feet is not sweeter to you to eat than 
 any other in this world, or in any world." 
 
 The other weapon with which he conquered all ob 
 stacles in science was patience. He knew how to sit 
 immovable, a part of the rock he rested on, until the 
 bird, the reptile, the fish, which had retired from him, 
 should come back, and resume its habits, nay, moved 
 by curiosity, should come to him and watch him. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxix 
 
 It was a pleasure and a privilege to walk with him. 
 He knew the country like a fox or a bird, and passed 
 through it as freely by paths of his own. He knew every 
 track in the snow or on the ground, and what creature 
 had taken this path before him. One must submit ab 
 jectly to such a guide, and the reward was great. Under 
 his arm he carried an old music-book to press plants ; 
 in his pocket, his diary and pencil, a spy-glass for birds, 
 microscope, jack-knife, and twine. He wore straw hat, 
 stout shoes, strong gray trousers to brave shrub oaks 
 and smilax, and to climb a tree for a hawk's or a squir 
 rel's nest. He waded into the pool for the water-plants, 
 and his strong legs were no insignificant part of his 
 armor. On the day I speak of he looked for the meny- 
 anthes, detected it across the wide pool, and, on exam 
 ination of the florets, decided that it had been in flower 
 five days. He drew out of his breast-pocket his diary, 
 and read the names of all the plants that should bloom 
 on this day, whereof he kept account as a banker when 
 his notes fall due. The cypripedium not due till to 
 morrow. He thought, that, if waked up from a trance, 
 in this swamp, he could tell by the plants what time of 
 the year it was within two days. The redstart was flying 
 about, and presently the fine grosbeaks, whose bril 
 liant scarlet makes the rash gazer wipe his eye, and 
 whose fine clear note Thoreau compared to that of a 
 tanager which has got rid of its hoarseness. Presently 
 he heard a note which he called that of the night-warbler, 
 a bird he had never identified, had been in search of 
 twelve years, which always, when he saw it, was in the 
 act of diving down into a tree or bush, and which it 
 
xxx BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 was vain to seek; the only bird that sings indifferently 
 by night and by day. I told him he must beware of 
 finding and booking it, lest life should have nothing 
 more to show him. He said, " What you seek in vain 
 for, half your life, one day you come full upon, all the 
 family at dinner. You seek it like a dream, and as 
 soon as you find it you become its prey." 
 
 His interest in the flower or the bird lay very deep in 
 his mind, was connected with Nature, and the mean 
 ing of Nature was never attempted to be defined by 
 him. He would not offer a memoir of his observations 
 to the Natural History Society. "Why should I? To 
 detach the description from its connections in my mind 
 would make it no longer true or valuable to me; and 
 they do not wish what belongs to it." His power of ob 
 servation seemed to indicate additional senses. He saw 
 as with microscope, heard as with ear-trumpet, and his 
 memory was a photographic register of all he saw and 
 heard. And yet none knew better than he that it is not 
 the fact that imports, but the impression or effect of 
 the fact on your mind. Every fact lay in glory in his 
 mind, a type of the order and beauty of the whole. 
 
 His determination on Natural History was organic. 
 He confessed that he sometimes felt like a hound or a 
 panther, and, if born among Indians, would have been 
 a fell hunter. But, restrained by his Massachusetts 
 culture, he played out the game in this mild form of 
 botany and ichthyology. His intimacy with animals 
 suggested what Thomas Fuller records of Butler the 
 apiologist, that "either he had told the bees things or 
 the bees had told him." Snakes coiled round his leg, 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxi 
 
 the fishes swam into his hand, and he took them out 
 of the water; he pulled the woodchuck out of its hole 
 by the tail, and took the foxes under his protection from 
 the hunters. Our naturalist had perfect magnanimity; 
 he had no secrets: he would carry you to the heron's 
 haunt, or even to his most prized botanical swamp, 
 possibly knowing that you could never find it again, 
 yet willing to take his risks. 
 
 No college ever offered him a diploma, or a profes 
 sor's chair; no academy made him its corresponding 
 secretary, its discoverer, or even its member. Perhaps 
 these learned bodies feared the satire of his presence. 
 Yet so much knowledge of Nature's secret and genius 
 few others possessed, none in a more large and reli 
 gious synthesis. For not a particle of respect had he to 
 the opinions of any man or body of men, but homage 
 solely to the truth itself; and as he discovered every 
 where among doctors some leaning of courtesy, it dis 
 credited them. He grew to be revered and admired by 
 his townsmen, who had at first known him only as an 
 oddity. The farmers who employed him as a surveyor 
 soon discovered his rare accuracy and skill, his know 
 ledge of their lands, of trees, of birds, of Indian remains, 
 and the like, which enabled him to tell every farmer 
 more than he knew before of his own farm; so that he 
 began to feel as if Mr. Thoreau had better rights in his 
 land than he. They felt, too, the superiority of charac 
 ter which addressed all men with a native authority. 
 
 Indian relics abound in Concord, arrowheads, 
 stone chisels, pestles, and fragments of pottery; and on 
 the river-bank, large heaps of clamshells and ashes 
 
xxxii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 mark spots which the savages frequented. These, and 
 every circumstance touching the Indian, were impor 
 tant in his eyes. His visits to Maine were chiefly for 
 love of the Indian. He had the satisfaction of seeing 
 the manufacture of the bark canoe, as well as of trying 
 his hand in its management on the rapids. He was 
 inquisitive about the making of the stone arrowhead, 
 and in his last days charged a youth setting out for the 
 Rocky Mountains to find an Indian who could tell him 
 that: "It was well worth a visit to California to learn 
 it." Occasionally, a small party of Penobscot Indians 
 would visit Concord, and pitch their tents for a few 
 weeks in summer on the river-bank. He failed not to 
 make acquaintance with the best of them; though he 
 well knew that asking questions of Indians is like cate 
 chising beavers and rabbits. In his last visit to Maine 
 he had great satisfaction from Joseph Polis, an intel 
 ligent Indian of Oldtown, who was his guide for some 
 weeks. 
 
 He was equally interested in every natural fact. The 
 depth of his perception found likeness of law through 
 out Nature, and I know not any genius who so swiftly 
 inferred universal law from the single fact. He was no 
 pedant of a department. His eye was open to beauty, 
 and bis ear to music. He found these, not in rare con 
 ditions, but wheresoever he went. He thought the best 
 of music was in single strains; and he found poetic 
 suggestion in the humming of the telegraph-wire. 
 
 His poetry might be bad or good; he no doubt wanted 
 a lyric facility and technical skill; but he had the source 
 of poetry in his spiritual perception. He was a good 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxiii 
 
 reader and critic, and his judgment on poetry was to 
 the ground of it. He could not be deceived as to the 
 presence or absence of the poetic element in any com 
 position, and his thirst for this made him negligent and 
 perhaps scornful of superficial graces. He would pass 
 by many delicate rhythms, but he would have detected 
 every live stanza or line in a volume, and knew very 
 well where to find an equal poetic charm in prose. 
 He was so enamored of the spiritual beauty that he held 
 all actual written poems in very light esteem in the 
 comparison. He admired ^Eschylus and Pindar; but, 
 when some one was commending them, he said that 
 "^Eschylus and the Greeks, in describing Apollo and 
 Orpheus, had given no song, or no good one. They 
 ought not to have moved trees, but to have chanted to 
 the gods such a hymn as would have sung all their old 
 ideas out of their heads, and new ones in." His own 
 verses are often rude and defective. The gold does not 
 yet run pure, is drossy and crude. The thyme and mar 
 joram are not yet honey. But if he want lyric fineness 
 and technical merits, if he have not the poetic tempera 
 ment, he never lacks the causal thought, showing that 
 his genius was better than his talent. He knew the worth 
 of the Imagination for the uplifting and consolation 
 of human life, and liked to throw every thought into a 
 symbol. The fact you tell is of no value, but only the 
 impression. For this reason his presence was poetic, 
 always piqued the curiosity to know more deeply the 
 secrets of his mind. He had many reserves, an unwill 
 ingness to exhibit to profane eyes what was still sa 
 cred in his own, and knew well how to throw a poetic 
 
xxxiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 veil over his experience. All readers of " Walden " will 
 remember his mythical record of his disappointments : 
 
 " I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse, and a turtle 
 dove, and am still on their trail. Many are the travelers 
 I have spoken concerning them, describing their tracks 
 and what calls they answered to. I have met one or two 
 who had heard the hound, and the tramp of the horse, 
 and even seen the dove disappear behind a cloud; and 
 they seemed as anxious to recover them as if they had 
 lost them themselves." 1 
 
 His riddles were worth the reading, and I confide, 
 that, if at any time I do not understand the expression, 
 it is yet just. Such was the wealth of his truth that it 
 was not worthiiis while to use words in vain. His poem 
 entitled " Sympathy " reveals the tenderness under that 
 triple steel of stoicism, and the intellectual subtilty it 
 could animate. His classic poem on "Smoke" sug 
 gests Simonides, but is better than any poem of Si- 
 monides. His biography is in his verses. His habitual 
 thought makes all his poetry a hymn to the Cause of 
 causes, the Spirit which vivifies and controls his own. 
 
 **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." 
 
 And still more in these religious lines : 
 
 " Now chiefly in my natal hour, 
 And only now my prime of life ; 
 I will not doubt the love untold, 
 Which not my worth or want hath bought, 
 Which wooed me young, and wooes me old, 
 And to this evening hath me brought." 
 1 Walden, p. 18. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxv 
 
 Whilst he used in his writings a certain petulance of 
 remark in reference to churches or churchmen, he was 
 a person of a rare, tender, and absolute religion, a per 
 son incapable of any profanation, by act or by thought. 
 Of course, the same isolation which belonged to his 
 original thinking and living detached him from the 
 social religious forms. This is neither to be censured 
 nor regretted. Aristotle long ago explained it, when he 
 said, " One who surpasses his fellow-citizens in virtue 
 is no longer a part of the city. Their law is not for him, 
 since he is a law to himself." 
 
 Thoreau was sincerity itself, and might fortify the 
 convictions of prophets in the ethical laws by his holy 
 living. It was an affirmative experience which refused 
 to be set aside. A truth-speaker he, capable of the most 
 deep and strict conversation ; a physician to the wounds 
 of any soul; a friend, knowing not only the secret of 
 friendship, but almost worshiped by those few persons 
 who resorted to him as their confessor and prophet, 
 and knew the deep value of his mind and great heart. 
 He thought that without religion or devotion of some 
 kind nothing great was ever accomplished; and he 
 thought that the bigoted sectarian had better bear this 
 in mind. 
 
 His virtues, of course, sometimes ran into extremes. 
 It was easy to trace to the inexorable demand on all for 
 exact truth that austerity which made this willing her 
 mit more solitary even than he wished. Himself of a 
 perfect probity, he required not less of others. He had 
 a disgust at crime, and no worldly success could cover 
 it. He detected paltering as readily in dignified and 
 
xxxvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 prosperous persons as in beggars, and with equal scorn. 
 Such dangerous frankness was in his dealing that his 
 admirers called him "that terrible Thoreau," as if he 
 spoke when silent, and was still present when he had 
 departed. I think the severity of his ideal interfered to 
 deprive him of a healthy sufficiency of human society. 
 
 The habit of a realist to find things the reverse of 
 their appearance inclined him to put every statement 
 in a paradox. A certain habit of antagonism defaced 
 his earlier writings, a trick of rhetoric not quite out 
 grown in his later, of substituting for the obvious word 
 and thought its diametrical opposite. He praised wild 
 mountains and winter forests for their domestic air, 
 in snow and ice he would find sultriness, and com 
 mended the wilderness for resembling Rome and Paris. 
 " It was so dry, that you might call it wet." 
 
 The tendency to magnify the moment, to read all 
 the laws of Nature in the one object or one combina 
 tion under your eye, is of course comic to those who do 
 not share the philosopher's perception of identity. To 
 him there was no such thing as size. The pond was a 
 small ocean; the Atlantic, a large Walden Pond. He 
 referred every minute fact to cosmical laws. Though he 
 meant to be just, he seemed haunted by a certain chronic 
 assumption that the science of the day pretended com 
 pleteness, and he had just found out that the savans 
 had neglected to discriminate a particular botanical 
 variety, had failed to describe the seeds or count the 
 sepals. "That is to say," we replied, "the blockheads 
 were not born in Concord; but who said they were? 
 It was their unspeakable misfortune to be born in Lon- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxvii 
 
 don, or Paris, or Rome; but, poor fellows, they did 
 what they could, considering that they never saw Bate- 
 man's Pond, or Nine-Acre Corner, or Becky Stow's 
 Swamp. Besides, what were you sent into the world 
 for, but to add this observation ? " 
 
 Had his genius been only contemplative, he had been 
 fitted to his life, but with his energy and practical abil 
 ity he seemed born for great enterprise and for com 
 mand ; and I so much regret the loss of his rare powers 
 of action, that I cannot help counting it a fault in him 
 that he had no ambition. Wanting this, instead of en 
 gineering for all America, he was the captain of a huckle 
 berry party. Pounding beans is good to the end of 
 pounding empires one of these days; but if, at the end 
 of years, it is still only beans! 
 
 But these foibles, real or apparent, were fast van 
 ishing in the incessant growth of a spirit so robust and 
 wise, and which effaced its defeats with new triumphs. 
 His study of Nature was a perpetual ornament to him, 
 and inspired his friends with curiosity to see the world 
 through his eyes, and to hear his adventures. They 
 possessed every kind of interest. 
 
 He had many elegances of his own, whilst he scoffed 
 at conventional elegance. Thus, he could not bear to 
 hear the sound of his own steps, the grit of gravel; and 
 therefore never willingly walked in the road, but in 
 the grass, on mountains and in woods. His senses were 
 acute, and he remarked that by night every dwelling- 
 house gives out bad air, like a slaughter-house. He 
 liked the pure fragrance of melilot. He honored certain 
 plants with special regard, and, over all, the pond-lily, 
 
xxxviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 then, the gentian, and the Mikania scandens, and 
 " life-everlasting," and a bass tree which he visited 
 every year when it bloomed, in the middle of July. He 
 thought the scent a more oracular inquisition than the 
 sight, more oracular and trustworthy. The scent, 
 of course, reveals what is concealed from the other 
 senses. By it he detected earthiness. He delighted in 
 echoes, and said they were almost the only kind of 
 kindred voices that he heard. He loved Nature so well, 
 was so happy in her solitude, that he became very jeal 
 ous of cities, and the sad work which their refinements 
 and artifices made with man and his dwelling. The 
 axe was always destroying his forest. 
 
 "Thank God," he said, "they cannot cut down the 
 clouds!" "All kinds of figures are drawn on the blue 
 ground with this fibrous white paint." 
 
 I subjoin a few sentences taken from his unpub 
 lished manuscripts, not only as records of his thought 
 and feeling, but for their power of description and lit 
 erary excellence. 
 
 "Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as 
 when you find a trout in the milk." 
 
 " The chub is a soft fish, and tastes like boiled brown 
 paper salted." 
 
 "The youth gets together his materials to build a 
 bridge to the moon, or, perchance, a palace or temple 
 on the earth, and at length the middle-aged man con 
 cludes to build a wood-shed with them." 
 
 "The locust z-ing." 
 
 " DeviPs-needles zigzagging along the Nut Meadow 
 Brook." 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxix 
 
 " Sugar is not so sweet to the palate as sound to the 
 healthy ear." 
 
 " I put on some hemlock boughs, and the rich salt 
 crackling of their leaves was like mustard to the ear, 
 the crackling of unaccountable regiments. Dead trees 
 love the fire." 
 
 "The bluebird carries the sky on his back." 
 
 "The tanager flies through the green foliage as if it 
 would ignite the leaves." 
 
 "If I wish for a horse-hair for my compass sight, I 
 must go to the stable; but the hair-bird, with her sharp 
 eyes, goes to the road." 
 
 " Immortal water, alive even to the superficies." 
 
 " Fire is the most tolerable third party." 
 
 "Nature made ferns for pure leaves, to show what 
 she could do in that line." 
 
 " No tree has so fair a bole and so handsome an in 
 step as the beech." 
 
 " How did these beautiful rainbow tints get into the 
 shell of the fresh-water clam, buried in the mud at the 
 bottom of our dark river ? " 
 
 " Hard are the times when the infant's shoes are sec 
 ond-foot." 
 
 "We are strictly confined to our men to whom we 
 give liberty." 
 
 "Nothing is so much to be feared as fear. Atheism 
 may comparatively be popular with God himself." 
 
 "Of what significance the things you can forget? 
 A little thought is sexton to all the world." 
 
 " How can we expect a harvest of thought who have 
 not had a seed-time of character ? " 
 
xl BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 " Only he can be trusted with gifts who can present 
 a face of bronze to expectations." 
 
 " I ask to be melted. You can only ask of the metals 
 that they be tender to the fire that melts them. To 
 naught else can they be tender." 
 
 There is a flower known to botanists, one of the same 
 genus with our summer plant called " life-everlasting," 
 a Gnaphalium like that, which grows on the most in 
 accessible cliffs of the Tyrolese mountains, where the 
 chamois dare hardly venture, and which the hunter, 
 tempted by its beauty, and by his love (for it is im 
 mensely valued by the Swiss maidens), climbs the cliffs 
 to gather, and is sometimes found dead at the foot, with 
 the flower in his hand. It is called by botanists the 
 GnapJmlium Leontopodium, but by the Swiss Edelweiss, 
 which signifies Noble Purity. Thoreau seemed to me 
 living in the hope to gather this plant, which belonged 
 to him of right. The scale on which his studies pro 
 ceeded was so large as to require longevity, and we 
 were the less prepared for his sudden disappearance. 
 The country knows not yet, or in the least part, how 
 great a son it has lost. It seems an injury that he should 
 leave in the midst his broken task, which none else 
 can finish, a kind of indignity to so noble a soul, that 
 he should depart out of Nature before yet he has been 
 really shown to his peers for what he is. But he, at 
 least, is content. His soul was made for the noblest 
 society; he had in a short life exhausted the capabilities 
 of this world; wherever there is knowledge, wherever 
 there is virtue, wherever there is beauty, he will find 
 a home. 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 IT was in August and September, 1839, as the chronicle 
 notes, that the voyage recorded in these pages 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, begun that practice of noting his experience, ob 
 servation, and reflection in a diary which he continued 
 through life, so that not only did his journal furnish 
 him with the first draft of what he published in his 
 lifetime, but it formed a magazine from which, after 
 his death, friendly editors drew successive volumes. 
 
 The "Week" is much more than a mere reproduction 
 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 
 passages which had already appeared in the short-lived 
 historic "Dial." It will be remembered that Thoreau 
 was not only a contributor to that periodical from 
 the beginning, but for a while had editorial charge of 
 it; the editing, indeed, 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. 327-333. So, also, his poems on Friend 
 ship saw the light first in the second number of " The 
 
xlii INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 Dial," and there also appeared the poems "The In 
 ward Morning," "The Poet's Delay," "Rumors from 
 an ^Eolian 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 evening there, heard him 
 read some passages from the work. It is interesting to 
 observe how immediately 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, fragrant with the life 
 of New England woods and streams, and could have 
 been written nowhere else. Especially am I touched by 
 his sufficiency 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 Walton and Yankee 
 settler all in one. I came home at midnight through 
 the snowy woodpaths, and slept with the pleasing dream 
 that presently the press would give me two books to 
 be proud of, Emerson's ' Poems ' and Thoreau's 
 'Week.'" 1 
 
 This was written in March, 1847, and Thoreau was 
 probably just about to try the publishers, if his manu 
 script were not even now resting in his hut from one of 
 its journeys. For in a letter to Emerson, at that time 
 
 i A. Branson Alcott ; his Life and Philosophy. By F. B. Sanborn 
 and William T. Harris, p. 446. 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE xliii 
 
 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 cer 
 tainly 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, the course you advised, to 
 let it lie." * Apparently 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 estimate of his own work. How 
 ever, 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 precedes 
 the poem " Friends, Romans, Countrymen, 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 Friendship, which he 
 had just written, and which I thought superior to any 
 thing I had heard." 3 
 
 1 Familiar Letters. 2 Ibid. 
 
 3 Henry D. Thoreau. By F. B. Sanborn [American Men of Letters], 
 p. 304. 
 
xliv INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 Apparently Thoreau was convinced of the impos 
 sibility of persuading any publisher to take the book at 
 his own risk, and was sufficiently confident of the worth 
 of the volume to bear the expense of publication him 
 self, although to do this he was obliged to borrow money, 
 and, since the book did not meet its expenses, after 
 ward to take up the occupation of surveying in order 
 to cancel his obligation. The book was published by 
 James Munroe & Co., Boston and Cambridge, ap 
 parently in the summer of 1849. Mr. George Ripley 
 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 December 
 of the same year. With his own cunning in literary art 
 he quickly divined the interior 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 for 
 tuity. 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 con 
 fidential 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 Northeote, and makes them run Thoreau 
 or Emerson or indeed anything but their own trans 
 parent element. . . . We have digressions on Boodh, 
 on Anacreon (with translations hardly so good as Cow- 
 ley), on Persius, on Friendship, and we know not what. 
 We come upon them like snags, jolting us headfore 
 most out of our places as we are rowing placidly up 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE xlv 
 
 stream, or drifting down. Mr. Thoreau becomes so 
 absorbed in these discussions 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, es 
 pecially that on Books and that on Friendship (which 
 is worthy of one who has so long communed with Na 
 ture and with Emerson), we could welcome them all 
 were they put by themselves 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 dis 
 tributing 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 
 conscientiously 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 diary, October 28, 1853, after the book 
 had been in the bookstores for four v,ears. " 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 suggest 
 ing 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, 
 
xlvi INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 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 substantial 
 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 two 
 hundred and ninety and odd, seventy -five were given 
 away, the rest sold. I have now a library of nearly 
 nine hundred volumes, over seven hundred 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 
 venture. The unbound were tied up by the printer four 
 years ago in stout paper wrappers, and inscribed, 
 H. D. Thoreau's 
 Concord River 
 
 50 cops. 
 
 So Munroe had only to cross out 'River' and write 
 4 Mass.,' and deliver them to the expressman 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 pri 
 vacy less and leaves me freer." 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE xlvii 
 
 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 appreciation. Lowell 
 himself, when he returned to Thoreau sixteen years 
 later, had in a measure re-formed his appreciation. But 
 after all, no judgment of an author is quite so inter 
 esting as that which the author himself passes, even 
 though one has to correct this estimate by other obser 
 vations on the author and his work. At any rate, Tho 
 reau shall be the last here to comment on this book : 
 
 "I thought that one peculiarity of my 'Week' was 
 its hypcethral 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 might wholly 
 have been written, as in fact it was to a considerable 
 extent, out-of-doors. It was only at a late period in writ 
 ing 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 hypsethral or unroofed book, lying open under the 
 ether and permeated by it, open to all weathers, not 
 easy to be kept on a shelf." * 
 
 1 Journal, June 29, 1851. 
 
A WEEK ON THE CONCORD AND 
 MERRIMACK 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; 
 Quse, di versa locis, partim sorbentur ab ipsa; 
 In mare perveniunt partim, campoque recepta 
 Liberioris aqua? 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. I. 39. 
 
^^ 
 
i not 
 
 
 Henry David Thoreau, from the daguerreotype taken by 
 Moxham of Worcester about 1855 
 
s^\v$" 
 
 x *\VOy\> : 
 
CONCORD RIVER 
 
 Beneath low hills, in the broad interval 
 Through which at will our Indian rivulet 
 Winds mindful still of sannup and of squaw, 
 Whose pipe and arrow oft the plough unburies, 
 Here in pine houses built of new-fallen trees, 
 Supplanters of the tribe, the farmers dwell. 
 
 EMEBSON. 
 
 J.HE Musketaquid, or Grass-ground River, though 
 probably as old as the Nile or Euphrates, did not 
 begin to have a place in civilized history until the fame 
 of its grassy meadows and its fish attracted settlers out 
 of England in 1635, when it received the other but 
 kindred name of CONCORD from the first plantation on 
 its banks, which appears to have been commenced in a 
 spirit of peace and harmony. It will be Grass-ground 
 River as long as grass grows and water runs here ; it will 
 be Concord River only while men lead peaceable lives 
 on its banks. To an extinct race it was grass-ground, 
 where they hunted and fished; and it is still perennial 
 grass-ground to Concord farmers, who own the Great 
 Meadows, and get the hay from year to year. " One 
 branch of it," according to the historian of Concord, for 
 I love to quote so good authority, "rises in the south 
 part of Hopkinton, and another from a pond and a large 
 cedar-swamp in Westborough," and flowing between 
 Hopkinton and Southborough, through Framingham, 
 and between Sudbury and Wayland, where it is some- 
 
4 CONCORD RIVER 
 
 times called Sudbury River, it enters Concord at the 
 south part of the town, and after receiving the North or 
 Assabet River, which has its source a little farther to 
 the north and west, goes out at the northeast angle, 
 and, flowing between Bedford and Carlisle, and through 
 Billerica, empties into the Merrimack at Lowell. In 
 Concord, it is in summer from four to fifteen feet deep, 
 and from one hundred to three hundred feet wide, but 
 in the spring freshets, when it overflows its banks, it 
 is in some places nearly a mile wide. Between Sud 
 bury and Wayland the meadows acquire their greatest 
 breadth, and when covered with water, they form a 
 handsome chain of shallow vernal lakes, resorted to 
 by numerous gulls and ducks. Just above Sherman's 
 Bridge, between these towns, is the largest expanse ; and 
 when the wind blows freshly in a raw March day, heav 
 ing up the surface into dark and sober billows or regular 
 swells, skirted as it is in the distance with alder swamps 
 and smoke-like maples, it looks like a smaller Lake 
 Huron, and is very pleasant and exciting for a landsman 
 to row or sail over. The farmhouses along the Sudbury 
 shore, which rises gently to a considerable height, com 
 mand 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 thou 
 sands 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 
 
CONCORD RIVER 5 
 
 most of the driest season to get their hay, working some 
 times 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 farmhouses, and barns, and 
 haystacks, you never saw before, and men everywhere; 
 Sudbury, that is Southborough men, and Wayland, and 
 Nine-Acre-Corner men, and Bound Rock, where four 
 towns bound on a rock in the river, Lincoln, Wayland, 
 Sudbury, Concord. Many waves are there agitated by 
 the wind, keeping nature fresh, the spray blowing in 
 your face, reeds and rushes waving; ducks by the 
 hundred, all uneasy in the surf, in the raw wind, just 
 ready to rise, and now going off with a clatter and 
 a whistling like riggers straight for Labrador, flying 
 against the stiff gale with reefed wings, or else circling 
 round first, with all their paddles briskly moving, just 
 over the surf, to reconnoitre you before they leave these 
 parts; gulls wheeling overhead, muskrats swimming 
 for dear life, wet and cold, with no fire to warm them 
 by that you know of, their labored homes rising here and 
 there like haystacks ; and countless mice and moles and 
 winged titmice along the sunny, windy shore; cranber 
 ries tossed on the waves and heaving up on the beach, 
 their little red skiffs beating about among the alders ; 
 such healthy natural tumult as proves the last day is not 
 
6 CONCORD RIVER 
 
 yet at hand. And there stand all around the alders, and 
 birches, and oaks, and maples, full of glee and sap, 
 holding in their buds until the waters subside. You 
 shall perhaps run aground on Cranberry Island, only 
 some spires of last year's pipe-grass above water to show 
 where the danger is, and get as good a freezing there as 
 anywhere on the Northwest Coast. I never voyaged so 
 far in all my life. You shall see men you never heard of 
 before, whose names you don't know, going away down 
 through the meadows with long ducking guns, with 
 water-tight boots wading through the fowl-meadow 
 grass, on bleak, wintry, distant shores, with guns at 
 half-cock; and they shall see teal, blue-winged, green- 
 winged, sheldrakes, whistlers, black ducks, ospreys, 
 and many other wild and noble sights before night, such 
 as they who sit in parlors never dream of. You shall see 
 rude and sturdy, experienced and wise men, keeping 
 their castles, or teaming up their summer's wood, or 
 chopping alone in the woods; men fuller of talk and 
 rare adventure in the sun and wind and rain, than a 
 chestnut is of meat, who were out not only in '75 and 
 1812, but have been out every day of their lives; greater 
 men than Homer, or Chaucer, or Shakespeare, only they 
 never got time to say so; they never took to the way of 
 writing. Look at their fields, and imagine what they 
 might write, if ever they should put pen to paper. Or 
 what have they not written on the face of the earth 
 already, clearing, and burning, and scratching, and 
 harrowing, and plowing, and subsoiling, in and in, and 
 out and out, and over and over, again and again, erasing 
 what they had already written for want of parchment. 
 
CONCORD RIVER 7 
 
 As yesterday and the historical ages are past, as the 
 work of to-day is present, so some flitting perspectives v 
 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; 
 
 Slimmer and winter, night and day, 
 
 Out on the meadow, there dwell they. 
 
 They never die, 
 
 Nor snivel nor cry, 
 
 Nor ask our pity 
 
 With a wet eye. 
 
 A sound estate they ever mend, 
 
 To every asker readily lend; 
 
 To the ocean wealth, 
 
 To the meadow health, 
 
 To Time his length, 
 
 To the rocks strength, 
 
 To the stars light, 
 
 To the weary night, 
 
 To the busy day, 
 
 To the idle play; 
 
 And so their good cheer never ends, 
 
 For all are their debtors and all their friends. 
 
 Concord River is remarkable for the gentleness of its 
 current, which is scarcely perceptible, and some have 
 referred to its influence the proverbial moderation of 
 the inhabitants of Concord, as exhibited in the Revolu 
 tion, 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 
 
8 CONCORD RIVER 
 
 that a descent of an eighth of an inch in a mile is suffi 
 cient to produce a flow. Our river has, probably, very 
 near the smallest allowance. The story is current, at 
 any rate, though I believe that strict history will not 
 bear it out, that the only bridge ever carried away on 
 the main branch, within the limits of the town, was 
 driven up-stream by the wind. But wherever it makes a 
 sudden bend it is shallower and swifter, and asserts its 
 title to be called a river. Compared with the other tribu 
 taries of the Merrimack, it appears to have been properly 
 named Musketaquid, or Meadow River, by the Indians. 
 For the most part, it creeps through broad meadows, 
 adorned with scattered oaks, where the cranberry is 
 found in abundance, covering the ground like a moss- 
 bed. A row of sunken dwarf willows borders the stream 
 on one or both sides, while at a greater distance the 
 meadow is skirted with maples, alders, and other 
 fluviatile trees, overrun with the grape-vine, which bears 
 fruit in its season, purple, red, white, and other grapes. 
 Still farther from the stream, on the edge of the firm 
 land, are seen the gray and white dwellings of the inhab 
 itants. According to the valuation of 1831, there were 
 in Concord two thousand one hundred and eleven acres, 
 or about one seventh of the whole territory, in meadow; 
 this standing next in the list after pasturage and unim 
 proved lands ; and, judging from the returns of previous 
 years, the meadow is not reclaimed so fast as the woods 
 are cleared. 
 
 Let us here read what old Johnson says of these 
 meadows in his " Wonder- Working Providence," which 
 gives the account of New England from 1628 to 1652, 
 
CONCORD RIVER 9 
 
 and see how matters looked to him. He says of the 
 Twelfth Church of Christ gathered at Concord: "This 
 town is seated upon a fair fresh river, whose rivulets 
 are filled with fresh marsh, and her streams with fish, 
 it being a branch of that large river of Merrimack. 
 Allwifes and shad in their season come up to this town, 
 but salmon and dace cannot come up, by reason of the 
 rocky falls, which causeth their meadows to lie much 
 covered with water, the which these people, together 
 with their neighbor town, have several times essayed to 
 cut through but cannot, yet it may be turned another 
 way with an hundred pound charge as it appeared." 
 As to their fanning he says: "Having laid out their 
 estate upon cattle at 5 to 20 pound a cow, when they 
 came to winter them with inland hay, and feed upon 
 such wild fother as was never cut before, they could not 
 hold out the winter, but, ordinarily the first or second 
 year after their coming up to a new plantation, many of 
 their cattle died." And this from the same author: " Of 
 the Planting of the 19th Church in the Mattachusets' 
 Government, called Sudbury:" "This year [does he 
 mean 1654 ?] the town and church of Christ at Sudbury 
 began to have the first foundation stones laid, taking 
 up her station in the inland country, as her elder sister 
 Concord had formerly done, lying further up the same 
 river, being furnished with great plenty of fresh marsh, 
 but, it lying very low is much indamaged with land 
 floods, insomuch that when the summer proves wet they 
 lose part of their hay; yet are they so sufficiently pro 
 vided that they take in cattle of other towns to winter." 
 The sluggish artery of the Concord meadows steals 
 
10 CONCORD RIVER 
 
 thus unobserved through the town, without a murmur 
 or a pulse-beat, its general course from southwest to 
 northeast, and its length about fifty miles ; a huge vol 
 ume of matter, ceaselessly rolling through the plains 
 and valleys of the substantial earth with the moccasined 
 tread of an Indian warrior, making haste from the high 
 places of the earth to its ancient reservoir. The mur 
 murs of many a famous river on the other side of the 
 globe reach even to us here, as to more distant dwellers 
 on its banks; many a poet's stream, floating the helms 
 and shields of heroes on its bosom. The Xanthus or 
 Scamander is not a mere dry channel and bed of a 
 mountain torrent, but fed by the 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 River with the most famous 
 in history. 
 
 " Sure there are poets which did never dream 
 Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream 
 Of Helicon; we therefore may suppose 
 Those made not poets, but the poets those." 
 
 The Mississippi, the Ganges, and the Nile, those 
 journeying atoms from the Rocky Mountains, the Him- 
 maleh, and Mountains of the Moon, have a kind of 
 personal importance in the annals of the world. The 
 heavens are not yet drained over their sources, but the 
 Mountains of the Moon still send their annual tribute 
 to the Pasha without fail, as they did to the Pharaohs, 
 

 CONCORD RIVER 11 
 
 though he must collect the rest of his revenue at the 
 point of the sword. Rivers must have been the guides 
 which conducted the footsteps of the first travelers. 
 They are the constant lure, when they flow by our doors, 
 to distant 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 bearing 
 him on their bosoms, but conducting him through the 
 most interesting scenery, the most populous portions of 
 the globe, and where the animal and vegetable kingdoms 
 attain their greatest perfection. 
 
 I had often stood on the banks of the Concord, watch 
 ing the lapse of the current, an emblem of all progress, 
 following the same law with the system, with time, and 
 all that is made; the weeds at the bottom gently bend 
 ing down the stream, shaken by the watery wind, still 
 planted where their seeds had sunk, but ere long to die 
 and go down likewise; the shining pebbles, not yet 
 anxious to better their condition, the chips and weeds, 
 and occasional logs and stems of trees that floated past, 
 fulfilling their fate, were objects of singular interest to 
 me, and at last I resolved to launch myself on its bosom 
 and float whither it would bear me. 
 
SATURDAY 
 
 Come, come, my lovely fair, and let us try 
 Those rural delicacies. 
 
 QUABLES, Christ s Invitation to the Soid. 
 
 AT length, on Saturday, the last day of August, 1839, 
 we two, brothers, and natives of Concord, weighed 
 anchor in this river port; for Concord, too, lies under 
 the sun, a port of entry and departure for the bodies as 
 well as the souls of men; one shore at least exempted 
 from all duties but such as an honest man will gladly 
 discharge. A warm, drizzling rain had obscured the 
 morning, and threatened to delay our voyage, but at 
 length the leaves and grass were dried, and it came out 
 a mild afternoon, as serene and fresh as if Nature were 
 maturing some greater scheme of her own. After this 
 long dripping and oozing from every pore, she began 
 to respire again more healthily than ever. So with a 
 vigorous shove we launched our boat from the bank, 
 while the flags and bulrushes courtesied a God-speed, 
 and dropped silently down the stream. 
 
 Our boat, which had cost us a week's labor in the 
 spring, was in form like a fisherman's dory, fifteen feet 
 long by three and a half in breadth at the widest part, 
 painted green below, with a border of blue, with refer 
 ence 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 
 
SATURDAY 13 
 
 melons, from a patch which we had cultivated, and a 
 few utensils ; and was provided with wheels in order to 
 be rolled around falls, as well as with two sets of oars, 
 and several slender poles for shoving in shallow places, 
 and also two masts, one of which served for a tent-pole 
 at night; for a buffalo-skin was to be our bed, and a 
 tent of cotton cloth our roof. It was strongly built, but 
 heavy, and hardly of better model than usual. If rightly 
 made, a boat would be a sort of amphibious animal, a 
 creature of two elements, related by one half its struc 
 ture to some swift and shapely fish, and by the other to 
 some strong-winged and graceful bird. The fish shows 
 where there should be the greatest breadth of beam and 
 depth in the hold; its fins direct where to set the oars, 
 and the tail gives some hint for the form and position 
 of the rudder. The bird shows how to rig and trim the 
 sails, and what form to give to the prow, that it may 
 balance the boat and divide the air and water best. 
 These hints we had but partially obeyed. But the eyes, 
 though they are no sailors, will never be satisfied with 
 any model, however fashionable, which does not answer 
 all the requisitions of art. However, as art is all of a ship 
 but the wood, and yet the wood alone will rudely serve 
 the purpose of a ship, so our boat, being of wood, gladly 
 availed itself of the old law that the heavier shall float 
 the lighter, and though a dull water-fowl, proved a 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 farewell; but we, 
 
14 A WEEK 
 
 having already performed these shore rites, with excus 
 able reserve, as befits those who are embarked on un 
 usual enterprises, who behold but speak not, silently 
 glided past the firm lands of Concord, both peopled 
 cape and lonely summer meadow, with steady sweeps. 
 And yet we did unbend so far as to let our guns speak 
 for us, when at length we had swept out of sight, and 
 thus left the woods to ring again with their echoes ; and 
 it may be many russet-clad children, lurking in those 
 broad meadows, with the bittern and the woodcock and 
 the rail, though wholly concealed by brakes and hard- 
 hack and meadow-sweet, heard our salute that afternoon. 
 We were soon floating past the first regular battle 
 ground of the Revolution, resting on our oars between 
 the still visible abutments of that " North Bridge " over 
 which in April, 1775, rolled the first faint tide of that 
 war which ceased not till, as we read on the stone on 
 our right, it "gave peace to these United States." As 
 a Concord poet has sung : 
 
 "By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
 
 Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 
 Here once the embattled farmers stood 
 And fired the shot heard round the world. 
 
 "The foe long since in silence slept; 
 Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; 
 And Time the ruined bridge has swept 
 Down the dark stream which seaward creeps." 
 
 Our reflections had already acquired a historical 
 remoteness from the scenes we had left, and we ourselves 
 essayed to sing : 
 
SATURDAY 15 
 
 Ah, 't is in vain the peaceful din 
 
 That wakes the ignoble town, 
 Not thus did braver spirits win 
 
 A patriot's renown. 
 
 There is one field beside this stream 
 
 Wherein no foot does fall, 
 But yet it beareth in my dream 
 
 A richer crop than all. 
 
 Let me believe a dream so dear, 
 
 Some heart beat high that day, 
 Above the petty Province here, 
 
 And Britain far away; 
 
 Some hero of the ancient mould, 
 
 Some arm of knightly worth, 
 Of strength unbought, and faith unsold, 
 
 Honored this spot of earth; 
 
 Who sought the prize his heart -described, 
 
 And did not ask release, 
 Whose free-born valor was not bribed 
 
 By prospect of a peace. 
 
 The men who stood on yonder height 
 
 That day are long since gone; 
 Not the same hand directs the fight 
 
 And monumental stone. 
 
 Ye were the Grecian cities then, 
 
 The Romes of modern birth, 
 Where the New England husbandmen 
 
 Have shown a Roman worth. 
 
 In vain I search a foreign land 
 
 To find our Bunker Hill, 
 And Lexington and Concord stand 
 
 By no Laconian rill. 
 
16 A WEEK 
 
 With such thoughts we swept gently by this now 
 peaceful pasture-ground, on waves of Concord, in which 
 was long since drowned the din of war. 
 
 But since we sailed 
 Some things have failed, 
 And many a dream 
 Gone down the stream. 
 
 Here then an aged shepherd dwelt, 
 Who to his flock his substance dealt, 
 And ruled them with a vigorous crook, 
 By precept of the sacred Book; 
 But he the pierless bridge passed o'er,' 
 And solitary left the shore. 
 
 Anon a youthful pastor came, 
 Whose crook was not unknown to fame, 
 His lambs he viewed with gentle glance, 
 Spread o'er the country's wide expanse, 
 And fed with "Mosses from the Manse." 
 Here was our Hawthorne in the dale, 
 And here the shepherd told his tale. 
 
 That slight shaft had now sunk behind the hills, 
 and we had floated round the neighboring bend, and 
 under the new North Bridge between Ponkawtasset and 
 the Poplar Hill, into the Great Meadows, which, like 
 a broad 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, 
 
SATURDAY 17 
 
 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; 
 Ay, they are suns, though earth must in its flight 
 Put out its eyes that it may see their light. 
 
 Who would neglect the least celestial sound, 
 Or faintest light that falls on earthly ground, 
 If he could know it one day would be found 
 That star in Cygnus whither we are bound, 
 And pale our sun with heavenly radiance round ? 
 
 Gradually the village murmur subsided, and we 
 seemed to be embarked on the placid current of our 
 dreams, floating from past to future as silently as one 
 awakes to fresh morning or evening thoughts. We 
 glided noiselessly down the stream, occasionally driving 
 a pickerel or a bream from the covert of the pads, and 
 the smaller bittern now and then sailed away on sluggish 
 wings from some recess in the shore, or the larger lifted 
 itself out of the long grass at our approach, and car 
 ried its precious legs away to deposit them in a place of 
 safety. The tortoises also rapidly dropped into the 
 water, as our boat ruffled the surface amid the willows, 
 breaking the reflections of the trees. The banks had 
 passed the height of their beauty, and some of the 
 brighter flowers showed by their faded tints that the 
 season was verging towards the afternoon of the year; 
 
18 A WEEK 
 
 but this sombre tinge enhanced their sincerity, and in 
 the still unabated heats they seemed like the mossy 
 brink of some cool well. The narrow-leaved willow 
 (Salix Purshiana) lay along the surface of the water in 
 masses of light green foliage, interspersed with the large 
 balls of the button-bush. The small rose-colored poly- 
 gonum 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 
 arrowhead stood in the shallower parts, and a few cardi 
 nals on the margin still proudly surveyed themselves 
 reflected in the water, though the latter, as well as the 
 pickerel-weed, was now nearly out of blossom. The 
 snake-head (Chelone glabra) grew close to the shore, 
 while a kind of coreopsis, turning its brazen face to the 
 sun, full and rank, and a tall dull-red flower (Eupato- 
 rium 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 ladies'-tresses ; while 
 from the more distant waysides which we occasionally 
 passed, and banks where the sun had lodged, was 
 reflected still a dull-yellow beam from the ranks of tansy, 
 now past its prime. In short, Nature seemed to have 
 adorned herself for our departure with a profusion of 
 fringes and curls, mingled with the bright tints of flowers, 
 
SATURDAY 19 
 
 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, per- ^ 
 haps, by a true water clock who delays so long. Many 
 of this species inhabit our Concord water. I have passed 
 down the river before sunrise on a summer morning, 
 between fields of lilies still shut in sleep; and when, at 
 length, the flakes of sunlight from over the bank fell on 
 the surface of the water, whole fields of white blossoms 
 seemed to flash open before me, as I floated along, like 
 the unfolding of a banner, so sensible is this flower 
 to the influence of the sun's rays. 
 
 As we were floating through the last of these familiar 
 meadows, we observed the large and conspicuous flowers 
 of the hibiscus, covering the dwarf willows and mingled 
 with the leaves of the grape, and wished that we could 
 inform one of our friends behind of the locality of this 
 somewhat rare and inaccessible flower before it was too 
 late to pluck it; but we were just gliding out of sight 
 of the village spire before it occurred to us that the 
 farmer in the adjacent meadow would go to church on 
 the morrow, and would carry this news for us; and so 
 by the Monday, while we should be floating on the 
 Merrimack, our friend would be reaching to pluck this 
 blossom on the bank of the Concord. 
 
 After a pause at Ball's Hill, the St. Anne'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 V 
 
20 A WEEK 
 
 withdrew from it. Far away to the southwest lay the 
 quiet village, left alone under its elms and buttonwoods 
 in mid-afternoon; and the hills, notwithstanding their 
 blue, ethereal faces, seemed to cast a saddened eye on 
 their old playfellows; but, turning short to the north, 
 we bade adieu to their familiar outlines, and addressed 
 ourselves to new scenes and adventures. Naught was 
 familiar but the heavens, from under whose roof the 
 voyageur never passes ; but with their countenance, and 
 the acquaintance we had with river and wood, we 
 trusted to fare well under any circumstances. 
 
 From this point the river runs perfectly straight for a 
 mile or more to Carlisle Bridge, which consists of twenty 
 wooden piers, and when we looked back over it, its 
 surface was reduced to a line's breadth, and appeared 
 like a cobweb gleaming in the sun. Here and there 
 might be seen a pole sticking up, to mark the place 
 where some fisherman had enjoyed unusual luck, and 
 J in return had consecrated his rod to the deities who 
 . preside over these shallows. It was full twice as broad 
 as before, deep and tranquil, with a muddy bottom, 
 and bordered with willows, beyond which spread broad 
 lagoons covered with pads, bulrushes, and flags. 
 
 Late in the afternoon we passed a man on the shore 
 fishing with a long birch pole, its silvery bark left on, 
 and a dog at his side, rowing so near as to agitate his 
 cork with our oars, and drive away luck for a season; 
 and when we had rowed a mile as straight as an arrow, 
 with our faces turned towards him, and the bubbles in 
 our wake still visible on the tranquil surface, there stood 
 the fisher still with his dog, like statues under the other 
 
SATURDAY 21 
 
 side of the heavens, the only objects to relieve the eye 
 in the extended meadow; and there would he stand 
 abiding his luck, till he took his way home through the 
 fields at evening with his fish. Thus, by one bait or ~; 
 another, Nature allures inhabitants into all her recesses. 
 This man was the last of our townsmen whom we saw, 
 and we silently through him bade adieu to our friends. 
 The characteristics and pursuits of various ages and 
 races of men are always existing in epitome in every 
 neighborhood. The pleasures of my earliest youth have 
 become the inheritance of other men. This man is still 
 a fisher, and belongs to an era in which I myself have 
 lived. Perchance he is not confounded by many know 
 ledges, 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, arbi 
 trating 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, lead 
 ing his life many rods from the dry land, within a pole's 
 length of where the larger fishes swim. Human life is 
 to him very much like a river, 
 
 " renning aie downward to the sea." 
 

 22 A WEEK 
 
 A ^ This was his observation. His honor made a great dis 
 covery in bailments. 
 
 I can just remember an old brown-coated man who 
 was the Walton of this stream, who had come over 
 from Newcastle, England, with his son, the latter a 
 stout and hearty man who had lifted an anchor in his 
 day. A straight old man he was, who took his way in 
 silence through the meadows, having passed the period 
 of communication with his fellows ; his old experienced 
 coat, hanging long and straight and brown as the yellow 
 pine bark, glittering with so much smothered sunlight, 
 if you stood near enough, no work of art but naturalized 
 at length. I often discovered him unexpectedly amid 
 the pads and the gray willows when he moved, fish 
 ing in some old country method, for youth and age 
 then went a-fishing together, full of incommunicable 
 thoughts, perchance about his own Tyne and Northum 
 berland. He was always to be seen in serene afternoons 
 haunting the river, and almost rustling with the sedge; 
 so many sunny hours in an old man's life, entrapping 
 silly fish; almost grown to be the sun's familiar; what 
 need had he of hat or raiment any, having served out 
 his time, and seen through such thin disguises ? I have 
 seen how his coeval fates rewarded him with the yellow 
 perch, and yet I thought his luck was not in proportion 
 to his years ; and I have seen when, with slow steps and 
 weighed down with aged thoughts, he disappeared with 
 his fish under his low-roofed house on the skirts of the 
 village. I think nobody else saw him; nobody else 
 remembers him now, for he soon after died, and mi 
 grated to new Tyne streams. His fishing was not a sport, 
 
SATURDAY 23 
 
 nor solely a means of subsistence, but a sort of solemn 
 sacrament and withdrawal from the world, just as the 
 aged read their Bibles. 
 
 Whether we live by the seaside, or by the lakes and 
 rivers, or on the prairie, it concerns us to attend to the 
 nature of fishes, since they are not phenomena confined 
 to certain localities only, but forms and phases of the h'fe 
 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 prin 
 ciple 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 recrea 
 tion," introducing him profitably to woods and water, 
 so the fruit of the naturalist's observations is not in new 
 genera or species, but in new contemplations still, and 
 science is only a more contemplative man's recreation. 
 The seeds of the life of fishes are everywhere dissemi 
 nated, whether the winds waft them, or the waters float 
 them, or the deep earth holds them; wherever a pond is 
 dug, straightway it is stocked with this vivacious race. 
 They have a lease of nature, and it is not yet out. The 
 Chinese are bribed to carry their ova from province to 
 province in jars or in hollow reeds, or the water-birds to 
 transport them to the mountain tarns and interior lakes. 
 There are fishes wherever there is a fluid medium, and 
 
24 A WEEK 
 
 even in clouds and in melted metals we detect their 
 semblance. Think how in winter you can sink a line 
 down straight in a pasture through snow and through 
 ice, and pull up a bright, slippery, dumb, subterranean 
 silver or golden fish! It is curious, also, to reflect how 
 they make one family, from the largest to the smallest. 
 The least minnow that lies on the ice as bait for pickerel 
 looks like a huge sea-fish cast up on the shore. In the 
 waters of this town there are about a dozen distinct 
 species, though the inexperienced would expect many 
 more. 
 
 It enhances our sense of the grand security and 
 serenity of nature to observe the still undisturbed 
 economy and content of the fishes of this century, their 
 happiness a regular fruit of the summer. The fresh 
 water sun-fish, bream, or ruff (Pomotis vulgaris), as it 
 were without ancestry, without posterity, still represents 
 the fresh-water sun-fish in nature. It is the most com 
 mon of all, and seen on every urchin's string; a simple 
 and inoffensive fish, whose nests are visible all along the 
 shore, hollowed in the sand, over which it is steadily 
 poised through the summer hours on waving fin. Some 
 times 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 
 
SATURDAY 25 
 
 empty nests, meanwhile, and swallowing the spawn, 
 which is attached to the weeds and to the bottom, on 
 the sunny side. The spawn is exposed to so many dan 
 gers that a very small proportion can ever become fishes, 
 for beside being the constant prey of birds and fishes, a 
 great many nests are made so near the shore, in shallow 
 water, that they are left dry in a few days, as the river 
 goes down. These and the lamprey's are the only fishes' 
 nests that I have observed, though the ova of some 
 species may be seen floating on the surface. The breams 
 are so careful of their charge that you may stand close by 
 in the water and examine them at your leisure. I have 
 thus stood over them half an hour at a time, and stroked 
 them familiarly without frightening them, suffering them 
 to nibble my fingers harmlessly, and seen them erect 
 their dorsal fins in anger when my hand approached 
 their ova, and have even taken them gently out of the 
 water with my hand; though this cannot be accom 
 plished by a sudden movement, however dexterous, for 
 instant warning is conveyed to them through their denser 
 element, but only by letting the fingers gradually close 
 about them as they are poised over the palm, and with 
 the utmost gentleness raising them slowly to the surface. 
 Though stationary, they 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 they live is a stream 
 which must be constantly resisted. From time to time 
 they nibble the weeds at the bottom or overhanging their 
 nests, or dart after a fly or a worm. The dorsal fin, 
 besides answering the purpose of a keel, with the anal, 
 
26 A WEEK 
 
 serves to keep the fish upright, for in shallow water, 
 where this is not covered, they fall on their sides. As 
 you stand thus stooping over the bream in its nest, the 
 edges of the dorsal and caudal fins have a singular dusty 
 golden reflection, and its eyes, which stand out from the 
 head, are transparent and colorless. Seen in its native 
 element, it is a very beautiful and compact fish, perfect 
 in all its parts, and looks like a brilliant coin fresh from 
 the mint. It is a perfect jewel of the river, the green, red, 
 coppery, and golden reflections of its mottled sides being 
 the concentration of such rays as struggle through the 
 floating pads and flowers to the sandy bottom, and in 
 harmony with the sunlit brown and yellow pebbles. 
 Behind its watery shield it dwells far from many acci 
 dents inevitable to human life. 
 
 There is also another species of bream found in our 
 river, without the red spot on the operculum, which, 
 according to M. Agassiz, is undescribed. 
 
 The common perch (Perca flavescens, which name de 
 scribes well the gleaming, golden reflections of its scales 
 as it is drawn out of the water, its red gills standing 
 out in vain in the thin element) is one of the hand 
 somest 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 spe 
 cies 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 
 
SATURDAY 27 
 
 found in the deepest water, which prey upon their weaker 
 brethren. I have often attracted these small perch to the 
 shore at evening, by rippling the water with my fingers, 
 and they may sometimes be caught while attempting 
 to pass inside your hands. It is a tough and heedless 
 fish, biting from impulse, without nibbling, and from 
 impulse refraining to bite, and sculling indifferently 
 past. It rather prefers the clear water and sandy bot 
 toms, 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 Eng 
 land's Rarities," published in 1672, mentions the Perch 
 or River Partridge. 
 
 The chivin, dace, roach, cousin trout, or whatever 
 else it is called (Leuciscus pulchellus), white and red, 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 clas 
 sical look, like many a picture in an English book. It 
 loves a swift current and a sandy bottom, and bites inad 
 vertently, 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 
 
28 A WEEK 
 
 chivin is not yet a complete angler. Other fishes, me- 
 thinks, 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 sud 
 denly, by a coincidence never to be remembered, emerges 
 this fabulous inhabitant of another element, a thing 
 heard of but not seen, as if it were the instant creation 
 of an eddy, a true product of the running stream. And 
 this bright cupreous dolphin was spawned and has 
 passed its life beneath the level of your feet in your native 
 fields. Fishes, too, as well as birds and clouds, derive 
 their armor from the mine. I have heard of mackerel 
 visiting the copper banks at a particular season; this 
 fish, perchance, has its habitat in the Coppermine River. 
 I have caught white chivin of great size in the Aboljack- 
 nagesic, 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 con 
 founded with the last named. 
 
 The shiner (Leudscus chrysolcucus) is a soft-scaled 
 and tender fish, the victim of its stronger neighbors, 
 found in all places, deep and shallow, clear and turbid ; 
 generally the first nibbler at the bait, but, with its small 
 mouth and nibbling propensities, not easily caught. It is 
 a gold or silver bit that passes current in the river, its 
 limber tail dimpling the surface in sport or flight. I have 
 seen the fry, when frightened by something thrown into 
 the water, leap out by dozens, together with the dace, 
 
SATURDAY 29 
 
 and wreck themselves upon a floating plank. It is 
 the little light-infant of the river, with body armor of 
 gold or silver spangles, slipping, gliding its life through 
 with a quirk of the tail, half in the water, half in the 
 air, upward and ever upward with flitting fin to more 
 crystalline tides, yet still abreast of us dwellers on the 
 bank. It is almost dissolved by the summer heats. A 
 slighter and lighter-colored shiner is found in one of 
 our ponds. 
 
 The pickerel (Esox reticulatus), the swiftest, wariest, 
 and most ravenous of fishes, which Josselyn calls the 
 Fresh-Water or River Wolf, is very common in the 
 shallow and weedy lagoons along the sides of the stream. 
 It is a solemn, stately, ruminant fish, lurking under the 
 shadow of a pad at noon, with still, circumspect, vora 
 cious eye, motionless as a jewel set in water, or moving 
 slowly along to take up its position, darting from time 
 to time at such unlucky fish or frog or insect as comes 
 within its range, and swallowing it at a gulp. I have 
 caught one which had swallowed a brother pickerel half 
 as large as itself, with the tail still visible in its mouth, 
 while the head was already digested in its stomach. 
 Sometimes a striped snake, bound to greener meadows 
 across the stream, ends its undulatory progress in the 
 same receptacle. They are so greedy and impetuous 
 that they are frequently caught by being entangled in 
 the line the moment it is cast. Fishermen also distin 
 guish the brook pickerel, a shorter and thicker fish than 
 the former. 
 
 The horned pout (Pimelodus nebulosus), sometimes 
 called Minister, from the peculiar squeaking noise it 
 
30 A WEEK 
 
 makes when drawn out of the water, is a dull and blun 
 dering 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, some 
 times 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, inhabit 
 ing 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 en 
 counter. Sometimes the fry, not an inch long, are seen 
 darkening the shore with their myriads. 
 
 The suckers (Catostomi Bostonienses and tuberculati), 
 common and horned, perhaps on an average the largest 
 of our fishes, may be seen in shoals of a hundred or 
 more, stemming the current in the sun, on their mysteri 
 ous migrations, and sometimes sucking in the bait which 
 the fisherman suffers to float toward them. The former, 
 which sometimes grow to a large size, are frequently 
 caught by the hand in the brooks, or like the red chivin 
 are jerked out by a hook fastened firmly to the end of a 
 stick, and placed under their jaws. They are hardly 
 known to the mere angler, however, not often biting at 
 his baits, though the spearer carries home many a mess 
 in the spring. To our village eyes, these shoals have a 
 foreign and imposing aspect, realizing the fertility of the 
 seas. 
 
SATURDAY 31 
 
 The common eel, too (Murcena Bostoniensis), the only 
 species of eel known in the State, a slimy, squirming 
 creature, informed of mud, still squirming in the pan, is 
 speared and hooked up with various success. Methinks 
 it too occurs in picture, left after the deluge, in many a 
 meadow high and dry. 
 
 In the shallow parts of the river, where the current is 
 rapid and the bottom pebbly, you may sometimes see 
 the curious circular nests of the lamprey eel (Petromy- 
 zon Americanus), the American stone-sucker, as large 
 as a cart-wheel, a foot or two in height, and sometimes 
 rising half a foot above the surface of the water. They 
 collect these stones, of the size of a hen's egg, with their 
 mouths, as their name implies, and are said to fashion 
 them into circles with their tails. They ascend falls by 
 clinging to the stones, which may sometimes be raised 
 by lifting the fish by the tail. As they are not seen on 
 their way down the streams, it is thought by fishermen 
 that they never return, but waste away and die, clinging 
 to rocks and stumps of trees for an indefinite period; a 
 tragic feature in the scenery of the river bottoms worthy 
 to be remembered with Shakespeare's description of the 
 sea-floor. They are rarely seen in our waters at present, 
 on account of the dams, though they are taken in great 
 quantities at the mouth of the river in Lowell. Their 
 nests, which are very conspicuous, look more like art 
 than anything in the river. 
 
 If we had leisure this afternoon, we might turn out 
 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 unde- 
 
32 A WEEK 
 
 scribed. These would, perhaps, complete the list of our 
 finny contemporaries in the Concord waters. 
 
 Salmon, shad, and alewives were formerly abundant 
 here, and taken in weirs by the Indians, who taught 
 this method to the whites, by whom they were used as 
 food and as manure, until the dam and afterward the 
 canal at Billerica, and the factories at Lowell, put an 
 end to their migrations hitherward ; though it is thought 
 that a few more enterprising shad may still occasionally 
 be seen in this part of the river. It is said, to account for 
 the destruction of the fishery, that those who at that time 
 represented the interests of the fishermen and the fishes, 
 remembering between what dates they were accus 
 tomed to take the grown shad, stipulated that the dams 
 should be left open for that season only, and the fry, 
 which go down a month later, were consequently stopped 
 and destroyed by myriads. Others say that the fish-ways 
 were not properly constructed. Perchance, after a few 
 thousands of years, if the fishes will be patient, and pass 
 their summers elsewhere meanwhile, nature will have 
 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 garrets of their 
 children, who openly professed the trade of fishermen, 
 and even fed their townsmen creditably, not skulking 
 through the meadows to a rainy afternoon sport. Dim 
 visions we still get of miraculous draughts of fishes, and 
 heaps uncountable by the riverside, from the tales of 
 
SATURDAY 33 
 
 our seniors sent on horseback in their childhood from 
 the neighboring towns, perched on saddle-bags, with 
 instructions to get the one bag filled with shad, the other 
 with alewives. At least one memento of those days may 
 still exist in the memory of this generation, in the 
 familiar appellation of a celebrated train-band of this 
 town, whose untrained ancestors stood creditably at 
 Concord North Bridge. Their captain, a man of pisca 
 tory 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 manoeuvres 
 of a soldier's wit and unlicensed jesting, that May day; 
 for their captain, forgetting his own appointment, and 
 warned only by the favorable aspect of the heavens, as 
 he had often done before, went a-fishing that afternoon, 
 and his company thenceforth was known to old and 
 young, grave and gay, as " The Shad," and by the youths 
 of this vicinity this was long regarded as the proper 
 name of all the irregular militia in Christendom. But, 
 alas! no record of these fishers' lives remains that we 
 know, unless it be one brief page of hard but 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, 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 
 
34 A WEEK 
 
 "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 settled altogether. These 
 were the necessaries of life in those days; with salmon, 
 shad, and alewives, fresh and pickled, he was thereafter 
 independent on the groceries. Rather a preponderance 
 of the fluid elements ; but such is the fisherman's nature. 
 I can faintly remember to have seen this same fisher in 
 my earliest youth, still as near the river as he could get, 
 with uncertain, undulatory step, after so many things 
 had gone down-stream, swinging a scythe in the mea 
 dow, his bottle like a serpent hid in the grass ; himself 
 as yet not cut down by the Great Mower. 
 
 Surely the fates are forever kind, though Nature's 
 laws are more immutable than any despot's, yet to man's 
 daily life they rarely seem rigid, but permit him to relax 
 with license in summer weather. He is not harshly 
 reminded of the things he may not do. She is very kind 
 and liberal to all men of vicious habits, and certainly 
 does not deny them quarter; they do not die without 
 priest. Still they maintain life along the way, keeping 
 this side the Styx, still hearty, still resolute, " never bet 
 ter 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?" 
 
SATURDAY 35 
 
 "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 happens that the sicker man is the nurse to the 
 sounder. 
 
 Shad are still taken in the basin of Concord River, 
 at Lowell, where they are said to be a month earlier 
 than the Merrimack shad, on account of the warmth of 
 the water. Still patiently, almost pathetically, with 
 instinct not to be discouraged, not to be reasoned with, 
 revisiting their old haunts, as if their stern fates would 
 relent, and still met by the Corporation with its dam. 
 Poor shad ! where is thy redress ? When Nature gave 
 thee instinct, gave she thee the heart to bear thy fate ? 
 Still wandering the sea in thy scaly armor to inquire 
 humbly at the mouths of rivers if man has perchance left 
 them free for thee to enter. By countless shoals loitering 
 uncertain meanwhile, merely stemming the tide there, in 
 danger from sea foes in spite of thy bright armor, await 
 ing new instructions, until the sands, until the water 
 itself, tell thee if it be so or not. Thus by whole migrat 
 ing nations, full of instinct, which is thy faith, in this 
 
36 A WEEK 
 
 backward spring, turned adrift, and perchance knowest 
 not where men do not dwell, where there are not factories, 
 in these days. Armed with no sword, no electric shock, 
 but mere shad, armed only with innocence and a just 
 cause, with tender dumb mouth only forward, and scales 
 easy to be detached. I for one am with thee, and who 
 knows what may avail a crowbar against that Billerica 
 dam ? Not despairing when whole myriads have gone 
 to feed those sea monsters during thy suspense, but still 
 brave, indifferent, on easy fin there, like shad reserved 
 for higher destinies. Willing to be decimated for man's 
 behoof after the spawning season. Away with the super 
 ficial and selfish phil-anthropy of men, who knows 
 what admirable virtue of fishes may be below low- water 
 mark, bearing up against a hard destiny, not admired 
 by that fellow-creature who alone can appreciate it ! 
 Who hears the fishes when they cry ? It will not be for 
 gotten by some memory that we were contemporaries. 
 Thou shalt ere long have thy way up the rivers, up all 
 the rivers of the globe, if I am not mistaken. Yea, even 
 thy dull watery dream shall be more than realized. If 
 it were not so, but thou wert to be overlooked at first 
 and at last, then would not I take their heaven. Yes, I 
 say so, who think I know better than thou canst. Keep 
 a stiff fin, then, and stem all the tides thou mayst 
 meet. 
 
 At length it would seem that the interests, not of the 
 fishes only, but of the men of Wayland, of Sudbury, of 
 Concord, demand the leveling of that dam. Innumer 
 able acres of meadow are waiting to be made dry land, 
 wild native grass to give place to English. The farmers 
 
SATURDAY 37 
 
 stand with scythes whet, waiting the subsiding of the 
 waters, by gravitation, by evaporation, or otherwise, 
 but sometimes their eyes do not rest, their wheels do not 
 roll, on the quaking meadow ground during the haying 
 season at all. So many sources of wealth inaccessible. 
 They rate the loss hereby incurred in the single town of 
 Wayland alone as equal to the expense of keeping a 
 hundred yoke of oxen the year round. One year, as I 
 learn, not long ago, the farmers standing ready to drive 
 their teams afield as usual, the water gave no signs of 
 falling; without new attraction in the heavens, without 
 freshet or visible cause, still standing stagnant at an 
 unprecedented height. All hydrometers were at fault; 
 some trembled for their English, even. But speedy em 
 issaries 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 wish 
 fully meadowward, at that inaccessible waving native 
 grass, uncut but by the great mower Time, who cuts so 
 broad a swath, without so much as a wisp to wind about 
 their horns. 
 
 That was a long pull from Ball's Hill to Carlisle 
 Bridge, sitting with our faces to the south, a slight breeze 
 rising from the north; but nevertheless water still runs 
 and grass grows, for now, having passed the bridge be 
 tween 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 
 
38 A WEEK 
 
 wafted across the meadow that every blade of cut grass 
 seemed to teem with life. Faint purple clouds began 
 to be reflected in the water, and the cow-bells tinkled 
 louder along the banks, while, like sly water-rats, we 
 stole along nearer the shore, looking for a place to pitch 
 our camp. 
 
 At length, when we had made about seven miles, as 
 far as Billerica, we moored our boat on the west side of a 
 little rising ground which in the spring forms an island 
 in the river. Here we found huckleberries still hanging 
 upon the bushes, where they seemed to have slowly 
 ripened for our especial use. Bread and sugar, and cocoa 
 boiled in river water, made our repast, and as we had 
 drank in the fluvial prospect all day, so now we took a 
 draft of the water with our evening meal to propitiate 
 the river gods, and whet our vision for the sights it was 
 to behold. The sun was setting on the one hand, while 
 our eminence was contributing its shadow to the night 
 on the other. It seemed insensibly to grow lighter as the 
 night shut in, and a distant and solitary farmhouse was 
 revealed, which before lurked in the shadows of the 
 noon. There was no other house in sight, nor any culti 
 vated field. To the right and left, as far as the horizon, 
 were straggling pine woods with their plumes against the 
 sky, and across the river were rugged hills, covered with 
 shrub oaks, tangled with grape-vines and ivy, with here 
 and there a gray rock jutting out from the maze. The 
 sides of these cliffs, though a quarter of a mile distant, 
 were almost heard to rustle while we looked at them, it 
 was such a leafy wilderness; a place for fauns and 
 satyrs, and where bats hung all day to the rocks, and at 
 
SATURDAY 39 
 
 evening flitted over the water, and fireflies husbanded 
 their light under the grass and leaves against the night. 
 When we had pitched our tent on the hillside, a few rods 
 from the shore, we sat looking through its triangular 
 door in the twilight at our lonely mast on the shore just 
 seen above the alders, and hardly yet come to a stand 
 still from the swaying of the stream; the first encroach 
 ment of commerce on this land. There was our port, our 
 Ostia. That straight, geometrical line against the water 
 and the sky stood for the last refinements of civilized 
 life, and what of sublimity there is in history was there 
 symbolized. 
 
 For the most part, there was no recognition of human 
 life in the night; no human breathing was heard, only 
 the breathing of the wind. As we sat up, kept awake 
 by the novelty of our situation, we heard at intervals 
 foxes stepping about over the dead leaves, and brushing 
 the dewy grass close to our tent, and once a musquash 
 fumbling among the potatoes and melons in our boat; 
 but when we hastened to the shore we could detect only 
 a ripple in the water ruffling the disk of a star. At inter 
 vals we were serenaded by the song of a dreaming spar 
 row 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 con 
 scious silence, as if the intruder were aware that no life 
 was rightfully abroad at that hour. There was a fire in 
 Lowell, as we judged, this night, and we saw the horizon 
 blazing, and heard the distant alarm-bells, as it were a 
 faint tinkling music borne to these woods. But the most 
 
40 A WEEK 
 
 constant and memorable sound of a summer's night, 
 which we did not fail to hear every night afterward, 
 though at no time so incessantly and so favorably as 
 now, was the barking of the house-dogs, from the loudest 
 and hoarsest bark to the faintest aerial palpitation under 
 the eaves of heaven, from the patient but anxious mastiff 
 to the timid and wakeful terrier, at first loud and rapid, 
 then faint and slow, to be imitated only in a whisper; 
 wow-wow-wow-wow wo wo w w. Even in 
 a retired and uninhabited district like this, it was a 
 sufficiency of sound for the ear of night, and more im 
 pressive than any music. I have heard the voice of a 
 hound, just before daylight, while the stars were shining, 
 from over the woods and river, far in the horizon, when 
 it sounded as sweet and melodious as an instrument. 
 The hounding of a dog pursuing a fox or other animal 
 in the horizon may have first suggested the notes of the 
 hunting-horn to alternate with and relieve the lungs of 
 the dog. This natural bugle long resounded in the woods 
 of the ancient world before the horn was invented. The 
 very dogs that sullenly bay the moon from farm-yards 
 in these nights excite more heroism in our breasts than 
 all the civil exhortations or war sermons of the age. " I 
 would rather be a dog, and bay the moon," than many 
 a Roman that I know. The night is equally indebted 
 to the clarion of the cock, with wakeful hope, from the 
 very setting of the sun, prematurely ushering in the 
 dawn. All these sounds, the crowing of cocks, the baying 
 of dogs, and the hum of insects at noon, are the evidence 
 of nature's health or sound state. Such is the never- 
 failing beauty and accuracy of language, the most per- 
 
SATURDAY 41 
 
 feet art in the world; the chisel of a thousand years 
 retouches it. 
 
 At length the antepenultimate and drowsy hours drew 
 on, and all sounds were denied entrance to our ears. 
 
 Who sleeps by day and walks by night, 
 Will meet no spirit, but some sprite. 
 
SUNDAY 
 
 The river calmly flows, 
 Through shining banks, through lonely glen, 
 Where the owl shrieks, though ne'er the cheer of men 
 
 Has stirred its mute repose, 
 Still if you should walk there, you would go there again. 
 
 CHANNING. 
 
 The Indians tell us of a beautiful river lying far to the south, which 
 they call Merrimack. SIEUE DE MONTS, Relations of the Jesuits, 
 1604. 
 
 AN the morning the river and adjacent country were 
 covered with a dense fog, through which the smoke of 
 our fire curled up like a still subtiler mist; but before 
 we had rowed many rods, the sun arose and the fog 
 rapidly dispersed, leaving a slight steam only to curl 
 along the surface of the water. It was a quiet Sunday 
 morning, with more of the auroral rosy and white than 
 of the yellow light in it, as if it dated from earlier than 
 the fall of man, and still preserved a heathenish integ 
 rity: 
 
 An early unconverted Saint, 
 
 Free from noontide or evening taint, 
 
 Heathen without reproach, 
 
 That did upon the civil day encroach, 
 
 And ever since its birth 
 
 Had trod the outskirts of the earth. 
 
 But the impressions which the morning makes vanish 
 with its dews, and not even the most " persevering mor 
 tal " can preserve the memory of its freshness to midday. 
 
SUNDAY 43 
 
 As we passed the various islands, or what were islands 
 in the spring, rowing with our backs down-stream, we 
 gave names to them. The one on which we had camped 
 we called Fox Island, and one fine densely wooded island 
 surrounded by deep water and overrun by grape-vines, 
 which looked like a mass of verdure and of flowers cast 
 upon the waves, we named Grape Island. From Ball's 
 Hill to Billerica meeting-house, the river was still twice 
 as broad as in Concord, a deep, dark, and dead stream, 
 flowing between gentle hills and sometimes cliffs, and 
 well wooded all the way. It was a long woodland lake 
 bordered with willows. For long reaches we could see 
 neither house nor cultivated field, nor any sign of the 
 vicinity of man. Now we coasted along some shallow 
 shore by the edge of a dense palisade of bulrushes, which 
 straightly bounded the water as if 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 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 
 
44 A WEEK 
 
 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 flower 
 ing vines, the surface was so calm, and both air and 
 water so transparent, that the flight of a kingfisher or 
 robin over the river was as distinctly seen reflected in the 
 water below as in the air above. The birds seemed to 
 flit through submerged groves, alighting on the yielding 
 sprays, and their clear notes to come up from below. 
 We were uncertain whether the water floated the land, 
 or the land held the water in its bosom. It was such a 
 season, in short, as that in which one of our Concord 
 poets sailed on its stream, and sung its quiet glories. 
 
 "There is an inward voice, that in the stream 
 Sends forth its spirit to the listening ear, 
 And in a calm content it floweth on, 
 Like wisdom, welcome with its own respect. 
 Clear in its breast lie all these beauteous thoughts, 
 It doth receive the green and graceful trees, 
 And the gray rocks smile in its peaceful arms." 
 
 And more he sung, but too serious for our page. For 
 every oak and birch, too, growing on the hilltop, as well 
 as for these elms and willows, we knew that there was a 
 
Carlisle Reach, Concord River 
 
 
 

 land, 
 
SUNDAY 45 
 
 graceful ethereal and ideal tree making down from 
 the roots, and sometimes Nature in high tides brings 
 her mirror to its foot and makes it visible. The stillness 
 was intense and almost conscious, as if it were a nat 
 ural 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 remote 
 ness and perfection. The landscape was clothed in a 
 mild and quiet light, in which the woods and fences 
 checkered and partitioned it with new regularity, and 
 . rough and uneven fields stretched away with lawn-like 
 smoothness to the horizon, and the clouds, finely distinct 
 and picturesque, seemed a fit drapery to hang over 
 fairyland. The world seemed decked for some holi 
 day or prouder pageantry, with silken streamers flying, 
 and the course of our lives to wind on before us like a 
 green lane into a country maze, at the season when fruit- 
 trees are in blossom. 
 
 Why should not our whole life and its scenery be actu 
 ally thus fair and distinct ? All our lives want a suitable 
 background. They should at least, like the life of the 
 anchorite, be as impressive to behold as objects in the 
 desert, a broken shaft or crumbling mound against a 
 limitless horizon. Character always secures for itself 
 this advantage, and is thus distinct and unrelated to near 
 or trivial objects, whether things or persons. On this 
 same stream a maiden once sailed in my boat, thus unat 
 tended but by invisible guardians, and as she sat in the 
 prow there was nothing but herself between the steers 
 man and the sky. I could then say with the poet, 
 
46 A WEEK 
 
 "Sweet falls the summer air 
 Over her frame who sails with me; 
 Her way like that is beautifully free, 
 
 Her nature far more rare, 
 And is her constant heart of virgin purity." 
 
 At evening, still the very stars seem but this maiden's 
 emissaries and reporters of her progress. 
 
 Low in the eastern sky 
 Is set thy glancing eye ; 
 And though its gracious light 
 Ne'er riseth to my sight, 
 
 Yet every star that climbs ^ 
 
 Above the gnarled limbs 
 
 Of yonder hill, 
 Conveys thy gentle will. 
 
 Believe I knew thy thought, 
 And that the zephyrs brought 
 Thy kindest wishes through, 
 As mine they bear to you, 
 That some attentive cloud 
 Did pause amid the crowd 
 
 Over my head, 
 While gentle things were said. 
 
 Believe the thrushes sung, 
 And that the flower-bells rung, 
 That herbs exhaled their scent, 
 And beasts knew what was meant, 
 The trees a welcome waved, 
 And lakes their margins laved, 
 
 When thy free mind 
 To my retreat did wind. 
 
 It was a summer eve, 
 The air did gently heave 
 
SUNDAY 47 
 
 While yet a low-hung cloud 
 Thy eastern skies did shroud ; 
 The lightning's silent gleam, 
 Startling my drowsy dream, 
 
 Seemed like the flash 
 Under thy dark eyelash. 
 
 Still will I strive to be 
 As if thou wert with me ; 
 Whatever path I take, 
 It shall be for thy sake, 
 Of gentle slope and wide, 
 As thou wert by my side, 
 
 Without a root 
 To trip thy gentle foot. 
 
 I'll walk with gentle pace, 
 And choose the smoothest place 
 And careful dip the oar, 
 And shun the winding shore, 
 And gently steer my boat 
 Where water-lilies float, 
 
 And cardinal-flowers 
 Stand in their sylvan bowers. 
 
 It required some rudeness to disturb with our boat 
 the mirror-like surface of the water, in which every twig 
 and blade of grass was so faithfully reflected ; too faith 
 fully indeed for art to imitate, for only Nature may 
 exaggerate herself. The shallowest still water is unfath 
 omable. Wherever the trees and skies are reflected, 
 there is more than Atlantic depth, and no danger of 
 fancy running aground. We notice that it required a 
 separate intention of the eye, a more free and abstracted 
 vision, to see the reflected trees and the sky, than to 
 see the river bottom merely; and so are there manifold 
 
48 A WEEK 
 
 visions in the direction of every object, and even the most 
 opaque reflect the heavens from their surface. Some 
 men have their eyes naturally intended to the one and 
 some to the other object. 
 
 "A man that looks on glass, 
 On it may stay his eye, 
 Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass, 
 And the heavens espy." 
 
 Two men in a skiff, whom we passed hereabouts, 
 floating buoyantly amid the reflections of the trees, like 
 a feather in mid-air, or a leaf which is wafted gently from 
 its twig to the water without turning over, seemed still in 
 their element, and to have very delicately availed them 
 selves of the natural laws. Their floating there was a 
 beautiful and successful experiment in natural philoso 
 phy, and it served to ennoble in our eyes the art of navi 
 gation; for as birds fly and fishes swim, so these men 
 sailed. It reminded us how much fairer and nobler all 
 the actions of man might be, and that our life in its 
 whole economy might be as beautiful as the fairest works 
 of art or nature. 
 
 The sun lodged on the old gray cliffs, and glanced 
 from every pad; the bulrushes and flags seemed to re 
 joice in the delicious light and air; the meadows were 
 a-drinking at their leisure ; the frogs sat meditating, all 
 Sabbath thoughts, summing up their week, with one eye 
 out on the golden sun, and one toe upon a reed, eying 
 the wondrous universe in which they act their part ; the 
 fishes swam more staid and soberly, as maidens go to 
 church; shoals of golden and silver minnows rose to the 
 surface to behold the heavens, and then sheered off into 
 
SUNDAY 49 
 
 more sombre aisles; they swept by as if moved by one 
 mind, continually gliding past each other, and yet pre 
 serving the form of their battalion unchanged, as if they 
 were still embraced by the transparent membrane which 
 held the spawn; a young band of brethren and sisters 
 trying their new fins; now they wheeled, now shot 
 ahead, and when we drove them to the shore and cut 
 them off, they dexterously tacked and passed under 
 neath 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 intents and purposes it is as old 
 as Fernay or as Mantua, an old gray town where men 
 grow old and sleep already under moss-grown monu 
 ments, outgrow their usefulness. This is ancient Bil 
 lerica (Villarica?), now in its dotage, named from the 
 English Billericay, and whose Indian name was Shaw- 
 shine. I never heard that it was young. See, is not 
 nature here gone to decay, farms all run out, meeting 
 house grown gray and racked with age ? If you would 
 know of its early youth, ask those old gray rocks in the 
 pasture. It has a bell that sounds sometimes as far as 
 Concord woods ; I have heard that, ay, hear it now. 
 No wonder that such a sound startled the dreaming 
 Indian, and frightened his game, when the first bells 
 were swung on trees, and sounded through the forest 
 beyond the plantations of the white man ; but to-day I 
 like best the echo amid these cliffs and woods. It is no 
 
50 A WEEK 
 
 feeble imitation, but rather its original, or as if some 
 rural Orpheus played over the strain again to show how 
 it should sound. 
 
 Dong, sounds the brass in the east, 
 As if to a funeral feast, 
 But I like that sound the best 
 Out of the fluttering west. 
 
 The steeple ringeth a knell, 
 But the fairies' silvery bell 
 Is the voice of that gentle folk, 
 Or else the horizon that spoke. 
 
 Its metal is not of brass, 
 But air, and water, and glass, 
 And under a cloud it is swung, 
 And by the wind it is rung. 
 
 When the steeple tolleth the noon, 
 
 It soundeth not so soon, 
 
 Yet it rings a far earlier hour, 
 
 And the sun has not reached its tower. 
 
 On the other hand, the road runs up to Carlisle, city 
 of the woods, which, if it is less civil, is the more natural. 
 It does well hold the earth together. It gets laughed at 
 because it is a small town, I know, but nevertheless it is 
 a place where great men may be born any day, for fair 
 winds and foul blow right on over it without distinction. 
 It has a meeting-house and horse-sheds, a tavern and a 
 blacksmith's shop, for centre, and a good deal of wood 
 to cut and cord yet. And 
 
 "Bedford, most noble Bedford, 
 I shall not thee forget." 
 
 History has remembered thee; especially that meek and 
 
SUNDAY 51 
 
 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 Baby 
 lonish waters. " In the extreme difficult seasons of heat 
 and cold," said they, " we were ready to say of the Sab 
 bath, Behold what a weariness is it." " Gentlemen, if 
 our seeking to draw off proceed from any disaffection 
 to our present Reverend Pastor, or the Christian Society 
 with whom we have taken such sweet counsel together, 
 and walked unto the house of God in company, then hear 
 us not this day; but we greatly desire, if God please, 
 to be eased of our burden on the Sabbath, the travel and 
 fatigue thereof, that the word of God may be nigh to us, 
 near to our houses and in our hearts, that we and our 
 little ones may serve the Lord. We hope that God, who 
 stirred up the spirit of Cyrus to set forward temple work, 
 has stirred us up to ask, and will stir you up to grant, the 
 prayer of our petition ; so shall your humble petitioners 
 ever pray, as in duty bound " And so the temple 
 work went forward here to a happy conclusion. Yonder 
 in Carlisle the building of the temple was many weari 
 some years delayed, not that there was wanting of Shit- 
 tim wood, or the gold of Ophir, but a site therefor con 
 venient to all the worshipers; 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 
 
52 A WEEK 
 
 white man came, built him a house, and made a clearing 
 here, letting in the sun, dried up a farm, piled up the old 
 gray stones in fences, cut down the pines around his 
 dwelling, planted orchard seeds brought from the old 
 country, and persuaded the civil apple-tree to blossom 
 next to the wild pine and the juniper, shedding its per 
 fume in the wilderness. Their old stocks still remain. 
 He culled the graceful elm from out the woods and from 
 the riverside, and so refined and smoothed his village 
 plot. He rudely bridged the stream, and drove his team 
 afield into the river meadows, cut the wild grass, and laid 
 bare the homes of beaver, otter, muskrat, and with the 
 whetting of his scythe scared off the deer and bear. He 
 set up a mill, and fields of English grain sprang in the 
 virgin soil. And with his grain he scattered the seeds of 
 the dandelion and the wild trefoil over the meadows, 
 mingling his English flowers with the wild native ones. 
 The bristling burdock, the sweet-scented catnip, and the 
 humble yarrow planted themselves along his woodland 
 road, they, too, seeking "freedom to worship God" in 
 their way. And thus he plants a town. The white man's 
 mullein soon reigned in Indian corn-fields, and sweet- 
 scented English grasses clothed the new soil. Where, 
 then, could the red man set his foot ? The honey-bee 
 hummed through the Massachusetts woods, and sipped 
 the wild-flowers round the Indian's wigwam, perchance 
 unnoticed, when, with prophetic warning, it stung the 
 red child's hand, forerunner of that industrious tribe 
 that was to come and pluck the wild-flower of his race 
 up by the root. 
 
 The white man comes, pale as the dawn, with a load 
 
SUNDAY 53 
 
 of thought, with a slumbering intelligence as a fire raked 
 up, knowing well what he knows, not guessing but cal 
 culating; strong in community, yielding obedience to 
 authority; of experienced race; of wonderful, wonder 
 ful common sense; dull but capable, slow but persever 
 ing, severe but just, of little humor but genuine ; a labor 
 ing man, despising game and sport; building a house 
 that endures, a framed house. He buys the Indian's 
 moccasins and baskets, then buys his hunting-grounds, 
 and at length forgets where he is buried and plows up 
 his bones. And here town records, old, tattered, time- 
 worn, weather-stained chronicles, contain the Indian 
 sachem's mark perchance, an arrow or a beaver, and the 
 few fatal words by which he deeded his hunting-grounds 
 away. He comes with a list of ancient Saxon, Norman, 
 and Celtic names, and strews them up and down this 
 river, Framingham, Sudbury, Bedford, Carlisle, Bil- 
 lerica, Chelmsford, and this is New Angle-land, and 
 these are the New West Saxons, whom the red men 
 call, not Angle-ish or English, but Yengeese, and so at 
 last they are known for Yankees. 
 
 When we were opposite to the middle of Billerica, the 
 fields on either hand had a soft and cultivated English 
 aspect, the village spire being seen over the copses which 
 skirt the river, and sometimes an orchard straggled 
 down to the water-side, though, generally, our course 
 this forenoon was the wildest part of our voyage. It 
 seemed that men led a quiet and very civil life there. 
 The inhabitants were plainly cultivators of the earth, 
 and lived under an organized political government. 
 The schoolhouse stood with a meek aspect, entreating a 
 
54 A WEEK 
 
 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, 
 x methinks, a singular yearning toward all wildness. I 
 know of no redeeming qualities in myself but a sincere 
 love for some things, and when I am reproved I fall back 
 on to this ground. What have I to do with plows ? I 
 cut another furrow than you see. Where the off ox 
 treads, there is it not, it is farther off; where the nigh ox 
 walks, it will not be, it is nigher still. If corn fails, my 
 crop fails not, and what are drought and rain to me? 
 The rude Saxon pioneer will sometimes pine for that 
 refinement and artificial beauty which are English, and 
 love to hear the sound of such sweet and classical names 
 as the Pentland and Malvern Hills, the Cliffs of Dover 
 and the Trosachs, Richmond, Derwent, and Winander- 
 mere, 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 ? 
 
SUNDAY 55 
 
 We are apt enough to be pleased with such books as 
 Evelyn's Sylva, Actearium, and Kalendarium Hortense, 
 but they imply a relaxed nerve in the reader. Gardening 
 is civil and social, but it wants the vigor and freedom of *" 
 the forest and the outlaw. There may be an excess of 
 cultivation as well as of anything else, until civilization 
 becomes pathetic. A highly cultivated man, all whose )K 
 bones can be bent! whose heaven-born virtues are but 
 good manners! The young pines springing up in the v 
 corn-fields from year to year are to me a refreshing fact. 
 We talk of civilizing the Indian, but that is not the name * 
 for his improvement. By the wary independence and 
 aloofness of his dim forest life he preserves his inter 
 course with his native gods, and is admitted from time ^ 
 to time to a rare and peculiar society with Nature. He 
 has glances of starry recognition to which our saloons 
 are strangers. The steady illumination of his genius, 
 dim only because distant, is like the faint but satisfying 
 light of the stars compared with the dazzling but 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 garden-plots and its parterres elsewhere 
 than on the earth, and gather nuts and berries by the 
 way for its subsistence, or orchard fruits with such 
 heedlessness as berries. We would not always be sooth- 
 
56 A WEEK 
 
 ing and taming nature, breaking the horse and the ox, 
 but sometimes ride the horse wild and chase the buffalo. 
 The Indian's intercourse with Nature is at least such as 
 admits of the greatest independence of each. If he is 
 somewhat of a stranger in her midst, the gardener is too 
 much of a familiar. There is something vulgar and foul 
 in the latter's closeness to his mistress, something noble 
 and cleanly in the former's distance. In civilization, as 
 in a southern latitude, man degenerates at length, and 
 yields to the incursion of more northern tribes, 
 
 " Some nation yet shut in 
 With hills of ice." 
 
 There are other, savager and more primeval aspects of 
 nature than our poets have sung. It is only white man's 
 poetry. Homer and Ossian even can never revive in 
 London or Boston. And yet, behold how these cities are 
 refreshed by the mere tradition, or the imperfectly 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 whim 
 sical. Steel and blankets are strong temptations; but the 
 Indian does well to continue Indian. 
 
 After sitting in my chamber many days, reading the 
 poets, I have been out early on a foggy morning and 
 heard the cry of an owl in a neighboring wood as from 
 a nature behind the common, unexplored by science or 
 by literature. None of the feathered race has yet realized 
 my youthful conceptions of the woodland depths. I had 
 seen the red Election-birds brought from their recesses 
 on my comrades' string, and fancied that their plumage 
 
SUNDAY 57 
 
 would assume stranger and more dazzling colors, like 
 the tints of evening, in proportion as I advanced farther 
 into the darkness and solitude of the forest. Still less 
 have I seen such strong and wilderness tints on any 
 poet's string. 
 
 These modern ingenious sciences and arts do not 
 affect me as those more venerable arts of hunting and 
 fishing, and even of husbandry in its primitive and sim 
 ple 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 ladahel, as saith the boke, 
 Firste made nette, fishes toke. 
 Of huntyng eke he fond the chace, 
 Whiche nowe is knowe in many place ; 
 A tent of clothe, with corde and stake, 
 He sette up first, and did it make." 
 
 Also, Lydgate says : 
 
 "Jason first sayled, in story it is tolde, 
 Toward Colchos, to wynne the flees of golde, 
 Ceres the Goddess fond first the tilthe of londe ; 
 
 Also, Aristeus fonde first the usage 
 
 Of mylke, and cruddis, and of honey swote ; 
 
 Peryodes, for grete avauntage, 
 
 From flyntes smote fuyre, daryng in the roote." 
 
 We read that Aristeus "obtained of Jupiter and 
 Neptune, that the pestilential heat of the dog-days, 
 wherein was great mortality, should be mitigated with 
 
58 A WEEK 
 
 wind." This is one of those dateless benefits conferred 
 on man which have no record in our vulgar day, though 
 we still find some similitude to them in our dreams, in 
 which we have a more liberal and juster apprehension 
 of things, unconstrained by habit, which is then in some 
 measure put off, and divested of memory, which we call 
 history. 
 
 According to fable, when the island of ^Egina was 
 depopulated by sickness, at the instance of ^Eacus, Ju 
 piter turned the ants into men, that is, as some think, 
 he made men of the inhabitants who lived meanly like 
 ants. This is perhaps the fullest history of those early 
 days extant. 
 
 The fable, which is naturally and truly composed, so 
 as to satisfy the imagination, ere it addresses the under 
 standing, beautiful though strange as a wild-flower, is to 
 the wise man an apothegm, and admits of his most gen 
 erous interpretation. When we read that Bacchus made 
 the Tyrrhenian mariners mad, so that they leaped into 
 the sea, mistaking it for a meadow full of flowers, and 
 so became dolphins, we are not concerned about the his 
 torical 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 Mem- 
 non 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 Phaethon, and of the Sirens whose 
 isle shone afar off white with the bones of unburied men ; 
 
SUNDAY 59 
 
 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 Parcse, the Graces, 
 the Muses, Nemesis, etc. 
 
 It is interesting to observe with what singular unanim 
 ity the farthest sundered nations and generations consent 
 to give completeness and roundness to an ancient fable, 
 of which they indistinctly appreciate the beauty or the 
 truth. By a faint and dream-like effort, though it be 
 only by the vote of a scientific body, the. dullest posterity 
 slowly add some trait to the mythus. As when astron 
 omers 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 aggregation has 
 mythology grown from the first. The very nursery tales 
 of this generation were the nursery tales of primeval 
 races. They migrate from east to west, and again fromN 
 west to east; now expanded into the "tale divine" of 
 bards, now shrunk into a popular rhyme. This is an 
 approach to that universal language which men have 
 sought in vain. This fond reiteration of the oldest ex 
 pressions of truth by the latest posterity, content with 
 slightly and religiously retouching the old material, is the 
 most impressive proof of a common humanity. 
 
 All nations love the same jests and tales, Jews, Chris 
 tians, and Mahometans, and the same translated suffice 
 
60 A WEEK 
 
 for all. All men are children, and of one family. The 
 same tale sends them all to bed, and wakes them in 
 the morning. Joseph Wolff, the missionary, distributed 
 copies of Robinson Crusoe, translated into Arabic, among 
 the Arabs, and they made a great sensation. " Robinson 
 Crusoe's adventures and wisdom," says he, " were read 
 by Mahometans in the market-places of Sanaa, 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 fabu 
 lous 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, mak 
 ing but a sentence for our classical dictionary, and 
 then, perchance, have stuck up their names to shine in 
 some corner of the firmament. We moderns, on the 
 other hand, collect only the raw materials of biography 
 and history, "memoirs to serve for a history," which 
 itself is but materials to serve for a mythology. How 
 many volumes folio would the Life and Labors of Pro 
 metheus have filled, if perchance it had fallen, as per 
 chance it did first, in days of cheap printing! Who 
 knows what shape the fable of Columbus will at length 
 assume, to be confounded with that of Jason and the 
 
SUNDAY 61 
 
 expedition of .the Argonauts. And Franklin, there 
 may be a line for him in the future classical dictionary, 
 recording what that demigod did, and referring him to 
 
 some new genealogy. " Son of and . He aided 
 
 the Americans to gain their independence, instructed 
 mankind in economy, and drew down lightning from the 
 clouds." 
 
 The hidden significance of these fables which is some 
 times thought to have been detected, the ethics running 
 parallel to the poetry and history, are not so remarkable 
 as the readiness with which they may be made to express 
 a variety of truths. As if they were the skeletons of still 
 older and more universal truths than any whose flesh 
 and blood they are for the time made to wear. It is like 
 striving to make the sun, or the wind, or the sea symbols 
 to signify exclusively the particular thoughts of our day. 
 But what signifies it ? In the mythus a superhuman in 
 telligence uses the unconscious thoughts and dreams of 
 men as its hieroglyphics to address men unborn. In the 
 history of the human mind, these glowing and ruddy 
 fables precede the noonday thoughts of men, as Aurora 
 the sun's rays. The matutine intellect of the poet, keep 
 ing in advance of the glare of philosophy, always dwells 
 in this auroral atmosphere. 
 
 \ 
 
 As we said before, the Concord is a dead stream, but 
 its scenery is the more suggestive to the contemplative 
 voyager, and this day its water was fuller of reflections 
 than our pages even. Just before it reaches the falls in 
 Billerica, it is contracted, and becomes swifter and shal 
 lower, with a yellow pebbly bottom, hardly passable for a 
 
62 A WEEK 
 
 canal-boat, leaving the broader and more stagnant por 
 tion above like a lake among the hills. All through the 
 Concord, Bedford, and Billerica meadows we had heard 
 no murmur from its stream, except where some tributary 
 runnel tumbled in, 
 
 Some tumultuous little rill, 
 
 Purling round its storied pebble, 
 Tinkling to the selfsame tune, 
 From September until June, 
 
 Which no drought doth e'er enfeeble. 
 
 Silent flows the parent stream, 
 
 And if rocks do lie below, 
 Smothers with her waves the din, 
 As it were a youthful sin, 
 
 Just as still, and just as slow. 
 
 But now at length we heard this staid and primitive 
 river rushing to her fall, like any rill. We here left its 
 channel, just above the Billerica Falls, and entered the 
 canal, which runs, or rather is conducted, six miles 
 through the woods to the Merrimack, at Middlesex; and 
 as we did not care to loiter in this part of our voyage, 
 while one ran along the tow-path drawing the boat by a 
 cord, the other kept it off the shore with a pole, so that 
 we accomplished the whole distance in little more than 
 an hour. This canal, which is the oldest in the country, 
 and has even an antique look beside the more modern 
 railroads, is fed by the Concord, so that we were still 
 floating on its familiar waters. It is so much water which 
 the river lets for the advantage of commerce. There 
 \ appeared some want of harmony in its scenery, since it 
 was not of equal date with the woods and meadows 
 through which it is led, and we missed the conciliatory 
 
SUNDAY 63 
 
 influence of time on land and water; but in the lapse 
 of ages, Nature will recover and indemnify herself, and 
 gradually plant fit shrubs and flowers along its borders. 
 Already the kingfisher sat upon a pine over the water, 
 and the bream and pickerel swam below. Thus all works 
 pass directly out of the hands of the architect into the 
 hands of Nature, to be perfected. 
 
 It was a retired and pleasant route, without houses 
 or travelers, except some young men who were lounging 
 upon a bridge in Chelmsford, who leaned impudently 
 over the rails to pry into our concerns, but we caught the 
 eye of the most forward, and looked at him till he was 
 visibly discomfited. Not that there was any peculiar 
 efficacy in our look, but rather a sense of shame left in 
 him which disarmed him. 
 
 It is a very true and expressive phrase, "He looked 
 daggers at me," for the first pattern and prototype of all 
 daggers must have been a glance of the eye. First, there 
 was the glance of Jove's eye, then his fiery bolt; then, 
 the material gradually hardening, tridents, spears, 
 javelins; and finally, for the convenience of private 
 men, daggers, krisses, and so forth, were invented. It is 
 wonderful how we get about the streets without being 
 wounded by these delicate and glancing weapons, a man 
 can so nimbly whip out his rapier, or without being 
 noticed carry it unsheathed. Yet it is rare that one gets 
 seriously looked at. 
 
 As we passed under the last bridge over the canal, 
 just before reaching the Merrimack, the people coming 
 out of church paused to look at us from above, and 
 apparently, so strong is custom, indulged in some 
 
64 A WEEK 
 
 heathenish comparisons; but we were the truest ob 
 servers of this sunny day. According to Hesiod, 
 
 "The seventh is a holy day, 
 For then Latona brought forth golden-rayed Apollo," 
 
 and by our reckoning this was the seventh day of the 
 week, and not the first. I find among the papers of an 
 old Justice of the Peace and Deacon of the town of 
 Concord, this singular memorandum, which is worth 
 preserving as a relic of an ancient custom. After reform 
 ing the spelling and grammar, it runs as follows : " Men 
 that traveled with teams on the Sabbath, December 18, 
 1803, were Jeremiah Richardson and Jonas Parker, 
 both of Shirley. They had teams with rigging such as is 
 used to carry barrels, and they were traveling westward. 
 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 conven 
 ient to carry barrels, unquestioned by any squire or 
 church deacon, and ready to bear ourselves out if need 
 were. In the latter part of the seventeenth century, 
 according to the historian of Dunstable, " Towns were 
 directed to erect 'a cage 9 near the meeting-house, and 
 in this all offenders against the sanctity of the Sabbath 
 were confined." Society has relaxed a little from its 
 strictness, one would say, but I presume that there is 
 not less religion than formerly. If the ligature is found 
 to be loosened in one part, it is only drawn the tighter in 
 another. 
 
SUNDAY 65 
 
 You can hardly convince a man of an error in a life 
 time, but must content yourself with the reflection that 
 the progress of science is slow. If he is not convinced, 
 his grandchildren may be. The geologists tell us that it 
 took one hundred years to prove that fossils are organic, 
 and one hundred and fifty more to prove that they are 
 not to be referred to the Noachian deluge. I am not sure 
 but I should betake myself in extremities to the liberal 
 divinities of Greece, rather than to my country's God. 
 Jehovah, though with us he has acquired new attributes, 
 is more absolute and unapproachable, but hardly more 
 divine, than Jove. He is not so much of a gentleman, not 
 so gracious and catholic, he does not exert so intimate 
 and genial an influence on nature, as many a god of the 
 Greeks. I should fear the infinite power and inflexible 
 justice of the almighty mortal hardly as yet apotheosized, 
 so wholly masculine, with no sister Juno, no Apollo, no 
 Venus, nor Minerva, to intercede for me, OvfjuS <iAe'ov<ra 
 re, KrjSofjicvri TC. The Grecian are youthful and erring 
 and fallen gods, with the vices of men, but in many 
 important respects essentially of the divine race. In my 
 Pantheon, Pan still reigns in his pristine glory, with his 
 ruddy face, his flowing beard, and his shaggy body, his 
 pipe and his crook, his nymph Echo, and his chosen 
 daughter lambe; for the great god Pan is not dead, as 
 was rumored. No god ever dies. Perhaps of all the gods 
 of New England and of ancient Greece, I am most con 
 stant at his shrine. 
 
 It seems to me that the god that is commonly wor 
 shiped in civilized countries is not at all divine, though 
 he bears a divine name, but is the overwhelming author- 
 
66 A WEEK 
 
 ity and respectability of mankind combined. Men 
 reverence one another, not yet God. If I thought that I 
 could speak with discrimination and impartiality of the 
 nations of Christendom, I should praise them, but it 
 tasks me too much. They seem to be the most civil and 
 humane, but I may be mistaken. Every people have 
 gods to suit their circumstances; the Society Islanders 
 had a god called Toahitu, " in shape like a dog; he saved 
 such as were in danger of falling from rocks and trees." 
 I think that we can do without him, as we have not much 
 climbing to do. Among them a man could make himself 
 a god out of a piece of wood in a few minutes, which 
 would frighten him out of his wits. 
 
 I fancy that some indefatigable spinster of the old 
 school, who had the supreme felicity to be born in " days 
 that tried men's souls," hearing this, may say with 
 Nestor, another of the old school, " But you are younger 
 than I. For time was when I conversed with greater men 
 than you. For not at any time have I seen such men, 
 nor shall see them, as Perithous, and Dryas, and 7roi/*/a 
 Aawv," that is probably Washington, sole " Shepherd of 
 the People." And when Apollo has now six times rolled 
 westward, or seemed to roll, and now for the seventh 
 time shows his face in the east, eyes wellnigh glazed, long 
 glassed, which have fluctuated only between lamb's wool 
 and worsted, explore ceaselessly some good sermon 
 book. For six days shalt thou labor and do all thy knit 
 ting, but on the seventh, forsooth, thy reading. Happy 
 we who can bask in this warm September sun, which 
 illumines all creatures, as well when they rest as when 
 they toil, not without a feeling of gratitude; whose life is 
 
SUNDAY 67 
 
 as blameless, how blameworthy soever it may be, on the 
 Lord's Mona-day as on his Suna-day. 
 
 There are various, nay, incredible faiths ; why should 
 we be alarmed at any of them ? What man believes, God 
 believes. Long as I have lived, and many blasphemers^ 
 as I have heard and seen, I have never yet heard or wit 
 nessed any direct and conscious blasphemy or irrever 
 ence; but of indirect and habitual, enough. Where is 
 the man who is guilty of direct and personal insolence^ 
 to Him that made him ? 
 
 One memorable addition to the old mythology is due 
 to this era, the Christian fable. With what pains, and 
 tears, and blood these centuries have woven this and 
 added it to the mythology of mankind! The new Pro 
 metheus. With what miraculous consent, and patience, 
 and persistency has this mythus been stamped on the 
 memory of the race ! It would seem as if it were in the 
 progress of our mythology to dethrone Jehovah, and 
 crown Christ in his stead. 
 
 If it is not a tragical life we live, then I know not what 
 to call it. Such a story as that of Jesus Christ, the 
 history of Jerusalem, say, being a part of the Universal 
 History. The naked, the embalmed, unburied death of 
 Jerusalem amid its desolate hills, think of it. In 
 Tasso's poem I trust some things are sweetly buried. 
 Consider the snappish tenacity with which they preach 
 Christianity still. What are time and space to Chris 
 tianity, eighteen hundred years, and a new world? 
 that the humble life of a Jewish peasant should have 
 force to make a New York bishop so bigoted. Forty-four 
 lamps, the gift of kings, now burning in a place called 
 
68 A WEEK 
 
 the Holy Sepulchre; a church-bell ringing; some unaf 
 fected tears shed by a pilgrim on Mount Calvary within 
 the week. 
 
 " Jerusalem, Jerusalem, when I forget thee, may my 
 right hand forget her cunning." 
 
 "By the waters of Babylon there we sat down, and 
 we wept when we remembered Zion." 
 ' I trust that some may be as near and dear to Buddha, 
 or Christ, or Swedenborg, who are without the pale of 
 their churches. It is necessary not to be Christian to 
 appreciate the beauty and significance of the life of 
 Christ. I know that some will have hard thoughts of me, 
 when they hear their Christ named beside my Buddha, 
 yet I am sure that I am willing they should love their 
 Christ more than my Buddha, for the love is the main 
 thing, and I like him too. " God is the letter Ku, as well 
 as Khu." Why need Christians be still intolerant and 
 superstitious ? The simple-minded sailors were unwilling 
 to cast overboard Jonah at his own request. 
 
 "Where is this love become in later age? 
 Alas! 't is gone in endless pilgrimage 
 From hence, and never to return, I doubt, 
 Till revolution wheel those times about." 
 
 One man says, 
 
 "The worlde 's a popular disease, that reigns 
 Within the f roward 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 
 
SUNDAY 69 
 
 within it. Old Drayton thought that a man that lived 
 here, and would be a poet, for instance, should have in 
 him certain "brave, translunary things," and a "fine 
 madness" should possess his brain. Certainly it were 
 as well, that he might be up to the occasion. That is a 
 superfluous wonder, which Dr. Johnson expresses at the 
 assertion of Sir Thomas Browne that " his life has been 
 a miracle of thirty years, which to relate were not history 
 but a piece of poetry, and would sound like a fable." 
 The wonder is, rather, that all men do not assert as 
 much. That would be a rare praise, if it were true, 
 which was addressed to Francis Beaumont, " Spec 
 tators 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 under 
 take 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 idle 
 ness with less obstruction. Bribed with a little sunlight 
 and a few prismatic tints, we bless our Maker, and stave 
 off his wrath with hymns. 
 
 I make ye an offer, 
 
 Ye gods, hear the scoffer, 
 
 The scheme will not hurt you, 
 
 If ye will find goodness, I will find virtue. 
 
 Though I am your creature, 
 
 And child of your nature, 
 
 I have pride still unbended, 
 
 And blood undescended, 
 
 Some free independence, 
 
 And my own descendants. 
 
70 A WEEK 
 
 I cannot toil blindly, 
 Though ye behave kindly, 
 And I swear by the rood, 
 I'll be slave to no God. 
 If ye will deal plainly, 
 I will strive mainly, 
 If ye will discover, 
 Great plans to your lover, 
 And give him a sphere 
 Somewhat larger than here. 
 
 " Verily, my angels ! I was abashed on account of my 
 servant, who had no Providence but me; therefore did 
 I pardon him." * 
 
 Most people with whom I talk, men and women even 
 of some originality and genius, have their scheme of the 
 universe all cut and dried, very dry, I assure you, to 
 hear, dry enough to burn, dry-rotted and powder-post, 
 methinks, which" they set up between you and them 
 in the shortest intercourse; an ancient and tottering 
 frame with all its boards blown off. They do not walk 
 without their bed. Some, to me, seemingly very unim 
 portant and unsubstantial things and relations are for 
 them everlastingly settled, as Father, Son, and Holy 
 Ghost, and the like. These are like the everlasting hills 
 to them. But in all my wanderings I never came across 
 the least vestige of authority for these things. They have 
 not left so distinct a trace as the delicate flower of a 
 remote geological period on the coal in my grate. The 
 wisest man preaches no doctrines; he has no scheme; 
 he sees no rafter, not even a cobweb, against the heavens. 
 1 The GuListan of Sadi. 
 
SUNDAY 71 
 
 It is clear sky. If I ever see more clearly at one time than 
 at another, the medium through which I see is clearer. 
 To see from earth to heaven, and see there standing, 
 still a fixture, that old Jewish scheme ! What right have 
 you to hold up this obstacle to my understanding you, 
 to your understanding me! You did not invent it; it 
 was imposed on you. Examine your authority. Even 
 Christ, we fear, had his scheme, his conformity to tradi 
 tion, which slightly vitiates his teaching. He had not 
 swallowed all formulas. He preached some mere doc 
 trines. As for me, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are now 
 only the subtilest imaginable essences, which would not 
 stain the morning sky. Your scheme must be the frame 
 work of the universe; all other schemes will soon be 
 ruins. The perfect God in his revelations of himself has 
 never got to the length of one such proposition as you, 
 his prophets, state. Have you learned the alphabet of 
 heaven and can count three ? Do you know the number 
 of God's family? Can you put mysteries into words? 
 Do you presume to fable of the ineffable ? Pray, what 
 geographer are you, that speak of heaven's topography ? 
 Whose friend are you, that speak of God's personality ? 
 Do you, Miles Howard, think that he has made you 
 his confidant ? Tell me of the height of the mountains 
 of the moon, or of the diameter of space, and I may 
 believe you, but of the secret history of the Almighty, 
 and I shall pronounce thee mad. Yet we have a sort of 
 family history of our God, so have the Tahitians of 
 theirs, and some old poet's grand imagination is im 
 posed on us as adamantine everlasting truth, and God's 
 own word. Pythagoras says, truly enough, " A true as- 
 
72 A WEEK 
 
 sertion respecting God is an assertion of God ; " but we 
 may well doubt if there is any example of this in liter 
 ature. 
 
 The New Testament is an invaluable book, though 
 I confess to having been slightly prejudiced against it in 
 my very early days by the church and the Sabbath- 
 school, so that it seemed, before I read it, to be the yel 
 lowest book in the catalogue. Yet I early escaped from 
 their meshes. It was hard to get the commentaries out 
 of one's head and taste its true flavor. I think that Pil 
 grim's Progress is the best sermon which has been 
 preached from this text; almost all other sermons that 
 I have heard, or heard of, have been but poor imitations 
 of this. It would be a poor story to be prejudiced against 
 the Life of Christ because the book has been edited by 
 Christians. In fact, I love this book rarely, though it is 
 a sort of castle in the air to me, which I am permitted to 
 dream. Having come to it so recently and freshly, it has 
 the greater charm, so that I cannot find any to talk with 
 about it. I never read a novel, they have so little real 
 life and thought in them. The reading which I love best 
 is the scriptures of the several nations, though it happens 
 that I am better acquainted with those of the Hindoos, 
 the Chinese, and the Persians, than of the Hebrews, 
 which I have come to last. Give me one of these bibles, 
 and you have silenced me for a while. When I recover 
 the use of my tongue, I am wont to worry my neighbors 
 with the new sentences ; but commonly they cannot see 
 that there is any wit in them. Such has been my experi 
 ence with the New Testament. I have not yet got to the 
 crucifixion, I have read it over so many times. I should 
 
SUNDAY 73 
 
 love dearly to read it aloud to my friends, some of whom 
 are seriously inclined ; it is so good, and I am sure that 
 they have never heard it, it fits their case exactly, and 
 we should enjoy it so much together, but I instinc 
 tively despair of getting their ears. They soon show, by 
 signs not to be mistaken, that it is inexpressibly weari 
 some to them. I do not mean to imply that I am any 
 better than my neighbors ; for, alas ! I know that I am 
 only as good, though I love better books than they. 
 
 It is remarkable that, notwithstanding the universal 
 favor with which the New Testament is outwardly 
 received, and even the bigotry with which it is defended, 
 there is no hospitality shown to, there is no appreciation 
 of, the order of truth with which it deals. I know of no 
 book that has so few readers. There is none so truly 
 strange, and heretical, and unpopular. To Christians, 
 no less than Greeks and Jews, it is foolishness and a 
 stumbling-block. There are, indeed, severe things in it 
 which no man should read aloud more than once. " Seek 
 first the kingdom of heaven." " Lay not up for your 
 selves treasures on earth." "If thou wilt be perfect, go 
 and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou 
 shalt have treasure in heaven." "For what is a man 
 profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his 
 own soul ? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his 
 soul ? " Think of this, Yankees ! " Verily, I say unto you, 
 if ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say 
 unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place, and 
 it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto 
 you." Think of repeating these things to a New Eng 
 land audience! thirdly, fourthly, fifteenthly, till there 
 
74 A WEEK 
 
 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 sen 
 tences be rightly read, from any pulpit in the land, and 
 there would not be left one stone of that meeting-house 
 upon another. 
 
 Yet the New Testament treats of man and man's 
 so-called spiritual affairs too exclusively, and is too 
 constantly moral and personal, to alone content me, who 
 am not interested solely in man's religious or moral 
 nature, or in man even. I have not the most definite 
 designs on the future. Absolutely speaking, Do unto 
 others as you would that they should do unto you is by 
 no means a golden rule, but the best of current silver. 
 An honest man would have but little occasion for it. It 
 is golden not to have any rule at all in such a case. The 
 book has never been written which is to be accepted 
 without any allowance. Christ was a sublime actor on 
 the stage of the world. He knew what he was thinking 
 of when he said, "Heaven and earth shall pass away, 
 but my words shall not pass away." I draw near to him 
 at such a time. Yet he taught mankind but imperfectly 
 how to live ; his thoughts were all directed toward another 
 world. There is another kind of success than his. Even 
 here we have a sort of living to get, and must buffet it 
 somewhat longer. There are various tough problems 
 yet to solve, and we must make shift to live, betwixt 
 spirit and matter, such a human life as we can. 
 
 A healthy man, with steady employment, as wood- 
 chopping at fifty cents a cord, and a camp in the woods, 
 
SUNDAY 75 
 
 will not be a good subject for Christianity. The New 
 Testament may be a choice book to him on some, but 
 not on all or most of his days. He will rather go a-fishing 
 in his leisure hours. The Apostles, though they were 
 fishers too, were of the solemn race of sea-fishers, and 
 never trolled for pickerel on inland streams. 
 
 Men have a singular desire to be good without being 
 good for anything, because, perchance, they think 
 vaguely that so it will be good for them in the end. The 
 sort of morality which the priests inculcate is a very 
 subtle policy, far finer than the politicians', and the 
 world is very successfully ruled by them as the police 
 men. It is not worth the while to let our imperfections 
 disturb us always. The conscience really does not, and 
 ought not to monopolize the whole of our lives, any 
 more than the heart or the head. It is as liable to disease 
 as any other part. I have seen some whose consciences, 
 owing undoubtedly to former indulgence, had grown to 
 be as irritable as spoilt children, and at length gave them 
 no peace. They did not know when to swallow their cud, 
 and their lives of course yielded no milk. 
 
 Conscience is instinct bred in the house 
 
 Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin 
 
 By an unnatural breeding in and in. 
 
 I say, Turn it outdoors > 
 
 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 
 
76 A WEEK 
 
 Are not drowned in a bowl, 
 
 And brought to life to-morrow ; 
 
 That lives one tragedy, 
 
 And not seventy ; 
 
 A conscience worth keeping, 
 
 Laughing not weeping ; 
 
 A conscience wise and steady, 
 
 And forever ready ; 
 
 Not changing with events, 
 
 Dealing in compliments ; 
 
 A conscience exercised about 
 
 Large things, where one may doubt. 
 
 I love a soul not all of wood, 
 
 Predestinated to be good, 
 
 But true to the backbone 
 
 Unto itself alone, 
 
 And false to none ; 
 
 Born to its own affairs, 
 
 Its own joys and own cares ; 
 
 By whom the work which God begun 
 
 Is finished, and not undone ; 
 
 Taken up where he left off, 
 
 Whether to worship or to scoff; 
 
 If not good, why then evil, 
 
 If not good god, good devil. 
 
 Goodness! you hypocrite, come out of that, 
 
 Live your life, do your work, then take your hat. 
 
 I have no patience towards 
 
 Such conscientious cowards. 
 
 Give me simple laboring folk, 
 
 Who love their work, 
 
 Whose virtue is a song 
 
 To cheer God along. 
 
 I was once reproved by a minister who was driving 
 a poor beast to some meeting-house horse-sheds among 
 the hills of New Hampshire, because I was bending 
 my steps to a mountain-top on the Sabbath, instead of a 
 
SUNDAY 77 
 
 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 command 
 ment," and proceeded to enumerate, in a sepulchral 
 tone, the disasters which had befallen him whenever 
 he had done any ordinary work on the Sabbath. He 
 really thought that a god was on the watch to trip up 
 those men who followed any secular work on this day, 
 and did not see that it was the evil conscience of the 
 workers that did it. The country is full of this super 
 stition, so that when one enters a village the church, 
 not only really but from association, is the ugliest look 
 ing building in it, because it is the one in which human 
 nature stoops the lowest and is most disgraced. Cer 
 tainly, such temples as these shall ere long 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 Sabbath, and rebuilds 
 the churches. The sealer of the South Pacific preaches 
 a truer doctrine. The church is a sort of hospital for 
 men's souls, and as full of quackery as the hospital for 
 
78 A WEEK 
 
 their bodies. Those who are taken into it live like pen 
 sioners in their Retreat or Sailor's Snug Harbor, where 
 you may see a row of religious cripples sitting outside 
 in sunny weather. Let not the apprehension that he 
 may one day have to occupy a ward therein discourage 
 the cheerful labors of the able-souled man. While he 
 remembers the sick in their extremities, let him not look 
 thither as to his goal. One is sick at heart of this pagoda 
 worship. It is like the beating of gongs in a Hindoo sub 
 terranean temple. In dark places and dungeons the 
 preacher's words might perhaps strike root and grow, 
 but not in broad daylight in any part of the world that 
 I know. The sound of the Sabbath bell far away, now 
 breaking on these shores, does not awaken pleasing 
 associations, but melancholy and sombre ones rather. 
 One involuntarily rests on his oar, to humor his unusu 
 ally meditative mood. It is as the sound of many cate 
 chisms and religious books twanging a canting peal 
 round the earth, seeming to issue from some Egyptian 
 temple and echo along the shore of the Nile, right oppo 
 site to Pharaoh's palace and Moses in the bulrushes, 
 startling a multitude of storks and alligators basking in 
 the sun. 
 
 Everywhere "good men" sound a retreat, and the 
 word has gone forth to fall back on innocence. Fall 
 forward rather on to whatever there is there. Christian 
 ity only hopes. It has hung its harp on the willows, and 
 cannot sing a song in a strange land. It has dreamed 
 a sad dream, and does not yet welcome the morning with 
 joy. The mother tells her falsehoods to her child, but, 
 thank Heaven, the child does not grow up in its parent's 
 
SUNDAY 79 
 
 shadow. Our mother's faith has not grown with her 
 experience. Her experience has been too much for her. 
 The lesson of life was too hard for her to learn. 
 
 It is remarkable that almost all speakers and writers 
 feel it to be incumbent on them, sooner or later, to prove 
 or to acknowledge the personality of God. Some Earl 
 of Bridgewater, thinking it better late than never, has 
 provided for it in his will. It is a sad mistake. In read 
 ing a work on agriculture, we have to skip the author's 
 moral reflections, and the words " Providence " and 
 " He " scattered along the page, to come at the profitable 
 level of what he has to say. What he calls his religion 
 is for the most part offensive to the nostrils. He should 
 know better than expose himself, and keep his foul sores 
 covered till they are quite healed. There is more religion 
 in men's science than there is science in their religion. 
 Let us make haste to the report of the committee on swine. 
 
 A man's real faith is never contained in his creed, 
 nor is his creed an article of his faith. The last is never 
 adopted. This it is that permits him to smile ever, and to 
 live even as bravely as he does. And yet he clings anx 
 iously to his creed, as to a straw, thinking that that does 
 him good service because his sheet anchor does not drag. 
 
 In most men's religion, the ligature which should be 
 its umbilical cord connecting them with divinity is rather 
 like that thread which the accomplices of Cylon held in 
 their hands when they went abroad from the temple of 
 Minerva, the other end being attached to the statue of 
 the goddess. But frequently, as in their case, the thread 
 breaks, being stretched, and they are left without an 
 asylum. 
 
80 A WEEK 
 
 "A good and pious man reclined his head on the 
 bosom of contemplation, and was absorbed in the ocean 
 of a re very. 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 fra 
 grance of the roses so intoxicated me, that the skirt 
 
 dropped from my hands. 'O bird of dawn! learn 
 
 the warmth of affection from the moth; for that scorched 
 creature gave up the ghost, and uttered not a groan: 
 These vain pretenders are ignorant of him they seek 
 after; for of him that knew him we never heard again : 
 O thou! who towerest above the flights of conjecture, 
 opinion, and comprehension; whatever has been re 
 ported of thee we have heard and read; the congrega 
 tion is dismissed, and life drawn to a close; and we 
 still rest at our first encomium of thee ! '" * 
 
 By noon we were let down into the Merrimack through 
 the locks at Middlesex, just above Pawtucket Falls, by 
 a serene and liberal-minded man, who came quietly 
 from his book, though his duties, we supposed, did not 
 require him to open the locks on Sundays. With him we 
 had a just and equal encounter of the eyes, as between 
 two honest men. 
 
 The movements of the eyes express the perpetual and 
 unconscious courtesy of the parties. It is said that a 
 i Sadi. 
 
SUNDAY 81 
 
 rogue does not look you in the face, neither does an 
 honest man look at you as if he had his reputation to 
 establish. I have seen some who did not know when to 
 turn aside their eyes in meeting yours. A truly confident 
 and magnanimous spirit is wiser than to contend for 
 the mastery in such encounters. Serpents alone conquer 
 by the steadiness of their gaze. My friend looks me in 
 the face and sees me, that is all. 
 
 The best relations were at once established between 
 us and this man, and though few words were spoken, he 
 could not conceal a visible interest in us and our excur 
 sion. He was a lover of the higher mathematics, as we 
 found, and in the midst of some vast sunny problem, 
 when we overtook him and whispered our conjectures. 
 By this man we were presented with the freedom of the 
 Merrimack. We now felt as if we were fairly launched 
 on the ocean stream of our voyage, and were pleased to 
 find that our boat would float on Merrimack water. We 
 began again busily to put in practice those old arts of 
 rowing, steering, and paddling. It seemed a strange 
 phenomenon to us that the two rivers should mingle their 
 waters so readily, since we had never associated them in 
 our thoughts. 
 
 As we glided over the broad bosom of the Merrimack, 
 between Chelmsford and Dracut, at noon, here a quarter 
 of a mile wide, the rattling of our oars was echoed over 
 the water to those villages, and their slight sounds to us. 
 Their harbors lay as smooth and fairy-like as the Lida, 
 or Syracuse, or Rhodes, in our imagination, while, like 
 some strange roving craft, we flitted past what seemed 
 the dwellings of noble home-staying men, seemingly as 
 
82 A WEEK 
 
 conspicuous as if on an eminence, or floating upon a 
 tide which came up to those villagers' breasts. At a 
 third of a mile over the water we heard distinctly some 
 children repeating their catechism in a cottage near the 
 shore, while in the broad shallows between, a herd of 
 cows stood lashing their sides, and waging war with the 
 flies. 
 
 Two hundred years ago, other catechizing than this 
 was going on here; for here came the Sachem Wanna- 
 lancet and his people, and sometimes Tahatawan, our 
 Concord Sachem, who afterwards had a church at home, 
 to catch fish at the falls ; and here also came John Eliot, 
 with the Bible and Catechism, and Baxter's "Call to the 
 Unconverted," and other tracts, done into the Massa 
 chusetts tongue, and taught them Christianity mean 
 while. " This place " says Gookin, referring to Wame- 
 sit, " being an ancient and capital seat of Indians, they 
 come to fish ; and this good man takes this opportunity 
 to spread the net of the gospel, to fish for their souls." 
 "May 5, 1674," he continues, "according to our usual 
 cutsom, Mr. Eliot and myself took our journey to 
 Wamesit, or Pawtuckett; and arriving there that even 
 ing, Mr. Eliot preached to as many of them as could be 
 got together, out of Matt. xxii. 1-14, the parable of the 
 marriage of the king's son. We met at the wigwam of 
 one called Wannalancet, about two miles from the town, 
 near Pawtuckett falls, and bordering upon Merrimak 
 river. This person, Wannalancet, is the eldest son of 
 old Pasaconaway, the chiefest sachem of Pawtuckett. 
 He is a sober and grave person, and of years, between 
 fifty and sixty. He hath been always loving and friendly 
 
SUNDAY 83 
 
 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 ad 
 vice, and enter into a new canoe, and do engage to pray 
 to God hereafter. ' " One " Mr. Richard Daniel, a gen 
 tleman that lived in Billerica," who with other " persons 
 of quality" was present, "desired brother Eliot to tell 
 the sachem from him, that it may be, while he went in 
 his old canoe, he passed in a quiet stream; but the end 
 thereof was death and destruction to soul and body. But 
 now he went into a new canoe, perhaps he would meet 
 with storms and trials, but yet he should be encouraged 
 to persevere, for the end of his voyage would be ever 
 lasting rest." " Since that time, I hear this sachem doth 
 persevere, and is a constant and diligent hearer of God's 
 word, and sanctifieth the Sabbath, though he doth travel 
 to Wamesit meeting every Sabbath, which is above two 
 miles; and though sundry of his people have deserted 
 him, since he subjected to the gospel, yet he continues 
 and persists." l 
 
 Already, as appears from the records, "At a General 
 Court held at Boston in New England, the 7th of the 
 first month, 1643-44," " Wassamequin, Nashoonon, 
 Gookin's Hist. Cott. of the Indians in New England, 1674. 
 
84 A WEEK 
 
 Kutchamaquin, Massaconomet, and Squaw Sachem, 
 did voluntarily submit themselves " to the English; and 
 among other things did " promise to be willing from time 
 to time to be instructed in the knowledge of God." 
 Being asked "not to do any unnecessary work on the 
 Sabbath day, especially within the gates of Christian 
 towns/' they answered, "It is easy to them; they have 
 not much to do on any day, and they can well take their 
 rest on that day." " So," says Winthrop, in his Journal, 
 " we causing them to understand the articles, and all the 
 ten commandments of God, and they freely assenting to 
 all, they were solemnly received, and then presented the 
 Court with twenty-six fathom more of wampom; and 
 the Court gave each of them a coat of two yards of cloth, 
 and their dinner; and to them and their men, every of 
 them, a cup of sack at their departure; so they took 
 leave and went away." 
 
 What journeyings on foot and on horseback through 
 the wilderness, to preach the gospel to these minks and 
 muskrats! who first, no doubt, listened with their red 
 ears out of a natural hospitality and courtesy, and after 
 ward 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 perfec 
 tion that some of the Indians themselves can pray and 
 prophesy in a comfortable manner." 
 
 It was in fact an old battle and hunting ground 
 through which we had been floating, the ancient dwell 
 ing-place of a race of hunters and warriors. Their weirs 
 of stone, their arrowheads and hatchets, their pestles, 
 and the mortars in which they pounded Indian corn 
 
SUNDAY 85 
 
 before the white man had tasted it, lay concealed in the 
 mud of the river bottom. Tradition still points out the" 
 spots where they took fish in the greatest numbers, 
 by such arts as they possessed. It is a rapid story the 
 historian will have to put together. Miantonimo, 
 Winthrop, Webster. Soon he comes from Montaup 
 to Bunker Hill, from bear-skins, parched corn, bows 
 and arrows, to tiled roofs, wheat-fields, guns and swords. 
 Pawtucket and Wamesit, where the Indians resorted 
 in the fishing season, are now Lowell, the city of spindles 
 and Manchester of America, which sends its cotton 
 cloth round the globe. Even we youthful voyagers had 
 spent a part of our lives in the village of Chelmsford, 
 when the present city, whose bells we heard, was its 
 obscure north district only, and the giant weaver was not 
 yet fairly born. So old are we; so young is it. 
 
 We were thus entering the State of New Hampshire 
 on the bosom of the flood formed by the tribute of its 
 innumerable valleys. The river was the only key which 
 could unlock its maze, presenting its hills and valleys, 
 its lakes and streams, in their natural order and position. 
 The Merrimack, or Sturgeon River, is formed by the 
 confluence of the Pemigewasset, which rises near the 
 Notch of the White Mountains, and the Winnipiseogee, 
 which drains the lake of the same name, signifying " The 
 Smile of the Great Spirit." From their junction it runs 
 south seventy-eight miles to Massachusetts, and thence 
 east thirty-five miles to the sea. I have traced its stream 
 from where it bubbles out of the rocks of the White 
 Mountains above the clouds, to where it is lost amid the 
 
86 A WEEK 
 
 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 rec'eives, where the bear still drinks it, and the 
 cabins of settlers are far between, and there are few to 
 cross its stream; enjoying in solitude its cascades still 
 unknown to fame; by long ranges of mountains of 
 Sandwich and of Squam, slumbering like tumuli of 
 Titans, with the peaks of Moose-hillock, the Haystack, 
 and Kearsarge reflected in its waters; where the maple 
 and the raspberry, those lovers of the hills, flourish amid 
 temperate dews ; flowing long and full of meaning, 
 but untranslatable as its name Pemigewasset, by many 
 a pastured Pelion and Ossa, where unnamed muses 
 haunt, tended by Oreads, Dryads, Naiads, and receiving 
 the tribute of many an untasted Hippocrene. There are 
 earth, air, fire, and water, very well, this is water 
 and down it comes. 
 
 Such water do the gods distill, 
 And pour down every hill 
 
 For their New England men; 
 A draught of this wild nectar bring, 
 And I'll not taste the spring 
 
 Of Helicon again. 
 
 Falling all the way, and yet not discouraged by the 
 lowest fall. By the law of its birth never to become stag 
 nant, 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 
 
SUNDAY 87 
 
 to heaven again before it reach the sea, for it has a war 
 rant even to recover its own dews into its bosom again 
 with interest at every eve. 
 
 It was already the water of Squam and Newfound 
 Lake and Winnipiseogee, and White Mountain snow 
 dissolved, on which we were floating, and Smith's and 
 Baker's and Mad Rivers, and Nashua and Souhegan 
 and Piscataquoag, and Suncook and Soucook and Con- 
 toocook, mingled in incalculable proportions, still fluid, 
 yellowish, restless all, with an ancient, ineradicable 
 inclination to the sea. 
 
 So it flows on down by Lowell and Haverhill, at which 
 last place it first suffers a sea change, and a few masts 
 betray the vicinity of the ocean. Between the towns of 
 Amesbury and Newbury it is a broad, commercial river, 
 from a third to half a mile in width, no longer skirted 
 with yellow and crumbling banks, but backed by high 
 green hills and pastures, with frequent white beaches on 
 which the' fishermen draw up their nets. I have passed 
 down this portion of the river in a steamboat, and it was 
 a pleasant sight to watch from its deck the fishermen 
 dragging their seines on the distant shore, as in pictures 
 of a foreign strand. At intervals you may meet with a 
 schooner laden with lumber, standing up to Haverhill, 
 or else lying at anchor or aground, waiting for wind or 
 tide; until, at last, you glide under the famous Chain 
 Bridge, and are landed at Newburyport. Thus she who 
 at first was " poore of waters, naked of renowne," having 
 received so many fair tributaries, as was said of the 
 Forth, 
 
88 A WEEK 
 
 "Doth grow the greater still, the further downe; 
 Till that abounding both in power and fame, 
 She long doth strive to give the sea her name;" 
 
 or if not her name, in this case, at least the impulse of her 
 stream. From the steeples of Newburyport you may 
 review this river stretching far up into the country, with 
 many a white sail glancing over it like an inland sea, and 
 behold, as one wrote who was born on its head-waters, 
 " Down out at its mouth, the dark inky main blending 
 with the blue above. Plum Island, its sand ridges scol 
 loping along the horizon like the sea-serpent, and the 
 distant outline broken by many a tall ship, leaning, still, 
 against the sky." 
 
 Rising at an equal height with the Connecticut, the 
 Merrimack reaches the sea by a course only half as 
 long, and hence has no leisure to form broad and fertile 
 meadows, like the former, but is hurried along rapids, 
 and down numerous falls, without long delay. The 
 banks are generally steep and high, with a narrow inter 
 val reaching back to the hills, which is only rarely or par 
 tially overflown at present, and is much valued by the 
 farmers. Between Chelmsford and Concord, in New 
 Hampshire, it varies from twenty to seventy-five rods in 
 width. It is probably wider than it was formerly, in 
 many places, owing to the trees having been cut down, 
 and the consequent wasting away of its banks. The 
 influence of the Pawtucket Dam is felt as far up as Crom 
 well'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 
 
SUNDAY 89 
 
 hours. It is navigable for vessels of burden about twenty 
 miles; for canal-boats, by means of locks, as far as 
 Concord in New Hampshire, about seventy-five miles 
 from its mouth ; and for smaller boats to Plymouth, one 
 hundred and thirteen miles. A small steamboat once 
 plied between Lowell and Nashua, before the railroad 
 was built, and one now runs from Newburyport to 
 Haverhill. 
 
 Unfitted to some extent for the purposes of commerce 
 by the sand-bar at its mouth, see how this river was 
 devoted from the first to the service of manufactures. 
 Issuing from the iron region of Franconia, and flow 
 ing through still uncut forests, by inexhaustible ledges 
 of granite, with Squam, and Winnipiseogee, and New 
 found, 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 suc 
 cessive plateau, a busy colony of human beaver around 
 every fall. Not to mention Newburyport and Haverhill, 
 see Lawrence, 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 fac 
 tories, it has a level and unmolested passage to the sea, 
 a mere waste water, as it were, bearing little with it but 
 its fame; its pleasant course revealed by the morning 
 fog which hangs over it, and the sails of the few small 
 vessels which transact the commerce of Haverhill and 
 
90 A WEEK 
 
 Newburyport. But its real vessels are railroad cars, and 
 its true and main stream, flowing by an iron channel 
 farther south, may be traced by a long line of vapor 
 amid the hills, which no morning wind ever disperses, to 
 where it empties into the sea at Boston. This side is the 
 louder murmur now. Instead of the scream of a fish 
 hawk scaring the fishes, is heard the whistle of the steam- 
 engine, arousing a country to its progress. 
 
 This river too was at length discovered by the white 
 man, "trending up into the land," he knew not how far, 
 possibly an inlet to the South Sea. Its valley, as far as 
 the Winnipiseogee, was first surveyed in 1652. The first 
 settlers of Massachusetts supposed that the Connecticut, 
 in one part of its course, ran northwest, "so near the 
 great lake as the Indians do pass their canoes into it over 
 land." From which lake and the "hideous swamps" 
 about it, as they supposed, came all the beaver that was 
 traded between Virginia and Canada, and the 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 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 com 
 paratively few fishes. We looked down into its yellow 
 water with the more curiosity, who were accustomed 
 
SUNDAY 91 
 
 to the Nile-like blackness of the former river. Shad and 
 alewives are taken here in their season, but salmon, 
 though at one time more numerous than shad, are now 
 more rare. Bass, also, are taken occasionally; but locks 
 and dams have proved more or less destructive to the 
 fisheries. The shad make their appearance early in May, 
 at the same time with the blossoms of the pyrus, one of 
 the most conspicuous early flowers, which is for this rea 
 son called the shad-blossom. An insect called the shad- 
 fly also appears at the same time, covering the houses 
 and fences. We are told that " their greatest run is when 
 the apple-trees are in full blossom. The old shad return 
 in August; the young, three or four inches long, in 
 September. These are very fond of flies." A rather pic 
 turesque and luxurious mode of fishing 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 counterpoise, in 
 which fishermen sit to catch salmon and shad with dip 
 ping nets." The remains of Indian weirs, made of large 
 stones, are still to be seen in the Winnipiseogee, one of 
 the head-waters of this river. 
 
 It cannot but affect our philosophy favorably to be 
 reminded of these shoals of migratory fishes, of salmon, 
 shad, alewives, marsh-bankers, and others, which pen 
 etrate up the innumerable rivers of our coast in the 
 spring, even to the interior lakes, their scales gleaming 
 in the sun; and again, of the fry which in still greater 
 numbers wend their way downward to the sea. " And is 
 it not pretty sport," wrote Captain John Smith, who was 
 
92 A WEEK 
 
 on this coast as early as 1614, "to pull up twopence, six 
 pence, and twelvepence, as fast as you can haul and veer 
 a line ? " " And what sport doth yield a more pleasing 
 content, and less hurt or charge, than angling with a 
 hook, and crossing the sweet air from isle to isle, over the 
 silent streams of a calm sea ? " 
 
 On the sandy shore, opposite the Glass-house village 
 in Chelmsford, at the Great Bend, where we landed to 
 rest us and gather a few wild plums, we discovered the 
 Campanula rotundifolia, a new flower to us, the harebell 
 of the poets, which is common to both hemispheres, 
 growing close to the water. Here, in the shady branches 
 of an apple tree on the sand, we took our nooning, where 
 there was not a zephyr to disturb the repose of this 
 glorious Sabbath day, and we reflected serenely on the 
 long past and successful labors of Latona. 
 
 "So silent is the cessile air, 
 That every cry and call, 
 The hills, and dales, and forest fair 
 Again repeats them all. 
 
 "The herds beneath some leafy trees, 
 
 Amidst the flowers they lie, 
 The stable ships upon the seas 
 Tend up their sails to dry." 
 
 As we thus rested in the shade, or rowed leisurely 
 along, we had recourse, from time to time, to the Gazet 
 teer, which was our Navigator, and from its bald natural 
 facts extracted the pleasure of poetry. Beaver River 
 comes in a little lower down, draining the meadows of 
 Pelham, Windham, and Londonderry. The Scotch- 
 
SUNDAY 93 
 
 Irish settlers of the latter town, according to this author 
 ity, 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 con 
 tains some echo at least of the best that is in literature. 
 Indeed, the best books have a use, like sticks and stones, 
 which is above or beside their design, not anticipated 
 in the preface, 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 recognition of 
 living nature attracts us. These are such sentences as 
 were written while grass grew and water ran. It is no 
 small recommendation when a book will stand the test 
 of mere unobstructed sunshine and daylight. 
 
 What would we not give for some great poem to read 
 now, which would be in harmony with the scenery, 
 for if men read aright, methinks they would never read 
 anything but poems. No history nor philosophy can 
 supply their place. 
 
 The wisest definition of poetry the poet will instantly 
 prove false by setting aside its requisitions. We can, 
 therefore, publish only our advertisement of it. 
 
 There is no doubt that the loftiest written wisdom is 
 
94 A WEEK 
 
 either rhymed or in some way musically measured, is, 
 in form as well as substance, poetry; and a volume 
 which should contain the condensed wisdom of man 
 kind need not have one rhythmless line. 
 
 Yet poetry, though the last and finest result, is a 
 natural fruit. As naturally as the oak bears an acorn, 
 and the vine a gourd, man bears a poem, either spoken 
 or done. It is the chief and most memorable success, for 
 history is but a prose narrative of poetic deeds. What else 
 have the Hindoos, the Persians, the Babylonians, the 
 Egyptians done, that can be told ? It is the simplest rela 
 tion of phenomena, and describes the commonest sensa 
 tions with more truth than science does, and the latter at 
 a distance slowly mimics its style and methods. The 
 poet sings how the blood flows in his veins. He performs 
 his functions, and is so well that he needs such stimulus 
 to sing only as plants to put forth leaves and blossoms. 
 He would strive in vain to modulate the remote and 
 transient music which he sometimes hears, since his song 
 is a vital function like breathing, and an integral result 
 like weight. It is not the overflowing of life, but its sub 
 sidence rather, and is drawn from under the feet of the 
 poet. It is enough if Homer but say the sun sets. He is 
 as serene as nature, and we can hardly detect the enthu 
 siasm of the bard. It is as if nature spoke. He presents 
 to us the simplest pictures of human life, so the child 
 itself can understand them, and the man must not 
 think twice to appreciate his naturalness. Each reader 
 discovers for himself that, with respect to the simpler 
 features of nature, succeeding poets have done little else 
 than copy his similes. His more memorable passages are 
 
SUNDAY 95 
 
 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 aegis-bearing Zeus." 
 
 He conveys the least information, even the hour of 
 the day, with such magnificence and vast expense of 
 natural imagery, as if it were a message from the gods. 
 
 "While it was dawn, and sacred day was advancing, 
 
 For that space the weapons of both flew fast, and the people fell; 
 
 But when now the woodcutter was preparing his morning meal, 
 
 In the recesses of the mountain, and had wearied his hands 
 
 With cutting lofty trees, and satiety came to his mind, 
 
 And the desire of sweet food took possession of his thoughts; 
 
 Then the Danaans, by their valor, broke the phalanxes, 
 
 Shouting to their companions from rank to rank." 
 
 When the army of the Trojans passed the night under 
 arms, keeping watch lest the enemy should 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 Xanthus 
 Appeared the fires of the Trojans before Hium. 
 A thousand fires burned on the plain; and by each 
 Sat fifty, in the light of the blazing fire; 
 
96 A WEEK 
 
 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 Idaean 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, 
 
 otfped T ffKi6fvra, 6d\a<r<rd re Ti 
 
 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 at them sweet-worded Nestor, the shrill orator of the 
 
 Pylians, 
 And words sweeter than honey flowed from his tongue." 
 
 This time, however, he addresses Patroclus alone: "A 
 certain river, Minyas by name, leaps seaward near to 
 Arene, where we Pylians wait the dawn, both horse and 
 foot. Thence with all haste we sped us on the morrow 
 ere 't was noonday, accoutred for the fight, even to 
 Alpheus's sacred source," etc. We fancy that we hear 
 
SUNDAY 97 
 
 the subdued murmuring of the Minyas discharging its 
 waters into the main the livelong night, and the hollow 
 sound of the waves breaking on the shore, until at 
 length we are cheered at the close of a toilsome march by 
 the gurgling fountains of Alpheus. 
 
 There are few books which are fit to be remembered 
 in our wisest hours, but the Iliad is brightest in the 
 serenest days, and embodies still all the sunlight that fell 
 on Asia Minor. No modern joy or ecstasy of ours can 
 lower its height or dim its lustre, but there it lies in the 
 east of literature, as it were the earliest and latest pro 
 duction 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 pre 
 ceded them. The mythological system of the ancients, 
 and it is still the mythology of the moderns, the poem 
 of mankind, interwoven so wonderfully with their as 
 tronomy, and matching in grandeur and harmony the 
 architecture of the heavens themselves, seems to point 
 to a time when a mightier genius inhabited the earth. 
 But, after all, man is the great poet, and not Homer nor 
 Shakespeare; and our language itself, and the common 
 
98 A WEEK 
 
 arts of life, are his work. Poetry is so universally true 
 and independent of experience that it does not need any 
 particular biography to illustrate it, but we refer it sooner 
 or later to some Orpheus or Linus, and after ages to the 
 genius of humanity and the gods themselves. 
 
 It would be worth the while to select our reading, 
 for books are the society we keep; to read only the 
 serenely true; never statistics, nor fiction, nor news, 
 nor reports, nor periodicals, but only great poems, and 
 when they failed, read them again, or perchance write 
 more. Instead of other sacrifice, we might offer up our 
 perfect (reXeta) thoughts to the gods daily, in hymns or 
 ( psalms. For we should be at the helm at least once a day. 
 The whole of the day should not be daytime; there 
 should be one hour, if no more, which the day did not 
 bring forth. Scholars are wont to sell their birthright for 
 a mess of learning. But is it necessary to know what the 
 speculator prints, or the thoughtless study, or the idle 
 read, the literature of the Russians and the Chinese, or 
 even French philosophy and much of German criticism ? 
 Read the best books first, or you may not have a chance 
 to read them at all. "There are the 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 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 chil 
 dren. He who resorts to the easy novel, because he is 
 
SUNDAY 99 
 
 languid, does no better than if he took a nap. The front 
 aspect of great thoughts can only be enjoyed by those 
 who stand on the side whence they arrive. Books, not 
 which afford us a cowering enjoyment, but in which each 
 thought is of unusual daring; such as an idle man cannot 
 read, and a timid one would not be entertained by, 
 which even make us dangerous to existing institutions, 
 such call I good books. 
 
 All that are printed and bound are not books; they 
 do not necessarily belong to letters, but are oftener to be 
 ranked with the other luxuries and appendages of civ 
 ilized life. Base wares are palmed off under a thousand 
 disguises. " 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 cun 
 ningly compiled, and have their run and success even 
 among the learned, as if they were the result of a new 
 man's thinking, and their birth were attended with some 
 natural throes. But in a little while their covers fall off, 
 for no binding will avail, and it appears that they are 
 not Books or Bibles at all. There are new and patented 
 inventions in this shape, purporting to be for the eleva 
 tion 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. 
 
100 A WEEK 
 
 "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 litera 
 ture, and fill a place in the Republic of Letters. Or they 
 would fain write for fame merely, as others actually raise 
 crops of grain to be distilled into brandy. Books are for 
 the most part willfully and hastily written, as parts of a 
 system to supply a want real or imagined. Books of 
 natural history aim commonly to be hasty schedules, 
 or inventories of God's property, by some clerk. They 
 do not in the least teach the divine view of nature, but 
 the popular view, or rather the popular method of study 
 ing nature, and make haste to conduct the persevering 
 pupil only into that dilemma where the professors always 
 dwell. 
 
 "To Athens gowned he goes, and from that school 
 Returns unsped, a more instructed fool." 
 
 They teach the elements really of ignorance, not of 
 knowledge; for, to speak deliberately and in view of 
 the highest truths, it is not easy to distinguish elementary 
 knowledge. There is a chasm between knowledge and 
 ignorance which the arches of science can never span. 
 A book should contain pure discoveries, glimpses of 
 terra firma, though by shipwrecked mariners, and not 
 the art of navigation by those who have never been out 
 of sight of land. They must not yield wheat and pota 
 toes, but must themselves be the unconstrained and 
 natural harvest of their author's lives. 
 
SUNDAY 101 
 
 "What I have learned is mine; I've had my thought, 
 And me the Muses noble truths have taught." 
 
 We do not learn much from learned books, but from 
 true, sincere, human books, from frank and honest 
 biographies. The life of a good man will hardly improve 
 us more than the life of a freebooter, for the inevitable 
 laws appear as plainly in the infringement as in the 
 observance, and our lives are sustained by a nearly equal 
 expense of virtue of some kind. The decaying tree, while 
 yet it lives, demands sun, wind, and rain no less than the 
 green one. It secretes sap and performs the functions of 
 health. If we choose, we may study the alburnum only. 
 The gnarled stump has as tender a bud as the sapling. 
 
 At least let us have healthy books, a stout horse-rake, 
 or a kitchen range which is not cracked. Let not the poet 
 shed tears only for the public weal. He should be as 
 vigorous as a sugar maple, with sap enough to maintain 
 his own verdure, beside what runs into the troughs, and 
 not like a vine, which being cut in the spring bears no 
 fruit, but bleeds to death in the endeavor to heal its 
 wounds. The poet is he that hath fat enough, like bears 
 and marmots, to suck his claws all winter. He hibernates 
 in this world, and feeds on his own marrow. We love to 
 think in winter, as we walk over the snowy pastures, of 
 those happy dreamers that lie under the sod, of dormice 
 and all that race of dormant creatures, which have such a 
 superfluity of life enveloped in thick folds of fur, imper 
 vious to cold. Alas, the poet too is in one sense a sort of 
 dormouse gone into winter quarters of deep and serene, 
 thoughts, insensible to surrounding circumstances; his 
 words are the relation of his oldest and finest memory, 
 
102 A WEEK 
 
 a wisdom drawn from the remotest experience. Other 
 men lead a starved existence, meanwhile, like hawks, 
 that would fain keep on the wing, and trust to pick up a 
 sparrow now and then. 
 
 There are already essays and poems, the growth of 
 this land, which are not in vain, all which, however, we 
 could conveniently have stowed in the till of our chest. 
 If the gods permitted their own inspiration to be breathed 
 in vain, these might be overlooked in the crowd, but the 
 accents of truth are as sure to be heard at last on earth 
 as in heaven. They already seem ancient, and in some 
 measure have lost the traces of their modern birth. 
 Here are they who 
 
 "ask for that which is our whole life's light, 
 For the perpetual, true, and clear insight." 
 
 I remember a few sentences which spring like the sward 
 in its native pasture, where its roots were never dis 
 turbed, and not as if spread over a sandy embankment; 
 answering to the poet's prayer, 
 
 "Let us set so just 
 
 A rate on knowledge, that the world may trust 
 The poet's sentence, and not still aver 
 Each art is to itself a flatterer." 
 
 But, above all, in our native port, did we not frequent 
 the peaceful games of the Lyceum, from which a new era 
 will be dated to New England, as from the games of 
 Greece. For if Herodotus carried his history to Olympia 
 to read, after the cestus and the race, have we not heard 
 such histories recited there, which since our countrymen 
 have read, as made Greece sometimes to be forgotten ? 
 
SUNDAY 103 
 
 Philosophy, too, has there her grove and portico, not 
 wholly unfrequented in these days. 
 
 Lately the victor, whom all Pindars praised, has won 
 another palm, contending with 
 
 "Olympian bards who sung 
 Divine ideas below, 
 Which always find us young, 
 And always keep us so." 
 
 What earth or sea, mountain or stream, or Muses' spring 
 or grove, is safe from his all-searching, ardent eye, who 
 drives off 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; 
 
 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. 
 
104 A WEEK 
 
 From his 
 
 "lips of cunning fell 
 The thrilling Delphic oracle." 
 
 And yet, sometimes, 
 
 We should not mind if on our ear there fell 
 Some less of cunning, more of oracle. 
 
 It is Apollo shining in your face. O rare Contemporary, 
 let us have far-off heats. Give us the subtler, the heaven- 
 lier, 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 south 
 west wind upon our cheeks blowing from the Indian's 
 heaven. What though we lose a thousand meteors from 
 the sky, if skyey depths, if star-dust and undissolvable 
 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, 
 
 "That 't is not in the power of kings [or presidents] to raise 
 A spirit for verse that is not born thereto, 
 Nor are they born in every prince's days;" 
 
 yet spite of all they sang in praise of their " Eliza's 
 reign," we have evidence that poets may be born and 
 sing in our day, in the presidency of James K. Polk, 
 
 "And that the utmost powers of English rhyme," 
 Were not "within her peaceful reign confined." 
 
 The prophecy of the poet Daniel is already how much 
 more than fulfilled! 
 
SUNDAY 105 
 
 "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 5 enrich unknowing nations with our stores ? 
 What worlds in th' yet unformed Occident, 
 May come refin'd with th' accents that are ours." 
 
 Enough has been said in these days of the charm of 
 fluent writing. We hear it complained of some works 
 of genius that they have fine thoughts, but are irregular 
 and have no flow. But even the mountain peaks in the 
 horizon are, to the eye of science, parts of one range. 
 We should consider that the flow of thought is more like 
 a tidal wave than a prone river, and is the result of a 
 celestial influence, not of any declivity in its channel. The 
 river flows because it runs down hill, and flows the faster, 
 the faster it descends. The reader who expects to float 
 down-stream for the whole voyage may well complain of 
 nauseating swells and choppings of the sea when his frail 
 shore craft gets amidst the billows of the ocean stream, 
 which flows as much to sun and moon as lesser streams 
 to it. But if we would appreciate the flow that is in these 
 books, we must expect to feel it rise from the page like an 
 exhalation, and wash away our critical brains like burr 
 millstones, flowing to higher levels above and behind 
 ourselves. There is many a book which ripples on like 
 a freshet, and flows as glibly as a mill-stream sucking 
 under a causeway; and when their authors are in the 
 full tide of their discourse, Pythagoras and Plato and 
 Jamblichus halt beside them. Their long, stringy, slimy 
 sentences are of that consistency that they naturally flow 
 and run together. They read as if written for military 
 
106 A WEEK 
 
 men, for men of business, there is such a dispatch in 
 them. Compared with these, the grave thinkers and 
 philosophers seem not to have got their swaddling- 
 clothes off; they are slower than a Roman army in its 
 march, the rear camping to-night where the van camped 
 last night. The wise Jamblichus eddies and gleams 
 like a watery slough. 
 
 "How many thousands never heard the name 
 Of Sidney, or of Spenser, or their books ! 
 And yet brave fellows, and presume of fame, 
 And seem to bear down all the world with looks ! " 
 
 The ready writer seizes the pen and shouts, " Forward ! 
 
 % Alamo and Fanning!" and after rolls the tide of war. 
 
 ' The very walls and fences seem to travel. But the most 
 
 rapid trot is no flow after all; and thither, reader, you 
 
 and I, at least, will not follow. 
 
 A perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is extremely 
 rare. For the most part we miss the hue and fragrance 
 of the thought ; as if we could be satisfied with the dews 
 of the morning or evening without their colors, or the 
 heavens without their azure. The most attractive 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 
 Raleigh might well be studied, if only for the excellence 
 of his style, for he is remarkable in the midst of so many 
 masters. There is a natural emphasis in his style, like a 
 man's tread, and a breathing space between the sen 
 tences, which the best of modern writing does not fur 
 nish. His chapters are like English parks, or say rather 
 
SUNDAY 107 
 
 like a Western forest, where the larger growth keeps 
 down the underwood, and one may ride on horseback 
 through the openings. All the distinguished writers of 
 that period possess a greater vigor and naturalness than 
 the more modern, for it is allowed to slander our own 
 time, and when we read a quotation from one of them 
 in the midst of a modern author, we seem to have come 
 suddenly upon a greener ground, a greater depth and 
 strength of soil. It is as if a green bough were laid across 
 the page, and we are refreshed as by the sight of fresh 
 grass in midwinter or early spring. You have constantly 
 the warrant of life and experience in what you read. 
 The little that is said is eked out by implication of the 
 much that was done. The sentences are verdurous and 
 blooming as evergreen and flowers, because they are 
 rooted in fact and experience, but our false and florid 
 sentences have only the tints of flowers without their sap 
 or roots. All men are really most attracted by the beauty 
 of plain speech, and they even write in a florid style in 
 imitation of this. They prefer to be misunderstood rather 
 than to come short of its exuberance. Hussein Effendi 
 praised the epistolary style of Ibrahim Pasha to the 
 French traveler Botta, because of "the difficulty of un 
 derstanding it; there was," he said, "but one person at 
 Jidda who was capable of understanding and explaining 
 the Pasha's correspondence." A man's whole life is taxed 
 for the least thing well done. It is its net result. Every 
 sentence is the result of a long probation. Where shall 
 we look for standard English but to the words of a 
 standard man ? The word which is best said came 
 nearest to not being spoken at all, for it is cousin to a 
 
108 A WEEK 
 
 deed which the speaker could have better done. Nay, 
 almost it must have taken the place of a deed by some 
 urgent necessity, even by some misfortune, so that the 
 truest writer will be some captive knight, after all. And 
 perhaps the fates had such a design, when, having stored 
 Raleigh so richly with the substance of life and experi 
 ence, 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 learning 
 greatly out of proportion to the use they commonly 
 serve. We are amused to read how Ben Jonson engaged 
 that the dull masks with which the royal family and 
 nobility were to be entertained should be "grounded 
 upon antiquity and solid learning." Can there be any 
 greater reproach than an idle learning ? Learn to split 
 wood, at least. The necessity of labor and conversation 
 with many men and things to the scholar is rarely well 
 remembered; steady labor with the hands, which en 
 grosses the attention also, is unquestionably the best 
 method of removing palaver and sentimentality out of 
 one's style, both of speaking and writing. If he has 
 worked hard from morning till night, though he may 
 have grieved that he could not be watching the train 
 of his thoughts during that time, yet the few hasty lines 
 which at evening record his day's experience will be 
 more musical and true than his freest but idle fancy could 
 have furnished. Surely the writer is to address a world of 
 laborers, and such therefore must be his own discipline. 
 He will not idly dance at his work who has wood to cut 
 and cord before nightfall in the short days of winter; but 
 
SUNDAY 109 
 
 every stroke will be husbanded, and ring soberly through 
 the wood; and so will the strokes of that scholar's pen, 
 which at evening record the story of the day, ring soberly, 
 yet cheerily, on the ear of the reader, long after the 
 echoes of his axe have died away. The scholar may be 
 sure that he writes the tougher truth for the calluses on 
 his palms. They give firmness to the sentence. Indeed, 
 the mind never makes a great and successful effort, 
 without a corresponding energy of the body. We are 
 often struck by the force and precision of style to which 
 hard-working men, unpracticed in writing, easily attain 
 when required to make the effort. As if plainness and 
 vigor and sincerity, the ornaments of style, were better 
 learned on the farm and in the workshop than in the 
 schools. The sentences written by such rude hands are 
 nervous and tough, like hardened thongs, the sinews of 
 the deer, or the roots of the pine. As for the graces of 
 expression, a great thought is never found in a mean 
 dress ; but though it proceed from the lips of the Wolof s, 
 the nine Muses and the three Graces will have conspired 
 to clothe it in fit phrase. Its education has always been 
 liberal, and its implied wit can endow a college. The 
 world, which the Greeks called Beauty, has been made 
 such by being gradually divested of every ornament 
 which was not fitted to endure. The Sibyl, "speaking 
 with inspired mouth, smileless, inornate, and unper- 
 fumed, pierces through centuries by the power of the 
 god." The scholar might frequently emulate the pro 
 priety and emphasis of the farmer's call to his team, and 
 confess that if that were written it would surpass his 
 labored sentences. Whose are the truly labored sentences ? 
 

 110 A WEEK 
 
 From the weak and flimsy periods of the politician and 
 literary man, we are glad to turn even to the description 
 of work, the simple record of the month's labor in the 
 farmer's almanac, to restore our tone and spirits. A 
 sentence should read as if its author, had he held a 
 plow instead of a pen, could have drawn a furrow deep 
 and straight to the end. The scholar requires hard and 
 serious labor to give an impetus to his thought. He will 
 learn to grasp the pen firmly so, and wield it gracefully 
 and effectively, as an axe or a sword. When we con 
 sider the weak and nerveless periods of some literary 
 men, who perchance in feet and inches come up to the 
 standard of their race, and are not deficient in girth 
 also, we are amazed at the immense sacrifice of thews 
 and sinews. What! these proportions, these bones, 
 and this their work! Hands which could have felled 
 an ox have hewed this fragile matter which would not 
 have tasked a lady's fingers ! Can this be a stalwart man's 
 work, who has a marrow in his back and a tendon 
 Achilles in his heel? They who set up the blocks of 
 Stonehenge did somewhat, if they only laid out their 
 strength for once, and stretched themselves. 
 
 Yet, after all, the truly efficient laborer will not crowd 
 his day with work, but will saunter to his task, sur 
 rounded 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, 
 
SUNDAY 111 
 
 without hurry or confusion, as if the short spring days 
 were an eternity. 
 
 Then spend an age in whetting thy desire, 
 Thou need'st not hasten if thou dost stand fast. 
 
 Some hours seem not to be occasion for any deed, but 
 for resolves to draw breath in. We do not directly go 
 about the execution of the purpose that thrills us, but 
 shut our doors behind us and ramble with prepared 
 mind, as if the half were already done. Our resolution is 
 taking root or hold on the earth then, as seeds first send 
 a shoot downward which is fed by their own albumen, 
 ere they send one upward to the light. 
 
 There is a sort of homely truth and naturalness in 
 some books which is very rare to find, and yet looks 
 cheap enough. There may be nothing lofty in the senti 
 ment, 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 experi 
 ence come gracefully to the aid of his expression. Very 
 few men can speak of Nature, for instance, with any 
 truth. They overstep her modesty, somehow or other, 
 and confer no favor. They do not speak a good word for 
 her. Most cry better than they speak, and you can get 
 more nature out of them by pinching than by addressing 
 them. The surliness with which the woodchopper speaks 
 of his woods, handling them as indifferently as his axe, 
 is better than the mealy-mouthed enthusiasm of the 
 lover of nature. Better that the primrose by the river's 
 
112 A WEEK 
 
 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, walk 
 ing and meditating before dinner, he would eat up a 
 penny loaf, not knowing that he did it. His natural 
 memory was very great, to which he added the art of 
 memory. He would repeat to you forwards and back 
 wards all the signs from Ludgate to Charing Cross." 
 He says of Mr. John Hales, that " he loved Canarie," and 
 was buried " under an altar monument of black marble 
 . . . with a too long epitaph;" of Edmund Halley, 
 that he " at sixteen could make a dial, and then, he said, 
 he thought himself a brave fellow; " of William Holder, 
 who wrote a book upon his curing one Popham who was 
 deaf and dumb, "he was beholding to no author; did 
 only consult with nature." For the most part, an author 
 consults only with all who have written before him upon 
 a subject, and his book is but the advice of so many. But 
 a good book will never have been forestalled, but the 
 topic itself will in one sense be new, and its author, by 
 consulting with nature, will consult not only with those 
 who have gone before, but with those who may come 
 after. There is always room and occasion enough for a 
 true book on any subject ; as there is room for more light 
 the brightest day, and more rays will not interfere with 
 the first. 
 
 We thus worked our way up this river, gradually 
 adjusting our thoughts to novelties, beholding from its 
 placid bosom a new nature and new works of men, and, 
 as it were with increasing confidence, finding nature 
 
 
SUNDAY 113 
 
 still habitable, genial, and propitious to us ; not follow 
 ing any beaten path, but the windings of the river, as 
 ever the nearest way for us. Fortunately we had no busi 
 ness in this country. The Concord had rarely been a 
 river, or rivus, but barely fluvius, or between fluvius and 
 lacus. This Merrimack was neither rivus nor fluvius nor 
 lacus, but rather amnis here, a gently swelling and stately 
 rolling flood approaching the sea. We could even sym 
 pathize 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 aquae, pro ripis litora pulsant." 
 
 At length we doubled a low shrubby islet, called 
 Rabbit Island, subjected alternately to the sun and to 
 the waves, as desolate as if it lay some leagues within the 
 icy sea, and found ourselves in a narrower part of the 
 river, near the sheds and yards for picking the stone 
 known as the Chelmsford granite, which is quarried 
 in Westford and the neighboring towns. We passed 
 Wicasuck Island, which contains seventy acres or more, 
 on our right, between Chelmsford and Tyngsborough. 
 This was a favorite residence of the Indians. According 
 to the History of Dunstable, "About 1663, the eldest 
 son of Passaconaway [Chief of the Penacooks] was 
 thrown into jail for a debt of 45, due to John Tinker, 
 by one of his tribe, and which he had promised verbally 
 should be paid. To relieve him from his imprisonment, 
 his brother Wannalancet and others, who owned Wica 
 suck Island, sold it and paid the debt." It was, however, 
 
114 A WEEK 
 
 restored to the Indians by the General Court in 1665. 
 After the departure of the Indians in 1683, it was granted 
 to Jonathan Tyng in payment for his services to the 
 colony, in maintaining a garrison at his house. Tyng's 
 house stood not far from Wicasuck Falls. Gookin, who, 
 in his Epistle Dedicatory to Robert Boyle, apologizes 
 for presenting his " matter clothed in a wilderness dress," 
 says that, on the breaking out of Philip's war in 1675, 
 there were taken up by the Christian Indians and the 
 English in Marlborough, and sent to Cambridge, seven 
 " Indians belonging to Narragansett, Long Island, and 
 Pequod, who had all been at work about seven weeks 
 with one Mr. Jonathan Tyng, of Dunstable, upon Mer- 
 rimack River; and, hearing of the war, they reckoned 
 with their master, and getting their wages, conveyed 
 themselves away without his privity, and, being afraid, 
 marched secretly through the woods, designing to go to 
 their own country." However, they were released soon 
 after. Such were the hired men in those days. Tyng was 
 the first permanent settler of Dunstable, which then 
 embraced what is now Tyngsborough and many other 
 towns. In the winter of 1675, in Philip's war, every other 
 settler left the town, but "he," says the historian of 
 Dunstable, "fortified his house; and, although * obliged 
 to send to Boston for his food/ sat himself down in the 
 midst of his savage enemies, alone, in the wilderness, 
 to defend his home. Deeming his position an important 
 one for the defense of the frontiers, in February, 1676, 
 he petitioned the Colony for aid," humbly showing, as 
 his petition runs, that, as he lived "in the uppermost 
 house on Merrimac river, lying open to y e enemy, yet 
 
SUNDAY 115 
 
 being so seated that it is, as it were, a watch-house to the 
 neighboring towns," he could render important service 
 to his country if only he had some assistance, "there 
 being," he said, "never an inhabitant left in the town 
 but myself." Wherefore he requests that their " Honors 
 would be pleased to order him three or Jour men to help 
 garrison his said house," which they did. But methinks 
 that such a garrison would be weakened by the addition 
 of a man. 
 
 "Make bandog thy scout watch to bark at a thief, 
 Make courage for life, to be capitain chief; 
 Make trap-door thy bulwark, make bell to begin, 
 Make gunstone and arrow show who is within." 
 
 Thus he earned the title of first permanent settler. In 
 1694 a law was passed "that every settler who deserted 
 a town for fear of the Indians should forfeit all his rights 
 therein." But now, at any rate, as I have frequently 
 observed, a man may desert the fertile frontier territories 
 of truth and justice, which are the State's best lands, for 
 fear of far more insignificant foes, without forfeiting 
 any of his civil rights therein. Nay, townships are 
 granted to deserters, and the General Court, as I am 
 sometimes inclined to regard it, is but a deserters' camp 
 itself. 
 
 As we rowed along near the shore of Wicasuck Island, 
 which was then covered with wood, in order to avoid the 
 current, two men, who looked as if they had just run out 
 of Lowell, where they had been waylaid by the Sabbath, 
 meaning to go to Nashua, and who now found themselves 
 in the strange, natural, uncultivated, and unsettled part 
 of the globe which intervenes, full of walls and barriers, 
 
116 A WEEK 
 
 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 without effort; so we were 
 obliged to deny them passage. As we glided away with 
 even sweeps, while the fates scattered oil in our course, 
 the sun now sinking behind the alders on the distant 
 shore, we could still see them far off over the water, run 
 ning 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 unsym- 
 pathizing river ever flowing in an opposite direction; 
 until, having reached the entrance of the island brook, 
 which they had probably crossed upon the locks below, 
 they found a more effectual barrier to their progress. 
 They seemed to be learning much in a little time. They 
 ran about like ants on a burning brand, and once more 
 they tried the river here, and once more there, to see if 
 water still indeed was not to be walked on, as if a new 
 thought inspired them, and by some peculiar disposition 
 of the limbs they could accomplish it. At length sober 
 common sense seemed to have resumed its sway, and 
 they concluded that what they had so long heard must 
 be true, and resolved to ford the shallower stream. 
 When nearly a mile distant we could see them stripping 
 
SUNDAY 117 
 
 off their clothes and preparing for this experiment; yet 
 it seemed likely that a new dilemma would arise, they 
 were so thoughtlessly throwing away their clothes on the 
 wrong side of the stream, as in the case of the country 
 man with his corn, his fox, and his goose, which had to 
 be transported one at a time. Whether they got safely 
 through, or went round by the locks, we never learned. 
 We could not help being struck by the seeming, though 
 innocent, indifference of Nature to these men's neces 
 sities, while elsewhere she was equally serving others. 
 Like a true benefactress, the secret of her service is un- 
 changeableness. Thus is the busiest merchant, though 
 within sight of his Lowell, put to pilgrim's shifts, and 
 soon comes to staff and scrip and scallop-shell. 
 
 We, too, who held the middle of the stream, came 
 near experiencing a pilgrim's fate, being tempted to 
 pursue what seemed a sturgeon or larger fish, for we 
 remembered that this was the Sturgeon River, its dark 
 and monstrous back alternately rising and sinking in 
 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 convenient, and looking out not to get 
 a blow from his tail, now the bow-gunner delivered his 
 charge, while the stern-man held his ground. But the 
 halibut-skinned monster, in one of these swift-gliding 
 pregnant moments, without ever ceasing his bobbing, up 
 and down, saw fit, without a chuckle or other prelude, to 
 proclaim himself a huge imprisoned spar, placed there 
 as a buoy, to warn sailors of sunken rocks. So, each 
 
118 A WEEK 
 
 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 com 
 edy, or tragi-comedy, or pastoral, we cannot tell. This 
 Sunday ended by the going down of the sun, leaving us 
 still on the waves. But they who are on the water enjoy 
 a longer and brighter twilight than they who are on the 
 land, for here the water, as well as the atmosphere, 
 absorbs and reflects the light, and some of the day seems 
 to have sunk down into the waves. The light gradually 
 forsook the deep water, as well as the deeper air, and 
 the gloaming came to the fishes as well as to us, and 
 more dim and gloomy to them, whose day is a perpetual 
 twilight, though sufficiently bright for their weak and 
 watery eyes. Vespers had already rung in many a dim 
 and watery chapel down below, where the shadows of 
 the weeds were extended in length over the sandy floor. 
 The vespertinal pout had already begun to flit on 
 leathern fin, and the finny gossips withdrew from the 
 fluvial street to creeks and coves, and other private 
 haunts, excepting a few of stronger fin, which anchored 
 in the stream, stemming the tide even in their dreams. 
 Meanwhile, like a dark evening cloud, we were wafted 
 over the cope of their sky, deepening the shadows on 
 their deluged fields. 
 
 Having reached a retired part of the river where it 
 spread out to sixty rods in width, we pitched our tent on 
 the east side, in Tyngsborough, just above some patches 
 of the beach plum, which was now nearly ripe, where the 
 
SUNDAY 119 
 
 sloping bank was a sufficient pillow, and with the bustle 
 of sailors making the land, we transferred such stores as 
 were required from boat to tent, and hung a lantern to 
 the tent-pole, and so our house was ready. With a buffalo 
 spread on the grass, and a blanket for our covering, 
 our bed was soon made. A fire crackled merrily before 
 the entrance, so near that we could tend it without step 
 ping 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 enter 
 prises every twelve hours. Minks, muskrats, meadow 
 mice, woodchucks, squirrels, skunks, rabbits, foxes, and 
 weasels, all inhabit near, but keep very close while you 
 are there. The river sucking and eddying away all night 
 down toward the marts and the seaboard, a great wash 
 and freshet, and no small enterprise to reflect on.. 
 Instead of the Scythian vastness of the Billerica night, 
 and its wild musical sounds, we were kept awake by the 
 boisterous sport of some Irish laborers on the railroad, 
 wafted to us over the water, still unwearied and unrest 
 ing on this seventh day, who would not have done with 
 whirling up and down the track with ever-increasing 
 velocity and still reviving shouts, till late in the night. 
 One sailor was visited in his dreams this night by the 
 Evil Destinies, and all those powers that are hostile 
 
120 A WEEK 
 
 to human life, which constrain and oppress the minds 
 of men, and make their path seem difficult and narrow, 
 and beset with dangers, so that the most innocent and 
 worthy enterprises appear insolent and a tempting of 
 fate, and the gods go not with us. But the other happily 
 passed a serene and even ambrosial or immortal night, 
 and his sleep was dreamless, or only the atmosphere of 
 pleasant dreams remained, a happy, natural sleep until 
 the morning; and his cheerful spirit soothed and reas 
 sured his brother, for whenever they meet, the Good 
 Genius is sure to prevail. 
 
MONDAY 
 
 I thynke for to louche also 
 
 The worlde whiche neweth everie daie, 
 
 So as I can, so as I male. GOWEB. 
 
 The hye sheryf e of Notynghame, 
 Hym holde in your mynde. Robin Hood Ballads. 
 
 His shoote it was but loosely short, 
 
 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. 
 
 HEN 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 f oue. 
 
 The stoned steed stampis 
 Throw curage and crampis, 
 Syne on the land lampis; 
 
 The night is neir gone." 
 
122 A WEEK 
 
 One of us took the boat over to the opposite shore, 
 which was flat and accessible, a quarter of a mile dis 
 tant, to empty it of water and wash out the clay, while 
 the other kindled a fire and got breakfast ready. At an 
 early hour we were again on our way, rowing through 
 the fog as before, the river already awake, and a million 
 crisped waves come forth to meet the sun when he should 
 show himself. The countrymen, recruited by their day 
 of rest, were already stirring, and had begun to cross the 
 ferry on the business of the week. This ferry was as busy 
 as a beaver dam, and all the world seemed anxious to get 
 across the Merrimack River at this particular point, 
 waiting to get set over, children with their two cents 
 done up in paper, jail-birds broke loose and constable 
 with warrant, 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 
 forthwith for himself; he will compensate him. He 
 is to break his fast at some unseen place on the oppo 
 site 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. Maybe 
 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, 
 
MONDAY 123 
 
 like life itself, none but the long-lived gods bound up or 
 down the stream. Many of these Monday men are 
 ministers, no doubt, reseeking their parishes with hired 
 horses, with sermons in their valises all read and gutted, 
 the day after never with them. They cross each other's 
 routes all the country over like woof and warp, making 
 a garment of loose texture; vacation now for six days. 
 They stop to pick nuts and berries, and gather apples, 
 by the wayside at their leisure. Good religious men, 
 with the love of men in their hearts, and the means to 
 pay their toll in their pockets. We got over this ferry 
 chain without scraping, rowing athwart the tide of travel, 
 no toll for us that day. 
 
 The fog dispersed, and we rowed leisurely along 
 through Tyngsborough, with a clear sky and a mild 
 atmosphere, leaving the habitations of men behind, 
 and penetrating yet farther into the territory of ancient 
 Dunstable. It was from Dunstable, then a frontier 
 town, that the famous Captain Lovewell, with his com 
 pany, 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 set 
 tled 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, 
 
124 A WEEK 
 
 for some reason, or perhaps without reason, Pembroke, 
 was granted them by the State. 
 
 "Of all our valiant English, there were but thirty-four, 
 And of the rebel Indians, there were about four-score; 
 And sixteen of our English did safely home return, 
 The rest were killed and wounded, for which we all must mourn. 
 
 " Our worthy Capt. Lovewell among them there did die, 
 They killed Lieut. Robbins, and wounded good young Frye, 
 Who was our English Chaplin; he many Indians slew, 
 And some of them he scalped while bullets round him flew." 
 
 Our brave forefathers have exterminated all the In 
 dians, 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 Chap 
 lin " in these days could exhibit as unquestionable tro 
 phies of his valor as did "good young Frye." We have 
 need to be as sturdy pioneers still as Miles Standish, or 
 Church, or Lovewell. We are to follow on another trail, 
 it is true, but one as convenient for ambushes. What 
 if the Indians are exterminated, are not savages as grim 
 prowling about the clearings to-day? 
 
 "And braving many dangers and hardships in the way, 
 They safe arrived at Dunstable the thirteenth (?) day of May." 
 
 But they did not all "safe arrive in Dunstable the 
 thirteenth," or the fifteenth, or the thirtieth "day of 
 May." Eleazer Davis and Josiah Jones, both of Con 
 cord, for our native town had seven men in this fight, 
 Lieutenant Farwell, of Dunstable, and Jonathan Frye, 
 of Andover, who were all* wounded, were left behind, 
 creeping toward the settlements. "After traveling sev- 
 
MONDAY 125 
 
 eral miles, Frye was left and lost," though a more recent 
 poet has assigned him company in his last hours. 
 
 "A man he was of comely form, 
 
 Polished and brave, well learned and kind; 
 Old Harvard's learned halls he left 
 Far in the wilds a grave to find. 
 
 "Ah! now his blood-red arm he lifts; 
 
 His closing lids he tries to raise; 
 And speak once more before he dies, 
 In supplication and in praise. 
 
 "He prays kind Heaven to grant success, 
 
 Brave Lovewell's men to guide and bless, 
 And when they 've shed their heart-blood true, 
 To raise them all to happiness. 
 
 "Lieutenant Farwell took his hand, 
 
 His arm around his neck he threw, 
 And said, 'Brave Chaplain, I could wish 
 That Heaven had made me die for you." 
 
 Farwell held out eleven days. " A tradition says," 
 as we learn from the History of Concord, " that arriving 
 at a pond with Lieut. Farwell, Davis pulled off one of 
 his moccasins, cut it in strings, on which he fastened a 
 hook, caught some fish, fried and ate them. They re 
 freshed 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 condi- 
 

 126 A WEEK 
 
 tion imaginable. " He had subsisted," says an old jour 
 nal, "on the spontaneous vegetables of the forest; and 
 cranberries which he had eaten came out of wounds he 
 had received in his body." This was also the case with 
 Davis. The last two reached home at length, safe if not 
 sound, and lived many years in a crippled state to enjoy 
 their pension. 
 
 ^/ But alas! of the crippled Indians, and their adven 
 tures 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 cran 
 berries, 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 be 
 fore his last march, Lovewell was warned to beware of 
 the ambuscades of the enemy, but "he replied, 'that 
 he did not care for them,' and bending down a small 
 elm beside which he was standing into a bow, declared 
 'that he would treat the Indians in the same way.' This 
 elm is still standing [in Nashua], a venerable and mag 
 nificent tree." 
 
 Meanwhile, having passed the Horseshoe Interval 
 in Tyngsborough, where the river makes a sudden bend 
 to the northwest, for our reflections have anticipated 
 our progress somewhat, we were advancing farther 
 into the country and into the day, which last proved al 
 most as golden as the preceding, though the slight bustle 
 and activity of the Monday seemed to penetrate even 
 
MONDAY 127 
 
 to this scenery. Now and then we had to muster all our 
 energy to get round a point, where the river broke rip 
 pling over rocks, and the maples trailed their branches 
 in the stream, but there was generally a backwater or 
 eddy on the side, of which we took advantage. The 
 river was here about forty rods wide and fifteen feet 
 deep. Occasionally one ran along the shore, examin 
 ing the country, and visiting the nearest farmhouses, 
 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 
 scriptures, and the Esprit des Lois, where a thin, vapor 
 ous smoke curled up through the noon. All that is told 
 of mankind, of the inhabitants of the Upper Nile, and 
 the Sunderbunds, and Timbuctoo, and the Orinoko, 
 was experience here. Every race and class of men was 
 represented. According to Belknap, the historian of 
 New Hampshire, who wrote sixty years ago, here too, 
 perchance, dwelt "new lights" and free-thinking men 
 even then. "The people in general throughout the 
 State," it is written, " are professors of the Christian re 
 ligion in some form or other. There is, however, a sort 
 
128 A WEEK 
 
 of wise men who pretend to reject it; but they have not 
 yet been able to substitute a better in its place." 
 
 The other voyageur, perhaps, would in the mean 
 while have seen a brown hawk, or a woodchuck, or a 
 musquash creeping under the alders. 
 
 We occasionally rested in the shade of a maple or a 
 willow, and drew forth a melon for our refreshment, 
 while we contemplated at our leisure the lapse of the 
 river and of human life; and as that current, with its 
 floating twigs and leaves, so did all things pass in re 
 view before us, while far away in cities and marts on 
 this very stream, the old routine was proceeding still. 
 There is, indeed, a tide in the affairs of men, as the poet 
 says, and yet as things flow they circulate, and the ebb 
 always balances the flow. All streams are but tributary 
 to the ocean, which itself does not stream, and the shores 
 are unchanged, but in longer periods than man can 
 measure. Go where we will, we discover infinite change 
 in particulars only, not in generals. When I go into a 
 museum and see the mummies wrapped in their linen 
 bandages, I see that the lives of men began to need re 
 form 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 de 
 layed in the execution." So says Veeshnoo Sarma; and 
 we perceive that the schemers return again and again 
 to common sense and labor. Such is the evidence of 
 history. 
 
MONDAY 129 
 
 "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 prac 
 tice, in education, in morals, and in the arts of life, the 
 embodied wisdom of many an ancient philosopher. Who 
 does not see that heresies have some time prevailed, 
 that reforms have already taken place ? All this worldly 
 wisdom might be regarded as the once unamiable heresy 
 of some wise man. Some interests have got a footing on 
 the earth which we have not made sufficient allowance 
 for. Even they who first built these barns and cleared 
 the land thus, had some valor. The abrupt epochs and 
 chasms are smoothed down in history as the inequalities 
 of the plain are concealed by distance. But unless we / 
 do more than simply learn the trade of our time, we 
 are but apprentices, and not yet masters of the art of 
 life. 
 
 Now that we are casting away these melon seeds, 
 how can we help feeling reproach? He who eats the 
 fruit should at least plant the seed; 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 in 
 stitutions, as the luxurious do, but plant it rather, while 
 thou devourest the pulp and tuber for thy subsistence; 
 
130 A WEEK 
 
 that so, perchance, one variety may at last be found 
 worthy of preservation. 
 
 There are moments when all anxiety and stated toil 
 are becalmed in the infinite leisure and repose of na 
 ture. All laborers must have their nooning, and at this 
 season of the day, we are all, more or less, Asiatics, and 
 give over all work and reform. While lying thus on our 
 oars by the side of the stream, in the heat of the day, 
 our boat held by an osier put through the staple in 
 its prow, and slicing the melons, which are a fruit of 
 the East, our thoughts reverted to Arabia, Persia, and 
 Hindostan, the lands of contemplation and dwelling- 
 places of the ruminant nations. In the experience of 
 this noontide we could find some apology even for 
 the instinct of the opium, betel, and tobacco chewers. 
 Mount Saber, according to the French traveler and 
 naturalist Botta, is celebrated 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 con 
 versation." 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. 
 
 It is a great pleasure to escape sometimes from the 
 restless class of Reformers. What if these grievances 
 exist ? So do you and I. Think you that sitting hens are 
 troubled with ennui these long summer days, sitting on 
 and on in the crevice of a hay-loft, without active em 
 ployment ? By the faint cackling in distant barns, I judge 
 that Dame Nature is interested still to know how many 
 
MONDAY 131 
 
 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 re 
 lentless opponents of reform bear a strange resemblance 
 to ourselves; or, perchance, they are a few old maids 
 and bachelors, who sit round the kitchen hearth and 
 listen to the singing of the kettle. " The oracles often 
 give victory to our choice, and not to the order alone of 
 the mundane periods. As, for instance, when they say 
 that our voluntary sorrows germinate in us as the growth 
 of the particular life we lead." The reform which you 
 talk about can be undertaken any morning before un 
 barring our doors. We need not call any convention. 
 When two neighbors begin to eat corn bread, who be 
 fore ate wheat, then the gods smile from ear to ear, for 
 it is very pleasant to them. Why do you not try it? 
 Don't let me hinder you. 
 
 There are theoretical reformers at all times, and all 
 the world over, living on anticipation. Wolff, traveling 
 in the deserts of Bokhara, says, " Another party of 
 derveeshes came to me and observed, 'The time will 
 come when there shall be no difference between rich 
 and poor, between high and low, when property will be 
 in common, even wives and children.' " But forever I 
 ask of such, What then ? The derveeshes in the deserts 
 of Bokhara and the reformers in Marlboro' Chapel 
 sing the same song. "There's a good time coming, 
 boys," but, asked one of the audience, in good faith, 
 
132 A WEEK 
 
 "Can you fix the date?" Said I, "Will you help it 
 along?" 
 
 The nonchalance and dolce-far-niente air of nature 
 and society hint at infinite periods in the progress of 
 mankind. The States have leisure to laugh from Maine 
 to Texas at some newspaper joke, and New England 
 shakes at the double-entendres of Australian circles, 
 while the poor reformer cannot get a hearing. 
 
 Men do not fail commonly for want of knowledge, 
 but for want of prudence to give wisdom the preference. 
 What we need to know in any case is very simple. It 
 is but too easy to establish another durable and har 
 monious routine. Immediately all parts of nature con 
 sent to it. Only make something to take the place of 
 something, and men will behave as if it was the very 
 thing they wanted. They must behave, at any rate, and 
 will work up any material. There is always a present 
 and extant life, be it better or worse, which all combine 
 to uphold. We should be slow to mend, my friends, as 
 slow to require mending, " Not hurling, according to the 
 oracle, a transcendent foot towards piety." The lan 
 guage of excitement is at best picturesque merely. You 
 must be calm before you can utter oracles. What was 
 the excitement of the Delphic priestess compared with 
 the calm wisdom of Socrates, or whoever it was that 
 was wise ? Enthusiasm is a supernatural serenity. 
 
 "Men find that action is another thing 
 
 Than what they in discoursing papers read; 
 The world's affairs require in managing 
 More arts than those wherein you clerks proceed." 
 
 As in geology, so in social institutions, we may discover 
 
MONDAY 133 
 
 the causes of all past change in the present invariable 
 order of society. The greatest appreciable physical 
 revolutions are the work of the light-footed air, the 
 stealthy-paced water, and the subterranean fire. Aris 
 totle said, "As time never fails, and the universe is eter 
 nal, neither the Tanais nor the Nile can have flowed 
 forever." We are independent of the change we detect. 
 The longer the lever, the less perceptible its motion. 7 
 It is the slowest pulsation which is the most vital. The 
 hero then will know how to wait, as well as to make 
 haste. All good abides with him who waiteth wisely; 
 we shall sooner overtake the dawn by remaining here 
 than by hurrying over the hills of the west. Be assured 
 that every man's success is in proportion to his average 
 ability. The meadow flowers spring and bloom where 
 the waters annually deposit their slime, not where they 
 reach in some freshet only. A man is not his hope, nor 
 his despair, nor yet his past deed. We know not yet what 
 we have done, still less what we are doing. Wait till 
 evening, and other parts of our day's work will shine 
 than we had thought at noon, and we shall discover the 
 real purport of our toil. As when the farmer has reached 
 the end of the furrow and looks back, he can tell best 
 where the pressed earth shines most. 
 
 To one who habitually endeavors to contemplate 
 the true state of things, the political state can hardly 
 be said to have any existence whatever. It is unreal, 
 incredible, and insignificant to him, and for him to 
 endeavor to extract the truth from such lean material 
 is like making sugar from linen rags, when sugar-cane 
 
134 A WEEK 
 
 may be had. Generally speaking, the political news, 
 whether domestic or foreign, might be written to-day 
 for the next ten years with sufficient accuracy. Most 
 revolutions in society have not power to interest, still less 
 alarm us; but tell me that our rivers are drying up, or 
 the genus pine dying out in the country, and I might 
 attend. Most events recorded in history are more re 
 markable than important, like eclipses of the sun and 
 moon, by which all are attracted, but whose effects no 
 one takes the trouble to calculate. 
 
 But will the government never be so well adminis 
 tered, inquired one, that we private men shall hear 
 nothing about it ? " The king answered : At all events, 
 I require a prudent and able man, who is capable of 
 managing the state affairs of my kingdom. The ex- 
 minister said: The criterion, O Sire! of a wise and 
 competent man is, that he will not meddle with such 
 like matters." Alas that the ex-minister should have 
 been so nearly right! 
 
 In my short experience of human life, the outward 
 obstacles, if there were any such, have not been living 
 men, but the institutions of the dead. It is grateful to 
 make one's way through this latest generation as through 
 dewy grass. Men are as innocent as the morning to the 
 unsuspicious. 
 
 "And round about good morrows fly, 
 As if day taught humanity." 
 
 Not being Reve of this Shire, 
 
 "The early pilgrim blythe he hailed, 
 That o'er the hills did stray, 
 And many an early husbandman, 
 That he met on the way;" 
 
MONDAY 135 
 
 thieves and robbers all, nevertheless. I have not so 
 surely foreseen that any Cossack or Chippeway would 
 come to disturb the honest and simple commonwealth, 
 as that some monster institution would at length em 
 brace and crush its free members in its scaly folds; for 
 it is not to be forgotten, that while the law holds fast the 
 thief and murderer, it lets itself go loose. When I have 
 not paid the tax which the State demanded for that 
 protection which I did not want, itself has robbed me; 
 when I have asserted the liberty it presumed to declare, 
 itself has imprisoned me. Poor creature! if it knows 
 no better I will not blame it. If it cannot live but by these 
 means, I can. I do not wish, it happens, to be associated 
 with Massachusetts, either in holding slaves or in con 
 quering Mexico. I am a little better than herself in these 
 respects. As for Massachusetts, that huge she Briareus, 
 Argus, and Colchian Dragon conjoined, set to watch the 
 Heifer of the Constitution and the Golden Fleece, we 
 would not warrant our respect for her, like some com 
 positions, to preserve its qualities through all weathers. 
 Thus it has happened, that not the Arch Fiend himself 
 has been in my way, but these toils which tradition says 
 were originally spun to obstruct him. They are cob 
 webs 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 exe 
 cute nothing so faithfully 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, commonly. They are all 
 
136 A WEEK 
 
 Dudleian; and piety derives its origin still from that 
 exploit of plus ffineas, who bore his father, Anchises, 
 on his shoulders from the ruins of Troy. Or, rather, 
 like some Indian tribes, we bear about with us the 
 mouldering relics of our ancestors on our shoulders. 
 If, for instance, a man asserts the value of individual 
 liberty over the merely political commonweal, his neigh 
 bor still tolerates him, that is, he who is living near him, 
 sometimes even sustains him, but never the State. Its 
 officer, as a living man, may have human virtues and a 
 thought in his brain, but as the tool of an institution, a 
 jailer or constable it may be, he is not a whit superior 
 to his prison key or his staff. Herein is the tragedy: 
 that men doing outrage to their proper natures, even 
 those called wise and good, lend themselves to perform 
 the office of inferior and brutal ones. Hence come war 
 and slavery in; and what else may not come in by this 
 opening? But certainly there are modes by which a 
 man may put bread into his mouth which will not pre 
 judice him as a companion and neighbor. 
 
 "Now turn again, turn again, said the pinder, 
 
 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 be 
 cause 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 
 
MONDAY 137 
 
 head above ground. Better are the physically dead, for 
 they more lively rot. Even virtue is no longer such if it 
 be stagnant. A man's life should be constantly as fresh 
 as this river. It should be the same channel, but a new 
 water every instant. 
 
 "Virtues as rivers pass, 
 But still remains that virtuous man there was." 
 
 Most men have no inclination, no rapids, no cascades, 
 but marshes, and alligators, and miasma instead. We 
 read that when, in the expedition of Alexander, Onesi- 
 critus was sent forward to meet certain of the Indian 
 sect of Gymnosophists, and he had told them of those 
 new philosophers of the West, Pythagoras, Socrates, 
 and Diogenes, and their doctrines, one of them, named 
 Dandamis, answered that "they appeared to him to 
 have been men of genius, but to have lived with too 
 passive a regard for the laws." The philosophers of the 
 West are liable to this rebuke still. "They say that 
 Lieou-hia-hoei and Chao-lien did not sustain to the 
 end their resolutions, and that they dishonored their 
 character. Their language was in harmony with reason 
 and justice; while their acts were in harmony with the 
 sentiments of men." 
 
 Chateaubriand said: "There are two things which 
 grow stronger in the breast of man, in proportion as he 
 advances in years, the love of country and religion. 
 Let them be never so much forgotten in youth, they 
 sooner or later present themselves to us arrayed in all 
 their charms, and excite in the recesses of our hearts an 
 attachment justly due to their beauty." It may be so. 
 But even this infirmity of noble minds marks the gradual 
 
 -\ 
 
138 A WEEK 
 
 decay of youthful hope and faith. It is the allowed in 
 fidelity of age. 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 comparatively a faint and 
 reflected beauty that is admired, not an essential and 
 intrinsic one. It is because the old are weak, feel their 
 mortality, and think that they have measured the 
 strength of man. They will not boast; they will be 
 frank and humble. Well, let them have the few poor 
 comforts they can keep. Humility is still a very human 
 virtue. They look back on life, and so see not into the 
 future. The prospect of the young is forward and un 
 bounded, mingling the future with the present. In the 
 declining day the thoughts make haste to rest in dark 
 ness, and hardly look forward to the ensuing morning. 
 The thoughts of the old prepare for night and slumber. 
 The same hopes and prospects are not for him who 
 stands upon the rosy mountain-tops of life, and him 
 who expects the setting of his earthly day. 
 
 I must conclude that Conscience, if that be the name 
 of it, was not given us for no purpose, or for a 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, 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 abso 
 lutely right is expedient for all. 
 
 1 
 
MONDAY 139 
 
 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, notwithstand 
 ing the edict of King Creon condemning to death that 
 one who should perform this service, which the Greeks 
 deemed so important, for the enemy of his country; but 
 Ismene, who is of a less resolute and noble spirit, de 
 clines taking part with her sister in this work, and says, 
 
 "I, therefore, asking those under the earth to con 
 sider me, that I am compelled to do thus, will obey 
 those who are placed in office; for to do extreme things 
 is not wise." 
 
 Antigone. " I would not ask you, nor would you, if 
 you still wished, do it joyfully with me. Be such as 
 seems good to you. But I will bury him. It is glorious 
 for me doing this to die. I beloved will lie with him be 
 loved, having, like a criminal, done what is holy; since 
 the time is longer which it is necessary for me to please 
 those below, than those here, for there I shall always 
 lie. But if it seems good to you, hold in dishonor things 
 which are honored by the gods." 
 
 Ismene. "I indeed do not hold them in dishonor; 
 but to act in opposition to the citizens I am by nature 
 unable." 
 
 Antigone being at length brought before King Creon, 
 he asks, 
 
 " Did you then dare to transgress these laws ? " 
 
 Antigone. " For it was not Zeus who proclaimed these 
 to me, nor Justice who dwells with the gods below; it 
 was not they who established these laws among men. 
 
140 A WEEK 
 
 Nor did I think that your proclamations were so strong, 
 as, being a mortal, to be able to transcend the unwritten 
 and immovable laws of the gods. For not something 
 now and yesterday, but forever these live, and no one 
 knows from what time they appeared. I was not about 
 to pay the penalty of violating these to the gods, fearing 
 the presumption of any man. For I well knew that I 
 should die, and why not? even if you had not pro 
 claimed it." 
 
 This was concerning the burial of a dead body. 
 
 The wisest conservatism is that of the Hindoos. 
 " Immemorial custom is transcendent law," says Menu. 
 That is, it was the custom of the gods before men used 
 it. The fault of our New England custom is that it is 
 memorial. What is morality but immemorial custom ? 
 Conscience is the chief of conservatives. "Perform 
 the settled functions," says Kreeshna in the Bhagvat- 
 Geeta; "action is preferable to inaction. The journey 
 of thy mortal frame may not succeed from inaction." 
 " A man's own calling, with all its faults, ought not to be 
 forsaken. Every undertaking is involved in its faults 
 as the fire in its smoke." " The man who is acquainted 
 with the whole should not drive those from their works 
 who are slow of comprehension, and less experienced 
 than himself." "Wherefore, O Arjoon, resolve to 
 fight," is the advice of the god to the irresolute soldier 
 who fears to slay his best friends. It is a sublime con 
 servatism; as wide as the world, and as unwearied as 
 time; preserving the universe with Asiatic anxiety, in 
 that state in which it appeared to their minds. These 
 
MONDAY 141 
 
 philosophers dwell on the inevitability and unchange- 
 ableness of laws, on the power of temperament and con 
 stitution, the three goon, or qualities, and the circum 
 stances, or birth and affinity. The end is an immense 
 consolation; eternal absorption in Brahma. Their 
 speculations never venture beyond their own table 
 lands, though they are high and vast as they. Buoy 
 ancy, freedom, flexibility, variety, possibility, which 
 also are qualities of the Unnamed, they deal not with. 
 The undeserved reward is to be earned by an everlasting 
 moral drudgery; the incalculable promise of the mor 
 row is, as it were, weighed. And who will say that their 
 conservatism has not been effectual? "Assuredly," 
 says a French translator, speaking of the antiquity 
 and durability of the Chinese and Indian nations, and 
 of the wisdom of their legislators, " there are some ves 
 tiges of the eternal laws which govern the world." 
 
 Christianity, on the other hand, is humane, prac 
 tical, and, in a large sense, radical. So many years and 
 ages of the gods those Eastern sages sat contemplating 
 Brahm, uttering in silence the mystic "Om," being 
 absorbed into the essence of the Supreme Being, never 
 going out of themselves, but subsiding farther and 
 deeper within; so infinitely wise, yet infinitely stag 
 nant; until, at last, in that same Asia, but in the west 
 ern part of it, appeared a youth, wholly unforetold by 
 them, not being absorbed into Brahm, but bringing 
 Brahm down to earth and to mankind ; in whom Brahm 
 had awaked from his long sleep, and exerted himself, 
 and the day began, a new avatar. The Brahman 
 had never thought to be a brother of mankind as well 
 
142 A WEEK 
 
 as a child of God. Christ is the prince of Reformers 
 and Radicals. Many expressions in the New Testa 
 ment come naturally to the lips of all Protestants, and 
 it furnishes the most pregnant and practical texts. 
 There is no harmless dreaming, no wise speculation in 
 it, but everywhere a substratum of good sense. It never 
 reflects, but it repents. There is no poetry in it, we may 
 say, nothing regarded in the light of beauty merely, but 
 moral truth is its object. All mortals are convicted 
 by its conscience. 
 
 The New Testament is remarkable for its pure 
 morality; the best of the Hindoo Scripture, for its pure 
 intellectuality. The reader is nowhere raised into and 
 sustained in a higher, purer, or rarer region of thought 
 than in the Bhagvat-Geeta. Warren Hastings, in his 
 sensible letter recommending the translation of this 
 book to the Chairman of the East India Company, de 
 clares the original to be " of a sublimity of conception, 
 reasoning, and diction almost unequaled," and that 
 the writings of the Indian philosophers "will survive 
 when the British dominion in India shall have long 
 ceased to exist, and when the sources which it once 
 yielded of wealth and power are lost to remembrance." 
 It is unquestionably one of the noblest and most sacred 
 scriptures which have come down to us. Books are to 
 be distinguished by the grandeur of their topics even 
 more than by the manner in which they are treated. 
 The Oriental philosophy approaches easily loftier 
 themes than the modern aspires to; and no wonder if 
 it sometimes prattle about them. It only assigns their 
 due rank respectively to Action and Contemplation, or 
 
MONDAY 143 
 
 rather does full justice to the latter. Western philoso 
 phers have not conceived of the significance of Con 
 templation 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 no 
 tice, Hastings says : 
 
 "To those who have never been accustomed to the 
 separation of the mind from the notices of the senses, 
 it may not be easy to conceive by what means such a 
 power is to be attained; since even the most studious 
 men of our hemisphere will find it difficult so to re 
 strain their attention, but that it will wander to some 
 object of present sense or recollection; and even the 
 buzzing of a fly will sometimes have the power to 
 disturb it. But if we are told that there have been 
 men who were successively, for ages past, in the daily 
 habit of abstracted contemplation, begun in the earliest 
 period of youth, and continued in many to the matu 
 rity of age, each adding some portion of knowledge 
 to the store accumulated by his predecessors; it is not 
 assuming too much to conclude, that as the mind ever 
 gathers strength, like the body, by exercise, so in such 
 an exercise it may in each have acquired the faculty to 
 which they aspired, and that their collective studies 
 may have led them to the discovery of new tracts and 
 combinations of sentiment, totally different from the 
 doctrines with which the learned of other nations are 
 acquainted; doctrines which, however speculative and 
 subtle, still as they possess the advantage of being de 
 rived from a source so free from every adventitious 
 
144 A WEEK 
 
 mixture, may be equally founded in truth with the most 
 simple of our own." 
 
 "The forsaking of works" was taught by Kreeshna 
 to the most ancient of men, and handed down from 
 age to age, " until at length, in the course of time, the 
 mighty art was lost." 
 
 "In wisdom is to be found every work without ex 
 ception," says Kreeshna. 
 
 "Although thou wert the greatest of all offenders, 
 thou shalt be able to cross the gulf of sin with the 
 bark of wisdom." 
 
 " There is not anything in this world to be compared 
 with wisdom for purity." 
 
 "The action stands at a distance inferior to the ap 
 plication of wisdom." 
 
 The wisdom of a Moonee "is confinned,when, like 
 the tortoise, he can draw in all his members, and re 
 strain them from their wonted purposes." 
 
 "Children only, and not the learned, speak of the 
 speculative and the practical doctrines as two. They 
 are but one. For both obtain the selfsame end, and 
 the place which is gained by the followers of the one 
 is gained by the followers of the other." 
 
 "The man enjoyeth not freedom from action, from 
 the non-commencement of that which he hath to do; 
 nor doth he obtain happiness from a total inactivity. 
 No one ever resteth a moment inactive. Every man is 
 involuntarily urged to act by those principles which 
 are inherent in his nature. The man who restraineth his 
 active faculties, and sitteth down with his mind atten 
 tive to the objects of his senses, is called one of an 
 
MONDAY 145 
 
 astrayed soul, and the practicer of deceit. So the man 
 is praised, who, having subdued all his passions, per- 
 formeth with his active faculties all the functions of 
 life, unconcerned about the event." 
 
 " Let the motive be in the deed and not in the event. 
 Be not one whose motive for action is the hope of re 
 ward. Let not thy life be spent in inaction." 
 
 " For the man who doeth that which he hath to do, 
 without affection, obtaineth the Supreme." 
 
 "He who may behold as it were inaction in action, 
 and action in inaction, is wise amongst mankind. He 
 is a perfect performer of all duty." 
 
 "Wise men call him a Pandeet, whose every under 
 taking is free from the idea of desire, and whose actions 
 are consumed by the fire of wisdom. He abandoneth 
 the desire of a reward of his actions ; he is always con 
 tented and independent; and although he may be en 
 gaged in a work, he as it were doeth nothing." 
 
 " He is both a Yogee and a Sannyasee who perform- 
 eth that which he hath to do independent of the fruit 
 thereof; not he who liveth without the sacrificial fire 
 and without action." 
 
 "He who enjoyeth but the Amreeta which is left of 
 his offerings obtaineth the eternal spirit of Brahm, the 
 Supreme." 
 
 What, after all, does the practicalness of life amount 
 to ? The things immediate to de 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 
 
146 A WEEK 
 
 the wealth of the world, and all the deeds of all the 
 heroes, for one true vision. But how can I communi 
 cate with the gods, who am a pencil-maker on the earth, 
 and not be insane? 
 
 "I am the same to all mankind," says Kreeshna; 
 " there is not one who is worthy of my love or hatred." 
 
 This teaching is not practical in the sense in which 
 the New Testament is. It is not always sound sense in 
 practice. The Brahman never proposes courageously 
 to assault evil, but patiently to starve it out. His active 
 faculties are paralyzed by the idea of caste, of impassa 
 ble limits of destiny and the tyranny of time. Kreeshna's 
 argument, it must be allowed, is defective. No sufficient 
 /treason is given why Arjoon should fight. Arjoon may 
 be convinced, but the reader is not, for his judgment 
 is not "formed upon the speculative doctrines of the 
 Sankhya Sastra" "Seek an asylum in wisdom alone;" 
 but what is wisdom to a Western mind ? The duty of 
 which he speaks is an arbitrary one. When was it es 
 tablished ? 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 " set 
 tled functions"? What is "a man's own religion," 
 which is so much better than another's ? What is " a 
 man's own particular calling"? What are the duties 
 which are appointed by one's birth ? It is a 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 conse 
 quences of their actions are not therefore unconcerned 
 about their actions. 
 
MONDAY 147 
 
 Behold the difference between the Oriental and the 
 Occidental. The former has nothing to do in this world ; 
 the latter is full of activity. The one looks in the sun 
 till his eyes are put out ; the other follows him prone in 
 his westward course. There is such a thing as caste, 
 even in the West; but it is comparatively faint; it is 
 conservatism here. It says, forsake not your calling, 
 outrage no institution, use no violence, rend no bonds; 
 the State is thy parent. Its virtue or manhood is wholly 
 filial. There is a struggle between the Oriental and 
 Occidental in every nation; some who would be for 
 ever contemplating the sun, and some who are hasten 
 ing 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." 
 
 To conclude these extracts, I can say, in the words 
 of Sanjay, "As, O mighty Prince! I recollect again 
 and again this holy and wonderful dialogue of Kreeshna 
 and Arjoon, I continue more and more to rejoice; and 
 as I recall to my memory the more than miraculous 
 form of Haree, my astonishment is great, and I marvel 
 and rejoice again and again! Wherever Kreeshna the 
 God of devotion may be, wherever Arjoon the mighty 
 bowman may be, there too, without doubt, are fortune, 
 riches, victory, and good conduct. This is my firm be 
 lief." 
 
 I would say to the readers of Scriptures, if they wish 
 
148 A WEEK 
 
 for a good book, read the Bhagvat-Geeta, an episode 
 to the Mahabharat, said to have been written by 
 Kreeshna Dwypayen Veias, known to have been 
 
 written by , more than four thousand years ago, 
 
 it matters not whether three or four, or when, trans 
 lated by Charles Wilkins. It deserves to be read with 
 reverence even by Yankees, as a part of the sacred 
 writings of a devout people ; and the intelligent Hebrew 
 will rejoice to find in it a moral grandeur and sublimity 
 akin to those of his own Scriptures. 
 
 To an American reader, who, by the advantage of 
 his position, can see over that strip of Atlantic coast to 
 Asia and the Pacific, who, as it were, sees the shore 
 slope upward over the Alps to the Himmaleh Moun 
 tains, the comparatively recent literature of Europe 
 often appears partial and clannish; and, notwithstand 
 ing the limited range of his own sympathies and studies, 
 the European writer who presumes that he is speaking 
 for the world is perceived by him to speak only for that 
 corner of it which he inhabits. One of the rarest of 
 England's scholars and critics, in his classification of 
 the worthies of the world, betrays the narrowness of his 
 European culture and the exclusiveness of his reading. 
 None of her children has done justice to the poets and 
 philosophers of Persia or of India. They have even 
 been better known to her merchant scholars than to 
 her poets and thinkers by profession. You may look in 
 vain through English poetry for a single memorable 
 verse inspired by these themes. Nor is Germany to 
 be excepted, though her philological industry is indi 
 rectly serving the cause of philosophy and poetry. Even 
 
MONDAY 149 
 
 Goethe wanted that universality of genius which could 
 have appreciated the philosophy of India, if he had 
 more nearly approached it. His genius was more prac 
 tical, dwelling much more in the regions of the under 
 standing, and was less native to contemplation than 
 the genius of those sages. It is remarkable that Homer 
 and a few Hebrews are the most Oriental names which 
 modern Europe, whose literature has taken its rise since f ^ 
 the decline of the Persian, has admitted into her list of 
 Worthies, and perhaps the worthiest of mankind, and 
 the fathers of modern thinking, for the contempla 
 tions of those Indian sages have influenced, and still 
 influence, the intellectual development of mankind, 
 whose works even yet survive in wonderful complete- j 
 ness, are, for the most part, not recognized as ever hav 
 ing existed. If the lions had been the painters, it would 
 have been otherwise. In every one's youthful dreams, 
 philosophy is still vaguely but inseparably, and with 
 singular truth, associated with the East, nor do after 
 years discover its local habitation in the Western world. 
 In comparison with the philosophers of the East, we 
 may say that modern Europe has yet given birth to 
 none. Beside the vast and cosmogonal philosophy of 
 the Bhagvat-Geeta, even our Shakespeare seems some 
 times youthfully green and practical merely. Some of, 
 these sublime sentences, as the Chaldsean oracles of 
 Zoroaster, still surviving after a thousand revolutions 
 and translations, alone make us doubt if the poetic 
 form and dress are not transitory, and not essential to 
 the most effective and enduring expression of thought. 
 Ex oriente lux may still be the motto of scholars, for 
 
150 A WEEK 
 
 the Western world has not yet derived from the East 
 all the light which it is destined to receive thence. 
 
 It would be worthy of the age to print together the 
 collected Scriptures or Sacred Writings of the several 
 nations, the Chinese, the Hindoos, the Persians, the 
 Hebrews, and others, as the Scripture of mankind. 
 The New Testament is still, perhaps, too much on the 
 lips and in the hearts of men to be called a Scripture in 
 this sense. Such a juxtaposition and comparison might 
 help to liberalize the faith of men. This is a work which 
 Time will surely edit, reserved to crown the labors of 
 the printing-press. This would be the Bible, or Book 
 of Books, which let the missionaries carry to the utter 
 most parts of the earth. 
 
 While engaged in these reflections, thinking ourselves 
 the only navigators of these waters, suddenly a canal- 
 boat, with its sail set, glided round a point before us, 
 like some huge river beast, and changed the scene in an 
 instant; and then another and another glided into sight, 
 and we found ourselves in the current of commerce once 
 more. So we threw our rinds in the water for the fishes 
 to nibble, and added our breath to the life of living men. 
 Little did we think, in the distant garden in which we 
 had planted the seed and reared this fruit, where it 
 would be eaten. Our melons lay at home on the sandy 
 bottom of the Merrimack, and our potatoes in the sun 
 and water at the bottom of the boat looked like a fruit 
 of the country. Soon, however, we were delivered from 
 this fleet of junks, and possessed the river in solitude, 
 once more rowing steadily upward through the noon, 
 
MONDAY 161 
 
 between the territories of Nashua on the one hand and 
 Hudson, once Nottingham, on the other. From time 
 to time we scared up a kingfisher or a summer duck, 
 the former flying rather by vigorous impulses than by 
 steady and patient steering with that short rudder of 
 his, sounding his rattle along the fluvial street. 
 
 Ere long another scow hove in sight, creeping down 
 the river; and hailing it, we attached ourselves to its 
 side, and floated back in company, chatting with the 
 boatmen, and obtaining a draught of cooler water from 
 their jug. They appeared to be green hands from far 
 among the hills, who had taken this means to get to the 
 seaboard, and see the world; and would possibly visit 
 the Falkland Isles, and the China seas, before they 
 again saw the waters of the Merrimack, or, perchance, 
 they would not return this way forever. They had al 
 ready embarked the private interests of the landsman 
 in the larger venture of the race, and were ready to mess 
 with mankind, reserving only the till of a chest to them 
 selves. But they too were soon lost behind a point, and 
 we went croaking on our way alone. What grievance 
 has its root among the New Hampshire hills? we 
 asked; what is wanting to human life here, that these 
 men should make haste to the antipodes ? We prayed 
 that their bright anticipations might not be rudely dis 
 appointed. 
 
 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 hi every place. 
 
153 A WEEK 
 
 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, be 
 tween Tyngsborough and Hudson, which was inter 
 esting and even refreshing to our eyes in the midst of 
 the almost universal greenness. This sand was indeed 
 somewhat impressive and beautiful to us. A very old 
 inhabitant, who was at work in a field on the Nashua 
 side, told us that he remembered when corn and grain 
 grew there, and it was a cultivated field. But at length 
 the fishermen for this was a fishing-place pulled up 
 the bushes on the shore, for greater convenience in 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 pre 
 served in the sand. The surrounding sand was sprinkled 
 
MONDAY 153 
 
 with other burnt stones on which their fires had been 
 built, as well as with flakes of arrowhead stone, and we 
 found one perfect arrowhead. In one place we noticed 
 where an Indian had sat to manufacture arrowheads 
 out of quartz, and the sand was sprinkled with a quart 
 of small glass-like chips about as big as a fourpence, 
 which he had broken off in his work. Here, then, the 
 Indians must have fished before the whites arrived. 
 There was another similar sandy tract about half a mile 
 above this. 
 
 Still the noon prevailed, and we turned the prow 
 aside to bathe, and recline ourselves under some button- 
 woods, by a ledge of rocks, in a retired pasture sloping to 
 the water's edge and skirted with pines and hazels, in 
 the town of Hudson. Still had India, and that old 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 Darfour. It is a comment on the flow and freshet 
 of modern books. The reader leaps from sentence to 
 sentence, as from one stepping-stone to another, while 
 the stream of the story rushes past unregarded. The 
 Bhagvat-Geeta is less sententious and poetic, perhaps, 
 
154 A WEEK 
 
 but still more wonderfully sustained and developed. 
 Its sanity and sublimity have impressed the minds even 
 of soldiers and merchants. It is the characteristic of 
 great poems that they will yield of their sense in due 
 proportion to the hasty and the deliberate reader. To the 
 practical they will be common sense, and to the wise 
 wisdom; as either the 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 com 
 positions deduced from it, the revealed system of medi 
 cine, the Puranas or sacred histories, and the code of 
 Menu, were four works of supreme authority, which 
 ought never to be shaken by arguments merely human." 
 The last is believed by the Hindoos "to have been 
 promulged in the beginning of time, by Menu, son or 
 grandson of Brahma," and "first of created beings;" 
 and Brahma is said to have " taught his laws to Menu in 
 a hundred thousand verses, which Menu explained to 
 the primitive world in the very words of the book now 
 translated." Others affirm that they have undergone 
 successive abridgments for the convenience of mortals, 
 " while the gods of the lower heaven and the band of 
 celestial musicians are engaged in studying the primary 
 code." "A number of glosses or comments on Menu 
 were composed by the Munis, or old philosophers, whose 
 treatises, together with that before us, constitute the 
 Dherma Sastra, in a collective sense, or Body of Law." 
 Culluca Bhatta was one of the more modern of these. 
 
 
MONDAY 155 
 
 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 offensive nor ridiculous. 
 Compare the modes in which modern literature is adver 
 tised with the prospectus of this book, and think what a 
 reading public it addresses, what criticism it expects. It 
 seems to have been uttered from some eastern summit, 
 with a sober morning prescience in the dawn of time, 
 and you cannot read a sentence without being elevated 
 as upon the table-land of the Ghauts. It has such a 
 rhythm as the winds of the desert, such a tide as the 
 Ganges, and is as superior to criticism as the Himmaleh 
 Mountains. Its tone is of such unrelaxed fibre that even 
 at this late day, unworn by time, it wears the English 
 and the Sanskrit dress indifferently; and its fixed sen 
 tences keep up their distant fires still, like the stars, by 
 whose dissipated rays this lower world is illumined. The 
 whole book by noble gestures and inclinations renders 
 many words unnecessary. English sense has toiled, but 
 Hindoo wisdom never perspired. Though the sentences 
 open as we read them, unexpensively, and at first almost 
 unmeaningly, as the petals of a flower, they sometimes 
 startle us with that rare kind of wisdom which could 
 
156 A WEEK 
 
 only have been learned from the most trivial experience ; 
 but it comes to us as refined as the porcelain earth which 
 subsides to the bottom of the ocean. They are clean and 
 dry as fossil truths, which have been exposed to the 
 elements for thousands of years, so impersonally and 
 scientifically true that they are the ornament of the 
 parlor and the cabinet. Any moral philpsophy is exceed 
 ingly 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 proto 
 types in the thoughts of her philosophers. We are dab 
 bling in the very elements of our present conventional 
 and actual life; as if it were the primeval conventicle, 
 where how to eat, and to drink, and to sleep, and main 
 tain life with adequate dignity and sincerity, were the 
 questions to be decided. It is later and more intimate 
 with us even than the advice of our nearest friends. And 
 yet it is true for the widest horizon, and read out of doors 
 has relation to the dim mountain line, and is native and 
 aboriginal there. Most books belong to the house and 
 street only, and in the fields their leaves feel very thin. 
 They are bare and obvious, and have no halo nor haze 
 about them. Nature lies far and fair behind them all. 
 But this, as it proceeds from, so it addresses, what is 
 deepest and most abiding in man. It belongs to the 
 noontide of the day, the midsummer of the year, and 
 after the snows have melted, and the waters evaporated 
 in the spring, still its truth speaks freshly to our experi- 
 
MONDAY 157 
 
 ence. It helps the sun to shine, and his rays fall on its 
 page to illustrate it. It spends the mornings and the even 
 ings, and makes such an impression on us overnight 
 as to awaken us before dawn, and its influence lingers 
 around us like a fragrance late into the day. It conveys 
 a new gloss to the meadows and the depths of the wood, 
 and its spirit, like a more subtile ether, sweeps along 
 with the prevailing winds of a country. The very locusts 
 and crickets of a summer day are but later or earlier 
 glosses on the Dherma Sastra of the Hindoos, a continu 
 ation 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 more practical wisdom of mod 
 ern times, they are the oracles of a race already in its 
 dotage ; but held up to the sky, which is the only impar 
 tial 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 under 
 stand. There must be a kind of life and palpitation to it, 
 and under its words a kind of blood must circulate for 
 ever. 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 earshot 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 
 
158 A WEEK 
 
 it is distinctly shown to these woods as if its image had 
 traveled hither from eternity. Perhaps these old stumps 
 upon the knoll remember when anciently this lake 
 gleamed in the horizon. One wonders if the bare earth 
 itself did not experience emotion at beholding again so 
 fair a prospect. That fair water lies there in the sun thus 
 revealed, so much the prouder and fairer because its 
 beauty needed not to be seen. It seems yet lonely, suffi 
 cient to itself and superior to observation. So are these 
 old sentences like serene lakes in the southwest, at length 
 revealed to us, which have so long been reflecting our 
 own sky in their bosom. 
 
 The great plain of India lies as in a cup between the 
 Himmaleh and the ocean on the north and south, and 
 the Brahmapootra and Indus on the east and west, 
 wherein the primeval race was received. We will not 
 dispute the story. We are pleased to read in the nat 
 ural history of the country, of the " pine, larch, spruce, 
 and silver fir," which cover the southern face of the 
 Himmaleh range; of the "gooseberry, raspberry, straw 
 berry," which from an imminent temperate zone over 
 look the torrid plains. So did this active modern life 
 have even then a foothold and lurking-place in the 
 midst of the stateliness and contemplativeness of those 
 Eastern plains. In another era the "lily of the valley, 
 cowslip, dandelion " were to work their way down into 
 the plain, and bloom in a level zone of their own reaching 
 round the earth. Already has the era of the temperate 
 zone arrived, the era of the pine and the oak, for the 
 palm and the banian do not supply the wants of this age. 
 The lichens on the summits of the rocks will perchance 
 find their level ere long. 
 
MONDAY 159 
 
 As for the tenets of the Brahmans, we are not so much 
 concerned to know what doctrines they held, as that 
 they were held by any. We can tolerate all philosophies, 
 Atomists, Pneumatologists, Atheists, Theists, Plato, 
 Aristotle, Leucippus, Democritus, Pythagoras, 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 dispute. But if it comes to this, 
 that you compare notes, then you are all wrong. As it is, 
 each takes us up into the serene heavens, whither the 
 smallest bubble rises as surely as the largest, and paints 
 earth and sky for us. Any sincere thought is irresistible. 
 The very austerity of the Brahmans is tempting to the 
 devotional soul, as a more refined and nobler luxury. 
 Wants so easily and gracefully satisfied seem like a more 
 refined pleasure. Their conception of creation is peace 
 ful as a dream. " When that power awakes, then has this 
 world its full expansion; but when he slumbers with a 
 tranquil spirit, then the whole system fades away." In 
 the very indistinctness of their theogony a sublime truth 
 is implied. It hardly allows the reader to rest in any 
 supreme first cause, but directly it hints at a supremer 
 still which created the last, and the Creator is still be 
 hind increate. 
 
 Nor will we disturb the antiquity of this Scripture, 
 " From fire, from air, and from the sun," it was " milked 
 out." One might as well investigate the chronology of 
 light and heat. Let the sun shine. Menu understood this 
 matter best, when he said, " Those best know the divisions 
 of days and nights who understand that the day of 
 
160 A WEEK 
 
 Brahma, which endures to the end of a thousand such 
 ages [infinite ages, nevertheless, according to mortal 
 reckoning], gives rise to virtuous exertions; and that his 
 night endures as long as his day." Indeed, the Mussul 
 man and Tartar dynasties are beyond all dating. Me- 
 thinks I have lived under them myself. In every man's 
 brain is the Sanskrit. The Vedas and their Angas are 
 not so ancient as serene contemplation. Why will we be 
 imposed on by antiquity ? Is the babe young ? When I 
 behold it, it seems more venerable than the oldest man ; 
 it is more ancient than Nestor or the Sibyls, and bears 
 the wrinkles of father Saturn himself. And do we live 
 but in the present ? How broad a line is that ? I sit now 
 on a stump whose rings number centuries of growth. If 
 I look around I see that the soil is composed of the 
 remains of just such stumps, ancestors to this. The 
 earth is covered with mould. I thrust this stick many 
 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 but 
 the oldest made visible to our senses. When we dig up 
 the soil from a thousand feet below the surface, we call 
 it new, and the plants which spring from it; and when 
 our vision pierces deeper into space, and detects a 
 
MONDAY 161 
 
 remoter star, we call that new also. The place where 
 we sit is called Hudson, once it was Nottingham, 
 once 
 
 We should read history as little critically as we con 
 sider the landscape, and be more interested by the 
 atmospheric tints and various lights and shades which 
 the intervening spaces create than by its groundwork and 
 composition. It is the morning now turned evening and 
 seen in the west, the same sun, but a new light and 
 atmosphere. Its beauty is like the sunset; not a fresco 
 painting on a wall, flat and bounded, but atmospheric 
 and roving or free. In reality, history fluctuates as the 
 face of the landscape from morning to evening. What is 
 of moment is its hue and color. Time hides no treasures; 
 we want not its then, but its now. We do not complain 
 that the mountains in the horizon are blue and indis 
 tinct; they are the more like the heavens. 
 
 Of what moment are facts that can be lost, which 
 need to be commemorated ? The monument of death 
 will outlast the memory of the dead. The Pyramids do 
 not tell the tale which was confided to them ; the living 
 fact commemorates itself. Why look in the dark for 
 light ? Strictly speaking, the historical societies have 
 not recovered one fact from oblivion, but are them 
 selves instead of the fact that is lost. The researcher 
 is more memorable than the researched. The crowd 
 stood admiring the mist and the dim outlines of the trees 
 seen through it, when one of their number advanced to 
 explore the phenomenon, and with fresh admiration all 
 eyes were turned on his dimly retreating figure. It is 
 
162 A WEEK 
 
 astonishing with how little cooperation 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 hi which all history be 
 gan, in Alwakidis' Arabian Chronicle: " I was informed 
 by Ahmed Almatin Aljorhami, who had it from Rephaa 
 Ebn Kais Aldmiri, who had it from Saiph Ebn 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 expected that the dead would be his 
 readers, and wished to detail to them their own expe 
 rience. Men seem anxious to accomplish an orderly 
 retreat through the centuries, earnestly rebuilding the 
 works behind, as they are battered down by the en 
 croachments of time; but while they loiter, they and 
 
MONDAY 163 
 
 their works both fall a prey to the arch enemy. History 
 has neither the venerableness of antiquity, nor the fresh 
 ness 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 pre 
 sence of this luminary, we excerpt and modernize it. As 
 when we read in the history of the Saxons that Edwin of 
 Northumbria " caused stakes to be fixed in the highways 
 where he had seen a clear spring," and "brazen dishes 
 were chained to them to refresh the weary sojourner, 
 whose fatigues Edwin had himself experienced." This 
 is worth all Arthur's twelve battles. 
 
 "Thro' 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 ! 
 
 Biography, too, is liable to the same objection; it 
 should be autobiography. Let us not, as the Germans 
 advise, endeavor to go abroad and vex our bowels that 
 we may be somebody else to explain him. If I am not I, 
 who will be ? 
 
 But it is fit that the Past should be dark; though 
 the darkness is not so much a quality of the past as of 
 tradition. It is not a distance of time, but a distance of 
 relation, which makes thus dusky its memorials. What 
 
164 A WEEK 
 
 is near to the heart of this generation is fair and bright 
 still. Greece lies outspread fair and sunshiny in floods 
 of light, for there is the sun and daylight in her literature 
 and art. Homer does not allow us to forget that the sun 
 shone, nor Phidias, nor the Parthenon. Yet no era 
 has been wholly dark, nor will we too hastily submit to 
 the historian, and congratulate ourselves on a blaze of 
 light. If we could pierce the obscurity of those remote 
 years, we should find it light enough; only there is not 
 our day. Some creatures are made to see in the dark. 
 There has always been the same amount of light in the 
 world. The new and missing stars, the comets and 
 eclipses, do not affect the general illumination, for only 
 our glasses appreciate them. The eyes of the oldest 
 fossil remains, they tell us, indicate that the same laws 
 of light prevailed then as now. Always the laws of light 
 are the same, but the modes and degrees of seeing vary. 
 The gods are partial to no era, but steadily shines their 
 light in the heavens, while the eye of the beholder is 
 turned to stone. There was but the sun and the eye 
 from the first. The ages have not added a new ray to the 
 one, nor altered a fibre of the other. 
 
 If we will admit time into our thoughts at all, the 
 mythologies, those vestiges of ancient poems, wrecks 
 of poems, so to speak, the world's inheritance, still 
 reflecting some of their original splendor, like the frag 
 ments 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, 
 
MONDAY 165 
 
 As buoyant on the stormy main 
 A parted wreck appears," 
 
 these are the materials and hints for a history of the 
 rise and progress of the race; how, from the condition 
 of ants, it arrived at the condition of men, and arts were 
 gradually invented. Let a thousand surmises shed some 
 light on this story. We will not be confined by historical, 
 even geological periods which would allow us to doubt 
 of a progress in human affairs. If we rise above this wis 
 dom for the day, we shall expect that this morning of the 
 race, in which it has been supplied with the simplest 
 necessaries, with corn, and wine, and honey, and oil, 
 and fire, and articulate speech, and agricultural and 
 other arts, reared up by degrees from the condition of 
 ants to men, will be succeeded by a day of equally pro 
 gressive 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 com 
 panion slumbered on the bank. Suddenly a boatman's 
 horn was heard echoing from shore to shore, to give 
 notice of his approach to the farmer's wife with whom 
 he was to take his dinner, though in that place only 
 muskrats and kingfishers seemed to hear. The current 
 of our reflections and our slumbers being thus disturbed, 
 we weighed anchor once more. 
 
 As we proceeded on our way in the afternoon, the 
 western bank became lower, or receded farther from the 
 channel in some places, leaving a few trees only to fringe 
 

 166 A WEEK 
 
 the water's edge; while the eastern rose abruptly here 
 and there into wooded hills fifty or sixty feet high. The 
 bass (Tilia Americana), also called the lime or linden, 
 which was a new tree to us, overhung the water with its 
 broad and rounded leaf, interspersed with clusters of 
 small hard berries now nearly ripe, and made an agree 
 able 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, light 
 ness, 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 pre 
 ferred to any other. Its leaves are in some countries 
 given to cattle, a kind of chocolate has been made of its 
 fruit, a medicine has been prepared from an infusion of 
 its flowers, and finally, the charcoal made of its wood is 
 greatly valued for gunpowder. 
 
 The sight of this tree reminded us that we had 
 reached a strange land to us. As we sailed under this 
 canopy of leaves, we saw the sky through its chinks, and, 
 as it were, the meaning and idea of the tree stamped in 
 a thousand hieroglyphics on the heavens. The universe 
 
MONDAY 167 
 
 is so aptly fitted to our organization that the eye wanders 
 and reposes at the same time. On every side there is 
 something to soothe and refresh this sense. Look up at 
 the tree-tops, and see how finely Nature finishes off her 
 work there. See how the pines spire without end higher 
 and higher, and make a graceful fringe to the earth. 
 And who shall count the finer cobwebs that soar and 
 float away from their utmost post, and the myriad insects 
 that dodge between them ? Leaves are of more various 
 forms than the alphabets of all languages put together; 
 of the oaks alone there are hardly two alike, and each 
 expresses its own character. 
 
 In all her products, Nature only develops her simplest 
 germs. One would say that it was no great stretch of 
 invention to create birds. The hawk which now takes 
 his flight over the top of the wood was at first, perchance, 
 only a leaf which fluttered in its aisles. From rustling 
 leaves she came in the course of ages to the loftier flight 
 and clear carol of the bird. 
 
 Salmon Brook comes in from the west under the rail 
 road, 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 abun 
 dant here, and pointed to some sunken creels at its 
 mouth. This man's memory and imagination were fer 
 tile 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 
 
168 A WEEK 
 
 meadows, but only touched their margin with our 
 hands, we still retain a pleasant memory of them. 
 
 Salmon Brook, whose name is said to be a translation 
 from the Indian, was a favorite haunt of the aborigines. 
 Here, too, the first white settlers of Nashua planted, and 
 some dents in the earth where their houses stood and the 
 wrecks of ancient apple trees are still visible. About one 
 mile up this stream stood the house of old John Love- 
 well, who was an ensign in the army of Oliver Cromwell, 
 and the father of "famous Captain Lovewell." He set 
 tled here before 1690, and died about 1754, at the age 
 of one hundred and twenty years. He is thought to have 
 been engaged in the famous Narragansett swamp fight, 
 which took place in 1675, before he came here. The 
 Indians are said to have spared him in succeeding wars 
 on account of his kindness to them. Even in 1700 he 
 was so old and gray-headed that his scalp was worth 
 nothing, since the French governor offered no bounty for 
 such. I have stood in the dent of his cellar on the bank 
 of the brook, and talked there with one whose grandfa 
 ther had whose father might have talked with Love- 
 well. Here also he had a mill in his old age, and kept a 
 small store. He was remembered by some who were 
 recently living, as a hale old man who drove the boys out 
 of his orchard with his cane. Consider the triumphs of 
 the mortal man, and what poor trophies it would have 
 to show, to wit: He cobbled shoes without glasses at a 
 hundred, and cut a handsome swath at a hundred and 
 five ! Lovewell's house is said to have been the first 
 which Mrs. Dustan reached on her escape from the 
 Indians. Here, probably, the hero of Pequawket was 
 
MONDAY 169 
 
 born and bred. Close by may be seen the cellar and 
 the gravestone of Joseph Hassell, who, as is elsewhere 
 recorded, with his wife Anna, and son Benjamin, and 
 Mary Marks, "were slain by our Indian enemies on 
 September 2, [1691], in the evening." As Gookin 
 observed on a previous occasion, "The Indian rod upon 
 the English backs had not yet done God's errand." 
 Salmon Brook near its mouth is still a solitary stream, 
 meandering through woods and meadows, while the 
 then uninhabited mouth of the Nashua now resounds 
 with the din of a manufacturing town. 
 
 A stream from Otternic Pond in Hudson comes in just 
 above Salmon Brook, on the opposite side. There was 
 a good view of Uncannunuc, the most conspicuous 
 mountain in these parts, from the bank here, seen rising 
 over the west end of the bridge above. We soon after 
 passed the village of Nashua, on the river of the same 
 name, where there is a covered bridge over the Mem- 
 mack. The Nashua, which is one of the largest tribu 
 taries, flows from Wachusett Mountain, through Lan 
 caster, Groton, and other towns, where it has formed 
 well-known elm-shaded meadows, but near its mouth 
 it is obstructed by falls and factories, and did not tempt 
 us to explore it. 
 
 Far away from here, in Lancaster, with another 
 companion, I have crossed the broad valley of the 
 Nashua, over which we had so long looked westward 
 from the Concord hills without seeing it to the blue 
 mountains in the horizon. So many streams, so many 
 meadows and woods and quiet dwellings of men had 
 lain concealed between us and those Delectable Moun- 
 
170 A WEEK 
 
 tains; from yonder hill on the road to Tyngsborough 
 you may get a good view of them. There where it seemed 
 uninterrupted forest to our youthful eyes, between two 
 neighboring pines in the horizon, lay the valley of the 
 Nashua, and this very stream was even then winding at 
 its bottom, and then, as now, it was here silently min 
 gling 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 jour 
 ney 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 indis 
 tinctness lent a grandeur not their own, so that they 
 served to interpret 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; 
 
 Firm argument that never stirs, 
 
 Outcircling the philosophers, 
 
 Like some vast fleet, 
 
 Sailing through rain and sleet, 
 
 Through winter's cold and summer's heat; 
 
 Still holding on upon your high emprise, 
 Until ye find a shore amid the skies; 
 Not skulking close to land, 
 With cargo contraband, 
 
MONDAY 171 
 
 For they who sent a venture out by ye 
 
 Have set the Sun to see 
 
 Their honesty. 
 
 Ships of the line, each one, 
 
 Ye westward run, 
 
 Convoying clouds, 
 
 Which cluster in your shrouds, 
 
 Always before the gale, 
 
 Under a press of sail, 
 
 With weight of metal all untold, 
 
 I seem to feel ye in my firm seat here, 
 
 Immeasurable depth of hold, 
 
 And breadth of beam, and length of running gear. 
 
 Methinks ye take luxurious pleasure 
 
 In your novel Western leisure; 
 
 So cool your brows and freshly blue, 
 
 As Time had naught for ye to do: 
 
 For ye lie at your length, 
 
 An unappropriated strength, 
 
 Unhewn primeval timber, 
 
 For knees so stiff, for masts so limber; 
 
 The stock of which new earths are made, 
 
 One day to be our Western trade, 
 
 Fit for the stanchions of a world 
 
 Which through the seas of space is hurled. 
 
 While we enjoy a lingering ray, 
 
 Ye still o'ertop the western day, 
 
 Reposing yonder on God's croft 
 
 Like solid stacks of hay; 
 
 So bold a line as ne'er was writ 
 
 On any page by human wit; 
 
 The forest glows as if 
 
 An enemy's camp-fires shone 
 
 Along the horizon, 
 
 Or the day's funeral pyre 
 
 Were lighted there; 
 
172 A WEEK 
 
 Edged with silver and with gold, 
 
 The clouds hang o'er in damask fold, 
 
 And with such depth of amber light 
 
 The west is dight, 
 
 Where still a few rays slant, 
 
 That even Heaven seems extravagant. 
 
 Watatic Hill 
 
 Lies on the horizon's sill 
 
 Like a child's toy left overnight, 
 
 And other duds to left and right, 
 
 On the earth's edge, mountains and trees 
 
 Stand as they were on air graven, 
 
 Or as the vessels in a haven 
 
 Await the morning breeze. 
 
 I fancy even 
 
 Through your defiles windeth the way to heaven; 
 
 And yonder still, in spite of history's page, 
 
 Linger the golden and the silver age; 
 
 Upon the laboring gale 
 
 The news of future centuries is brought, 
 
 And of new dynasties of thought, 
 
 From your remotest vale. 
 
 But special I remember thee, 
 
 Wachusett, who like me 
 
 Standest alone without society. 
 
 Thy far blue eye, 
 
 A remnant of the sky, 
 
 Seen through the clearing or the gorge, 
 
 Or from the windows of the forge, 
 
 Doth leaven all it passes by. 
 
 Nothing is true 
 
 But stands 'tween me and you, 
 
 Thou Western pioneer, 
 
 Who know'st not shame nor fear, 
 
 By venturous spirit driven 
 
 Under the eaves of heaven; 
 
 And canst expand thee there, 
 
MONDAY 173 
 
 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 fairyland would 
 exist for us. But it would be long to tell of our adven 
 tures, 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 wil 
 derness, and have passed a night on the summit of many 
 of them. And now, when we look again westward from 
 our native hills, Wachusett and Monadnock have re 
 treated once more among the blue and fabulous moun 
 tains 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 
 
174 A WEEK 
 
 forests between this frontier and Canada. In September 
 of that year, two men who were engaged in making tur 
 pentine on that side for such were the first enterprises 
 in the wilderness were taken captive and carried to 
 Canada by a party of thirty Indians. Ten of the inhab 
 itants 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 Tyngs- 
 borough, 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, flourish 
 ing 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. Per 
 haps there was more than one barrel. However this may 
 have been, the scouts knew by marks on the trees, made 
 with coal mixed with grease, that the men were not 
 killed, but taken prisoners. One of the company, named 
 Farwell, perceiving that the turpentine had not done 
 spreading, concluded that the Indians had been gone 
 but a short time, and they accordingly went in instant 
 pursuit. Contrary to the advice of Farwell, following 
 directly on their trail up the Merrimack, they fell into an 
 ambuscade near Thornton's Ferry, in the present town 
 of Merrimack, and nine were killed, only one, Farwell, 
 escaping after a vigorous pursuit. The men of Dun- 
 stable 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, 
 
MONDAY 175 
 
 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 church 
 yard at Dunstable, under the " Memento Mori," and the 
 name of one of them, how they " departed this life," and 
 
 "This man with seven more that lies in 
 
 this grave was slew all in a day by 
 
 the Indians." 
 
 The stones of some others of the company stand around 
 the common grave with their separate inscriptions. 
 Eight were buried here, but nine were killed, according 
 to the best authorities. 
 
 "Gentle river, gentle river, 
 
 Lo, thy streams are stained with gore, 
 Many a brave and noble captain 
 Floats along thy willowed shore. 
 
 "All beside thy limpid waters, 
 
 All beside thy sands so bright, 
 Indian Chiefs and Christian warriors 
 Joined in fierce and mortal fight." 
 
 It is related in the History of Dunstable that on the 
 return of Farwell the Indians were engaged by a fresh 
 party, which they compelled to retreat, and pursued as 
 far as the Nashua, where they fought across the stream 
 at its mouth. After the departure of the Indians, the 
 figure of an Indian's head was found carved by them on 
 a large tree by the shore, which circumstance has given 
 its name to this part of the village of Nashville, the 
 " Indian Head." " It was observed by some judicious," 
 says Gookin, referring to Philip's War, "that at the 
 
176 A WEEK 
 
 beginning of the war the English soldiers made a 
 / nothing of the Indians, and many spake words to this 
 effect, that one Englishman was sufficient to chase ten 
 Indians ; many reckoned it was no other but Veni, vidi, 
 vici" But we may conclude that the judicious would by 
 this time have made a different observation. 
 
 Farwell appears to have been the only one who had 
 studied his profession, and understood the business of 
 hunting Indians. He lived to fight another day, for the 
 next year he was 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 twilight days 
 and forest scouts on Indian trails, with an uneasy scalp ; 
 an indispensable hero to New England. As the more 
 recent poet of Lovewell's fight has sung, halting a little 
 but bravely still, 
 
 "Then did the crimson streams that flowed 
 
 Seem like the waters of the brook, 
 
 That brightly shine, that loudly dash, 
 
 Far down the cliffs of Agiochook." 
 
 These battles sound incredible to us. I think that 
 posterity will doubt if such things ever were, if our 
 bold ancestors who settled this land were not struggling 
 rather with the forest shadows, and not with a copper- 
 colored race of men. They were vapors, fever and ague 
 of the unsettled woods. Now, only a few arrowheads 
 are turned up by the plow. In the Pelasgic, the Etrus 
 can, or the British story, there is nothing so shadowy 
 and unreal. 
 
 It is a wild and antiquated looking graveyard, over- 
 
MONDAY 177 
 
 grown with bushes, on the highroad, about a quarter 
 of a mile from and overlooking the Merrimack, with a 
 deserted mill-stream bounding it on one side, where lie 
 the earthly remains of the ancient inhabitants of Dun- 
 stable. We passed it three or four miles below here. You 
 may read there the names of Lovewell, Farwell, and 
 many others whose families were distinguished in Indian 
 warfare. We noticed there two large masses of granite 
 more than a foot thick and rudely squared, lying flat on 
 the ground over the remains of the first pastor and his 
 wife. 
 
 It is remarkable that the dead lie everywhere under 
 stones, 
 
 "Strata jacent passim suo quaeque 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 construct tombs, and these are the only 
 traces which they have left. They are the heathen. But 
 why these stones, so upright and emphatic, like excla 
 mation-points ? What was there so remarkable that 
 lived? Why should the monument be so much more 
 enduring than the fame which it is designed to perpetu 
 ate, a stone to a bone ? " Here lies," " Here lies ; " 
 why do they not sometimes write, There rises ? Is it 
 
178 A WEEK 
 
 a monument to the body only that is intended ? " Having 
 reached the term of his natural life; " would it not be 
 truer to say, Having reached the term of his unnatural 
 life ? The rarest quality in an epitaph is truth. If any 
 character is given, it should be as severely true as the 
 decision of the three judges below, and not the partial 
 testimony of friends. Friends and contemporaries should 
 supply only the name and date, and leave it to posterity 
 to write the epitaph. 
 
 Here lies an honest man, 
 Rear-Admiral Van. 
 
 Faith, then ye have 
 
 Two in one grave, 
 
 For in his favor, 
 
 Here too lies the Engraver. 
 
 Fame itself is but an epitaph; as late, as false, as true. 
 But they only are the true epitaphs which Old Mortality 
 retouches. 
 
 A man might well pray that he may not taboo or curse 
 any portion of nature by being buried in it. For the 
 most part, the best man's spirit makes a fearful sprite to 
 haunt his grave, and it is therefore much to the credit 
 of Little John, the famous follower of Robin Hood, and 
 reflecting favorably on his character, that his grave was 
 " long celebrous for the yielding of excellent whetstones." 
 I confess that I have but little love for such collections 
 as they have at the Catacombs, 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 
 
MONDAY 179 
 
 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 plowed 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 
 smoke soon tamed the scene; the rocks consented to 
 be our walls, and the pines our roof. A woodside was 
 already the fittest locality for us. 
 
 The wilderness is near as well as dear to every man. 
 Even the oldest villages are indebted to the border of 
 wild wood which surrounds them, more than to the 
 gardens of men. There is something indescribably 
 inspiriting and beautiful in the aspect of the forest 
 skirting and occasionally jutting into the midst of new 
 towns, which, like the sand-heaps of fresh fox-burrows, 
 have sprung up in their midst. The very uprightness 
 of the pines and maples asserts the ancient rectitude 
 and vigor of nature. Our lives need the relief of such a 
 background, where the pine flourishes and the jay still 
 screams. 
 
 We had found a safe harbor for our boat, and as the 
 
180 A WEEK 
 
 sun was setting carried up our furniture, and soon 
 arranged our house upon the bank, and while the kettle 
 steamed at the tent door, we chatted of distant friends 
 and of the sights which we were to behold, and wondered 
 which way the towns lay from us. Our cocoa was soon 
 boiled, and supper set upon our chest, and we lengthened 
 out this meal, like old voyageurs, with our talk. Mean 
 while we spread the map on the ground, and read in the 
 Gazetteer when the first settlers came here and got a 
 township granted. Then, when supper was done and 
 we had written the journal of our voyage, we wrapped 
 our buffaloes about us and lay down with our heads 
 pillowed on our arms, listening awhile to the distant 
 baying of a dog, or the v murmurs of the river, or to the 
 wind, which had not gone to rest : 
 
 The western wind came lumbering in, 
 Bearing a faint Pacific din, 
 Our evening mail, swift at the call 
 Of its Postmaster-General; 
 Laden with news from Calif orn', 
 Whate'er transpired hath since mom, 
 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 mid 
 night 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 
 
MONDAY 181 
 
 laboratory it was. A thousand little artisans beat on 
 their anvils all night long. 
 
 Far in the night, as we were falling asleep on the bank 
 of the Merrimack, we heard some tyro beating a drum 
 incessantly, in preparation for a country muster, as we 
 learned, and we thought of the line, 
 
 " When the drum beat at dead of night." 
 We could have assured him that his beat would be 
 answered, and the forces be mustered. Fear not, thou 
 drummer of the night ; we too will be there. And still 
 he drummed on in the silence and the dark. This stray 
 sound from a far-off sphere came to our ears from time 
 to time, far, sweet, and significant, and we listened with 
 such an unprejudiced sense as if for the first time we 
 heard at all. No doubt he was an insignificant drummer 
 enough, but his music afforded us a prime and leisure 
 hour, and we felt that we were in season wholly. These 
 simple sounds related us to the stars. Ay, there was a 
 logic in them so convincing that the combined sense of 
 mankind could never make me doubt their conclusions. 
 I stop my habitual thinking, as if the plow had sud 
 denly run deeper in its furrow through the crust of the 
 world. How can I go on, who have just stepped over 
 such a bottomless skylight in the bog of my life ? Sud 
 denly old Time winked at me, Ah, you know me, you 
 rogue, and news had come that IT was well. That 
 ancient universe is in such capital health, I think un 
 doubtedly it will never die. Heal yourselves, doctors; 
 by God I live. 
 
 Then idle Time ran gadding by 
 And left me with Eternity alone; 
 
182 A WEEK 
 
 I hear beyond the range of sound, 
 'A I see beyond the verge of sight, 
 
 I see, smell, taste, hear, feel, that everlasting Something 
 to which we are allied, at once our maker, our abode, 
 our destiny, our very Selves ; the one historic truth, the 
 most remarkable fact which can become the distinct 
 and uninvited subject of our thought, the actual glory 
 of the universe; the only fact which a human being can 
 not avoid recognizing, or in some way forget or dispense 
 with. 
 
 It doth expand my privacies 
 To all, and leave me single in the crowd. 
 
 I have seen how the foundations of the world are laid, 
 and I have not the least doubt that it will stand a good 
 while. 
 
 Now chiefly is my natal hour, 
 
 And only now my prime of life. 
 
 I will not doubt the love untold, 
 
 Which not my worth nor want hath bought, 
 
 Which wooed me young and wooes me old, 
 
 And to this evening hath me brought. 
 
 What are ears? what is Time? that this particular 
 series of sounds called a strain of music, an invisible 
 and fairy troop which never brushed the dew from any 
 mead, can be wafted down through the centuries from 
 Homer to me, and he have been conversant with that 
 same aerial and mysterious charm which now so tingles 
 my ears ? What a fine communication from age to age, 
 of the fairest and noblest thoughts, the aspirations of 
 ancient men, even such as were never communicated by 
 speech, is music! It is the flower of language, thought 
 colored and curved, fluent and flexible, its crystal foun- 
 
MONDAY 183 
 
 tain tinged with the sun's rays, and its purling ripples 
 reflecting the grass and the clouds. A strain of music 
 reminds me of a passage of the Vedas, and I associate 
 with it the idea of infinite remoteness, as well as of beauty 
 and serenity, for to the senses that is farthest from us 
 which addresses the greatest depth within us. It teaches 
 us again and again to trust the remotest and finest as the 
 divinest instinct, and makes a dream our only real expe 
 rience. We feel a sad cheer when we hear it, perchance 
 because we that hear are not one with that which is 
 heard. 
 
 Therefore a torrent of sadness deep 
 
 Through the strains of thy triumph is heard to sweep. 
 
 The sadness is ours. The Indian poet Calidas says in 
 the Sacontala: "Perhaps the sadness of men on seeing 
 beautiful forms and hearing sweet music arises from 
 some faint remembrance of past joys, and the traces of 
 connections in a former state of existence." As polishing 
 expresses the vein in marble, and grain in wood, so 
 music brings out what of heroic lurks anywhere. The 
 hero is the sole patron of music. That harmony which 
 exists naturally between the hero's moods and the uni 
 verse, the soldier would fain imitate with drum and 
 trumpet. When we are in health, all sounds fife and 
 drum for us; we hear the notes of music in the air, or 
 catch its echoes dying away when we awake in the dawn. 
 Marching is when the pulse of the hero beats in unison 
 with the pulse of Nature, and he steps to the measure of 
 the universe; then there is true courage and invincible 
 strength. 
 
 Plutarch says that " Plato thinks the gods never gave 
 
184 A WEEK 
 
 men music, the science of melody and harmony, for 
 mere delectation or to tickle the ear; but that the dis 
 cordant parts of the circulations and beauteous fabric 
 of the soul, and that of it that roves about the body, 
 and many times, for want of tune and air, breaks forth 
 into many extravagances and excesses, might be sweetly 
 recalled and artfully wound up to their former consent 
 and agreement." 
 
 Music is the sound of the universal laws promulgated. 
 It is the only assured tone. There are in it such strains 
 as far surpass any man's faith in the loftiness of his 
 destiny. Things are to be learned which it will be worth 
 the while to learn. Formerly I heard these 
 
 RUMORS FROM AN ^OLIAN 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 pro- 
 
MONDAY 185 
 
 cure for himself a thing of this kind through instruments 
 or the voice, but employing a certain ineffable divinity, 
 and which it is difficult to apprehend, he extended his 
 ears and fixed his intellect in the sublime symphonies 
 of the world, he alone hearing and understanding, as it 
 appears, the universal harmony and consonance of the 
 spheres, and the stars that are moved through them, and 
 which produce a fuller and more intense melody than 
 anything effected by mortal sounds." 
 
 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 Plaistow, 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 telegraph 
 vibrating in the just awakening morning wind, and ap 
 plying my ear to one of the posts I was convinced that 
 it was so. It was the telegraph harp singing its message 
 through the country, its message sent not by men, but by 
 gods. Perchance, like the statue of Memnon, it resounds 
 only in the morning, when the first rays of the sun fall on 
 it. It was like the first lyre or shell heard on the sea 
 shore, that vibrating cord high in the air over the 
 shores of earth. So have all things their higher and their 
 lower uses. I heard a fairer news than the journals ever 
 print. It told of things worthy to hear, and worthy of 
 the electric fluid to carry the news of, not of the price 
 of cotton and flour, but it hinted at the price of the world 
 itself and of things which are priceless, of absolute truth 
 and beauty. 
 
 Still the drum rolled on, and stirred our blood to fresh 
 
186 A WEEK 
 
 extravagance that night. The clarion sound and clang 
 of corselet and buckler were heard from many a hamlet 
 of the soul, and many a knight was arming for the fight 
 behind the encamped stars. 
 
 "Before each van 
 
 Prick forth the aery knights, and couch their spears 
 Till thickest legions close; with feats of arms 
 From either end of Heaven the welkin burns." 
 
 Away ! away ! away ! away ! 
 
 Ye have not kept your secret well, 
 I will abide that other day, 
 
 Those other lands ye tejl. 
 
 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 lif e 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. 
 
MONDAY 187 
 
 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 after 
 wards learned had been still more violent elsewhere, and 
 had done much injury to the corn-fields 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. 
 
 JJONG 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 musk- 
 rats, and scared up the bittern and birds that were 
 asleep upon their roosts; we hauled up and upset our 
 boat, and washed it and rinsed out the clay, talking aloud 
 as if it were broad day, until at length, by three o'clock, 
 we had completed our preparations and were ready to 
 pursue our voyage as usual; so, shaking the clay from 
 our feet, we pushed into the fog. 
 
 Though we were enveloped in mist as usual, we 
 trusted that there was a bright day behind it. 
 
 Ply the oars ! away ! away ! 
 In each dewdrop 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. 
 

 TUESDAY 189 
 
 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 Mer- 
 rimack 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 Moun 
 tain 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 hand. I had that morning looked down from the 
 Hoosack Mountain, where the road crosses it, on the 
 village of North Adams in the valley three miles away 
 under my feet, showing how uneven the earth may 
 sometimes be, and making it seem an accident that it 
 should ever be level and convenient for the feet of man. 
 Putting a little rice and sugar and a tin cup into my 
 knapsack at this village, I began in the afternoon to 
 ascend the mountain, whose summit is three thousand 
 six hundred feet above the level of the sea, and was 
 seven or eight miles distant by the path. My route lay 
 up a long and spacious valley called the Bellows, because 
 
190 A WEEK 
 
 the winds rush up or down it with violence in storms, 
 sloping up to the very clouds between the principal range 
 and a lower mountain. There were a few farms scattered 
 along at different elevations, each commanding a fine 
 prospect of the mountains to the north, and a stream 
 ran down the middle of the valley, on which, near the 
 head, there was a mill. It seemed a road for the pilgrim 
 to enter upon who would climb to the gates of heaven. 
 Now I crossed a hayfield, and now over the brook on a 
 slight bridge, still gradually ascending all the while with 
 a sort of awe, and filled with indefinite expectations as 
 to what kind of inhabitants and what kind of nature I 
 should come to at last. It now seemed some advantage 
 that the earth was uneven, for one could not imagine 
 a more noble position for a farmhouse than this vale 
 afforded, farther from or nearer to its head, from a glen- 
 like seclusion overlooking the country at a great eleva 
 tion between these two mountain walls. 
 
 It reminded me of the homesteads of the Huguenots, 
 on Staten Island, off the coast of New Jersey. The hills 
 in the interior of this island, though comparatively low, 
 are penetrated in various directions by similar sloping 
 valleys on a humble scale, gradually narrowing and 
 rising to the centre, and at the head of these the Hugue 
 nots, who were the first settlers, placed their houses 
 quite within the land, in rural and sheltered places, in 
 leafy recesses where the breeze played with the poplar 
 and the gum-tree, from which, with equal security in 
 calm and storm, they looked out through a widening 
 vista, over miles of forest and stretching salt marsh, 
 to the Huguenot's Tree, an old elm on the shore, at 
 
TUESDAY 191 
 
 whose root they had landed, and across the spacious 
 outer bay of New York to Sandy Hook and the High 
 lands of Neversink, and thence over leagues of the 
 Atlantic, perchance to some faint vessel in the horizon, 
 almost a day's sail on her voyage to that Europe whence 
 they had come. When walking in the interior there, in 
 the midst of rural scenery, where there was as little to 
 remind me of the ocean as amid the New Hampshire 
 hills, I have suddenly, through a gap, a cleft or " clove 
 road," as the Dutch settlers called it, caught sight of a 
 ship under full sail, over a field of corn, twenty or thirty 
 miles at sea. The effect was similar, since I had no 
 means of measuring distances, to seeing a painted ship 
 passed backwards and forwards through a magic lan 
 tern. 
 
 But to return to the mountain. It seemed as if he 
 must be the most singular and heavenly-minded man 
 whose dwelling stood highest up the valley. The thunder 
 had rumbled at my heels all the way, but the shower 
 passed off in another direction, though if it had not, I 
 half believed that I should get above it. I at length 
 reached the last house but one, where the path to the 
 summit diverged to the right, while the summit itself 
 rose directly in front. But I determined to follow up the 
 valley to its head, and then find my own route up the 
 steep as the shorter and more adventurous way. I had 
 thoughts of returning to this house, which was well kept 
 and so nobly placed, the next day, and perhaps remain 
 ing 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 uncon- 
 
192 A WEEK 
 
 cernedly combing her long black hair while she talked, 
 giving her head the necessary toss with each sweep of 
 the comb, with lively, sparkling eyes, and full of interest 
 in that lower world from which I had come, talking all 
 the while as familiarly as if she had known me for years, 
 and reminding me of a cousin of mine. She at first had 
 taken me for a student from Williamstown, for they 
 went by in parties, she said, either riding or walking, 
 almost every pleasant day, and were a pretty wild set of 
 fellows ; but they never went by the way I was going. 
 As I passed the last house, a man called out to know 
 what I had to sell, for, seeing my knapsack, he thought 
 that I might be a 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 five miles to the summit 
 by the path which I had left, though not more than two 
 in a straight line from where I was, but that nobody ever 
 went this way; there was no path, and I should find it 
 as steep as the roof of a house. But I knew that I was 
 more used to woods and mountains than he, and went 
 along through his cow-yard, while he, looking at the sun, 
 shouted after me that I should not get to the top that 
 night. I soon reached the head of the valley, but as I 
 could not see the summit from this point, I ascended a 
 low mountain on the opposite side, and took its bear 
 ing with my compass. I at once entered the woods, 
 and began to climb the steep side of the mountain in 
 a diagonal direction, taking the bearing of a tree every 
 dozen rods. The ascent was by no means difficult 
 or unpleasant, and occupied much less time than 
 it would have taken to follow the path. Even coun- 
 
TUESDAY 193 
 
 try people, I have observed, magnify the difficulty of 
 traveling in the forest, and especially among moun 
 tains. They seem to lack their usual common sense in 
 this. I have climbed several higher mountains without 
 guide or path, and have found, as might be expected, 
 that it takes only more time and patience commonly 
 than to travel the smoothest highway. It is very rare 
 that you meet with obstacles in this world which the 
 humblest man has not faculties to surmount. It is true 
 we may come to a perpendicular precipice, but we need 
 not jump off, nor run our heads against it. A man may 
 jump down his own cellar stairs, or dash his brains 
 out against his chimney, if he is mad. So far as my 
 experience goes, travelers generally exaggerate the dif 
 ficulties of the way. Like most evil, the difficulty is 
 imaginary; for what 's the hurry ? If a person lost would 
 conclude that after all he is not lost, he is not beside 
 himself, but standing in his own old shoes on the very 
 spot where he is, and that for the time being he will live 
 there; but the places that have known him, they are 
 lost, how much anxiety and danger would vanish. I 
 am not alone if I stand by myself. Who knows where in 
 space this globe is rolling? Yet we will not give our 
 selves 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 
 
194 A WEEK 
 
 which overlooked the woods. I had one fair view of 
 the country before the sun went down, but I was too 
 thirsty to waste any light in viewing the prospect, and set 
 out directly to find water. First, going down a well- 
 beaten path for half a mile through the low, scrubby 
 wood, till I came to where the water stood in the tracks 
 of the horses which had carried 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, remembering that I had passed a moist 
 place near the top, on my way up, I returned to find it 
 again, and here, with sharp stones and my hands, in the 
 twilight, I made a well about two feet deep, which was 
 soon filled with pure cold water, and the birds too came 
 and drank at it. So I filled my dipper, and, making my 
 way back to the observatory, collected some dry sticks, 
 and made a fire on some flat stones which had been 
 placed on the floor for that purpose, and so I soon cooked 
 my supper of rice, having already whittled a wooden 
 spoon to eat it with. 
 
 I sat up during the evening, reading by the light of the 
 fire the scraps of newspapers in which some party had 
 wrapped their luncheon, the prices current in New 
 York and Boston, the advertisements, and the singular 
 editorials which some had seen fit to publish, not fore 
 seeing under what critical circumstances they would be 
 read. I read these things at a vast advantage there, and 
 it seemed to me that the advertisements, or what is called 
 the business part of a paper, were greatly the best, the 
 
TUESDAY 195 
 
 most useful, natural, and respectable. Almost all the 
 opinions 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 advertisements and the prices 
 current were more closely allied to nature, and were 
 respectable in some measure as tide and meteorological 
 tables are ; but the reading-matter, which I remembered 
 was most prized down below, unless it was some humble 
 record of science, or an extract from some old classic, 
 struck me as strangely whimsical, and crude, and one- 
 idea'd, like a school-boy's theme, such as youths write 
 and after burn. The opinions were of that kind that are 
 doomed to wear a different aspect to-morrow, like last 
 year's fashions; as if mankind were very green indeed, 
 and would be ashamed of themselves in a few years, 
 when they had outgrown this verdant period. There 
 was, moreover, a singular disposition to wit and humor, 
 but rarely the slightest real success ; and the apparent 
 success was a terrible satire on the attempt; the Evil 
 Genius of man laughed the loudest at his best jokes. 
 The advertisements, as I have said, such as were serious, 
 and not of the modern quack kind, suggested pleasing 
 and poetic thoughts ; for commerce is really as interest 
 ing as nature. The very names of the commodities were 
 poetic, and as suggestive as if they had been inserted in a 
 pleasing poem, Lumber, Cotton, Sugar, Hides, Guano, 
 Logwood. Some sober, private, and original thought 
 would have been grateful to read there, and as much 
 in harmony with the circumstances as if it had been 
 written on a mountain-top; for it is of a fashion which 
 
196 A WEEK 
 
 never changes, and as respectable as hides and logwood, 
 or any natural product. What an inestimable companion 
 such a scrap of paper would have been, containing some 
 fruit of a mature life ! What a relic ! What a recipe ! It 
 seemed a divine invention, by which not mere shining 
 coin, but shining and current thoughts, could be brought 
 up and left there. 
 
 As it was cold, I collected quite a pile of wood and lay 
 down on a board against the side of the building, not 
 having any blanket to cover me, with my head to the 
 fire, that I might look after it, which is not the Indian 
 rule. But as it grew colder towards midnight, I at length 
 encased myself completely in boards, managing even to 
 put a board on top of me, with a large stone on it, to keep 
 it down, and so slept comfortably. I was reminded, it 
 is true, of the Irish children, who inquired what their 
 neighbors did who had no door to put over them in win 
 ter nights as they had; but I am convinced that there 
 was nothing very strange in the inquiry. Those who have 
 never tried it can have no idea how far a door, which 
 keeps the single blanket down, may go toward making 
 one comfortable. We are constituted a good deal like 
 chickens, which, taken from the hen, and put in a basket 
 of cotton in the chimney-corner, will often peep till they 
 die, nevertheless ; but if you put in a book, or anything 
 heavy, which will press down the cotton, and feel like the 
 hen, they go to sleep directly. My only companions were 
 the mice, which came to pick up the crumbs that had 
 been left in those scraps of paper; still, as everywhere, 
 pensioners on man, and not unwisely improving this ele 
 vated tract for their habitation. They nibbled what was 
 
TUESDAY 197 
 
 for them ; I nibbled what was for me. Once or twice in 
 the night, when I looked up, I saw a white cloud drifting 
 through the windows, and filling the whole upper story. 
 
 This observatory was a building of considerable size, 
 erected by the students of Williamstown College, whose 
 buildings might be seen by daylight gleaming far down 
 in the valley. It would be no small advantage if every 
 college were thus located at the base of a mountain, as 
 good at least as one well-endowed professorship. It 
 were as well to be educated in the shadow of a mountain 
 as in more classical shades. Some will remember, no 
 doubt, not only that they went to the college, but that 
 they went to the mountain. Every visit to its summit 
 would, as it were, generalize the particular information 
 gained below, and subject it to more catholic tests. 
 
 I was up early and perched upon the top of this tower 
 to see the daybreak, for some time reading the names 
 that had been engraved there, before I could distinguish 
 more distant objects. An "untamable fly" buzzed at 
 my elbow with the same nonchalance as on a molasses 
 hogshead at the end of Long Wharf. Even there I must 
 attend to his stale humdrum. But now I come to the pith 
 of this long digression. As the light increased, I dis 
 covered around me an ocean of mist, which by chance 
 reached up exactly to the base of the tower, and shut out 
 every vestige of the earth, while I was left floating on this 
 fragment of the wreck of a world, on my carved plank, in 
 cloudland; a situation which required no aid from the 
 imagination to render it impressive. As the light in the 
 east steadily increased, it revealed to me more clearly 
 the new world into which I had risen in the night, the 
 
198 A WEEK 
 
 new terra firma perchance of my future life. There was 
 not a crevice left through which the trivial places we 
 name Massachusetts or Vermont or New York could be 
 seen, while I still inhaled the clear atmosphere of a July 
 morning, if it were July there. All around beneath 
 me was spread for a hundred miles on every side, as far 
 as the eye could reach, an undulating country of clouds, 
 answering in the varied swell of its surface to the terres 
 trial 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 watercourse, 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 become such a flitting thing of lights 
 and shadows as the clouds had been before. It was not 
 merely veiled to me, but it had passed away like the 
 phantom of a shadow, <naas 6Vap, and this new plat 
 form 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, 
 
Williamstown from Saddle-back Mountain (Greylock) 
 
md * 
 
TUESDAY 199 
 
 I found myself a dweller in the dazzling halls of Aurora, 
 into which poets have had but a partial glance over the 
 eastern hills, drifting amid the saffron-colored clouds, 
 and playing with the rosy fingers of the Dawn, in the 
 very path of the Sun's chariot, and sprinkled with its 
 dewy dust, enjoying the benignant smile, and near at 
 hand the far-darting glances of the god. The inhab 
 itants of earth behold commonly but the dark and 
 shadowy under side of heaven's pavement; it is only 
 when seen at a favorable angle in the horizon, morning 
 or evening, that some faint streaks of the rich lining of 
 the clouds are revealed. But my muse would fail to con 
 vey an impression of the gorgeous tapestry by which I 
 was surrounded, such as men see faintly reflected afar 
 off in the chambers of the east. Here, as on earth, I saw 
 the gracious god 
 
 " Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, 
 
 Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy." 
 
 But never here did " Heaven's sun " stain himself. 
 
 But, alas, owing, as I think, to some unworthiness in 
 myself, my private sun did stain himself, and 
 
 "Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 
 With ugly wrack on his celestial face," 
 
 for before the god had reached the zenith the heavenly 
 pavement rose and embraced my wavering virtue, or 
 rather I sank down again into that "forlorn world," 
 from which the celestial sun had hid his visage, 
 
 "How may a worm that crawls along the dust, 
 Clamber the azure mountains, thrown so high, 
 
200 A WEEK 
 
 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 mountain 
 by my own route, on the side opposite to that by which 
 I had ascended, and soon found myself in the region of 
 cloud and drizzling rain, and the inhabitants affirmed 
 that it had been a cloudy and drizzling day wholly. 
 
 But now we must make haste back before the fog 
 disperses to the blithe Merrimack water. 
 
 Since that first "Away ! away !" 
 Many a lengthy reach we've rowed, 
 
 Still the sparrow on the spray 
 
 Hastes to usher in the day 
 With her simple stanza' d ode. 
 
 We passed a canal-boat before sunrise, groping its 
 way to the seaboard, and, though we could not see it on 
 account of the fog, the few dull, thumping, stertorous 
 sounds which we heard impressed us with a sense of 
 weight and irresistible motion. One little rill of com 
 merce already awake on this distant New Hampshire 
 river. The fog, as it required more skill in the steering, 
 enhanced the interest of our early voyage, and made 
 the river seem indefinitely broad. A slight mist, through 
 
TUESDAY 201 
 
 which objects are faintly visible, has the effect of expand 
 ing even ordinary streams, by a singular mirage, into 
 arms of the sea or inland lakes. In the present instance, 
 it was even fragrant and invigorating, and we enjoyed 
 it as a sort of earlier sunshine, or dewy and embryo light. 
 
 Low-anchored cloud, 
 
 Newfoundland air, 
 
 Fountain-head and source of rivers, 
 
 Dew-cloth, dream drapery, 
 
 And napkin spread by fays; 
 
 Drifting meadow of the air, 
 
 Where bloom the daisied banks and violets, 
 
 And in whose fenny labyrinth 
 
 The bittern booms and heron wades; 
 
 Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers, 
 
 Bear only perfumes and the scent 
 
 Of healing herbs to just men's fields! 
 
 The same pleasant and observant historian whom we 
 quoted above says that "In the mountainous parts of 
 the country, the ascent of vapors, and their formation 
 into clouds, is a curious and entertaining object. The 
 vapors are seen rising in small columns like smoke from 
 many chimneys. When risen to a certain height, they 
 spread, meet, condense, and are attracted to the moun 
 tains, where they either distill in gentle dews, and re 
 plenish the springs, or descend in showers, accompanied 
 with thunder. After short intermissions, the process is 
 repeated many times in the course of a summer day, 
 affording to travelers a lively illustration of that is 
 observed in the Book of Job, * They are wet with the 
 showers of the mountains.' " 
 
 Fogs and clouds which conceal the overshadowing 
 
202 A WEEK 
 
 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 drift 
 ing between the beholder and the neighboring hills. 
 When, in traveling toward Haverhill through Hamp- 
 stead in this State, on the height of land between the 
 Merrimack and the Piscataqua or the sea, you com 
 mence the descent eastward, the view toward the coast 
 is so distant and unexpected, though the sea is invisible, 
 that you at first suppose the unobstructed atmosphere 
 to be a fog in the lowlands concealing hills of correspond 
 ing elevation to that you are upon; but it is the mist of 
 prejudice alone, which the winds will not disperse. The 
 most stupendous scenery ceases to be sublime when 
 it becomes distinct, or in other words limited, and the 
 imagination is no longer encouraged to exaggerate it. 
 The actual height and breadth of a mountain or a water 
 fall 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, 
 
TUESDAY 203 
 
 Dandle the morning's childhood in their arms, 
 And, if they chanced to slip the prouder pines, 
 The under corylets did catch their shines, 
 To gild their leaves." 
 
 We rowed for some hours between glistening banks 
 before the sun had dried the grass and leaves, or the day 
 had established its character. Its serenity at last seemed 
 the more profound and secure for the denseness of the 
 morning's fog. The river became swifter, and the scen 
 ery more pleasing than before. The banks were steep 
 and clayey for the most part, and trickling with water, 
 and where a spring oozed out a few feet above the river 
 the boatmen had cut a trough out of a slab with their 
 axes, and placed it so as to receive the water and fill their 
 jugs conveniently. Sometimes this purer and cooler 
 water, bursting out from under a pine or a rock, was 
 collected into a basin close to the edge of and level with 
 the river, a fountain-head of the Merrimack. So near 
 along life's stream are the fountains of innocence and 
 youth making fertile its sandy margin; and the voyageur 
 will do well to replenish his vessels often at these uncon- 
 taminated sources. Some youthful spring, perchance, 
 still empties with tinkling music into the oldest river, 
 even when it is falling into the sea, and we imagine that 
 its music is distinguished by the river-gods from the 
 general lapse of the stream, and falls sweeter on their 
 ears in proportion as it is nearer to the ocean. As the 
 evaporations of the river feed thus these unsuspected 
 springs which filter through its banks, so, perchance, 
 our aspirations fall back again in springs on the margin 
 of life's stream to refresh and purify it. The yellow and 
 
204 A WEEK 
 
 tepid river may float his scow, and cheer his eye with its 
 reflections and its ripples, but the boatman quenches 
 his thirst at this small rill alone. It is this purer and 
 cooler element that chiefly sustains his life. The race 
 will long survive that is thus discreet. 
 
 Our course this morning lay between the territories of 
 Merrimack, on the west, and Litchfield, once called 
 Brenton's Farm, on the east, which townships were 
 anciently the Indian Naticook. Brenton was a fur- 
 trader among the Indians, and these lands were granted 
 to him in 1656. The latter township contains about five 
 hundred inhabitants, of whom, however, we saw none, 
 and but few of their dwellings. Being on the river, whose 
 banks are always high and generally conceal the few 
 houses, the country appeared much more wild and 
 primitive than to the 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 experience than the dusty and jarring one of 
 the teamster who has driven, during the same time, on 
 the roads which run parallel with the stream. As one 
 ascends the Merrimack he rarely sees a village, but for 
 the most part alternate wood and pasture lands, and 
 sometimes a field of corn or potatoes, of rye or oats or 
 English grass, with a few straggling apple trees, and, at 
 still longer intervals, a farmer's house. The soil, except 
 ing the best of the interval, is commonly as light and 
 sandy as a patriot could desire. Sometimes this fore 
 noon the country appeared in its primitive state, and as 
 if the Indian still inhabited it, and, again, as if many 
 
TUESDAY 205 
 
 free, new settlers occupied it, their slight fences strag 
 gling down to the water's edge; and the barking of dogs, 
 and even the prattle of children, were heard, and smoke 
 was seen to go up from some hearthstone, and the banks 
 were divided into patches of pasture, mowing, tillage, 
 and woodland. But when the river spread out broader, 
 with an uninhabited islet, or a long, low, sandy shore 
 which ran on single and devious, not answering to its 
 opposite, but far off as if it were seashore or single coast, 
 and the land no longer nursed the river in its bosom, but 
 they conversed as equals, the rustling leaves with rippling 
 leaves, and few fences were seen, but high oak woods on 
 one side, and large herds of cattle, and all tracks seemed 
 to point to one centre behind some statelier grove, we 
 imagined that the river flowed through an extensive 
 manor, and that the few inhabitants were retainers to a 
 lord, and a feudal state of things prevailed. 
 
 When there was a suitable reach, we caught sight of 
 the Goffstown mountain, the Indian Uncannunuc, rising 
 before us on the west side. It was a calm and beautiful 
 day, with only a slight zephyr to ripple the surface of the 
 water, and rustle the woods on shore, and just warmth 
 enough to prove the kindly disposition of Nature to her 
 children. With buoyant spirits and vigorous impulses 
 we tossed our boat rapidly along into the very middle of 
 this forenoon. The fish hawk sailed and screamed over 
 head. The chipping or striped squirrel, Sciurus striatus 
 (Tamias Lysteri, Aud.), sat upon the end of some Vir 
 ginia 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 
 
206 A WEEK 
 
 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 chaps, 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 somer 
 set to let its superfluous life escape; the stream passing 
 harmlessly off, even while it sits, in constant electric 
 flashes through its tail. And now with a chuckling 
 squeak it dives into the root of a hazel, and we see no 
 more of it. Or the larger red squirrel, or chickaree, 
 sometimes called the Hudson Bay squirrel (Sciurus 
 Hudsonius), gave warning of our approach by that pecu 
 liar 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 let 
 ting them fall to the ground. 
 
 We passed Cromwell's Falls, the first we met with on 
 this river, this forenoon, by means of locks, without 
 using our wheels. These falls are the Nesenkeag of the 
 Indians. Great Nesenkeag Stream comes in on the right 
 just above, and Little Nesenkeag some distance below, 
 both in Litchfield. We read in the Gazetteer, under the 
 
Distant View of Uncannunuc 
 

 A WEEI: 
 
 will of :; 
 
 

TUESDAY 207 
 
 head of Merrimack, that "the first house in this town 
 was erected on the margin of the river [soon after 1665] 
 for a house of traffic with the Indians. For some time 
 one Cromwell carried on a lucrative trade with them, 
 weighing their furs with his foot, till, enraged at his sup 
 posed or real deception, they formed the resolution to 
 murder him. This intention being communicated to 
 Cromwell, he buried his wealth and made his escape. 
 Within a few hours after his flight, a party of the 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 overgrown with trees. It was a convenient 
 spot for such a traffic, at the foot of the first falls above 
 the settlements, and commanding a pleasant view up the 
 river, where he could see the Indians coming down with 
 their furs. The lock-man told us that his shovel and 
 tongs had been plowed 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 arrowheads, and a 
 small Indian tool made of stone, as soon as we had 
 climbed it, where plainly there had once stood a wig 
 wam of the Indians with whom Cromwell traded, and 
 who fished and hunted here before he came. 
 
 As usual, the gossips have not been silent respecting 
 Cromwell's buried wealth, and it is said that some years 
 
208 A WEEK 
 
 ago a farmer's plow, not far from here, slid over a flat 
 stone which emitted a hollow sound, and, on its being 
 raised, a small hole six inches in diameter was discovered, 
 stoned about, from which a sum of money was taken. 
 The lock-man told us another similar story about a 
 farmer in a neighboring town, who had been a poor man, 
 but who suddenly bought a good farm, and was well to 
 do in the world, and, when he was questioned, did not 
 give a satisfactory account of the matter; how few, alas, 
 could! This caused his hired man to remember that 
 one day, as they were plowing together, the plow struck 
 something, and his employer, going back to look, con 
 cluded not to go round again, saying that the sky looked 
 rather lowering, and so put up his team. The like 
 urgency has caused many things to be remembered which 
 never transpired. The truth is, there is money buried 
 everywhere, and you have only to go to work to find it. 
 
 Not far from these falls stands an oak tree, on the 
 interval, about a quarter of a mile from the river, on the 
 farm of a Mr. Lund, which was pointed out to us as the 
 spot where French, the leader of the party which went 
 in pursuit of the Indians from Dunstable, was killed. 
 Farwell dodged them in the thick woods near. It did not 
 look as if men had ever had to run for their lives on this 
 now open and peaceful interval. 
 
 Here, too, was another extensive desert by the side of 
 the road in Litchfield, visible from the bank of the river. 
 The sand was blown off in some places to the depth of 
 ten or twelve feet, leaving small grotesque hillocks of 
 that height, where there was a clump of bushes firmly 
 rooted. Thirty or forty years ago, as we were told, it was 
 
TUESDAY 209 
 
 a sheep-pasture, but the sheep, being worried by the 
 fleas, began to paw the ground, till they broke the sod, 
 and so the sand began to blow, till now it had extended 
 over forty or fifty acres. This evil might easily have 
 been remedied, at first, by spreading birches with their 
 leaves on over the sand, and fastening them down with 
 stakes, to break the wind. The fleas bit the sheep, and 
 the sheep bit the ground, and the sore had spread to this 
 extent. It is astonishing what a great sore a little scratch 
 breedeth. Who knows but Sahara, where caravans and 
 cities are buried, began with the bite of an African flea ? 
 This poor globe, how it must itch in many places ! Will 
 no god be kind enough to spread a salve of birches over 
 its sores ? Here, too, we noticed where the Indians had 
 gathered a heap of stones, perhaps for their council-fire, 
 which, by their weight having prevented the sand under 
 them from blowing away, were left on the summit of a 
 mound. They told us that arrowheads, 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 moun 
 tain by its yellow sand-banks, though the river itself 
 is for the most part invisible. Lawsuits, as we hear, 
 have in some cases grown out of these causes. Railroads 
 have been made through certain irritable districts, 
 breaking their sod, and so have set the sand to blowing, 
 till it has converted fertile farms into deserts, and the 
 company has had to pay the damages. 
 
 This sand seemed to us the connecting link between 
 land and water. It was a kind of water on which you 
 could walk, and you could see the ripple-marks on its 
 
210 A WEEK 
 
 surface, produced by the winds, precisely like those at 
 the bottom of a brook or lake. We had read that Mus 
 sulmans are permitted by the Koran to perform their 
 ablutions in sand when they cannot get water, a neces 
 sary 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 vari 
 ous colors, blown into graceful curves by the wind. It is 
 a mere sand-bar exposed, stretching nine miles parallel 
 to the coast, and, exclusive of the marsh on the inside, 
 rarely more than half a mile wide. There are but half a 
 dozen houses on it, and it is almost without a tree, or a 
 sod, or any green thing with which a countryman is 
 familiar. The thin vegetation stands half buried in sand, 
 as in drifting snow. The only shrub, the beach plum, 
 which gives the island its name, grows but a few feet 
 high ; but this is so abundant that parties of a hundred at 
 once come from the mainland and down the Merrimack, 
 in September, pitch their tents, and gather the plums, 
 which are good to eat raw and to preserve. The grace 
 ful and delicate beach pea, too, grows abundantly amid 
 the sand, and several strange moss-like and succulent 
 plants. The island for its whole length is scalloped into 
 low hills, not more than twenty feet high, by the wind, 
 and, excepting a faint trail on the edge of the marsh, is as 
 trackless as Sahara. There are dreary bluffs of sand and 
 valleys plowed 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, 
 
TUESDAY 211 
 
 and in a few hours the wind obliterates all traces of their 
 work. Yet you have only to dig a foot or two anywhere 
 to come to fresh water; and you are surprised to learn 
 that woodchucks abound here, and foxes are found, 
 though you see not where they can burrow or hide them 
 selves. I have walked down the whole length of its broad 
 beach at low tide, at which time alone you can find a 
 firm ground to walk on, and probably Massachusetts 
 does not furnish a more grand and dreary walk. On the 
 seaside there are only a distant sail and a few coots to 
 break the grand monotony. A solitary stake stuck up, 
 or a sharper sand-hill than usual, is remarkable as a 
 landmark for miles; while for music you hear only the 
 ceaseless sound of the surf, and the dreary peep of the 
 beach-birds. 
 
 There were several canal-boats at Cromwell's Falls 
 passing through the locks, for which we waited. In the 
 forward part of one stood a brawny New Hampshire 
 man, leaning on his pole, bareheaded and in shirt and 
 trousers only, a rude Apollo of a man, coming down 
 from "that vast uplandish country" to the main; of 
 nameless age, with flaxen hair and vigorous, weather- 
 bleached countenance, in whose wrinkles the sun still 
 lodged, as little touched by the heats and frosts and 
 withering cares of life as a maple of the mountain; an 
 undressed, unkempt, uncivil man, with whom we par 
 leyed awhile, and parted not without a sincere interest 
 in one another. His humanity was genuine and instinc 
 tive, and his rudeness only a manner. He inquired, just 
 as we were passing out of earshot, if we had killed any- 
 
212 A WEEK 
 
 thing, 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 inhos 
 pitable 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 ele 
 ments. They need only to extend their clearings, and let 
 in more sunlight, to seek out the southern slopes of the 
 hills, from which they may look down on the civil plain 
 or ocean, and temper their diet duly with the cereal 
 fruits, consuming less wild meat and acorns, to become 
 like the inhabitants of cities. A true politeness does not 
 result from any hasty and artificial polishing, it is true, 
 but grows naturally in characters of the right grain and 
 quality, through a long fronting of men and events, and 
 rubbing on good and bad fortune. Perhaps I can tell a 
 tale to the purpose while the lock is filling, for our 
 voyage this forenoon furnishes but few incidents of 
 importance. 
 
 Early one summer morning I had left the shores 
 of the Connecticut, and for the livelong day 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 
 
TUESDAY 213 
 
 dipping my feet in its rapids, or bathing adventurously 
 in mid-channel. The hills grew more and more frequent, 
 and gradually swelled into mountains as I advanced, 
 hemming in the course of the river, so that at last I could 
 not see where it came from, and was at liberty to imagine 
 the most wonderful meanderings and descents. At noon 
 I slept on the grass in the shade of a maple, where the 
 river had found a broader channel than usual, and was 
 spread out shallow, with frequent sand-bars exposed. 
 In the names of the towns I recognized some which I had 
 long ago read on teamsters' wagons, that had come from 
 far up country; quiet uplandish towns, of mountainous 
 fame. I walked along, musing and enchanted, by rows 
 of sugar maples, through the small and uninquisitive 
 villages, and sometimes was pleased with the sight of a 
 boat drawn up on a sand-bar, where there appeared no 
 inhabitants to use it. It seemed, however, as essential 
 to the river as a fish, and to lend a certain dignity to it. 
 It was like the trout of mountain streams to the fishes 
 of the sea, or like the young of the land crab born far 
 in the interior, who have never yet heard the sound of the 
 ocean's surf. The hills approached nearer and nearer 
 to the stream, until at last they closed behind me, and I 
 found myself just before nightfall in a romantic and 
 retired valley, about half a mile in length, and barely 
 wide enough for the stream at its bottom. I thought that 
 there could be no finer site for a cottage among moun 
 tains. You could anywhere run across the stream on 
 the rocks, and its constant murmuring would quiet the 
 passions of mankind forever. Suddenly the road, which 
 seemed aiming for the mountain-side, turned short to 
 
214 A WEEK 
 
 the left, and another valley opened, concealing the for 
 mer, and of the same character with it. It was the most 
 remarkable and pleasing scenery I had ever seen. I 
 found here a few mild and hospitable inhabitants, who, 
 as the day was not quite spent, and I was anxious to 
 improve the light, directed me four or five miles farther 
 on my way to the dwelling of a man whose name was 
 Rice, who occupied the last and highest of the valleys 
 that lay in my path, and who, they said, was a rather 
 rude and uncivil man. But "what is a foreign country 
 to those who have science ? Who is a stranger to those 
 who have the habit of speaking kindly ? " 
 
 At length, as the sun was setting behind the moun 
 tains in a still darker and more solitary vale, I reached 
 the dwelling of this man. Except for the narrowness 
 of the plain, and that the stones were solid granite, it 
 was the counterpart of that retreat to which Belphcebe 
 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 dis 
 tinguished the voices of children mingling with the mur- 
 
TUESDAY 215 
 
 mur 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 immediately went to the farthest stall from me, and 
 I perceived that it was Rice himself whom I had ad 
 dressed. 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 
 traveler, 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' apart 
 ment, which was neat, and even had an air of refinement 
 about it, and I was glad to find a map against the wall 
 which would direct me on my journey on the morrow. 
 At length I heard a step in a distant apartment, which 
 was the first I had entered, and went to see if the land 
 lord had come in ; but it proved to be only a child, one of 
 those whose voices I had heard, probably his son, and 
 between him and me stood in the doorway a large watch 
 dog, which growled at me, and looked as if he would 
 presently spring, but the boy did not speak to him; and 
 when I asked for a glass of water, he briefly said, "It 
 runs in the corner." So I took a mug from the counter 
 and went out of doors, and searched round the corner of 
 the house, but could find neither well nor spring, nor any 
 water but the stream which ran all along the front. I 
 came back, therefore, and, setting down the mug, asked 
 the child if the stream was good to drink; whereupon he 
 
216 A WEEK 
 
 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, call 
 ing to the dog, rushed out of doors. Ere long some of 
 the hired men made their appearance, and drank at the 
 spring, and lazily washed themselves and combed their 
 hair in silence, and some sat down as if weary, and fell 
 asleep in their seats. But all the while I saw no women, 
 though I sometimes heard a bustle in that part of the 
 house from which the spring came. 
 
 At length Rice himself came in, for it was now dark, 
 with an ox-whip in his hand, breathing hard, and he too 
 soon settled down into his seat not far from me, as if, 
 now that his day's work was done, he had no farther to 
 travel, but only to digest his supper at his leisure. When 
 I asked him if he could give me a bed, he said there was 
 one ready, in such a tone as implied that I ought to have 
 known it, and the less said about that the better. So 
 far so good. And yet he continued to look at me as if he 
 would fain have me say something further like a traveler. 
 I remarked that it was a wild and rugged country he 
 inhabited, and worth coming many miles to see. " Not 
 so very rough neither," said he, and appealed to his men 
 to bear witness to the breadth and smoothness of his 
 fields, which consisted in all of one small interval, and to 
 the size of his crops; " and if we have some hills," added 
 he, "there's no better pasturage anywhere." I then 
 asked if this place was the one I had heard of, calling it 
 by a name I had seen on the map, or if it was a certain 
 other; and he answered, gruffly, that it was neither the 
 
TUESDAY 217 
 
 one nor the other; that he had settled it and cultivated 
 it, and made it what it was, and I could know nothing 
 about it. Observing some guns and other implements of 
 hunting hanging on brackets around the room, and his 
 hounds now sleeping on the floor, I took occasion to 
 change the discourse, and inquired if there was much 
 game in that country, and he answered this question 
 more graciously, having some glimmering of my drift; 
 but when I inquired if there were any bears, he answered 
 impatiently that he was no more in danger of losing his 
 sheep than his neighbors; he had tamed and civilized 
 that region. After a pause, thinking of my journey on 
 the morrow, and the few hours of daylight in that hollow 
 and mountainous country, which would require me to be 
 on my way betimes, I remarked that the day must be 
 shorter by an hour there than on the neighboring plains ; 
 at which he gruffly asked what I knew about it, and 
 affirmed that he had as much daylight as his neighbors ; 
 he ventured to say, the days were longer there than where 
 I lived, as I should find if I stayed ; that in some way, I 
 could not be expected to understand how, the sun came 
 over the mountains half an hour earlier, and stayed half 
 an hour later there than on the neighboring plains. And 
 mo're of like sort he said. He was, indeed, as rude as a 
 fabled satyr. But I suffered him to pass for what he was, 
 for why should I quarrel with nature ? and was 
 even pleased at the discovery of such a singular natural 
 phenomenon. I dealt with him as if to me all manners 
 were indifferent, and he had a sweet, wild way with him. 
 I would not question nature, and I would rather have 
 him as he was than as I would have him. For I had 
 
218 A WEEK 
 
 come up here not for sympathy, or kindness, or society, 
 but for novelty and adventure, and to see what nature 
 had produced here. I therefore did not repel his rude 
 ness, 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 sen- 
 / sual man, and, as I have said, uncivil, but he had his 
 I just quarrel with nature and mankind, I have no doubt, 
 only he had no artificial covering to his ill-humors. He 
 was earthy enough, but yet there was good soil in him, 
 and even a long-suffering Saxon probity at bottom. If 
 you could represent the case to him, he would not let the 
 race die out in him, like a red Indian. 
 
 At length I told him that he was a fortunate man, 
 and I trusted that he was grateful for so much light; 
 and, rising, said I would take a lamp, and that I would 
 pay him then for my lodging, for I expected to recom 
 mence my journey even as early as the sun rose in his 
 country; but he answered in haste, and this time civilly, 
 that I should not fail to find some of his household stir 
 ring, however early, for they were no sluggards, and I 
 could take my breakfast with them before I started, if I 
 chose; and as he lighted the lamp I detected a gleam of 
 true hospitality and ancient civility, a beam of pure and 
 even gentle humanity, from his bleared and moist eyes. 
 It was a look more intimate with me, and more explana 
 tory, 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 
 
TUESDAY 219 
 
 impress and rule him for the moment, and faintly con 
 strain his voice and manner. He cheerfully led the way 
 to my apartment, stepping over the limbs of his men, 
 who were asleep on the floor in an intervening chamber, 
 and showed me a clean and comfortable bed. For many 
 pleasant hours after the household was asleep I sat at the 
 open window, for it was a sultry night, and heard the 
 little river 
 
 "Amongst the pumy stones, which seemed to plain, 
 With gentle murmur, that his course they did restrain." 
 
 But I arose as usual by starlight the next morning, be 
 fore my host, or his men, or even his dogs, were awake; 
 and, having left a ninepence on the counter, was already 
 halfway 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 years; and presently, 
 muttering to himself, he proceeded to collect his cows in 
 a neighboring pasture; and when he had again returned 
 
220 A WEEK 
 
 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 exer 
 cise before, for his daily bread, and also that He who 
 letteth his rain fall on the just and on the unjust, and 
 without whom not a sparrow falleth to the ground, would 
 not neglect the stranger (meaning me), and with even 
 more direct and personal applications, though mainly 
 according to the long-established formula common to 
 lowlanders and the inhabitants of mountains. When he 
 had done praying, I made bold to ask him if he had any 
 cheese in his hut which he would sell me, but he 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 com 
 merce, we began to meet with boats more frequently, 
 
 . *r v, 
 flV" V" 
 
 A / 
 
 " * \r 
 
 and hailed them from time to time with the freedom of 
 
 sailors. The boatmen appeared to lead an easy and 
 contented life, and we thought that we should prefer 
 their employment ourselves to many professions which 
 are much more sought after. They suggested how 
 few circumstances are necessary to the well-being and 
 serenity of man, how indifferent all employments are, 
 and that any may seem noble and poetic to the eyes of 
 men, if pursued with sufficient buoyancy and freedom. 
 With liberty and pleasant weather, the simplest occupa- 
 
TUESDAY 221 
 
 tion, 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 dissi 
 pation. 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, requir 
 ing but little ship-timber, and, as we were told, costs 
 about two hundred dollars. They are managed by two 
 men. In ascending the stream they use poles fourteen 
 or fifteen feet long, pointed with iron, walking about 
 one third the length of the boat from the forward end. 
 Going down, they commonly keep in the middle of the 
 stream, using an oar at each end ; or if the wind is favor 
 able 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, con 
 suming 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 monotonv 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 
 
222 A WEEK 
 
 homestead is a movable, they could comment on the 
 character 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 vessel for fear of the recoil. 
 They are not subject to great exposure, like the lum 
 berers of Maine, in any weather, but inhale the health- 
 fulest breezes, being slightly incumbered with clothing, 
 frequently with the head and feet bare. When we met 
 them at noon, as they were leisurely descending the 
 stream, their busy commerce did not look like toil, but 
 rather like some ancient Oriental game still played on a 
 large scale, as the game of chess, for instance, handed 
 down to this generation. From morning till night, unless 
 the wind is so fair that his single sail will suffice without 
 other labor than steering, the boatman walks backwards 
 and forwards on the side of his boat, now stooping with 
 his shoulder to the pole, then drawing it back slowly to 
 set it again, meanwhile moving steadily forward through 
 an endless valley and an ever-changing scenery, now dis 
 tinguishing his course for a mile or two, and now shut in 
 by a sudden turn of the river in a small woodland lake. 
 All the phenomena which surround him are simple and 
 grand, and there is something impressive, even majestic, 
 in the very motion he causes, which will naturally be 
 communicated to his own character, and he feels the 
 slow, irresistible movement under him with pride, as if it 
 were his own energy. 
 
 The news spread like wildfire among us youths, when 
 formerly, once in a year or two, one of these boats came 
 up the Concord River, and was seen stealing mysteri- 
 
TUESDAY 223 
 
 ously 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 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 rivermen 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 wheelbar 
 rows aboard, and that, when we stepped on it, it did not 
 yield to the pressure of our feet. It gave us confidence in 
 the prevalence of the law of buoyancy, and we imagined 
 to what infinite uses it might be put. The men appeared 
 to lead a kind of life on it, and it was whispered that they 
 slept aboard. Some affirmed that it carried sail, and that 
 such winds blew here as filled the sails of vessels on the 
 ocean; which again others much doubted. They had 
 
224 A WEEK 
 
 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 navi 
 gable, 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 naviga 
 tion." / then lived somewhere to tell of. 
 
 Such is Commerce, which shakes the cocoanut and 
 bread-fruit tree in the remotest isle, and sooner or later 
 dawns on the duskiest and most simple-minded savage. 
 If we may be pardoned the digression, who can help 
 being affected at the thought of the very fine and slight, 
 but positive relation, in which the savage inhabitants 
 of some remote isle stand to the mysterious white mar 
 iner, the child of the sun ? as if we were to have deal 
 ings with an animal higher in the scale of being than 
 ourselves. It is a barely recognized fact to the natives 
 that he exists, and has his home far away somewhere, 
 and is glad to buy their fresh fruits with his superfluous 
 commodities. Under the same catholic sun glances his 
 white ship over Pacific waves into their smooth bays, 
 and the poor savage's paddle gleams in the air. 
 
 Man's little acts are grand, 
 Beheld from land to land, 
 There as they lie in time, 
 Within their native clime. 
 
 Ships with the noontide weigh, 
 
 And glide before its ray 
 
 To some retired bay, 
 
 Their haunt, 
 
 Whence, under tropic sun, 
 
TUESDAY 225 
 
 Again they run, 
 
 Bearing gum Senegal and Tragicant. 
 For this was ocean meant, 
 For this the sun was sent, 
 And moon was lent, 
 And winds in distant caverns pent. 
 
 Since our voyage the railroad on the bank has been 
 extended, and there is now but little boating on the 
 Merrimack. All kinds of produce and stores were for 
 merly 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 impass 
 able, 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 princi 
 pally between Merrimack and Lowell, or Hooksett and 
 Manchester. They make two or three trips in a week, 
 according to wind and weather, from Merrimack to 
 Lowell and back, about twenty-five miles each way. 
 The boatman comes singing in to shore late at night, 
 and moors his empty boat, and gets his supper and lodg 
 ing in some house near at hand, and again early in 
 the morning, by starlight perhaps, he pushes away up 
 stream, and, by a shout, or the fragment of a song, gives 
 notice of his approach to the lock-man, with whom he is 
 to take his breakfast. If he gets up to his wood-pile 
 before noon he proceeds to load his boat, with the help 
 of his single "hand," and is on his way down again 
 before night. When he gets to Lowell he unloads his 
 boat, and gets his receipt for his cargo, and, having heard 
 
226 A WEEK 
 
 the news at the public house at Middlesex or elsewhere, 
 goes back with his empty boat and his receipt in his 
 pocket to the owner, and to get a new load. We were 
 frequently advertised of their approach by some faint 
 sound behind us, and looking round saw them a mile off, 
 creeping stealthily up the side of the stream like alliga 
 tors. It was pleasant to hail these sailors of the Merri- 
 mack from time to time, and learn the news which cir 
 culated with them. We imagined that the sun shining 
 on their bare heads had stamped a liberal and public 
 character on their most private thoughts. 
 
 The open and sunny interval still stretched away from 
 the river sometimes by two or more terraces, to the dis 
 tant hill-country, and when we climbed the bank, we 
 commonly found an irregular copse-wood skirting the 
 river, the primitive having floated down-stream long ago 
 
 to , the "King's navy." Sometimes we saw the 
 
 river road a quarter or half a mile distant, and the parti 
 colored 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 rendez 
 vous for restless Yankee men. There dwelt along at 
 considerable distances on this interval a quiet agricul 
 tural and pastoral people, with every house its well, as 
 we sometimes proved, and every household, though 
 never so still and remote it appeared in the noontide, its 
 dinner about these times. There they lived on, those 
 New England people, farmer lives, father and grand 
 father and great-grandfather, on and on without noise, 
 keeping up tradition, and expecting, beside fair weather 
 and abundant harvests, we did not learn what. They 
 
TUESDAY 227 
 
 were contented to live, since it was so contrived for them, 
 and where their lines had fallen. 
 
 Our uninquiring corpses lie more low 
 Than our life's curiosity doth go. 
 
 Yet these men had no need to travel to be as wise as 
 Solomon in all his glory, so similar are the lives of men 
 in all countries, and fraught with the same homely 
 experiences. One half the world knows how the other 
 half lives. 
 
 About noon we passed a small village in Merrimack 
 at Thornton's Ferry, and tasted of the waters of Nati- 
 cook Brook on the same side, where French and his 
 companions, whose grave we saw in Dunstable, were 
 ambuscaded by the Indians. The humble village of 
 Litchfield, with its steepleless meeting-house, stood on 
 the opposite or east bank, near where a dense grove of 
 willows backed by maples skirted the shore. There also 
 we noticed some shagbark trees, which, as they do not 
 grow in Concord, were as strange a sight to us as the 
 palm would be, whose fruit only we have seen. Our 
 course now curved gracefully to the north, leaving a low, 
 flat shore on the Merrimack side, which forms a sort 
 of harbor for canal-boats. We observed some fair elms 
 and particularly large and handsome white maples 
 standing conspicuously on this interval; and the oppo 
 site 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 
 
228 A WEEK 
 
 mallets echoed from shore to shore, and up and down 
 the river, and their tools gleamed in the sun a quarter of 
 a mile from us, and we realized that boat-building was 
 as ancient and honorable an art as agriculture, and that 
 there might be a naval as well as a pastoral life. The 
 whole history of commerce was made manifest in that 
 scow turned bottom upward on the shore. Thus did men 
 begin to go down upon the sea in ships; quaeque diu 
 steterant in montibus altis, Fluctibus ignotis insultavere 
 carinae; "and keels which had long stood on high 
 mountains careered insultingly (insultavere) over un 
 known waves." l 
 
 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 traveling. 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 sheepskins blown up. And where could they 
 better afford to tarry meanwhile than on the banks of a 
 river? 
 
 As we glided past at a distance, these outdoor work 
 men 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. 
 1 Ovid, Met. I. 133. 
 
TUESDAY 229 
 
 The waves slowly beat, 
 Just to keep the noon sweet, 
 And no sound is floated o'er, 
 Save the mallet on shore, 
 Which echoing on high 
 Seems a-calking the sky. 
 
 The haze, the sun's dust of travel, had a Lethean influ 
 ence 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, com 
 mends itself to us by its very antiquity and apparent 
 solidity and necessity. Our weakness needs it, and our 
 strength uses it. We cannot draw on our boots without 
 bracing ourselves against it. If there were but one erect 
 and solid-standing tree in the woods, all creatures would 
 go to rub against it and make sure of their footing. Dur 
 ing the many hours which we spend in this waking sleep, 
 the hand stands still on the face of the clock, and we 
 
230 A WEEK 
 
 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, con 
 tained only its well-thumbed "Navigator" for all litera 
 ture, and we were obliged to draw on our memory for 
 these things. 
 
 We naturally remembered Alexander Henry's Adven 
 tures here, as a sort of classic among books of American 
 travel. It contains scenery and rough sketching of men 
 and incidents enough to inspire poets for many years, 
 and to my fancy is as full of sounding names as any page 
 of history, Lake Winnipeg, Hudson's Bay, Ottaway, 
 and portages innumerable; Chippeways, Gens de Terres, 
 Les Pilleurs, The Weepers; with reminiscences of 
 Hearne's journey, and the like; an immense and shaggy 
 but sincere country, summer and winter, adorned with 
 chains of lakes and rivers, covered with snows, with 
 hemlocks, and fir trees. There is a naturalness, an un 
 pretending and cold life in this traveler, as in a Canadian 
 winter, what life was preserved through low tempera 
 tures and frontier dangers by furs within a stout heart. 
 
TUESDAY 231 
 
 He has truth and moderation worthy of the father of 
 history, which belong only to an intimate experience, 
 and he does not defer too much to literature. The 
 unlearned 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 astronomer does not. The good sense of this author 
 is very conspicuous. He is a traveler who does not exag 
 gerate, but writes for the information of his readers, for 
 science, and for history. His story is told with as much 
 good faith and directness as if it were a report to his 
 brother traders, or the Directors of the Hudson's Bay 
 Company, and is fitly dedicated to Sir Joseph Banks. 
 It reads like the argument to a great poem on the primi 
 tive 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 sus 
 pended interest, as if the full account were to follow. 
 In what school was this fur-trader educated ? He seems 
 to travel the immense snowy country with such purpose 
 only as the reader who accompanies him, and to the 
 latter's imagination, it is, as it were, momentarily created 
 to be the scene of his adventures. What is most interest 
 ing and valuable in it, however, is not the materials for 
 the history of Pontiac, or Braddock, or the Northwest, 
 which it furnishes ; not the annals of the country, but the 
 natural facts, or perennials, which are ever without date. 
 When out of history the truth shall be extracted, it will 
 have shed its dates like withered leaves. 
 
 The Souhegan, or Crooked River, as some translate 
 
A WEEK 
 
 it, comes in from the west about a mile and a half above 
 Thornton's Ferry. Babboosuck Brook empties into it 
 near its mouth. There are said to be some of the finest 
 water privileges in the country still unimproved on the 
 former stream, at a short distance from the Merrimack. 
 One spring morning, March 22, in the year 1677, an 
 incident occurred on the banks of the river here, which 
 is interesting to us as a slight memorial of an interview 
 between two ancient tribes of men, one of which is now 
 extinct, while the other, though it is still represented by a 
 miserable remnant, has long since disappeared from its 
 ancient hunting-grounds. A Mr. James Parker, at " Mr. 
 Hinchmanne's farme ner Meremack," wrote thus "to 
 the Honred Governer and Council at Bostown, Hast, 
 Post Hast:" 
 
 "Sagamore Wanalancet come this morning to in- 
 forme me, and then went to Mr. Tyng's to informe him, 
 that his son being on ye other sid of Meremack river over 
 against Souhegan upon the 22 day of this instant, about 
 tene of the clock in the morning, he discovered 15 Indians 
 on this sid the river, which he soposed to be Mohokes by 
 ther spech. He called to them; they answered but he 
 could not understand ther spech ; and he having a conow 
 ther in the river, he went to breck his conow that they 
 might not have ani ues of it. In the mean time they shot 
 about thirty guns at him, and he being much frighted 
 fled, and come home forthwith to Nahamcock [Paw- 
 tucket Falls or Lowell], wher ther wigowames now 
 stand." 
 
 Penacooks and Mohawks! ubique gentium sunt? 
 In the year 1670, a Mohawk warrior scalped a Naam- 
 
TUESDAY 233 
 
 keak or else a Wamesit Indian maiden near where 
 Lowell now stands. She, however, recovered. Even as 
 late as 1685, John Hogkins, a Penacook Indian, who 
 describes his grandfather as having lived "at place 
 called Malamake rever, other name chef Natukkog and 
 Panukkog, that one rever great many names," wrote 
 thus to the governor: 
 
 "May 15th, 1685. 
 "Honor governor my friend, 
 
 "You my friend I desire your worship and your 
 power, because I hope you can do som great matters 
 this one. I am poor and naked and I have no men 
 at my place because I afraid allwayes Mohogs he will 
 kill me every day and night. If your worship when 
 please pray help me you no let Mohogs kill me at my 
 place at Malamake river called Pannukkog and Na 
 tukkog, I will submit your worship and your power. 
 And now I want pouder and such alminishon shatt 
 and guns, because I have forth at my horn and I plant 
 theare. 
 
 " This all Indian hand, but pray you do consider your 
 humble servant, 
 
 JOHN HOGKINS." 
 
 Signed also by Simon Detogkom, King Hary, Sam 
 Linis, Mr. Jorge Rodunnonukgus, John Owamosimmin, 
 and nine other Indians, with their marks against their 
 names. 
 
 But now, one hundred and fifty-four years having 
 elapsed since the date of this letter, we went unalarmed 
 on our way without " brecking " our " conow," reading 
 
234 A WEEK 
 
 the New England Gazetteer, and seeing no traces of 
 " Mohogs " on the banks. 
 
 The Souhegan, though a rapid river, seemed to-day 
 to have borrowed its character from the noon. 
 
 Where gleaming fields of haze 
 Meet the voyageur's gaze, 
 And above, the heated air 
 Seems to make a river there, 
 The pines stand up with pride 
 By the Souhegan's side, 
 And the hemlock and the larch 
 With their triumphal arch 
 Are waving o'er its march 
 
 To the sea. 
 
 No wind stirs its waves, 
 But the spirits of the braves 
 
 Hov'ring o'er, 
 Whose antiquated graves 
 Its still water laves 
 
 On the shore. 
 
 With an Indian's stealthy tread 
 It goes sleeping in its bed, 
 Without joy or grief, 
 Or the rustle of a leaf, 
 Without a ripple or a billow, 
 Or the sigh of a willow, 
 From the Lyndeboro' hills 
 To the Merrimack mills. 
 With a louder din 
 Did its current begin, 
 When melted the snow 
 On the far mountain's brow. 
 And the drops came together 
 In that rainy weather. 
 Experienced river, 
 Hast thou flowed forever? 
 Souhegan soundeth old, 
 
TUESDAY 235 
 
 But the half is not told, 
 
 What names hast thou borne, 
 
 In the ages far gone, 
 
 When the Xanthus and Meander 
 
 Commenced to wander, 
 
 Ere the black bear haunted 
 
 Thy red forest-floor, 
 Or Nature had planted 
 
 The pines by thy shore ? 
 
 During the heat of the day, we rested on a large island 
 a mile above the mouth of this river, pastured by a herd 
 of cattle, with steep banks and scattered elms and oaks, 
 and a sufficient channel for canal-boats on each side. 
 When we made a fire to boil some rice for our dinner, 
 the flames spreading amid the dry grass, and the smoke 
 curling silently upward and casting grotesque shadows 
 on the ground, seemed phenomena of the noon, and we 
 fancied that we progressed up the stream without effort, 
 and as naturally as the wind and tide went down, not 
 outraging the calm days by unworthy bustle or impa 
 tience. The woods on the neighboring shore were alive 
 with pigeons, which were moving south, looking for 
 mast, but now, like ourselves, spending their noon in the 
 shade. We could hear the slight, wiry, winnowing sound 
 of their wings as they changed their roosts from time 
 to time, and their gentle and tremulous cooing. They 
 sojourned with us during the noontide, greater 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 hermitlike appearance, as if 
 they had never strayed beyond its skirts, while the acorn 
 
236 A WEEK 
 
 which was gathered in the forests of Maine is still undi 
 gested in their crops. We obtained one of these hand 
 some birds, which lingered too long upon its perch, and 
 plucked and broiled it here with some other game, to be 
 carried along for our supper; for, beside the provisions 
 which we carried with us, we depended mainly on the 
 river and forest for our supply. It is true, it did not seem 
 to be putting this bird to its right use to pluck off its 
 feathers, and extract its entrails, and broil its carcass on 
 the coals; but we heroically persevered, nevertheless, 
 waiting for further information. The same regard for 
 Nature which excited our sympathy for her creatures 
 nerved our hands to carry through what we had begun. 
 For we would be honorable to the party we deserted; 
 we would fulfill fate, and so at length, perhaps, detect 
 the secret innocence of these incessant tragedies which 
 Heaven allows. 
 
 "Too quick resolves do resolution wrong. 
 What, part so soon to be divorced so long? 
 Things to be done are long to be debated; 
 Heaven is not day'd, Repentance is not dated." 
 
 We are double-edged blades, and every time we whet 
 our virtue the return stroke straps our vice. Where is the 
 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 spar 
 rows seem always chipper, never infirm. We do not see 
 \ their bodies lie about. Yet there is a tragedy at the end 
 of each one of their lives. They must perish miserably; 
 
TUESDAY 237 
 
 not one of them is translated. True, "not a sparrow 
 falleth to the ground without our Heavenly Father's 
 knowledge," but they do fall, nevertheless. 
 
 The carcasses of some poor squirrels, however, the 
 same that frisked so merrily in the morning, which we 
 had skinned and emboweled for our dinner, we aban 
 doned in disgust, with tardy humanity, as too wretched 
 a resource for any but starving men. It was to perpetuate 
 the practice of a barbarous era. If they had been larger, 
 our crime had been less. Their small red bodies, little 
 bundles of red tissue, mere gobbets of venison, would not 
 have "fattened fire." With a sudden impulse we threw 
 them away, and washed our hands, and boiled some rice 
 for our dinner. " Behold the difference between the one 
 who eateth flesh, and him to whom it belonged ! The first 
 hath a momentary enjoyment, whilst the latter is de 
 prived 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 man 
 kind in the hunter age, chasing hares down the moun 
 tains; 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 pro 
 portion to their bodies. 
 
 There should always be some flowering and maturing 
 of the fruits of nature in the cooking process. Some 
 simple dishes recommend themselves to our imagina 
 tions as well as palates. In parched corn, for instance, 
 there is a manifest sympathy between the bursting seed 
 and the more perfect developments of vegetable life. 
 
238 A WEEK 
 
 It is a perfect flower with its petals, like the houstonia 
 or anemone. On my warm hearth these cerealian blos 
 soms 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 plowed, 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 London book 
 shop, 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, Mimnermus, 
 Ibycus, Alcseus, Stesichorus, Menander. They lived not 
 in vain. We can converse with these bodiless fames 
 without reserve or personality. 
 
 I know of no studies so composing as those of the 
 classical scholar. When we have sat down to them, life 
 seems as still and serene as if it were very far off, and I 
 believe it is not habitually seen from any common plat 
 form so truly and unexaggerated as in the light of litera 
 ture. In serene hours we contemplate the tour of the 
 
 1 Simonides' Epigram on Anacreon. 
 
TUESDAY 239 
 
 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 scoiety? 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 con 
 stellations, a high and by way serene to travel. Indeed, 
 the true scholar will be not a little of an astronomer in 
 his habits. Distracting cares will not be allowed toS 
 obstruct the field of his vision, for the higher regions of 
 literature, like astronomy, are above storm and darkness. 
 
 But passing by these rumors of bards, let us pause 
 for a moment at the Teian poet. 
 
 There is something strangely modern about him. He 
 is very easily turned into English. Is it that our lyric 
 poets have resounded but that lyre, which would sound 
 only light subjects, and which Simonides tells us does 
 not sleep in Hades ? His odes are like gems of pure ivory. 
 They possess an ethereal and evanescent beauty like 
 summer evenings, o xpy <r* voeiv voov av0, which you 
 must perceive with the flower of the mind, and show 
 how slight a beauty could be expressed. You have to 
 consider them, as the stars of lesser magnitude, with 
 the side of the eye, and look aside from them to be 
 hold them. They charm us by their serenity and free 
 dom from exaggeration and passion, and by a certain 
 flower-like beauty, which does not propose itself, but 
 must be approached and studied like a natural object. 
 But perhaps their chief merit consists in the lightness 
 and yet security of their tread, 
 
240 A WEEK 
 
 " 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 pre 
 sumed, but always elevated above the sensual. 
 
 These are some of the best that have come down to us. 
 
 ON HIS LYRE 
 
 I wish to sing the Atridse, 
 
 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? 
 
TUESDAY 241 
 
 But a hollow cup, 
 
 As deep as thou canst. 
 
 And make for me in it 
 
 Neither stars, nor wagons, 
 
 Nor sad Orion; 
 
 What are the Pleiades to me ? 
 
 What the shining Bootes ? 
 
 Make vines for me, 
 
 And clusters of grapes in it, 
 
 And of gold Love and Bathyllus 
 
 Treading the grapes 
 
 With the fair 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. 
 
242 A WEEK 
 
 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 
 
 Over mountains and fields, 
 
 And perch upon trees, 
 
 Eating some wild thing? 
 
 Now indeed I eat bread, 
 
 Plucking it from the hands 
 
 Of Anacreon himself; 
 
 And he gives me to drink 
 
 The wine which he tastes, 
 
 And drinking, I dance, 
 
 And shadow my master's 
 
 Face with my wings; 
 
 And, going to rest, 
 
 On the lyre itself I sleep. 
 
 That is all; get thee gone. 
 
 Thou hast made me more talkative, 
 
 Man, than a crow. 
 
 ON LOVE 
 
 Love walking swiftly, 
 
 With hyacinthine staff, 
 
 Bade me to take a run with him; 
 
 And hastening through swift torrents, 
 
 And woody places, and over precipices, 
 
 A water-snake stung me. 
 
 And my heart leaped up to 
 
 My mouth, and I should have fainted; 
 
 But Love, fanning my brows 
 
 With his soft wings, said, 
 
 Surely, thou art not able to love. 
 
 ON WOMEN 
 
 Nature has given horns 
 
 To bulls, and hoofs to horses, 
 
TUESDAY 243 
 
 Swiftness to hares, 
 
 To lions yawning teeth, 
 
 To fishes swimming, 
 
 To birds flight, 
 
 To men wisdom. 
 
 For woman she had nothing beside; 
 
 What then does she give ? Beauty, 
 
 Instead of all shields, 
 
 Instead of all spears; 
 
 And she conquers even iron 
 
 And fire, who is beautiful. 
 
 ON LOVERS 
 
 Horses have the mark 
 
 Of fire on their sides, 
 
 And some have distinguished 
 
 The Parthian men by their crests; 
 
 So I, seeing lovers, 
 
 Know them at once, 
 
 For they have a certain slight 
 
 Brand on then* 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? 
 
244 A WEEK 
 
 Know I could well 
 Put the bridle on thee, 
 And holding the reins, turn 
 Round the bounds of the course. 
 But now thou browsest the meads, 
 And gamboling lightly dost play, 
 v 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 Heaven 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 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 
 
TUESDAY 245 
 
 came down with a dust and a rumbling sound, which 
 was reverberated through the woods beyond us on our 
 side, like the roar of artillery. But Zephyr soon took us 
 out of sight and hearing of this commerce. Having 
 passed Read's Ferry, and another island called McGaw's 
 Island, we reached some rapids called Moore's Falls, 
 and entered on " that section of the river, nine miles in 
 extent, converted, by law, into the Union Canal, com 
 prehending in that space six distinct falls; at each of 
 which, and at several intermediate places, work has been 
 done." After passing Moore's Falls by means of locks, 
 we again had recourse to our oars, and went merrily on 
 our way, driving the small sandpiper from rock to rock 
 before us, and sometimes rowing near enough to a cot 
 tage on the bank, though they were few and far between, 
 to see the sunflowers, and the seed-vessels of the poppy, 
 like small goblets filled with the water of Lethe, before 
 the door, but without disturbing the sluggish household 
 behind. Thus we held on, sailing or dipping our way 
 along with the paddle up this broad river, smooth and 
 placid, flowing over concealed rocks, where we could see 
 the pickerel lying low in the transparent water, eager to 
 double some distant cape, to make some great bend as 
 in the life of man, and see what new perspective would 
 open ; looking far into a new country, broad and serene, 
 the cottages of settlers seen afar for the first time, yet 
 with the moss of a century on their roofs, and the third or 
 fourth generation in their shadows. Strange was it to 
 consider how the sun and the summer, the buds of spring 
 and the seared leaves of autumn, were related to these 
 cabins along the shore; how all the rays which paint the 
 
246 A WEEK 
 
 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 accompa 
 nied us, fringed with vines and alive with small birds 
 and frisking squirrels, the edge of some farmer's field 
 or widow's wood-lot, or wilder, perchance, where the 
 muskrat, the little medicine of the river, drags itself 
 along stealthily over the alder leaves and mussel 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 ad 
 venturously landed on this remote coast, to survey it, 
 without the knowledge of any human inhabitant prob 
 ably to this day. But we still remember the gnarled and 
 hospitable oaks which grew even there for our enter 
 tainment, and were no strangers to us, the lonely horse 
 in his pasture, and the patient cows, whose path to the 
 river, so judiciously chosen to overcome the difficulties 
 of the way, we followed, and disturbed their ruminations 
 in the shade; and, above all, the cool, free aspect of the 
 wild apple trees, generously proffering their fruit to us, 
 though still green and crude, the hard, round, glossy 
 fruit, which, if not ripe, still was not poison, but New 
 English too, brought hither, its ancestors, by ours once. 
 These gentler trees imparted a half -civilized and twilight 
 aspect to the otherwise barbarian land. Still farther on 
 we scrambled up the rocky channel of a brook, which 
 had long served nature for a sluice there, leaping like it 
 from rock to rock, through tangled woods, at the bottom 
 of a ravine, which grew darker and darker, and more 
 
TUESDAY 247 
 
 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 com 
 pelled us to embark once more, and redeem this wasted 
 time with long and vigorous sweeps over the rippling 
 stream. 
 
 It was still wild and solitary, except that at intervals 
 of a mile or two the roof of a cottage might be seen over 
 the bank. This region, as we read, was once famous for 
 the manufacture of straw bonnets of the Leghorn kind, 
 of which it claims the invention in these parts; and 
 occasionally some industrious damsel tripped down 
 to the water's edge, to put her straw a-soak, as it ap 
 peared, and stood awhile to watch the retreating voy- 
 ageurs, 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 
 
248 A WEEK 
 
 we were bound up to " 'Skeag ; " and when he had heard 
 our story, and examined our outfit, asked us other ques 
 tions, but temperately still, and always turning to his 
 work again, though as if it were become his duty. It was 
 plain that he would like to go with us, and, as he looked 
 up the river, many a distant cape and wooded shore were 
 reflected in his eye, as well as in his thoughts. When we 
 were ready he left his work, and helped us through the 
 locks with a sort of quiet enthusiasm, telling us that we 
 were at Coos Falls, and we could still distinguish the 
 strokes of his chisel for many sweeps after we had left 
 him. 
 
 We wished to camp this night on a large rock in the 
 middle of the stream, just above these falls, but the want 
 of fuel, and the difficulty of fixing our tent firmly, pre 
 vented us; so we made our bed on the mainland oppo 
 site, 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. 
 this morning, as we were rolling up our buffa 
 loes and loading our boat amid the dew, while our embers 
 were still smoking, the masons who worked at the locks, 
 and whom we had seen crossing the river in their boat 
 the evening before while we were examining the rock, 
 came upon us as they were going to their work, and we 
 found that we had pitched our tent directly in the path 
 to their boat. This was the only time that we were 
 observed on our camping-ground. Thus, far from the 
 beaten highways and the dust and din of travel, we 
 beheld the country privately, yet freely, and at our lei 
 sure. Other roads do some violence to Nature, and 
 bring the traveler to stare at her, but the river steals 
 into the scenery it traverses without intrusion, silently 
 creating and adorning it, and is as free to come and go 
 as the zephyr. 
 
 As we shoved away from this rocky coast, before sun 
 rise, the smaller bittern, the genius of the shore, was 
 moping along its edge, or stood probing the mud for its 
 food, with ever an eye on us, though so demurely at 
 work, or else he ran along over the wet stones like a 
 wrecker in his storm-coat, looking out for wrecks of 
 snails and cockles. Now away he goes, with a limping 
 flight, uncertain where he will alight, until a rod of clear 
 sand amid the alders invites his feet ; and now our steady 
 approach compels him to seek a new retreat. It is a bird 
 
250 A WEEK 
 
 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 some 
 thing venerable in this melancholy and contemplative 
 race of birds, which may have trodden the earth while it 
 was yet in a slimy and imperfect state. Perchance their 
 tracks, too, are still visible on the stones. It still lingers 
 into our glaring summers, bravely supporting its fate 
 without sympathy from man, as if it looked forward to 
 some second advent of which he has no assurance. One 
 wonders if, by its patient study by rocks and sandy capes, 
 it has wrested the whole of her secret from Nature yet. 
 What a rich experience it must have gained, standing on 
 one leg and looking out from its dull eye so long on sun 
 shine and rain, moon and stars! What could it tell of 
 stagnant pools and reeds and dank night-fogs ! It would 
 be worth the while to look closely into the eye which has 
 been open and seeing at such hours, and in such solitudes 
 its dull, yellowish, greenish eye. Methinks my own soul 
 must be a bright invisible green. I have seen these birds 
 stand by the half dozen together in the shallower water 
 along the shore, with their bills thrust into the mud at 
 the bottom, probing for food, the whole head being 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 between Manchester and Bedford, we 
 

 The Merrimac at GojfjTs Falls 
 
. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
WEDNESDAY 251 
 
 passed, at an early hour, a ferry and some falls, called 
 GofFs Falls, the Indian Cohasset, where there is a small 
 village, and a handsome green islet in the middle of 
 the stream. From Bedford and Merrimack have been 
 boated the bricks of which Lowell is made. About 
 twenty years before, as they told us, one Moore, of 
 Bedford, having clay on his farm, contracted to furnish 
 eight millions of bricks to the founders of that city within 
 two years. He fulfilled his contract in one year, and since 
 then bricks have been the principal export from these 
 towns. The farmers found thus a market for their wood, 
 and when they had brought a load to the kilns, they 
 could cart a load of bricks to the shore, and so make a 
 profitable day's work of it. Thus all parties were bene 
 fited. 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 Merri 
 mack, near GoflF's Falls, in what is now the town of Bed 
 ford, famous "for hops and for its fine domestic manu 
 factures," some graves of the aborigines. The land still 
 bears this scar here, and time is slowly crumbling the 
 bones of a race. Yet, without fail, every spring, since 
 they first fished and hunted here, the brown thrasher 
 has heralded the morning from a birch or alder spray, 
 and the undying race of reed-birds still rustles through 
 the withering grass. But these bones rustle not. These 
 mouldering elements are slowly preparing for another 
 metamorphosis, to serve new masters, and what was the 
 Indian's will ere long be the white man's sinew. 
 
252 A WEEK 
 
 We learned that Bedford was not so famous for hops 
 as formerly, since the price is fluctuating, and poles are 
 now scarce. Yet if the traveler goes back a few miles 
 from the river, the hop kilns will still excite his curiosity. 
 
 There were few incidents in our voyage this forenoon, 
 though the river was now more rocky and the falls more 
 frequent than before. It was a pleasant change, after 
 rowing incessantly for many hours, to lock ourselves 
 through in some retired place, for commonly there 
 was no lock-man at hand, one sitting in the boat, 
 while the other, sometimes with no little labor and heave- 
 yo-ing, opened and shut the gates, waiting patiently to 
 see the locks fill. We did not once use the wheels which 
 we had provided. Taking advantage of the eddy, we 
 were sometimes floated up to the locks almost in the face 
 of the falls ; and, by the same cause, any floating timber 
 was carried round in a circle and repeatedly drawn into 
 the rapids before it finally went down the stream. These 
 old gray structures, with their quiet arms stretched over 
 the river in the sun, appeared like natural objects in the 
 scenery, and the kingfisher and sandpiper alighted on 
 them as readily as on stakes or rocks. 
 
 We rowed leisurely up the stream for several hours, 
 until the sun had got high in the sky, our thoughts 
 monotonously beating time to our oars. For outward 
 variety there was only the river and the receding shores, 
 a vista continually opening behind and closing before us, 
 as we sat with our backs upstream; and, for inward, 
 such thoughts as the muses grudgingly lent us. We were 
 always passing some low, inviting shore, or some over 
 hanging bank, on which, however, we never landed. 
 
WEDNESDAY 253 
 
 Such near aspects had we 
 Of our life's scenery. 
 
 It might be seen by what tenure men held the earth. 
 The smallest stream is mediterranean sea, a smaller 
 ocean creek within the land, where men may steer by 
 their farm bounds and cottage lights. For my own part, 
 but for the geographers, I should hardly have known 
 how large a portion of our globe is water, my life has 
 chiefly passed within so deep a cove. Yet I have some 
 times ventured as far as to the mouth of my Snug Harbor. 
 From an old ruined fort on Staten Island, I have loved 
 to watch all day some vessel whose name I had read in 
 the morning through the telegraph glass, when she first 
 came upon the coast, and her hull heaved up and glis 
 tened 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 bay, till she was 
 boarded by the health officer, and took her station at 
 quarantine, or held on her unquestioned course to the 
 wharves of New York. It was interesting, too, to watch 
 the less adventurous newsman, who made his assault as 
 the vessel swept through the Narrows, defying plague 
 and quarantine law, and, fastening his little cockboat 
 to her huge side, clambered up and disappeared in the 
 cabin. And then I could imagine what momentous news 
 was being imparted by the captain, which no American 
 ear had ever heard, that Asia, Africa, Europe were all 
 sunk; for which at length he pays the price, and is seen 
 descending the ship's side with his bundle of newspa 
 pers, but not where he first got up, for these arrivers do 
 not stand still to gossip ; and he hastes away with steady 
 
254 A WEEK 
 
 sweeps to dispose of his wares to the highest bidder, and 
 we shall ere long read something startling, "By the 
 
 latest arrival," " by the good ship ." On Sunday I 
 
 beheld, from some interior hill, the long procession of 
 vessels getting to sea, reaching from the city wharves 
 through the Narrows, and past the Hook, quite to the 
 ocean stream, far as the eye could reach, with stately 
 march and silken sails, all counting on lucky voyages, 
 but each time some of the number, no doubt, destined 
 to go to Davy's locker, and never come on this coast 
 again. And, again, in the evening of a pleasant day, it 
 was my amusement to count the sails in sight. But as 
 the setting sun continually brought more and more to 
 light, still farther in the horizon, the last count always 
 had the advantage, till, by the time the last rays streamed 
 over the sea, I had doubled and trebled my first number; 
 though I could no longer class them all under the several 
 heads of ships, barks, brigs, schooners, and sloops, but 
 most were faint generic vessels only. And then the tem 
 perate twilight, perchance, revealed the floating home of 
 some sailor whose thoughts were already alienated from 
 this American coast, and directed towards the Europe of 
 our dreams. I have stood upon the same hilltop, when 
 a thunder-shower, rolling down from the Catskills and 
 Highlands, passed over the island, deluging the land; 
 and, when it had suddenly left us in sunshine, have seen 
 it overtake successively, with its huge shadow and dark, 
 descending wall of rain, the vessels in the bay. Their 
 bright sails were suddenly drooping and dark, like the 
 sides of barns, and they seemed to shrink before the 
 storm; while still far beyond them on the sea, through 
 
 
WEDNESDAY 255 
 
 this dark veil, gleamed the sunny sails of those vessels 
 which the storm had not yet reached. And at midnight, 
 when all around and overhead was darkness, I have seen 
 a field of trembling, silvery light far out on the sea, the 
 reflection of the moonlight from the ocean, as if beyond 
 the precincts of our night, where the moon traversed a 
 cloudless heaven, and sometimes a dark speck in its 
 midst, where some fortunate vessel was pursuing its 
 happy voyage by night. 
 
 But to us river sailors the sun never rose out of ocean 
 waves, but from some green coppice, and went down 
 behind some dark mountain line. We, too, were but 
 dwellers on the shore, like the bittern of the morning; 
 and our pursuit, the wrecks of snails and cockles. 
 Nevertheless, we were contented to know the better one 
 fair particular shore. 
 
 My life is like a stroll upon the beach, 
 As near the ocean's edge as I can go; 
 
 My tardy steps its waves sometimes o'erreach, 
 Sometimes I stay to let them overflow. 
 
 My sole employment 't is, and scrupulous care, 
 To place my gains beyond the reach of tides, 
 
 Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare, 
 Which ocean kindly to my hand confides. 
 
 I have but few companions on the shore, 
 They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea, 
 
 Yet oft I think the ocean they 've sailed o'er 
 Is deeper known upon the strand to me. 
 
 The middle sea contains no crimson dulse, 
 Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view, 
 
 Along the shore my hand is on its pulse, 
 And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew. 
 
256 A WEEK 
 
 The small houses which were scattered along the river 
 at intervals of a mile or more were commonly out of 
 sight to us, but sometimes, when we rowed near the 
 shore, we heard the peevish note of a hen, or some slight 
 domestic sound, which betrayed them. The lock-men's 
 houses were particularly well placed, retired, and high, 
 always at falls or rapids, and commanding the pleasant- 
 est 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 running vine over the win 
 dows, they appeared like beehives set to gather honey 
 for a summer. I have not read of any Arcadian life 
 which surpasses the actual luxury and serenity of these 
 New England dwellings. For the outward gilding, at 
 least, the age is golden enough. As you approach the 
 sunny doorway, awakening the echoes by your steps, 
 still no sound from these barracks of repose, and you 
 fear that the gentlest knock may seem rude to the 
 Oriental dreamers. The door is opened, perchance, by 
 some Yankee-Hindoo woman, whose small-voiced but 
 sincere hospitality, out of the bottomless depths of a 
 quiet nature, has traveled quite round to the opposite 
 
WEDNESDAY 257 
 
 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 house 
 hold, for Oriental dynasties appear to have passed 
 away since the dinner-table was last spread here, and 
 thence to the frequented curb, where you see your long- 
 forgotten, unshaven face at the bottom, in juxtaposition 
 with new-made butter and the trout in the well. "Per 
 haps you would like some molasses and ginger," sug 
 gests the faint noon voice. Sometimes there sits the 
 brother who follows the sea, their representative man; 
 who knows only how far it is to the nearest port, no 
 more distances, all the rest is sea and distant capes, 
 patting the dog, or dandling the kitten in arms that were 
 stretched by the cable and the oar, pulling against 
 Boreas or the trade-winds. He looks up at the stranger, 
 half pleased, half astonished, with a mariner's eye, as if 
 he were a dolphin within cast. If men will believe it, 
 sua si bona norint, there are no more quiet Tempes, nor 
 more poetic and Arcadian lives, than may be lived in 
 these New England dwellings. We thought that the 
 employment of their inhabitants by day would be to 
 tend the flowers and herds, and at night, like the 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 
 
258 A WEEK 
 
 recently made important changes here. An island always 
 pleases my imagination, even the smallest, as a small con 
 tinent and integral portion of the globe. I have a fancy 
 for building my hut on one. Even a bare, grassy isle, 
 which I can see entirely over at a glance, has some 
 undefined and mysterious charm for me. There is 
 commonly such a one at the junction of two rivers, 
 whose currents bring down and deposit their respective 
 sands in the eddy at their confluence, as it were the 
 womb of a continent. By what a delicate and far- 
 stretched contribution every island is made! What an 
 enterprise of Nature thus to lay the foundations of and 
 to build up the future continent, of golden and silver 
 sands and the ruins of forests, with ant-like industry. 
 Pindar gives the following account of the origin of Thera, 
 whence, in after times, Libyan Gyrene was settled by 
 Battus. Triton, in the form of Eurypylus, presents a 
 clod to Euphemus, one of the Argonauts, as they are 
 about to return home. 
 
 "He knew of our haste, 
 And immediately seizing a clod 
 With his right hand, strove to give it 
 As a chance stranger's gift. 
 
 Nor did the hero disregard him, but leaping on the shore, 
 Stretching hand to hand, 
 Received the mystic clod. 
 But I hear it sinking from the deck, 
 Go with the sea brine 
 At evening, accompanying the watery sea. 
 Often indeed I urged the careless 
 Menials to guard it, but their minds forgot. 
 And now in this island the imperishable seed of spacious Libya 
 Is spilled before its hour." 
 
WEDNESDAY 259 
 
 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 sand-bar, and saw the fair and 
 fruitful island of Rhodes 
 
 "springing up from the bottom, 
 Capable of feeding many men, and suitable for flocks;" 
 
 and at the nod of Zeus, 
 
 "The island sprang from the watery 
 Sea ; and the genial Father of penetrating beams, 
 Ruler of fire-breathing horses, has it." 
 
 The shifting islands! who would not be willing that 
 his house should be undermined by such a foe! The 
 inhabitant of an island can tell what currents formed 
 the land which he cultivates; and his earth is still 
 being created or destroyed. There before his door, 
 perchance, still empties the stream which brought down 
 the material of his farm ages before, and is still bring 
 ing it down or washing it away, the graceful, gentle 
 robber! 
 
 Not long after this we saw the Piscataquoag, or 
 Sparkling Water, emptying in on our left, and heard the 
 Falls of Amoskeag above. Large quantities of lumber, 
 as we read in the Gazetteer, were still annually floated 
 down the Piscataquoag to the Merrimack, and there are 
 many fine mill privileges on it. Just above the mouth of 
 this river we passed the artificial falls where the canals 
 of the Manchester Manufacturing Company discharge 
 themselves into the Merrimack. They are striking 
 enough to have a name, and, with the scenery of a Bash- 
 
260 A WEEK 
 
 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, probably to break its force, 
 and is converted into one mass of foam. This canal 
 water did not seem to be the worse for the wear, but 
 foamed and fumed as purely, and boomed as savagely 
 and impressively, as a mountain torrent, and, though 
 it came from under a factory, we saw a rainbow here. 
 These are now the Amoskeag Falls, removed a mile 
 down-stream. But we did not tarry to examine them 
 minutely, making haste to get past the village here col 
 lected, and out of hearing of the hammer which was 
 laying the foundation of another Lowell on the banks. 
 At the time of our voyage Manchester was a village of 
 about two thousand inhabitants, where we landed for a 
 moment to get some cool water, and where an inhabitant 
 told us that he was accustomed to go across the river into 
 Goffstown for his water. But now, as I have been told, 
 and indeed have witnessed, it contains fourteen thou 
 sand inhabitants. From a hill on the road between 
 Goffstown and Hooksett, four miles distant, I have seen 
 a thunder-shower pass over, and the sun break out and 
 shine on a city there, where I had landed nine years 
 before in the fields; and there was waving the flag of its 
 Museum, where " the only perfect skeleton of a Green 
 land or river whale in the United States " was to be seen, 
 and I also read in its directory of a "Manchester 
 Athenaeum and Gallery of the Fine Arts." 
 
 According to the Gazetteer, the descent of Amoskeag 
 Falls, which are the most considerable in the Merri- 
 mack, is fifty-four feet in half a mile. We locked our- 
 
WEDNESDAY 261 
 
 selves through here with much ado, surmounting the 
 successive watery steps of this river's staircase in the 
 midst of a crowd of villagers, jumping into the canal to 
 their amusement, to save our boat from upsetting, and 
 consuming much river water in our service. Amoskeag, 
 or Namaskeak, is said to mean "great fishing-place." 
 It was hereabouts that the Sachem Wannalancet resided. 
 Tradition says that his tribe, when at war with the 
 Mohawks, concealed their provisions in the cavities of 
 the rocks in the upper part of these falls. The Indians, 
 who hid their provisions in these holes, and affirmed 
 "that God had cut them out for that purpose," under 
 stood their origin and use better than the Royal Society, 
 who in their Transactions, in the last century, speaking 
 of these very holes, declare that " they seem plainly to be 
 artificial." Similar " pot-holes " may be seen at the Stone 
 Flume on this river, on the Ottaway, at Bellows Falls on 
 the Connecticut, and in the limestone rock at Shelburne 
 Falls on Deerfield River in Massachusetts, and more or 
 less generally about all falls. Perhaps the most remark 
 able curiosity of this kind in New England is the well- 
 known Basin on the Pemigewasset, one of the head 
 waters of this river, twenty by thirty feet in extent and 
 proportionably deep, with a smooth and rounded brim, 
 and filled with a cold, pellucid, and greenish water. At 
 Amoskeag the river is divided into many separate tor 
 rents and trickling rills by the rocks, and its volume is so 
 much reduced by the drain of the canals that it does not 
 fill its bed. There are many pot-holes here on a rocky 
 island which the river washes over in high freshets. As 
 at Shelburne Falls, where I first observed them, they are 
 
262 A WEEK 
 
 from one foot to four or five in diameter, and as many 
 in depth, perfectly round and regular, with smooth and 
 gracefully curved brims, like goblets. Their origin is 
 apparent to the most careless observer. A stone which 
 the current has washed down, meeting with obstacles, 
 revolves as on a pivot where it lies, gradually sinking in 
 the course of centuries deeper and deeper into the rock, 
 and in new freshets receiving the aid of fresh stones, 
 which are drawn into this trap and doomed to revolve 
 there for an indefinite period, doing Sisyphus-like 
 penance for stony sins, until they either wear out or 
 wear through the bottom of their prison, or else are 
 released by some revolution of nature. There lie the 
 stones of various sizes, from a pebble to a foot or two in 
 diameter, some of which have rested from their labor 
 only since the spring, and some higher up which have 
 lain still and dry for ages, we noticed some here at 
 least sixteen feet above the present level of the water, 
 while others are still revolving, and enjoy no respite at 
 any season. In one instance, at Shelburne Falls, they 
 have worn quite through the rock, so that a portion of 
 the river leaks through in anticipation of the fall. Some 
 of these pot-holes at Amoskeag, in a very hard brown- 
 stone, had an oblong, cylindrical stone of the same 
 material loosely fitting them. One, as much as fifteen feet 
 deep and seven or eight in diameter, which was worn 
 quite through to the water, had a huge rock of the same 
 material, smooth but of irregular form, lodged in it. 
 Everywhere there were the rudiments or the wrecks of a 
 dimple in the rock; the rocky shells of whirlpools. As if 
 by force of example and sympathy after so many lessons, 
 
WEDNESDAY 263 
 
 the rocks, the hardest material, had been endeavoring to 
 whirl or flow into the forms of the most fluid. The finest 
 workers in stone are not copper or steel tools, but the 
 gentle touches of air and water working at their leisure 
 with a liberal allowance of time. 
 
 Not only have some of these basins been forming for 
 countless ages, but others exist which must have been 
 completed in a former geological period. In deepening 
 the Pawtucket Canal, in 1822, the workmen came to 
 ledges with pot-holes in them, where probably was once 
 the bed of the river, and there are some, we are told, in 
 the town of Canaan in this State, with the stones still in 
 them, on the height of land between the Merrimack and 
 Connecticut, and nearly a thousand feet above these 
 rivers, proving that the mountains and the rivers have 
 changed places. There lie the stones which completed 
 their revolutions perhaps before thoughts began to 
 revolve in the brain of man. The periods of Hindoo and 
 Chinese history, though they reach back to the time 
 when the race of mortals is confounded with the race of 
 gods, are as nothing compared with the periods which 
 these stones have inscribed. That which commenced a 
 rock when time was young shall conclude a pebble in the 
 unequal contest. With such expense of time and natural 
 forces are our very paving-stones produced. They teach 
 us lessons, these dumb workers ; verily there are " ser 
 mons 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 bylaw, 
 
264 A WEEK 
 
 perchance, our system itself was made ready for its 
 inhabitants. 
 
 These, and such as these, must be our antiquities, for 
 lack of human vestiges. The monuments of heroes and 
 the temples of the gods which may once have stood on 
 the banks of this river are now, at any rate, returned to 
 dust and primitive soil. The murmur of unchronicled 
 nations has died away along these shores, and once more 
 Lowell and Manchester are on the trail of the Indian. 
 
 The fact that Romans once inhabited her reflects no 
 little dignity on Nature herself; that from some particu 
 lar hill the Roman once looked out on the sea. She need 
 not be ashamed of the vestiges of her children. How 
 gladly the antiquary informs us that their vessels pene 
 trated 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 Ro 
 man 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 silent argument and 
 demonstration confirms the pages of history. 
 
 "Rome living was the world's sole ornament; 
 And dead is now the world's sole monument. 
 
 With her own weight down pressed now she lies, 
 And by her heaps her hugeness testifies." 
 
 If one doubts whether Grecian valor and patriotism 
 are not a fiction of the poets, he may go to Athens and 
 see still upon the walls of the temple of Minerva the cir- 
 
WEDNESDAY 265 
 
 cular 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 evi 
 dence; or an old gate still surviving out of which the 
 city is run out." When Solon endeavored to prove 
 that Salamis had formerly belonged to the Athenians, 
 and not to the Megareans, he caused the tombs to be 
 opened, and showed that the inhabitants of Salamis 
 turned the faces of their dead to the same side with the 
 Athenians, but the Megareans to the opposite side. 
 There they were to be interrogated. 
 
 Some minds are as little logical or argumentative as 
 nature; they can offer no reason or "guess," but they 
 exhibit the solemn and incontrovertible fact. If a his 
 torical question arises, they cause the tombs to be 
 opened. Their silent and practical logic convinces the 
 reason and the understanding at the same time. Of such 
 sort is always the only pertinent question and the only 
 satisfactory reply . 
 
 Our own country furnishes antiquities as ancient and 
 durable, and as useful, as any; rocks at least as well 
 covered with lichens, and a soil which, if it is virgin, is 
 but virgin mould, the very dust of nature. What if we 
 cannot read Rome or Greece, Etruria or Carthage, or 
 Egypt or Babylon, on these; are our cliffs bare? The 
 lichen on the rocks is a rude and simple shield which 
 beginning and imperfect Nature suspended there. Still 
 hangs her wrinkled trophy. And here, too, the poet's 
 
266 A WEEK 
 
 eye may still detect the brazen nails which fastened 
 Time's inscriptions, and if he has the gift, decipher 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 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 design which Greece has lately copied; whose 
 ruins are now mingled with the dust, and not one block 
 remains upon another. The century sun and unwearied 
 rain have wasted them, till not one fragment from that 
 quarry now exists; and poets perchance will feign that 
 gods sent down the material from heaven. 
 
 What though the 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 
 
WEDNESDAY 267 
 
 story? Carnac and Luxor are but names, or if their 
 skeletons remain, still more desert sand and at length a 
 wave of the Mediterranean Sea are needed to wash away 
 the filth that attaches to their grandeur. Carnac! Car 
 nac! here is Carnac for me. I behold the columns of 
 a larger and purer temple. 
 
 This is my Carnac, whose unmeasured dome 
 Shelters the measuring art and measurer's home. 
 Behold these flowers, let us be up with time, 
 Not dreaming of three thousand years ago, 
 Erect ourselves and let those columns lie, 
 Not stoop to raise a foil against the sky. 
 Where is the spirit of that time but in 
 This present day, perchance the present line? 
 Three thousand years ago are not agone, 
 They are still lingering in this summer morn, 
 And Memnon's Mother sprightly greets us now, 
 Wearing her youthful radiance on her brow. 
 If Carnac's columns still stand on the plain, 
 To enjoy our opportunities they remain. 
 
 In these parts dwelt the famous Sachem Pasacon- 
 away, who was seen by Gookin "at Pawtucket, when 
 he was about one hundred and twenty years old." He 
 was reputed a wise man and a powwow, and restrained 
 his people from going to war with the English. They 
 believed " that he could make water burn, rocks move, 
 and trees dance, and metamorphose himself into a 
 flaming man ; that in winter he could raise a green leaf 
 out of the ashes of a dry one, and produce a living snake 
 from the skin of a dead one, and many similar miracles." 
 In 1660, according to Gookin, at a great feast and dance, 
 he made his farewell speech to his people, in which he 
 said that as he was not likely to see them met together 
 
268 A WEEK 
 
 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 much an enemy to the 
 English at their first coming as any, and had used all his 
 arts to destroy them, or at least to prevent their 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 his 
 tory of that town, " wished to know whether Chelmsford 
 had suffered much during the war; and being informed 
 that it had not, and that God should be thanked for it, 
 Wannalancet replied, 'Me next.' " 
 
 Manchester was the residence of John Stark, a hero 
 of two wars, and survivor of a third, and at his death the 
 last but one of the American generals of the Revolution. 
 He was born in the adjoining town of Londonderry, 
 then Nutfield, in 1728. As early as 1752, he was taken 
 prisoner by the Indians while hunting in the wilderness 
 near Baker's River; he performed notable service as 
 a captain of rangers in the French war; commanded a 
 regiment of the New Hampshire militia at the battle of 
 Bunker Hill; and fought and won the battle of Benning- 
 
WEDNESDAY 269 
 
 ton in 1777. He was past service in the last war, and 
 died here in 1822, at the age of ninety-four. His monu 
 ment stands upon the second bank of the river, about a 
 mile and a half above the falls, and commands a pros 
 pect several miles up and down the Merrimack. It sug 
 gested how much more impressive in the landscape is the 
 tomb of a hero than the dwellings of the inglorious liv 
 ing. Who is most dead, a hero by whose monument 
 you stand, or his descendants of whom you have never 
 heard ? 
 
 The graves of Pasaconaway and Wannalancet are 
 marked by no monument on the bank of their native 
 river. 
 
 Every town which we passed, if we may believe the 
 Gazetteer, had been the residence of some great man. 
 But though we knocked at many doors, and even made 
 particular inquiries, we could not find that there were 
 any now living. Under the head of Litchfield we 
 read : 
 
 "The Hon. Wyseman Clagett closed his life in this 
 town." According to another, "He was a classical 
 scholar, a good lawyer, a wit, and a poet." We saw his 
 old gray house just below Great Nesenkeag Brook. 
 Under the head of Merrimack: " Hon. Mathew Thorn 
 ton, one of the signers of the Declaration of American 
 Independence, resided many years in this town." His 
 house too we saw from the river. " Dr. Jonathan 
 Gove, a man distinguished for his urbanity, his talents 
 and professional skill, resided in this town [Goffstown]. 
 He was one of the oldest practitioners of medicine in the 
 county. He was many years an active member of the 
 
270 A WEEK 
 
 legislature." " Hon. Robert Means, who died Janu 
 ary 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 London 
 derry 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 Lon 
 donderry, when besieged by the army of King James II., 
 A. D. 1688-89. He afterwards relinquished a military 
 life for the clerical profession. He possessed a strong 
 mind, marked by a considerable degree of eccentricity. 
 He died January 25, 1735, and was borne to the grave, 
 at his particular request, by his former companions 
 in arms, of whom there were a considerable number 
 among the early settlers of this town; several of them 
 had been made free from taxes throughout the British 
 dominions by King William, for their bravery in that 
 memorable siege." Colonel George Reid and Cap 
 tain 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 illustri 
 ous Roman, were plowing when the news of the massacre 
 at Lexington arrived, and straightway left their plows in 
 
WEDNESDAY 271 
 
 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 visible from 
 Amoskeag, five or six miles westward. It is the north- 
 easternmost in the horizon which we see from our native 
 town, but seen from there is too ethereally blue to be the 
 same which the like of us have ever climbed. Its name 
 is said to mean " The Two Breasts," there being two 
 eminences some distance apart. The highest, which is 
 about fourteen hundred feet above the sea, probably 
 affords a more extensive view of the Merrimack valley 
 and the adjacent country than any other hill, though it 
 is somewhat obstructed by woods. Only a few short 
 reaches of the river are visible, but you can trace its 
 course far down-stream by the sandy tracts on its banks. 
 
 A little south of Uncannunuc, about sixty years ago, 
 as the story goes, an old woman who went out to gather 
 pennyroyal 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. 
 
272 A WEEK 
 
 But we were most interested to hear of the penny 
 royal; it is soothing to be reminded that wild nature 
 produces anything ready for the use of man. Men know 
 that something is good. One says that it is yellow dock, 
 another that it is bittersweet, another that it is slippery- 
 elm bark, burdock, catnip, calamint, elecampane, thor- 
 oughwort, or pennyroyal. A man may esteem himself 
 happy when that which is his food is also his medicine. 
 There is no kind of herb, but somebody or other says 
 that it is good. I am very glad to hear it. It reminds me of 
 the first chapter of Genesis. But how should they know 
 that it is good ? That is the mystery to me. I am always 
 agreeably disappointed ; it is incredible that they should 
 have found it out. Since all things are good, men fail at 
 last to distinguish which is the bane and which the anti 
 dote. There are sure to be two prescriptions diametri 
 cally opposite. Stuff a cold and starve a cold are but two 
 ways. They are the two practices, both always in full 
 blast. Yet you must take advice of the one school as if 
 there was no other. In respect to religion and the healing 
 art, all nations are still in a state of barbarism. In the 
 most civilized countries the priest is still but a Powwow, 
 and the physician a Great Medicine. Consider the def 
 erence which is everywhere paid to a doctor's opinion. 
 Nothing more strikingly betrays the credulity of man 
 kind than medicine. Quackery is a thing universal, and 
 universally successful. In this case it becomes literally 
 true that no imposition is too great for the credulity of 
 men. Priests and physicians should never look one an 
 other in the face. They have no common ground, nor is 
 there any to mediate between them. When the one 
 
WEDNESDAY 273 
 
 comes, the other goes. They could not come together 
 without laughter, or a significant silence, for the one's 
 profession is a satire on the other's, and cither's success 
 would be the other's failure. It is wonderful that the 
 physician should ever die, and that the priest should 
 ever live. Why is it that the priest is never called to con 
 sult with the physician ? Is it because men believe prac 
 tically 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 our 
 selves 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 with 
 out a bend. There were many canal-boats here bound up 
 to Hooksett, about eight miles, and as they were going 
 up empty, with a fair wind, one boatman offered to take 
 us in tow if we would wait. But when we came along 
 side, we found that they meant to take us on board, since 
 otherwise we should clog their motions too much; but as 
 our boat was too heavy to be lifted aboard, we pursued 
 our way up the stream, as before, while the boatmen 
 were at their dinner, and came to anchor at length under 
 some alders on the opposite shore, where we could take 
 our lunch. Though far on one side, every sound was 
 wafted over to us from the opposite bank, and from the 
 harbor of the canal, and we could see everything that 
 passed. By and by came several canal-boats, at intervals 
 
274 A WEEK 
 
 of a quarter of a mile, standing up to Hooksett with a 
 light breeze, and one by one disappeared round a point 
 above. With their broad sails set, they moved slowly 
 up the stream in the sluggish and fitful breeze, like one- 
 winged antediluvian birds, and as if impelled by some 
 mysterious counter-current. It was a grand motion, so 
 slow and stately, this " standing out," as the phrase is, 
 expressing the gradual and steady progress of a vessel, 
 as if it were by mere rectitude and disposition, without 
 shuffling. Their sails, which stood so still, were like chips 
 cast into the current of the air, to show which way it set. 
 At length the boat which we had spoken came along, 
 keeping the middle of the stream, and when within 
 speaking distance, the steersman called out ironically to 
 say that if we 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 pursuit, and as we glided close alongside, 
 while they were vainly invoking ^Eolus to their aid, we 
 returned their compliment by proposing, if they would 
 throw us a rope, to " take them in tow," to which these 
 Merrimack sailors had no suitable answer ready. Thus 
 we gradually overtook and passed each boat in succes 
 sion until we had the river to ourselves again. 
 
 Our course this afternoon was between Manchester 
 and Goffstown. 
 
 While we float here, far from that tributary stream 
 
WEDNESDAY 275 
 
 on whose banks our Friends and kindred dwell, our 
 thoughts, like the stars, come out of their horizon still; 
 for there circulates a finer blood than Lavoisier has 
 discovered the laws of, the blood, not of kindred 
 merely, but of kindness, whose pulse still beats at any 
 distance and forever. 
 
 True kindness is a pure divine affinity, 
 Not founded upon human consanguinity. 
 It is a spirit, not a blood relation, 
 Superior to family and station. 
 
 After years of vain familiarity, some distant gesture or 
 unconscious behavior, which we remember, speaks to us 
 with more emphasis than the wisest or kindest words. 
 We are sometimes made aware of a kindness long 
 passed, and realize that there have been times when our 
 Friends' thoughts of us were of so pure and lofty a 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 nobleness 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 com 
 monly the most prosaic and trivial of facts. The uni 
 verse seems bankrupt as soon as we begin to discuss the 
 character of individuals. Our discourse all runs to 
 slander, and our limits grow narrower as we advance. 
 How is it that we are impelled to treat our old Friends so 
 ill when we obtain new ones ? The housekeeper says, I 
 
276 A WEEK 
 
 never had any new crockery in my life but I began to 
 break the old. I say, let us speak of mushrooms and 
 forest trees rather. Yet we can sometimes afford to 
 remember them in private. 
 
 Lately, alas, I knew a gentle boy, 
 
 Whose features all were cast in Virtue's mould, 
 
 As one she had designed for Beauty's toy, 
 But after manned him for her own stronghold. 
 
 * 
 
 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 have loved him had I loved him less. 
 
 Each moment as we nearer drew to each, 
 
 A stem respect withheld us farther yet, 
 So that we seemed beyond each other's reach, 
 
 And less acquainted than when first we met. 
 
WEDNESDAY 277 
 
 We two were one while we did sympathize, 
 So could we not the simplest bargain drive; 
 
 And what avails it now that we are wise, 
 If absence doth this doubleness contrive? 
 
 Eternity may not the chance repeat, 
 
 But I must tread my single way alone, 
 
 In sad remembrance that we once did meet, 
 
 And know that bliss irrevocably gone. 
 
 The spheres henceforth my elegy shall sing, 
 
 For elegy has other subject none; 
 Each strain of music in my ears shall ring 
 
 Knell of departure from that other one. 
 
 Make haste and celebrate my tragedy; 
 
 With fitting strain resound ye woods and fields; 
 Sorrow is dearer in such case to me 
 
 Than all the joys other occasion yields. 
 
 Is 't then too late the damage to repair ? 
 
 Distance, forsooth, from my weak grasp hath reft 
 The empty husk, and clutched the useless tare, 
 
 But in my hands the wheat and kernel left. 
 
 If I but love that virtue which he is, 
 Though it be scented in the morning air, 
 
 Still shall we be truest acquaintances, 
 Nor mortals know a sympathy more rare. 
 
 Friendship is evanescent in every man's experience, 
 and remembered like heat lightning in past summers. 
 Fair and flitting like a summer cloud, there is always 
 some vapor in the air, no matter how long the drought ; 
 there are even April showers. Surely from time to time, 
 for its vestiges never depart, it floats through our atmo 
 sphere. It takes place, like vegetation in so many mate- 
 
278 A WEEK 
 
 rials, because there is such a law, but always without 
 permanent form, though ancient and familiar as the sun 
 and moon, and as sure to come again. The heart is for 
 ever inexperienced. They silently gather as by magic, 
 these never failing, never quite deceiving visions, like the 
 bright and fleecy clouds in the calmest and clearest days. 
 The Friend is some fair floating isle of palms eluding the 
 mariner in Pacific seas. Many are the dangers to be en 
 countered, 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 tradi 
 tion of 
 
 THE ATLANTIDES 
 
 The smothered streams of love, which flow 
 
 More bright than Phlegethon, more low, 
 
 Island us ever, like the sea, 
 
 In an Atlantic mystery. 
 
 Our fabled shores none ever reach, 
 
 No mariner has found our beach, 
 
 Scarcely our mirage now is seen, 
 
 And neighboring waves with floating green, 
 
 Yet still the oldest charts contain 
 
 Some dotted outline of our main; 
 
 In ancient times midsummer days 
 
 Unto the western islands' gaze, 
 
 To Teneriffe and the Azores, 
 
 Have shown our faint and cloud-like shores. 
 
 But sink not yet, ye desolate isles, 
 Anon your coast with commerce smiles, 
 And richer freights ye '11 furnish far 
 Than Africa or Malabar. 
 

 WEDNESDAY 279 
 
 Be fair, be fertile evermore, 
 Ye rumored but untrodden shore, 
 Princes and monarchs will contend 
 Who first unto your land shall send, 
 And pawn the jewels of the crown 
 To call your distant soil their own. 
 
 Columbus has sailed westward of these isles by the 
 mariner's compass, but neither he nor his successors 
 have found them. We are no nearer than Plato was. 
 The earnest seeker and hopeful discoverer of this New 
 World always haunts the outskirts of his time, and walks 
 through the densest crowd uninterrupted, and, as it 
 were, in a straight line. 
 
 Sea and land are but his neighbors, 
 
 And companions in his labors, 
 
 Who on the ocean's verge and firm land's end 
 
 Doth long and truly seek his Friend. 
 
 Many men dwell far inland, 
 
 But he alone sits on the strand. 
 
 Whether he ponders men or books 
 
 Always still he seaward looks, 
 
 Marine news he ever reads, 
 
 And the slightest glances heeds, 
 
 Feels the sea breeze on his cheek, 
 
 At each word the landsmen speak, 
 
 In every companion's eye 
 
 A sailing vessel doth descry; 
 
 In the ocean's sullen roar 
 
 From some distant port he hears 
 
 Of wrecks upon a distant shore, 
 
 And the ventures of past years. 
 
 Who does not walk on the plain as amid the columns 
 of Tadmore of the desert? There is on the earth no 
 institution which Friendship has established; it is not 
 
280 A WEEK 
 
 taught by any religion; no scripture contains its max 
 ims. It has no temple, nor even a solitary column. 
 There goes a rumor that the earth is inhabited, but the 
 shipwrecked mariner has not seen a footprint on the 
 shore. The hunter has found only fragments of pottery 
 and the monuments of inhabitants. 
 
 However, our fates at least are social. Our courses 
 do not diverge; but as the web of destiny is woven it is 
 fulled, and we are cast more and more into the centre. 
 Men naturally, though feebly, seek this alliance, and 
 their actions faintly foretell it. We are inclined to lay 
 the chief stress on likeness and not on difference, and 
 in foreign bodies we admit that there are many de 
 grees of warmth below blood heat, but none of cold 
 above it. 
 
 Mencius says : " If one loses a fowl or a dog, he knows 
 well how to seek them again ; if one loses the sentiments 
 of his heart, he does not know how to seek them again. 
 . . . The duties of practical philosophy consist only in 
 seeking after those sentiments of the heart which we 
 have lost; that is all." 
 
 One or two persons come to my house from time to 
 time, there being proposed to them the faint possibility 
 of intercourse. They are as full as they are silent, and 
 wait for my plectrum to stir the strings of their lyre. If 
 they could ever come to the length of a sentence, or hear 
 one, on that ground they are dreaming of! They speak 
 faintly, and do not obtrude themselves. They have heard 
 some news, which none, not even they themselves, can 
 impart. It is a wealth they can bear about them which 
 
WEDNESDAY 281 
 
 can be expended in various ways. What came they out 
 to seek? 
 
 No word is oftener on the lips of men than Friendship, 
 and indeed no thought is more familiar to their aspira 
 tions. All men are dreaming of it, and its drama, which 
 is always a tragedy, is enacted daily. It is the secret of 
 the universe. You may thread the town, you may wan 
 der the country, and none shall ever speak of it, yet 
 thought is everywhere busy about it, and the idea of what 
 is possible in this respect affects our behavior toward 
 all new men and women, and a great many old ones. 
 Nevertheless, I can remember only two or three essays 
 on this subject in all literature. No wonder that the 
 Mythology, and Arabian Nights, and Shakespeare, 
 and Scott's novels entertain us, we are poets and 
 fablers and dramatists and novelists ourselves. We are 
 continually acting a part in a more interesting drama 
 than any written. We are dreaming that our Friends 
 are our Friends, and that we are our Friends' Friends. 
 Our actual Friends are but distant relations of those to 
 whom we are pledged. We never exchange more than 
 three words with a Friend in our lives on that level to 
 which our thoughts and feelings almost habitually rise. 
 One goes forth prepared to say, " Sweet Friends ! " and 
 the salutation is, " Damn your eyes! " But never mind; 
 faint heart never won true Friend. O my Friend, may it 
 come to pass once, that when you are my Friend I may 
 be yours. , 
 
 Of what use the friendliest dispositions even, if there 
 are no hours given to Friendship, if it is forever post 
 poned to unimportant duties and relations ? Friendship 
 
A WEEK 
 
 is first, Friendship last. But it is equally impossible to 
 forget our Friends, and to make them answer to our 
 ideal. When they say farewell, then indeed we begin 
 to keep them company. How often we find ourselves 
 turning our backs on our actual Friends, that we may 
 go and meet their ideal cousins. I would that I were 
 worthy to be any man's Friend. 
 
 What is commonly honored with the name of Friend 
 ship 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 Friend 
 ship. Nor do the farmers' wives lead lives consecrated to 
 Friendship. I do not see the pair of farmer Friends of 
 either sex prepared to stand against the world. There 
 are only two or three couples in history. To say that a 
 man is your Friend means commonly no more than 
 this, that he is not your enemy. Most contemplate only 
 what would be the accidental and trifling advantages of 
 Friendship, so that the Friend can assist in time of need, 
 by his substance, or his influence, or his counsel; but 
 he who foresees such advantages in this relation proves 
 himself blind to its real advantage, or indeed wholly 
 inexperienced in the relation itself. Such services are 
 particular and menial, compared with the perpetual and 
 
WEDNESDAY 283 
 
 all-embracing service which it is. Even the utmost good 
 will and harmony and practical kindness are not suffi 
 cient for Friendship, for Friends do not live in harmony 
 merely, as some say, but in melody. We do not wish for 
 Friends to feed and clothe our bodies, neighbors are 
 kind enough for that, but to do the like office to our 
 spirits. For this few are rich enough, however well dis 
 posed they may be. For the most part we stupidly con 
 found one man with another. The dull distinguish only 
 races or nations, or at most classes, but the wise man, 
 individuals. To his Friend a man's peculiar character 
 appears in every feature and in every action, and it is 
 thus drawn out and improved by him. 
 
 Think of the importance of Friendship in the educa 
 tion of men. 
 
 "He that hath love and judgment too, 
 Sees more than any other doe." 
 
 It will make a man honest; it will make him a hero; 
 it will make him a saint. It is the state of the just dealing 
 with the just, the magnanimous with the magnanimous, 
 the sincere with the sincere, man with man. 
 
 And it is well said by another poet, 
 
 "Why love among the virtues is not known, 
 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 appre 
 ciate them in us. It takes two to speak the truth, one 
 to speak, and another to hear. How can one treat with 
 
284 A WEEK 
 
 magnanimity mere wood and stone ? If we dealt only 
 with the false and dishonest, we should at last forget 
 how to speak truth. Only lovers know the value and 
 magnanimity of truth, while traders prize a cheap hon 
 esty, and neighbors and acquaintance a cheap civility. 
 In our daily intercourse with men, our nobler faculties 
 are dormant and suffered to rust. None will pay us the 
 compliment to expect nobleness from us. Though we 
 have gold to give, they demand only copper. We ask our 
 neighbor to suffer himself to be dealt with truly, sincerely, 
 nobly; but he answers no by his deafness. He does not 
 even hear this prayer. He says practically, I will be con 
 tent if you treat me as " no better than I should be," as 
 deceitful, mean, dishonest, and selfish. For the most 
 part, we are contented so to deal and to be dealt with, 
 and we do not think that for the mass of men there is any 
 truer and nobler relation possible. A man may have 
 good neighbors, so called, and acquaintances, and even 
 companions, wife, parents, brothers, sisters, children, 
 who meet himself and one another on this ground only. 
 The state does not demand justice of its members, but 
 thinks that it succeeds very well with the least degree 
 of it, hardly more than rogues practice; and so do the 
 neighborhood and the family. What is commonly called 
 Friendship even is only a little more honor among rogues. 
 But sometimes we are said to love another, that is, 
 to stand in a true relation to him, so that we give the best 
 to, and receive the best from, him. Between whom there 
 is hearty truth, there is love; and in proportion to our 
 truthfulness and confidence in one another, our lives 
 are divine and miraculous, and answer to our ideal. 
 
WEDNESDAY 285 
 
 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 antici 
 pate Heaven for us. What is this Love that may come 
 right into the middle of a prosaic Goffstown day, equal 
 to any of the gods ? that discovers a new world, fair and 
 fresh and eternal, occupying the place of the old one, 
 when to the common eye a dust has settled on the 
 universe ? which world cannot else be reached, and does 
 not exist. What other words, we may almost ask, are 
 memorable and worthy to be repeated than those which 
 love has inspired ? It is wonderful that they were ever 
 uttered. They are few and rare indeed, but, like a strain 
 of music, they are incessantly repeated and modulated 
 by the memory. All other words crumble off with the 
 stucco which overlies the heart. We should not dare to 
 repeat these now aloud. We are not competent to hear 
 them at all times. 
 
 The books for young people say a great deal about 
 the selection of Friends; it is because they really have 
 nothing to say about Friends. They mean associates 
 and confidants merely. " Know that the contrariety of 
 foe and Friend proceeds from God." Friendship takes 
 place between those who have an affinity for one another, 
 and is a perfectly natural and inevitable result. No pro 
 fessions 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 
 
286 A WEEK 
 
 uncertain lovers think that they must say or do some 
 thing kind whenever they meet; they must never be cold. 
 But they who are Friends do not do what they think 
 they must, but what they must. Even their Friendship 
 is to some extent but a sublime phenomenon to them. 
 
 The true and not despairing Friend will address his 
 Friend in some such terms as these. 
 
 " I never asked thy leave to let me love thee, I have 
 a right. I love thee not as something private and per 
 sonal, 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 humanity 
 was so rich. Give me an opportunity to live." 
 
 " You are the fact in a fiction, you are the truth 
 more strange and admirable than fiction. Consent only 
 to be what you are. I alone will never stand in your way." 
 
 " This is what I would like, to be as intimate with 
 you as our spirits are intimate, respecting you as I 
 respect my ideal. Never to profane one another by word 
 or action, even by a thought. Between us, if necessary, 
 let there be no acquaintance." 
 
 "I have discovered you; how can you be concealed 
 from me?" 
 
 The Friend asks no return but that his Friend will 
 religiously accept and wear and not disgrace his apotheo 
 sis of him. They cherish each other's hopes. They are 
 kind to each other's dreams. 
 
 Though the poet says, "'Tis the preeminence of 
 Friendship to impute excellence," yet we can never 
 praise our Friend, nor esteem him praiseworthy, nor let 
 
WEDNESDAY 287 
 
 him think that he can please us by any behavior, or ever 
 treat us well enough. That kindness which has so good 
 a reputation elsewhere can least of all consist with this 
 relation, and no such affront can be offered to a Friend 
 as a conscious good-will, a friendliness which is not a 
 necessity of the Friend's nature. 
 
 The sexes are naturally most strongly attracted to one 
 another by constant constitutional differences, and are 
 most commonly and surely the complements of each 
 other. How natural and easy it is for man to secure the 
 attention of woman to what interests himself! Men and 
 women of equal culture, thrown together, are sure to be 
 of a certain value to one another, more than men to men. 
 There exists already a natural disinterestedness and 
 liberality in such society, and I think that any man will 
 more confidently carry his favorite books to read to some 
 circle of intelligent women, than to one of his own sex. 
 The visit of man to man is wont to be an interruption, 
 but the sexes naturally expect one another. Yet Friend 
 ship is no respecter of sex; and perhaps it is more rare 
 between the sexes than between two of the same sex. 
 
 Friendship is, at any rate, a relation of perfect equal 
 ity. It cannot well spare any outward sign of equal 
 obligation and advantage. The nobleman can never 
 have a Friend among his retainers, nor the king among 
 his subjects. Not that the parties to it are in all respects 
 equal, but they are equal in all that respects or affects 
 their Friendship. The one's love is exactly balanced 
 and represented by the other's. Persons are only the ves 
 sels which contain the nectar, and the hydrostatic para 
 dox is the symbol of love's law. It finds its level and 
 
288 A WEEK 
 
 rises to its fountain-head in all breasts, and its slenderest 
 column balances the ocean. 
 
 "And love as well the shepherd can 
 As can the mighty nobleman." 
 
 The one sex is not, in this respect, more tender than the 
 other. A hero's love is as delicate as a maiden's. 
 
 Confucius said, "Never contract Friendship with a 
 man who is not better than thyself." It is the merit and 
 preservation of Friendship, that it takes place on a level 
 higher than the actual characters of the parties would 
 seem to warrant. The rays of light come to us in such a 
 curve that every man whom we meet appears to be taller 
 than he actually is. Such foundation has civility. My 
 Friend is that one whom I can associate with my choicest 
 thought. I always assign to him a nobler employment 
 in my absence than I ever find him engaged in; and I 
 imagine that the hours which he devotes to me were 
 snatched from a higher society. The sorest insult which 
 I ever received from a Friend was when he behaved with 
 the license which only long and cheap acquaintance 
 allows to one's faults, in my presence, without shame, 
 and still addressed me in friendly accents. Beware, lest 
 thy Friend learn at last to tolerate one frailty of thine, 
 and so an obstacle be raised to the progress of thy love. 
 There are times when we have had enough even of our 
 Friends, when we begin inevitably to profane one an 
 other, and must withdraw religiously into solitude and 
 silence, the better to prepare ourselves for a loftier 
 intimacy. Silence is the ambrosial night in the inter 
 course of Friends, in which their sincerity is recruited 
 and takes deeper root. 
 
WEDNESDAY 289 
 
 Friendship is never established as an understood 
 relation. Do you demand that I be less your Friend 
 that you may know it ? Yet what right have I to think 
 that another cherishes so rare a sentiment for me ? It is 
 a miracle which requires constant proofs. It is an exer 
 cise of the purest imagination and the rarest faith. It 
 says by a silent but eloquent behavior, " I will be so 
 related to thee as thou canst imagine ; even so thou 
 mayest believe. I will spend truth, all my wealth on 
 thee," and the Friend responds silently through his 
 nature and life, and treats his Friend with the same 
 divine courtesy. He knows us literally through thick 
 and thin. He never asks for a sign of love, but can dis 
 tinguish it by the features which it naturally wears. 
 We never need to stand upon ceremony with him with 
 regard to his visits. Wait not till I invite thee, but ob 
 serve that I am glad to see thee when thou comest. It 
 would be paying too dear for thy visit to ask for it. Where 
 my Friend lives there are all riches and every attraction, 
 and no slight obstacle can keep me from him. Let me 
 never have to tell thee what I have not to tell. Let our 
 intercourse be wholly above ourselves, and draw us up 
 to it. 
 
 The language of Friendship is not words, but mean 
 ings. It is an intelligence above language. One imagines 
 endless conversations with his Friend, in which the 
 tongue shall be loosed, and thoughts be spoken without 
 hesitancy or end; but the experience is commonly far 
 otherwise. Acquaintances may come and go, and have 
 a word ready for every occasion; but what puny word 
 shall he utter whose very breath is thought and meaning ? 
 
290 A WEEK 
 
 Suppose you go to bid farewell to your Friend who is 
 setting out on a journey; what other outward sign do 
 you know than to shake his hand ? Have you any palaver 
 ready for him then ? any box of salve to commit to his 
 pocket ? any particular message to send by him ? any 
 statement which you had forgotten to make ? as if 
 you could forget anything. No, it is much that you take 
 his hand and say Farewell; that you could easily omit; 
 so far custom has prevailed. It is even painful, if he is to 
 go, that he should linger so long. If he must go, let him 
 go quickly. Have you any last words ? Alas, it is only 
 the word of words, which you have so long sought and 
 found not; you have not a first word yet. There are few 
 even whom I should venture to call earnestly by their 
 most proper names. A name pronounced is the recog 
 nition 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 reserve of 
 what is hostile or indifferent in their natures, to give 
 place to what is kindred and harmonious. 
 
 The violence of love is as much to be dreaded as that 
 of hate. When it is durable it is serene and equable. 
 Even its famous pains begin only with the ebb of love, 
 for few are indeed lovers, though all would fain be. It 
 is one proof of a man's fitness for Friendship that he is 
 able to do without that which is cheap and passionate. 
 A true Friendship is as wise as it is tender. The parties 
 to it yield implicitly to the guidance of their love, and 
 know no other law nor kindness. It is not extravagant 
 and insane, but what it says is something established 
 
WEDNESDAY 291 
 
 henceforth, and will bear to be stereotyped. It is a truer 
 truth, it is better and fairer news, and no time will ever 
 shame it, or prove it false. This is a plant which thrives 
 best in a temperate zone, where summer and winter 
 alternate with one another. The Friend is a necessarius, 
 and meets his Friend on homely ground ; not on carpets 
 and cushions, but on the ground and on rocks they will 
 sit, obeying the natural and primitive laws. They will 
 meet without any outcry, and part without loud sorrow. 
 Their relation implies such qualities as the warrior 
 prizes ; for it takes a valor to open the hearts of men as 
 well as the gates of castles. It is not an idle sympathy 
 and mutual consolation merely, but a heroic sympathy 
 of aspiration and endeavor. 
 
 "When manhood shall be matched so 
 
 That fear can take no place, 
 Then weary works make warriors 
 Each other to embrace." 
 
 The Friendship which Wawatam testified for Henry 
 the fur-trader, as described in the latter's "Adventures," 
 so almost bare and leafless, yet not blossomless nor fruit 
 less, is remembered with satisfaction and security. The 
 stern, imperturbable warrior, after fasting, solitude, and 
 mortification of body, comes to the white man's lodge, 
 and affirms that he is the white brother whom he saw in 
 his dream, and adopts him henceforth. He buries the 
 hatchet as it regards his friend, and they hunt and feast 
 and make maple-sugar together. "Metals unite from 
 fluxility; birds and beasts from motives of convenience; 
 fools from fear and stupidity; and just men at sight." 
 If Wawatam would taste the " white man's milk " with 
 
292 A WEEK 
 
 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 wilder 
 ness, hunting and fishing, they return in the spring to 
 Michilimackinac to dispose of their furs ; and it becomes 
 necessary for Wawatam to take leave of his Friend at the 
 Isle aux Outardes, when the latter, to avoid his enemies, 
 proceeded to the Sault de Sainte Marie, supposing that 
 ^hey were to be separated for a short time only. " We 
 now exchanged farewells," says Henry, "with an emo 
 tion entirely reciprocal. I did not quit the lodge without 
 the most grateful sense of the many acts of goodness 
 which I had experienced in it, nor without the sincerest 
 respect for the virtues which I had witnessed among its 
 members. All the family accompanied me to the beach; 
 and the canoe had no sooner put off than Wawatam 
 commenced an address to the Kichi Manito, beseeching 
 him to take care of me, his brother, till we should next 
 meet. We had proceeded to too great a distance to allow 
 of our hearing his voice, before Wawatam had ceased to 
 offer up his prayers." We never hear of him again. 
 
 Friendship is not so kind as is imagined; it has not 
 much human blood in it, but consists with a certain 
 disregard for men and their erections, the Christian 
 duties and humanities, while it purifies the air like 
 electricity. There may be the sternest tragedy in the 
 relation of two more than usually innocent and true to 
 their highest instincts. We may call it an essentially 
 heathenish intercourse, free and irresponsible in its 
 
WEDNESDAY 293 
 
 nature, and practicing all the virtues gratuitously. It is 
 not the highest sympathy merely, but a pure and lofty 
 society, a fragmentary and godlike intercourse of ancient 
 date, still kept up at intervals, which, remembering 
 itself, does not hesitate to disregard the humbler rights 
 and duties of humanity. It requires immaculate and 
 godlike qualities full-grown, and exists at all only by 
 condescension and anticipation of the remotest future. 
 We love nothing which is merely good and not fair, 
 if such a thing is possible. Nature puts some kind of 
 blossom before every fruit, not simply a calyx behind it. 
 When the Friend comes out of his heathenism and 
 superstition, and breaks his idols, being converted by 
 the precepts of a newer testament; when he forgets his 
 mythology, and treats his Friend like a Christian, or as 
 he can afford, then Friendship ceases to be Friendship, 
 and becomes charity; that principle which established 
 the almshouse is now beginning with its charity at home, 
 and establishing an almshouse and pauper relations 
 there. 
 
 As for the number which this society admits, it is at 
 any rate to be begun with one, the noblest and greatest 
 that we know, and whether the world will ever carry it 
 further, whether, as Chaucer affirms, 
 
 "There be mo sterres in the skie than a pair," 
 remains to be proved; 
 
 "And certaine he is well begone 
 Among a thousand that findeth one." 
 
 We shall not surrender ourselves heartily to any while 
 
294 A WEEK 
 
 we are conscious that another is more deserving of our 
 love. Yet Friendship does not stand for numbers; the 
 Friend does not count his Friends on his fingers; they 
 are not numerable. The more there are included by this 
 bond, if they are indeed included, the rarer and diviner 
 the quality of the love that binds them. I am ready to 
 believe that as private and intimate a relation may exist 
 by which three are embraced, as between two. Indeed, 
 we cannot have too many friends; the virtue which we 
 appreciate we to some extent appropriate, so that thus 
 we are made at last more fit for every relation of life. A 
 base Friendship is of a narrowing and exclusive ten 
 dency, but a noble one is not exclusive; its very super 
 fluity and dispersed love is the humanity which sweetens 
 society, and sympathizes with foreign nations; for 
 though its foundations are private, it is, in effect, a pub 
 lic affair and a public advantage, and the Friend, more 
 than the father of a family, deserves well of the state. 
 
 The only danger in Friendship is that it will end. It 
 is a delicate plant, though a native. The least unworthi- 
 ness, even if it be unknown to one's self, vitiates it. Let 
 the Friend know that those faults which he observes in 
 his Friend his own faults attract. There is no rule more 
 invariable than that we are paid for our suspicions by 
 finding what we suspected. By our narrowness and 
 prejudices we say, I will have so much and such of you, 
 my Friend, no more. Perhaps there are none charitable, 
 none disinterested, none wise, noble, and heroic enough, 
 for a true and lasting Friendship. 
 
 I sometimes hear my Friends complain finely that 
 I do not appreciate their fineness. I shall not tell them 
 
WEDNESDAY 295 
 
 whether I do or not. As if they expected a vote of thanks 
 for every fine thing which they uttered or did. Who 
 knows but it was finely appreciated ? It may be that your 
 silence was the finest thing of the two. There are some 
 things which a man never speaks of, which are much 
 finer kept silent about. To the highest communications 
 we only lend a silent ear. Our finest relations are not 
 simply kept silent about, but buried under a positive 
 depth of silence never to be revealed. It may be that 
 we are not even yet acquainted. In human intercourse 
 the tragedy begins, not when there is misunderstanding 
 about words, but when silence is not understood. Then 
 there can never be an explanation. What avails it that 
 another loves you, if he does not understand you ? Such 
 love is a curse. What sort of companions are they who 
 are presuming always that their silence is more expres 
 sive than yours ? How foolish, and inconsiderate, and 
 unjust, to conduct as if you were the only party ag 
 grieved! Has not your Friend always equal ground of 
 complaint ? No doubt my Friends sometimes speak to 
 me in vain, but they do not know what things I hear 
 which they are not aware that they have spoken. I know 
 that I have frequently disappointed them by not giving 
 them words when they expected them, or such as they 
 expected. Whenever I see my Friend I speak to him; 
 but the expecter, the man with the ears, is not he. They 
 will complain too that you are hard. O ye that would 
 have the 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 ? We often 
 
A WEEK 
 
 forbear to confess our feelings, not from pride, but for 
 fear that we could not continue to love the one who 
 required us to give such proof of our affection. 
 
 I know a woman who possesses a restless and intel 
 ligent mind, interested in her own culture, and earnest 
 to enjoy the highest possible advantages, and I meet her 
 with pleasure as a natural person who not a little pro 
 vokes me, and I suppose is stimulated in turn by my 
 self. Yet our acquaintance plainly does not attain to 
 that degree of confidence and sentiment which women, 
 which all, in fact, covet. I am glad to help her, as I am 
 helped by her; I like very well to know her with a sort 
 of stranger's privilege, and hesitate to visit her often, 
 like her other Friends. My nature pauses here, I do not 
 well know why. Perhaps she does not make the highest 
 demand on me, a religious demand. Some, with whose 
 prejudices or peculiar bias I have no sympathy, yet 
 inspire me with confidence, and I trust that they confide 
 in me also as a religious heathen at least, a good 
 Greek. I, too, have principles as well founded as their 
 own. If this person could conceive that, without will 
 fulness, I associate with her as far as our destinies are 
 coincident, as far as our Good Geniuses permit, and still 
 value such intercourse, it would be a grateful assurance 
 to me. I feel as if I appeared careless, indifferent, and 
 without principle to her, not expecting more, and yet not 
 content with less. If she could know that I make an 
 infinite demand on myself, as well as on all others, she 
 would see that this true though incomplete intercourse 
 is infinitely better than a more unreserved but falsely 
 
WEDNESDAY 297 
 
 grounded one, without the principle of growth in it. For 
 a companion, I require one who will make an equal 
 demand on me with my own genius. Such a one will 
 always be rightly tolerant. It is suicide, and corrupts 
 good manners, to welcome any less than this. I value 
 and trust those who love and praise my aspiration rather 
 than my performance. If you would not stop to look at 
 me, but look whither I am looking, and farther, then my 
 education could not dispense with your company. 
 
 My love must be as free 
 
 As is tbe eagle's wing, 
 Hovering o'er land and sea 
 
 And everything. 
 
 I must not dim my eye 
 
 In thy saloon, 
 I must not leave my sky 
 
 And nightly moon. 
 
 Be not the fowler's net 
 
 Which stays my flight, 
 And craftily is set 
 
 T allure the sight. 
 
 But be the favoring gale 
 
 That bears me on, 
 And still doth fill my sail 
 
 When thou art gone. 
 
 I cannot leave my sky 
 
 For thy caprice, 
 True love would soar as high 
 
 As heaven is. 
 
 The eagle would not brook 
 
 Her mate thus won, 
 Who trained his eye to look 
 
 Beneath the sun. 
 
298 A WEEK 
 
 Few things are more difficult than to help a Friend 
 in matters which do not require the aid of Friendship, 
 but only a cheap and trivial service, if your Friendship 
 wants the basis of a thorough practical acquaintance. 
 I stand in the friendliest relation, on social and spiritual 
 grounds, to one who does not perceive what practical 
 skill I have, but when he seeks my assistance in such 
 matters, is wholly ignorant of that one with whom he 
 deals; does not use my skill, which in such matters is 
 much greater than his, but only my hands. I know 
 another, who, on the contrary, is remarkable for his 
 discrimination in this respect; who knows how to make 
 use of the talents of others when he does not possess the 
 same; knows when not to look after or oversee, and 
 stops short at his man. It is a rare pleasure to serve him, 
 which all laborers know. I am not a little pained by the 
 other kind of treatment. It is as if, after the friendliest 
 and most ennobling intercourse, your Friend should use 
 you as a hammer, and drive a nail with your head, all 
 in good faith; notwithstanding that you are a tolerable 
 carpenter, as well as his good Friend, and would use a 
 hammer cheerfully in his service. This want of percep 
 tion 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. 
 
WEDNESDAY 299 
 
 They do not charm us with their eyes, 
 But they transfix with their advice; 
 No partial sympathy they feel, 
 With private woe or private weal, 
 But with the universe joy and sigh, 
 Whose knowledge is their sympathy. 
 
 Confucius said : " To contract ties of Friendship with 
 any one is to contract Friendship with his virtue. There 
 ought not to be any other motive in Friendship." But 
 men wish us to contract Friendship with their vice also. 
 I have a Friend who wishes me to see that to be right 
 which I know to be wrong. But if Friendship is to rob 
 me of my eyes, if it is to darken the day, I will have none 
 of it. It should be expansive and inconceivably liberaliz 
 ing in its effects. True Friendship can afford true know 
 ledge. It does not depend on darkness and ignorance. 
 A want of discernment cannot be an ingredient in it. 
 If I can see my Friend's virtues more distinctly than 
 another's, his faults too are made more conspicuous by 
 contrast. We have not so good a right to hate any as our 
 Friend. Faults are not the less faults because they are 
 invariably balanced by corresponding virtues, and for 
 a fault there is no excuse, though it may appear greater 
 than it is in many ways. I have never known one who 
 could bear criticism, who could not be flattered, who 
 would not bribe his judge, or was content that the truth 
 should be loved always better than himself. 
 
 If two travelers would go their way harmoniously 
 together, the one must take as true and just a view of 
 things as the other, else their path will not be strewn with 
 roses. Yet you can travel profitably and pleasantly even 
 with a blind man, if he practices common courtesy, and 
 
300 A WEEK 
 
 when you converse about the scenery will remember 
 that he is blind but that you can see; and you will not 
 forget that his sense of hearing is probably quickened 
 by his want of sight. Otherwise you will not long keep 
 company. A blind man and a man in whose eyes there 
 was no defect were walking together, when they came 
 to the edge of a precipice. " Take care, my friend," said 
 the latter, "here is a steep precipice; go no farther this 
 way." " I know better," said the other, and stepped off. 
 
 It is impossible to say all that we think, even to our 
 truest Friend. We may bid him farewell forever sooner 
 than complain, for our complaint is too well grounded 
 to be uttered. There is not so good an understanding 
 between any two, but the exposure by the one of a seri 
 ous fault in the other will produce a misunderstanding 
 in proportion to its heinousness. The constitutional 
 differences which always exist, and are obstacles to a 
 perfect Friendship, are forever a forbidden theme to the 
 lips of Friends. They advise by their whole behavior. 
 Nothing can reconcile them but love. They are fatally 
 late when they undertake to explain and treat with 
 one another like foes. Who will take an apology for a 
 Friend ? They must apologize like dew and frost, which 
 are off again with the sun, and which all men know in 
 their hearts to be beneficent. The necessity itself for 
 explanation, what explanation will atone for that ? 
 
 True love does not quarrel for slight reasons, such 
 mistakes as mutual acquaintances can explain away, 
 but, alas, however slight the apparent cause, only for 
 adequate and fatal and everlasting reasons, which can 
 never be set aside. Its quarrel, if there is any, is ever 
 
WEDNESDAY 301 
 
 recurring, notwithstanding the beams of affection which 
 invariably come to gild its tears; as the rainbow, how 
 ever beautiful and unerring a sign, does not promise fair 
 weather forever, but only for a season. I have known 
 two or three persons pretty well, and yet I have never 
 known advice to be of use but in trivial and transient 
 matters. One may know what another does not, but 
 the utmost kindness cannot impart what is requisite to 
 make the advice useful. We must accept or refuse one 
 another as we are. I could tame a hyena more easily 
 than my Friend. He is a material which 'no tool of 
 mine will work. A naked savage will fell an oak with 
 a firebrand, and wear a hatchet out of a rock by fric 
 tion, but I cannot hew the smallest chip out of the 
 character of my Friend, either to beautify or deform it. 
 The lover learns at last that there is no person quite 
 transparent and trustworthy, but every one has a devil 
 in him that is capable of any crime in the long run. Yet, 
 as an Oriental philosopher has said, " Although Friend 
 ship between good men is interrupted, their principles 
 remain unaltered. The stalk of the lotus may be broken, 
 and the fibres remain connected." 
 
 Ignorance and bungling with love are better than 
 wisdom and skill without. There may be courtesy, there 
 may be even temper, and wit, and talent, and sparkling 
 conversation, there may be good-will even, and yet 
 the humanest and divinest faculties pine for exercise. 
 Our life without love is like coke and ashes. Men may 
 be pure as alabaster and Parian marble, elegant as a 
 Tuscan villa, sublime as Niagara, and yet if there is no 
 
302 A WEEK 
 
 milk mingled with the wine at their entertainments, 
 better is the hospitality of Goths and Vandals. 
 
 My Friend is not of some other race or family of men, 
 but flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone. He is my real 
 brother. I see his nature groping yonder so like mine. 
 We do not live far apart. Have not the fates associated 
 us in many ways ? It says, in the Vishnu Purana, " Seven 
 paces together is sufficient for the friendship of the virtu 
 ous, but thou and I have dwelt together." Is it of no 
 significance that we have so long partaken of the same 
 loaf, drank at the same fountain, breathed the same air 
 summer and winter, felt the same heat and cold; that 
 the same fruits have been pleased to refresh us both, 
 and we have never had a thought of different fibre the 
 one from the other? 
 
 Nature doth have her dawn each day, 
 
 But mine are far between; 
 Content, I cry, for, sooth to say, 
 
 Mine brightest are, I ween. 
 
 For when my sun doth deign to rise, 
 
 Though it be her noontide, 
 Her fairest field in shadow lies 
 
 Nor can my light abide. 
 
 Sometimes I bask me in her day, 
 
 Conversing with my mate, 
 But if we interchange one ray, 
 
 Forthwith her heats abate. 
 
 Through his discourse I climb and see, 
 
 As from some eastern hill, 
 A brighter morrow rise to me 
 
 Than lieth in her skill. 
 
WEDNESDAY 303 
 
 As't were two summer days in one, 
 
 Two Sundays come together, 
 Our rays united make one sun, 
 
 With fairest summer weather. 
 
 As surely as the sunset in my latest November shall 
 translate me to the ethereal world, and remind me of 
 the ruddy morning of youth; as surely as the last strain 
 of music which falls on my decaying ear shall make age 
 to be forgotten, or, in short, the manifold influences of 
 nature survive during the term of our natural life, so 
 surely my Friend shall forever be my Friend, and reflect 
 a ray of God to me, and time shall foster and adorn and 
 consecrate our Friendship, no less than the ruins of 
 temples. As I love nature, as I love singing birds, and 
 gleaming stubble, and flowing rivers, and morning and 
 evening, and summer and winter, I love thee, my Friend. 
 
 But all that can be said of Friendship is like botany 
 to flowers. How can the understanding take account of 
 its friendliness ? 
 
 Even the death of Friends will inspire us as much as 
 their lives. They will leave consolation to the mourners, 
 as the rich leave money to defray the expenses of their 
 funerals, and their memories will be incrusted over with 
 sublime and pleasing thoughts, as monuments of other 
 men are overgrown with moss; for our Friends have no 
 place in the graveyard. 
 
 This to our cis- Alpine and cis-Atlantic Friends. 
 
 Also this other word of entreaty and advice to the 
 large and respectable nation of Acquaintances, beyond 
 the mountains; Greeting. 
 
304 A WEEK 
 
 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 an 
 other. I know that the mountains which separate us 
 are high, and covered with perpetual snow, but despair 
 not. Improve the serene winter weather to scale them. 
 If need be, soften the rocks with vinegar. For here lie 
 the verdant plains of Italy ready to receive you. Nor 
 shall I be slow on my side to penetrate to your Provence. 
 Strike then boldly at head or heart or any vital part. 
 Depend upon it, the timber is well seasoned and tough, 
 and will bear rough usage; and if it should crack, there 
 is plenty more where it came from. I am no piece of 
 crockery that cannot be jostled against my neighbor 
 without danger of being broken by the collision, and 
 must needs ring false and jarringly to the end of my 
 days, when once I am cracked; but rather one of the 
 old-fashioned wooden trenchers, which one while stands 
 at the head of the table, and at another is a milking- 
 stool, and at another a seat for children, and finally goes 
 down to its grave not unadorned with honorable scars, 
 and does not die till it is worn out. Nothing can shock a 
 brave man but dullness. Think how many rebuffs every 
 man has experienced in his day; perhaps has fallen into 
 a horse-pond, eaten fresh-water clams, or worn one shirt 
 for a week without washing. Indeed, you cannot receive 
 a shock unless you have an electric affinity for that which 
 shocks you. Use me, then, for I am useful in my way, 
 and stand as one of many petitioners, from toadstool and 
 henbane up to dahlia and violet, supplicating to be put 
 to my use, if by any means ye may find me serviceable : 
 
WEDNESDAY 305 
 
 whether for a medicated drink or bath, as balm and 
 lavender; or for fragrance, as verbena and geranium; 
 or for sight, as cactus ; or for thoughts, as pansy. These 
 humbler, at least, if not those higher uses. 
 
 Ah, my dear Strangers and Enemies, I would not for 
 get you. I can well afford to welcome you. Let me 
 subscribe myself Yours ever and truly, your much 
 obliged servant. We have nothing to fear from our foes; 
 God keeps a standing army for that service; but we have 
 no ally against our Friends, those ruthless Vandals. 
 
 Once more to one and all, 
 
 "Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers." 
 
 Let such pure hate still underprop 
 Our love, that we may be 
 Each other's conscience, 
 And have our sympathy 
 Mainly from thence. 
 
 We '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. 
 
306 A WEEK 
 
 It will subserve no use, 
 More than the tints of flowers, 
 Only the independent guest 
 Frequents its bowers, 
 Inherits its bequest. 
 
 No speech though kind has it, 
 But kinder silence doles 
 Unto its mates, 
 By night consoles, 
 By day congratulates. 
 
 What saith the tongue to tongue? 
 What heareth ear of ear ? 
 By the decrees of fate 
 From year to year, 
 Does it communicate. 
 
 Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns, 
 No trivial bridge of words, 
 Or arch of boldest span, 
 Can leap the moat that girds 
 The sincere man. 
 
 No show of bolts and bars 
 Can keep the foeman out, 
 Or 'scape his secret mine 
 Who entered with the doubt 
 That drew the line. 
 
 No warder at the gate 
 Can let the friendly in, 
 But, like the sun, o'er all 
 He will the castle win, 
 And shine along the wall. 
 
 There 's nothing in the world I know 
 That can escape from love, 
 For every depth it goes below, 
 And every height above. 
 
WEDNESDAY 307 
 
 It waits as waits the sky, 
 Until the clouds go by, 
 Yet shines serenely on 
 With an eternal day, 
 Alike when they are gone, 
 And when they stay. 
 
 Implacable is Love, 
 Foes may be bought or teased 
 From their hostile intent, 
 But he goes unappeased 
 Who is on kindness bent. 
 
 Having rowed five or six miles above Amoskeag 
 before sunset, and reached a pleasant part of the river, 
 one of us landed to look for a farmhouse, where we might 
 replenish our stores, while the other remained cruising 
 about the stream, and exploring the opposite shores to 
 find a suitable harbor for the night. In the mean while 
 the canal-boats began to come round a point in our rear, 
 poling their way along close to the shore, the breeze 
 having quite died away. This time there was no offer of 
 assistance, but one of the boatmen only called out to say 
 as the truest revenge for having been the losers in the 
 race, that he had seen a wood duck, which we had scared 
 up, sitting on a tall, white pine, half a mile down-stream; 
 and he repeated the assertion several times, and seemed 
 really chagrined at the apparent suspicion with which 
 this information was received. But there sat the summer 
 duck still, undisturbed by us. 
 
 By and by the other voyageur returned from his in 
 land expedition, bringing one of the natives with him, 
 a little flaxen-headed boy, with some tradition, or small 
 edition, of Robinson Crusoe in his head, who had been 
 
308 A WEEK 
 
 charmed by the account of our adventures, and asked 
 his father's leave to join us. He examined, at first from 
 the top of the bank, our boat and furniture, with spark 
 ling eyes, and wished himself already his own man. He 
 was a lively and interesting boy, and we should have 
 been glad to ship him; but Nathan was still his father's 
 boy, and had not come to years of discretion. 
 
 We had got a loaf of home-made bread, and musk and 
 water melons for dessert. For this farmer, a clever and 
 well-disposed man, cultivated a large patch of melons 
 for the Hooksett and Concord markets. He hospitably 
 entertained us the next day, exhibiting his hop-fields and 
 kiln and melon-patch, warning us to step over the tight 
 rope which surrounded the latter at a foot from the 
 ground, while he pointed to a little bower at one corner, 
 where it connected with the lock of a gun ranging with 
 the line, and where, as he informed us, he sometimes 
 sat in pleasant nights to defend his premises against 
 thieves. We stepped high over the line, and sympathized 
 with our host's on the whole quite human, if not humane, 
 interest in the success of his experiment. That night 
 especially thieves were to be expected, from rumors in 
 the atmosphere, and the priming was not wet. He was a 
 Methodist man, who had his dwelling between the river 
 and Uncannunuc Mountain; who there belonged, and 
 stayed at home there, and by the encouragement of 
 distant political organizations, and by his own tenacity, 
 held a property in his melons, and continued to plant. 
 We suggested melon seeds of new varieties and fruit of 
 foreign flavor to be added to his stock. We had come 
 away up here among the hills to learn the impartial and 
 
WEDNESDAY 309 
 
 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 
 upstream, either to avoid the current or touch the bot 
 tom with their poles, and where it would be accessible 
 without stepping on the clayey shore. We set one of our 
 largest melons to cool in the still water among the alders 
 at the mouth of this creek, but when our tent was pitched 
 and ready, and we went to get it, it had floated out into 
 the stream, and was nowhere to be seen. So taking the 
 boat in the twilight, we went in pursuit of this property, 
 and at length, after long straining of the eyes, its green 
 disk was discovered far down the river, gently floating 
 seaward with many twigs and leaves from the mountains 
 that evening, and so perfectly balanced that it had not 
 keeled at all, and no water had run in at the tap which 
 had been taken out to hasten its cooling. 
 
 As we sat on the bank eating our supper, the clear 
 light of the western sky fell on the eastern trees, and 
 was reflected in the water, and we enjoyed so serene an 
 evening as left nothing to describe. For the most part 
 we think that there are few degrees of sublimity, and 
 that the highest is but little higher than that which we 
 now behold; but we are always deceived. Sublimer 
 
310 A WEEK 
 
 visions appear, and the former pale and fade away. We 
 are grateful when we are reminded by interior evidence 
 of the permanence of universal laws ; for our faith is but 
 faintly remembered, indeed, is not a remembered assur 
 ance, but a use and enjoyment of knowledge. It is when 
 we do not have to believe, but come into actual contact 
 with Truth, and are related to her in the most direct and 
 intimate way. Waves of serener life pass over us from 
 time to time, like flakes of sunlight over the fields in 
 cloudy weather. In some happier moment, when more 
 sap flows in the withered stalk of our life, Syria and India 
 stretch away from our present as they do in history. All 
 the events which make the annals of the nations are but 
 the shadows of our private experiences. Suddenly and 
 silently the eras which we call history awake and glim 
 mer 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 hap 
 pened in our own experience. Tradition is a more inter 
 rupted and feebler memory. 
 
 This world is but canvas to our imaginations. I see 
 men with infinite pains endeavoring to realize to their 
 bodies, what I, with at least equal pains, would realize 
 to my imagination, its capacities; for certainly there 
 is a life of the mind above the wants of the body, and 
 independent of it. Often the body is warmed, but the 
 imagination is torpid ; the body is fat, but the imagina 
 tion is lean and shrunk. But what avails all other wealth 
 if this is wanting ? " Imagination is the air of mind," in 
 which it lives and breathes. All things are as I am. 
 Where is the House of Change? The past is only so 
 
WEDNESDAY 311 
 
 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 forth 
 coming, though it be to buy shoe-strings with. A thou 
 sand mills will be just as slow to come to one who finds 
 it equally hard to convince himself that he needs them. 
 
 Men are by birth equal in this, that given 
 Themselves and their condition, they are even. 
 
 I am astonished at the singular pertinacity and 
 endurance of our lives. The miracle is, that what is is, 
 when it is so difficult, if not impossible, for anything else 
 to be; that we walk on in our particular paths so far, 
 before we fall on death and fate, merely because we 
 must walk in some path; that every man can get a 
 living, and so few can do anything more. So much only 
 can I accomplish ere health and strength are gone, and 
 yet this suffices. The bird now sits just out of gunshot. I 
 am never rich in money, and I am never meanly poor. 
 If debts are incurred, why, debts are in the course of 
 events canceled, as it were, by the same law by which 
 they were incurred. I heard that an engagement was 
 entered into between a certain youth and a maiden, and 
 then I heard that it was broken off, but I did not know 
 the reason in either case. We are hedged about, we 
 think, by accident and circumstance; now we creep as 
 in a dream, and now again we run, as if there were a fate 
 
312 A WEEK 
 
 in it, and all things thwarted or assisted. I cannot 
 change my clothes but when I do, and yet I do change 
 them, and soil the new ones. It is wonderful that this 
 gets done, when some admirable deeds which I could 
 mention do not get done. Our particular lives seem 
 of such fortune and confident strength and durability 
 as piers of solid rock thrown forward into the tide of 
 circumstance. When every other path would fail, with 
 singular and unerring confidence we advance on our 
 particular course. What risks we run! famine and fire 
 and pestilence, and the thousand forms of a cruel fate, 
 and yet every man lives till he dies. How did he 
 manage that? Is there no immediate danger? We 
 wonder superfluously when we hear of a somnambulist 
 walking a plank securely, we have walked a plank 
 all our lives up to this particular string-piece where we 
 are. My life will wait for nobody, but is being matured 
 still without delay, while I go about the streets, and 
 chaffer with this man and that to secure it a living. It 
 is as indifferent and easy meanwhile as a poor man's 
 dog, and making acquaintance with its kind. It will cut 
 its own channel like a mountain stream, and by the 
 longest ridge is not kept from the sea at last. I have 
 found all things thus far, persons and inanimate matter, 
 elements and seasons, strangely adapted to my resources. 
 No matter what imprudent haste in my career; I am 
 permitted to be rash. Gulfs are bridged in a twinkling, 
 as if some unseen baggage train carried pontoons for 
 my convenience, and while from the heights I scan the 
 tempting but unexplored Pacific Ocean of Futurity, the 
 ship is being carried over the mountains piecemeal on 
 
WEDNESDAY 313 
 
 the backs of mules and llamas, whose keel shall plow 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 
 
 Illunies my inmost mind. 
 
 What is it gilds the trees and clouds, 
 
 And paints the heavens so gay, 
 But yonder fast-abiding light 
 
 With its unchanging ray? 
 
 Lo, when the sun streams through the wood, 
 
 Upon a winter's morn, 
 Where'er his silent beams intrude 
 
 The murky night is gone. 
 
 How could the patient pine have known 
 
 The morning breeze would come, 
 Or humble flowers anticipate 
 
 The insect's noonday hum, 
 
 Till the new light with morning cheer 
 From far streamed through the aisles, - 
 
 And nimbly told the forest trees 
 For many stretching miles ? 
 
 I've heard within my inmost soul 
 
 Such cheerful morning news, 
 In the horizon of my mind 
 
 Have seen such orient hues, 
 
314 A WEEK 
 
 As in the twilight of the dawn, 
 
 When the first birds awake, 
 Are heard within some silent wood, 
 
 Where they the small twigs break, 
 
 Or in the eastern skies are seen, 
 
 Before the sun appears, 
 The harbingers of summer heats 
 
 Which from afar he bears. 
 
 Whole weeks and months of my summer life slide 
 away in thin volumes like mist and smoke, till at length, 
 some warm morning, perchance, I see a sheet of mist 
 blown down the brook to the swamp, and I float as high 
 above the fields with it. I can recall to mind the stillest 
 summer hours, in which the grasshopper sings over 
 the mulleins, and there is a valor in that time the bare 
 memory of which is armor that can laugh at any blow 
 of fortune. For our lifetime the strains of a harp are 
 heard to swell and die alternately, and death is but " the 
 pause when the blast is recollecting itself." 
 
 We lay awake a long while listening to the murmurs 
 of the brook, in the angle formed by whose bank with 
 the river our tent was pitched, and there was a sort of 
 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 
 
WEDNESDAY 315 
 
 with sunken rocks and the ruins of forests, from whose 
 surface comes up no murmur, are strangers to the icy 
 fetters which bind fast a thousand 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, though I had no cause 
 to blame myself. But in my dream ideal justice was at 
 length done me for his suspicions, and I received that 
 compensation which I had never obtained in my waking 
 hours. I was unspeakably soothed and rejoiced, even 
 after I awoke, because in dreams we never deceive our 
 selves, nor are deceived, and this seemed to have the 
 authority of a final judgment. 
 
 We bless and curse ourselves. Some dreams are 
 divine, as well as some waking thoughts. Donne sings 
 of one 
 
 "Who dreamt devoutlier than most use to pray." 
 
 Dreams are the touchstones of our characters. We are 
 scarcely less afflicted when we remember some unwor- 
 thiness in our conduct in a dream, than if it had been 
 actual, and the intensity of our grief, which is our atone 
 ment, measures the degree by which this is separated 
 from an actual unworthiness. For in dreams we but act 
 a part which must have been learned and rehearsed in 
 our waking hours, and no doubt could discover some 
 waking consent thereto. If this meanness had not its 
 foundation in us, why are we grieved at it ? In dreams 
 we see ourselves naked and acting out our real charac 
 ters, even more clearly than we see others awake. But 
 an unwavering and commanding virtue would compel 
 
316 A WEEK 
 
 even its most fantastic and faintest dreams to respect its 
 ever-wakeful authority; as we are accustomed to say 
 carelessly, we should never have dreamed of such a thing. 
 Our truest life is when we are in dreams awake. 
 
 "And, more to lulle him in his slumber soft, 
 A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe, 
 And ever-drizzling raine upon the loft, 
 Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne 
 Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne, 
 No other noyse, nor people's troublous cryes, 
 As still are wont t' annoy the walled towne, 
 Might there be heard; but careless Quiet lyes 
 Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enemyes." 
 

 THURSDAY 
 
 He trode the implanted forest floor, whereon 
 The all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone; 
 Where feeds the moose, and walks the surly bear, 
 And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker. 
 
 Where darkness found him he lay glad at night; 
 There the red morning touched him with its light. 
 
 Go where he will, the wise man is at home, * 
 His hearth the earth, his hall the azure dome; 
 Where his clear spirit leads him, there 's his road, 
 By God's own light illumined and foreshowed. 
 
 EMERSON. 
 
 IT HEN we awoke this morning, we heard the faint, 
 deliberate, and ominous sound of raindrops 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 frisk 
 ing, as if unobserved by man, from some higher pas 
 ture where they had spent the night, to taste the herbage 
 by the riverside ; but when their leaders caught sight 
 
318 A WEEK 
 
 of our white tent through the mist, struck with sudden 
 astonishment, with their fore feet braced, they sustained 
 the rushing torrent in their rear, and the whole flock 
 stood stock-still, endeavoring to solve the mystery in 
 their sheepish brains. At length, concluding that it 
 boded no mischief to them, they spread themselves out 
 quietly over the field. We learned afterward that we 
 had pitched our tent on the very spot which a few sum 
 mers before had been occupied by a party of Penob- 
 scots. We could see rising before us through the mist 
 a dark conical eminence called Hooksett Pinnacle, a 
 landmark to boatmen, and also Uncanmmuc Mountain, 
 broad off on the west side of the river. 
 
 This was the limit of our voyage, for a few hours 
 more in the rain would have taken us to the last of the 
 locks, and our boat was too heavy to be dragged around 
 the long and numerous rapids which would occur. On 
 foot, however, we continued up along the bank, feeling 
 our way with a stick through the showery and foggy 
 day, and climbing over the slippery logs in our path 
 with as much pleasure and buoyancy as in brightest 
 sunshine ; scenting the fragrance of the pines and the 
 wet clay under our feet, and cheered by the tones of 
 invisible waterfalls ; with visions of toadstools, and 
 wandering frogs, and festoons of moss hanging from 
 the spruce trees, and thrushes flitting silent under the 
 leaves ; our road still holding together through that 
 wettest of weather, like faith, while we confidently fol 
 lowed its lead. We managed to keep our thoughts 
 dry, however, and only our clothes were wet. It was 
 altogether a cloudy and drizzling day, with occasional 
 
THURSDAY 319 
 
 brightenings in the mist, when the trill of the tree 
 sparrow seemed to be ushering in sunny hours. 
 
 " Nothing that naturally happens to man can hurt 
 him, earthquakes and thunder-storms not excepted," 
 said a man of genius, who at this time lived a few 
 miles farther on our road. When compelled by a 
 shower to take shelter under a tree, we may improve 
 that opportunity for a more minute inspection of some 
 of Nature's works. I have stood under a tree in the 
 woods half a day at a time, during a heavy rain in 
 the summer, and yet employed myself happily and 
 profitably there prying with microscopic eye into the 
 crevices of the bark or the leaves 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, 
 scenting the wild honeysuckle and bilberry blows, and 
 lulled by the minstrelsy of gnats and mosquitoes ! A 
 day passed in the society of those Greek sages, such 
 as described in the Banquet of Xenophon, would not 
 be comparable with the dry wit of decayed cranberry 
 vines, and the fresh Attic salt of the moss-beds. Say 
 twelve hours of genial and familiar converse with the 
 leopard frog ; the sun to rise behind alder and dog 
 wood, and climb buoyantly to his meridian of two 
 hands' breadth, and finally sink to rest behind some 
 bold western hummock. To hear the evening chant of 
 the mosquito from a thousand green chapels, and the 
 bittern begin to boom from some concealed fort like a 
 sunset gun ! Surely one may as profitably be soaked in 
 
320 A WEEK 
 
 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 stub 
 ble while we lie drenched on a bed of withered wild 
 oats, by the side of a bushy hill; and the gathering in 
 of the clouds, with the last rush and dying breath of 
 the wind, and then the regular dripping of twigs and 
 leaves the country over, enhance the sense of inward 
 comfort and sociableness. The birds draw closer and 
 are more familiar under the thick foliage, seemingly 
 composing new strains upon their roots 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 book, unless his books were men. 
 
 Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough, 
 What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town, 
 If juster battles are enacted now 
 Between the ants upon this hummock's crown ? 
 
 Bid Homer wait till 1 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. 
 
THURSDAY 321 
 
 Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour, 
 For flow I've business with this drop of dew, 
 And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower, 
 I'll meet him shortly when the sky is blue. 
 
 This bed of herd's-grass and wild oats was spread 
 Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use, 
 A clover tuft is pillow for my head, 
 And violets quite overtop my shoes. 
 
 And now the cordial clouds have shut all in, 
 And gently swells the wind to say all's well, 
 The scattered drops are falling fast and thin, 
 Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell. 
 
 I am well drenched upon my bed of oats; 
 But see that globe come rolling down its stem; 
 Now like a lonely planet there it floats, 
 And now it sinks into my garment's hem. 
 
 Drip, drip the trees for all the country round, 
 And richness rare 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 Moun 
 tain 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 sum 
 mit, a precipitous rock only a few rods long, in fairer 
 
322 A WEEK 
 
 weather, when the sun was setting and filling the river 
 valley with a flood of light. You can see up and down 
 the Merrimack several miles each way. The broad and 
 straight river, full of light and life, with its sparkling 
 and foaming falls, the islet which divides the stream, 
 the village of Hooksett on the shore almost directly 
 under your feet, so near that you can converse with its 
 inhabitants or throw a stone into its yards, the wood 
 land 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 Con 
 cord, as we had been wont, to distinguish it from our 
 native town, from which we had been told that it 
 was named and in part originally settled. This would 
 have been the proper place to conclude our voyage, 
 uniting Concord with Concord by these meandering 
 rivers, but our boat was moored some miles below its 
 port. 
 
 The richness of the intervals at Penacook, now Con 
 cord, New Hampshire, had been observed by explorers, 
 and, according to the historian of Haverhill, in the " year 
 1726, considerable progress was made in the settlement, 
 and a road was cut through the wilderness from Haverhill 
 to Penacook. In the fall of 1727, the first family, that 
 of Captain Ebenezer Eastman, moved into the place. 
 His team was driven by Jacob Shute, who was by birth a 
 Frenchman, and he is said to have been the first person 
 who drove a team through the wilderness. Soon after, 
 
THURSDAY 323 
 
 says tradition, one Ayer, a lad of eighteen, 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 Haver- 
 hill about midnight. The crank of the first saw-mill 
 was manufactured in Haverhill, and carried to Pena 
 cook on a horse." 
 
 But we found that the frontiers were not this way 
 any longer. This generation has come into the world 
 fatally late for some enterprises. Go where we will on 
 the surface of things, men have been there before us. 
 We cannot now have the pleasure of erecting the last 
 house ; that was long ago set up in the suburbs of Astoria 
 City, and our boundaries have literally been run to the 
 South Sea, according to the old patents. But the lives ; 
 of men, though more extended laterally in their range, 
 are still as shallow as ever. Undoubtedly, as a Western 
 orator said, " Men generally live over about the same 
 surface ; some live long and narrow, and others live 
 broad and short;" but it is all superficial living. A 
 worm is as good a 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 sum 
 mer. 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 
 
324 A WEEK 
 
 fact be his neighbor, there is an unsettled wilderness 
 between him and Canada, between him and the setting 
 sun, or, farther still, between him and it. Let him 
 build himself a log house with the bark on where he is, 
 fronting IT, and wage there an Old French war for 
 seven or seventy years, with Indians and Rangers, or 
 whatever else may come between him and the reality, 
 and save his scalp if he can. 
 
 We now no longer sailed or floated on the river, but 
 trod the unyielding land like pilgrims. Sadi tells who 
 may travel ; among others, " A common mechanic, 
 who can earn a subsistence by the industry of his 
 hand, and shall not have to stake his reputation for 
 every morsel of bread, as philosophers have said." 
 He may travel who can subsist on the wild fruits and 
 game of the most cultivated country. A man may 
 travel fast enough and earn his living on the road. I 
 have at times been applied to, to do work when on a 
 journey; to do tinkering and repair clocks, when I had 
 a knapsack on my back. A man once applied to me 
 to go into a factory, stating conditions and wages, ob 
 serving that I succeeded in shutting the window of 
 a railroad car in which we were traveling, 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." Farm 
 ers 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- 
 
THURSDAY 325 
 
 mender, because, being on a journey, I carried an um 
 brella 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 In 
 dian meal, some salt, and some sugar. When you 
 come to a brook or a 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 it into your sugar, this alone will 
 last you a whole day; or, if you are accustomed to 
 heartier living, you can buy a quart of milk for two 
 cents, crumb your bread or cold pudding into it, and 
 eat it with your own spoon out of your own dish. Any 
 one of these things I mean, not all together. I have 
 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 re 
 spects 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, recognizing the 
 bucket, that I had stopped there nine years before for 
 the same purpose, asked if I was not a traveler, suppos 
 ing I had been traveling ever since, and had now come 
 round again; that traveling was one of the professions, 
 
326 A WEEK 
 
 more or less productive, which her husband 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 ere long 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 trav 
 eling is no pastime, but it is as serious as the grave, or 
 any part of the human journey, and it requires a long 
 probation to be broken into it. I do not speak of those 
 that travel sitting, the sedentary 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 trav 
 eling 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 
 of his mother fulfilled, that he shall be skinned alive. 
 His sores shall gradually deepen themselves that they 
 may heal inwardly, while he gives no rest to the sole 
 of his foot, and at night weariness must be his pillow, 
 that so he may acquire experience against his rainy 
 days. So was it with us. 
 
 Sometimes we lodged at an inn in the woods, where 
 trout-fishers from distant cities had arrived before us, 
 and where, to our astonishment, the settlers dropped in 
 at nightfall to have a chat and hear the news, though 
 there was but one road, and no other house was visible, 
 as if they had come out of the earth. There we 
 sometimes read old newspapers, who never before read 
 
THURSDAY 327 
 
 new ones, and in the rustle of their leaves heard the 
 dashing of the surf along the Atlantic shore, instead of 
 the sough of the wind among the pines. But then walk 
 ing had given us an appetite even for the least palatable 
 and nutritious food. 
 
 Some hard and dry book in a dead language, which 
 you have found it impossible to read at home, but for 
 which you have still a lingering regard, is the best to 
 carry with you on a journey. At a country inn, in the 
 barren society of ostlers and travelers, I could undertake 
 the writers of the silver or the brazen age with confi 
 dence. Almost the last regular service which I per 
 formed in the cause of literature was to read the works 
 of 
 
 AULUS PERSITTS FLACCUS. 
 
 If you have imagined what a divine work is spread 
 out for the poet, and approach this author too, in the 
 hope of finding the field at length fairly entered on, you 
 will hardly dissent from the words of the prologue, 
 
 "Ipse semipaganus 
 Ad sacra Vatum carmen affero nostrum." 
 
 I half pagan 
 Bring my verses to the shrine of the poets. 
 
 Here is none of the interior dignity of Virgil, nor 
 the elegance and vivacity of Horace, nor will any sibyl 
 be needed to remind you that from those older Greek 
 poets there is a sad descent to Persius. You can scarcely 
 distinguish one harmonious sound amid this unmusical 
 bickering with the follies of men. 
 
 One sees that music has its place in thought, but 
 
328 A WEEK 
 
 hardly as yet in language. When the Muse arrives, we 
 wait for her to remould language, and impart to it her 
 own rhythm. Hitherto the verse groans and labors with 
 its load, and goes not forward blithely, singing by the 
 way. The best ode may be parodied, indeed is itself a 
 parody, and has a poor and trivial sound, like a man 
 stepping on the rounds of a ladder. Homer and Shake 
 speare and Milton and Marvell and Wordsworth are 
 but the rustling of leaves and crackling of twigs in the 
 forest, and there is not yet the sound of any bird. The 
 Muse has never lifted up her voice to sing. Most of all, 
 satire will not be sung. A Juvenal or Persius do not 
 marry music to their verse, but are measured fault 
 finders at best ; stand but just outside the faults they 
 condemn, and so are concerned rather about the mon 
 ster which they have escaped than the fair prospect be 
 fore 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, par- 
 ticeps criminis. One sees not but he had best let bad 
 take care of itself, and have to do only with what is be 
 yond suspicion. If you light on the least vestige of truth, 
 and it is the weight of the whole body still which stamps 
 the faintest trace, an eternity will not suffice to extol it, 
 while no evil is so huge, but you grudge to bestow on 
 it a moment of hate. Truth never turns to rebuke false 
 hood; her own straightforwardness is the severest cor 
 rection. 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 
 
THURSDAY 329 
 
 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. Com 
 plaint, which is the condition of Persius, lies not in the 
 province of poetry. Ere long the enjoyment of a supe 
 rior good would have changed his disgust into regret. 
 We can never have much sympathy with the com- 
 plainer ; for after searching nature through, we con 
 clude that he must be both plaintiff and defendant too, 
 and so had best come to a settlement without a hearing. 
 He who receives an injury is to some extent an accom 
 plice of the wrong-doer. 
 
 Perhaps it would be truer to say, that the highest 
 strain of the muse is essentially plaintive. The saint's 
 are still tears of joy. Who has ever heard the Innocent 
 sing? 
 
 But the divinest poem, or the life of a great man, is 
 the severest satire ; as impersonal as Nature herself, 
 and like the sighs of her winds in the woods, which 
 convey ever a slight reproof to the hearer. The greater 
 the genius, the keener the edge of the satire. 
 
 Hence we have to do only with the rare and frag 
 mentary traits, which least belong to Persius, or shall 
 we say, are the properest utterances of his muse; 
 since that which he says best at any time is what he 
 can best say at all times. The Spectators and Ram 
 blers have not failed to cull some quotable sentences 
 from this garden too, so pleasant is it to meet even the 
 most familiar truth in a new dress, when, if our neigh- 
 
330 A WEEK 
 
 bor had said it, we should have passed it by as hack 
 neyed. Out of these six satires, you may perhaps select 
 some twenty lines, which fit so well as many thoughts, 
 that they will recur to the scholar almost as readily as 
 a natural image; though when translated into familiar 
 language, they lose that insular emphasis which fitted 
 them for quotation. Such lines as the following, trans 
 lation cannot render commonplace. Contrasting the 
 man of true religion with those who, with jealous pri 
 vacy, would fain carry on a secret commerce with the 
 gods, he says : 
 
 "Haud cuivis promptum est, murmurque humilesque susurros 
 Tollere de templis; et aperto vivere voto." 
 
 It is not easy for every one to take murmurs and low 
 Whispers out of the temples, and live with open vow. 
 
 J To the virtuous man, the universe is the only sanc 
 tum 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 un- 
 prof aned ? The obedient soul would only the more dis 
 cover and familiarize things, and escape more and more 
 into light and air, as having henceforth done with se 
 crecy, 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 inde 
 pendence of all confidence in its disclosures makes that 
 which it imparts so private to the hearer, that it becomes 
 the care of the whole world that modesty be not in 
 fringed. 
 
THURSDAY 331 
 
 To the man who cherishes a secret in his breast, there 
 is a still greater secret unexplored. Our most indiffer 
 ent acts may be matter for secrecy, but whatever we 
 do with the utmost truthfulness and integrity, by virtue 
 of its pureness, must be transparent as light. 
 
 In the third satire, he asks : 
 
 "Est aliquid quo tendis, et in quod dirigis arcum? 
 An passim sequeris corvos, testave, lutove, 
 Securus quo pes f erat, atque ex tempore vivis ? " 
 
 Is there anything to which thou tendest, and against which thou 
 
 directest thy bow ? 
 
 Or dost thou pursue crows, at random, with pottery or clay, 
 Careless whither thy feet bear thee, and li ve ex tempore ? 
 
 The bad sense is always a secondary one. Language 
 does not appear to have justice done it, but is obviously 
 cramped and narrowed in its significance, when any 
 meanness is described. The truest construction is not 
 put upon it. What may readily be fashioned into a rule 
 of wisdom is here thrown in the teeth of the sluggard, 
 and constitutes the front of his 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 vir- , 
 tues, and in their best estate are but plausible imitations 
 of the latter. Falsehood never attains to the dignity of 
 entire falseness, but is only an inferior sort of truth; if 
 it were more thoroughly false, it would incur danger of 
 becoming true. 
 
 "Securus quo pes ferat, atque ex tempore vivit " 
 
332 A WEEK 
 
 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 slug 
 gard, notwithstanding his heedlessness, is insecure. 
 
 The life of a wise man is most of all extemporaneous, 
 for he lives out of an eternity which includes all time. 
 The cunning mind travels further back than Zoroaster 
 each instant, and comes quite down to the present with 
 its revelation. The utmost thrift and industry of 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 
 postponed, but not that on the lip. If this is what the 
 occasion says, let the occasion say it. All the world is 
 forward to prompt him who gets up to live without 
 his creed in his pocket. 
 
 In the fifth satire, which is the best, I find, 
 
 "Stat 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. 
 
 Oijly they who do not see how anything might be bet 
 ter done are forward to try their hand on it. Even the 
 master workman must be encouraged by the reflection 
 that his awkwardness will be incompetent to do that 
 thing harm, to which his skill may fail to do justice. 
 Here is no apology for neglecting to do many things 
 from a sense of our incapacity, for what deed does 
 
THURSDAY 333 
 
 not fall maimed and imperfect from our hands ? but 
 only a warning to bungle less. 
 
 The satires of Persius are the furthest possible from 
 inspired, evidently a chosen, not imposed subject. 
 Perhaps I have given him credit for more earnestness 
 than is apparent ; but it is certain that that which 
 alone we can call Persius, which is forever independent 
 and consistent, was in earnest, and so sanctions the 
 sober consideration of all. The artist and his work are 
 not to be separated. The most willfully foolish man 
 cannot stand aloof from his folly, but the deed and the 
 doer together make ever one sober fact. There is but 
 one stage for the peasant and the actor. The buffoon 
 cannot bribe you to laugh always at his grimaces ; 
 they shall sculpture themselves in Egyptian granite, to 
 stand heavy as the pyramids on the ground of his 
 character. 
 
 Suns rose and set and found us still on the dank 
 forest path which meanders up the Pemigewasset, now 
 more like an otter's or a marten's trail, or where a 
 beaver had dragged his trap, than where the wheels 
 of travel raise a dust ; where towns begin to serve as 
 gores, only to hold the earth together. The wild pigeon 
 sat secure above our heads, high on the dead limbs of 
 naval pines, reduced to a robin's size. The very yards 
 of our hostelries inclined upon the skirts of mountains, 
 and, as we passed, we looked up at a steep angle at 
 the stems of maples waving in the clouds. 
 
 Far up in the country, for we would be faithful to 
 our experience, in Thornton, perhaps, we met a sol- 
 
334 A WEEK 
 
 dier lad in the woods, going to muster in full regiment 
 als, 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 soldier-like bearing. Poor 
 man! He actually shivered like a reed in his thin mili 
 tary pants, and by the time we had got up with him, 
 all the sternness that becomes the soldier had forsaken 
 his face, and he skulked past as if he were driving his 
 father's sheep under a sword-proof helmet. It was too 
 much for him to carry any extra armor then, who 
 could not easily dispose of his natural arms. And for 
 his legs, they were like heavy artillery in boggy places; 
 better to cut the traces and forsake them. His greaves 
 chafed and wrestled one with another for want of other 
 foes. But he did get by and get off with all his muni 
 tions, and lived to fight another day ; and I do not 
 record this as casting any suspicion on his honor and 
 real bravery in the field. 
 
 Wandering on through notches which the streams 
 had made, by the side and over the brows of hoar hills 
 and mountains, across the stumpy, rocky, forested, and 
 bepastured country, we at length crossed on prostrate 
 trees over the Amonoosuck, and breathed the free air 
 of Unappropriated Land. Thus, in fair days as well as 
 foul, we had traced up the river to which our native 
 stream is a tributary, until from Merrimack it became 
 the Pemigewasset that leaped by our side, and when 
 we had passed its fountain-head, the Wild Amonoo 
 suck, whose puny channel was crossed at a stride, 
 
THURSDAY 335 
 
 guiding us toward its distant source among the moun 
 tains, at length, without its guidance, we were enabled 
 to reach the summit 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 afterward, 
 the melon man, in whose corn-barn we had hung our 
 tent and buffaloes and other things to dry, was already 
 picking his hops, with many women and children to 
 help him. We bought one watermelon, the largest in 
 his patch, to carry with us for ballast. It was Na 
 than's, which he might sell if he wished, having been 
 conveyed to him in the green state, and owned daily 
 by his eyes. After due consultation with " Father," 
 the bargain was concluded, we to buy it at a ven 
 ture on the vine, green or ripe, our risk, and pay 
 " what the gentleman pleased." It proved to be ripe ; 
 for we had had honest experience in selecting this 
 fruit. 
 
 Finding our boat safe in its harbor, under Uncan- 
 nunuc Mountain, with a fair wind and the current in 
 our favor, we commenced our return voyage at noon, 
 sitting at our ease and conversing, or in silence watch 
 ing for the last trace of each reach in the river as a 
 bend concealed it from our view. As the season was 
 further advanced, the wind now blew steadily from the 
 north, and with our sail set we could occasionally lie 
 
336 A WEEK 
 
 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 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 head 
 land also increased by contrast the solitude. 
 
 Through the din and desultoriness of noon, even in 
 the most Oriental city, is seen the fresh and primitive 
 and savage nature, in which Scythians and Ethiopians 
 and Indians dwell. What is echo, what are light and 
 shade, day and night, ocean and stars, earthquake and 
 eclipse, there? The works of man are everywhere 
 swallowed up in the immensity of nature. The JEgean 
 Sea is but Lake Huron still to the Indian. Also there 
 is all the refinement of civilized life in the woods un 
 der a sylvan garb. The wildest scenes have an air of 
 domesticity and homeliness even to the citizen, and 
 when the flicker's cackle is heard in the clearing, he is 
 reminded that civilization has wrought but little change 
 there. Science is welcome to the deepest recesses of the 
 forest, for there too nature obeys the same old civil 
 laws. The little red bug on the stump of a pine, for 
 it the wind shifts and the sun breaks through the 
 clouds. In the wildest nature, there is not only the 
 
THURSDAY 337 
 
 material of the most cultivated life, and a sort of an 
 ticipation of the last result, but a greater refinement 
 already than is ever attained by man. There is papy 
 rus by the riverside, and rushes for light, and the goose 
 only flies overhead, ages before the studious are born 
 or letters invented, and that literature which the for 
 mer suggest, and even from the first have rudely served, 
 it may be man does not yet use them to express. Na 
 ture is prepared to welcome into her scenery the finest 
 work of human art, for she is herself an art so cunning 
 that the artist never appears in his work. 
 
 Art is not tame, and Nature is not wild, in the or 
 dinary 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 suc 
 ceeded. 
 
 With this propitious breeze, and the help of our oars, 
 we soon reached the Falls of Amoskeag, and the mouth 
 of the Piscataquoag, and recognized, as we swept rap 
 idly 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 returne with such an host, 
 That wedded might be least and most. ..." 
 Which barge was as a man's thought, 
 After his pleasure to him brought, 
 The queene herselfe accustomed aye 
 
338 A WEEK 
 
 In the same barge to play, 
 
 It needeth neither mast ne rother, 
 
 I have not heard of such another, 
 
 No maister for the governaunce, 
 
 Hie sayled by thought and pleasaunce, 
 
 Without labour, east and west, 
 
 Alle was one, calrne or tempest." 
 
 So we sailed this afternoon, thinking of the saying of 
 Pythagoras, though we had no peculiar right to re 
 member it, " It is beautiful when prosperity is present 
 with intellect, and when sailing as it were with a pros 
 perous wind, actions are performed looking to virtue; 
 just as a pilot looks to the motions of the stars." All 
 the world reposes in beauty to him who preserves equi 
 poise in his life, and moves serenely on his path without 
 secret violence ; as he who sails down a stream, he has 
 only to steer, keeping his bark in the middle, and carry 
 it round the falls. The ripples curled away in our 
 wake, like ringlets from the head of a child, while we 
 steadily held on our course, and under the bows we 
 watched 
 
 "The swaying soft, 
 
 Made by the delicate wave parted in front, 
 As through the gentle element we move 
 Like shadows gliding through untroubled realms." 
 
 The forms of beauty fall naturally around the path of 
 him who is in the performance of his proper work; as 
 the curled shavings drop from the plane, and borings 
 cluster around the auger. Undulation is the gentlest 
 and most ideal of motions, produced by one fluid fall 
 ing on another. Rippling is a more graceful flight. 
 
THURSDAY 339 
 
 From a hill-top you may detect in it the wings of birds 
 endlessly repeated. The two waving lines which re 
 present 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 natu 
 rally disposed, though the farmer had consulted only his 
 convenience, for he too falls into the scheme of Nature. 
 Art can never match the luxury and superfluity of 
 Nature. In the former all is seen; it cannot afford 
 concealed wealth, and is niggardly in comparison; but 
 Nature, even when she is scant and thin outwardly, 
 satisfies us still by the assurance of a certain generosity 
 at the roots. In swamps, where there is only here and 
 there an evergreen tree amid the quaking moss and 
 cranberry beds, the bareness does not suggest poverty. 
 The single spruce, which I had hardly noticed in gar 
 dens, attracts me in such places, and now first I under 
 stand why men try to make them grow about their 
 houses. But though there may be very perfect speci 
 mens in front-yard plots, their beauty is for the most part 
 ineffectual there, for there is no such assurance of kin 
 dred 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 rub 
 bing it against the shore, its boughs are worn into fan- 
 
340 A WEEK 
 
 tastic shapes, and white and smooth, as if turned in a 
 lathe. Man's art has wisely imitated those forms into 
 which all matter is most inclined to run, as foliage and 
 fruit. A hammock swung in a grove assumes the exact 
 form of a canoe, broader or narrower, and higher or 
 lower at the ends, as more or fewer persons are in it, 
 and it rolls in the air with the motion of the body, like 
 a canoe in the water. Our art leaves its shavings and 
 its dust about; her art exhibits itself even in the shav 
 ings and the dust which we make. She has perfected 
 herself by an eternity of practice. The world is well 
 kept ; no rubbish accumulates ; the morning air is clear 
 even at this day, and no dust has settled on the grass. 
 Behold how the evening now steals over the fields, the 
 shadows of the trees creeping farther and farther into 
 the meadow, and ere long the stars will come to bathe in 
 these retired waters. Her undertakings are secure and 
 never fail. If I were awakened from a deep sleep, I 
 should know which side of the meridian the sun might 
 be by the aspect of nature, and by the chirp of the 
 crickets, and yet no painter can paint this difference. 
 The landscape contains a thousand dials which indicate 
 the natural divisions of time, the shadows of a thousand 
 styles point to the hour. 
 
 "Not only o'er the dial's face 
 
 This silent phantom day by day, 
 With slow, unseen, unceasing pace 
 
 Steals moments, months, and years away; 
 From hoary rock and aged tree, 
 
 From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls, 
 From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea, 
 
 From every blade of grass it falls." 
 
THURSDAY 341 
 
 It is almost the only game which the trees play at, this 
 tit-for-tat, now this side in the sun, now that, the drama 
 of the day. In deep ravines under the eastern sides of 
 cliffs, Night forwardly plants her foot even at noonday, 
 and as Day retreats she steps into his trenches, skulk 
 ing from tree to tree, from fence to fence, until at last 
 she sits in her citadel and draws out her forces into the 
 plain. It may be that the forenoon is brighter than the 
 afternoon, not only because of the greater transparency 
 of its atmosphere, but because we naturally look most 
 into the west, as forward into the day, and so in the 
 forenoon see the sunny side of things, but in the after 
 noon 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 inau 
 dible 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 be 
 fore daybreak. They were slightly clad for the season, 
 in the English fashion, and handled their paddles un- 
 skillfully, but with nervous energy and determination, 
 
342 A WEEK 
 
 and at the bottom of their canoe lay the still bleeding 
 scalps of ten of the aborigines. They were Hannah 
 Dustan, and her nurse, Mary Neff, both of Haverhill, 
 eighteen miles from the mouth of this river, and an 
 English boy, named Samuel Lennardson, escaping from 
 captivity among the Indians. On the 15th of March 
 previous, Hannah Dustan had been compelled to rise 
 from childbed, and half dressed, with one foot bare, ac 
 companied by her nurse, commence an uncertain march, 
 in still inclement weather, through the snow and the 
 wilderness. She had seen her seven elder children flee 
 with their father, but knew not of their fate. She had 
 seen her infant's brains dashed out against an apple 
 tree, and had left her own and her neighbors' dwellings 
 in ashes. When she reached the wigwam of her captor, 
 situated on an island in the Merrimack, more than 
 twenty miles above where we now are, she had been 
 told that she and her nurse were soon to be taken to a 
 distant Indian settlement, and there made to run the 
 gauntlet naked. The family of this Indian consisted of 
 two men, three women, and seven children, 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 
 dispatch an enemy in the quickest manner, and take his 
 scalp. " Strike 'em there," said he, placing his finger 
 on his temple, and he also showed him how to take off 
 the scalp. On the morning of the 31st she arose before 
 daybreak, and awoke her nurse and the boy, and taking 
 the Indians' tomahawks, they killed them all in their 
 sleep, excepting one favorite boy, and one squaw who 
 

 
 THURSDAY 343 
 
 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 col 
 lected all the provision they could find, and took their 
 master's tomahawk and gun, and scuttling all the canoes 
 but one, commenced their flight to Haverhill, distant 
 about sixty miles by the river. But after having pro 
 ceeded a short distance, fearing that her story would not 
 be believed if she should escape to tell it, they returned 
 to the silent wigwam, and taking off the scalps of the 
 dead, put them into a bag as proofs of what they had 
 done, and then, retracing their steps to the shore in the 
 twilight, recommenced their voyage. 
 
 Early this morning this deed was performed, and 
 now, perchance, these tired women and this boy, their 
 clothes stained with blood, and their minds racked with 
 alternate resolution and fear, are making a hasty meal 
 of parched corn and moose-meat, while their canoe 
 glides under these pine roots whose stumps are still 
 standing on the bank. They are thinking of the dead 
 whom they have left behind on that solitary isle far up 
 the stream, and of the relentless living warriors who 
 are in pursuit. Every withered leaf which the winter 
 has left seems to know their story, and in its rustling 
 to repeat it and betray them. An Indian lurks behind 
 every rock and pine, and their nerves cannot bear the 
 tapping of a woodpecker. Or they forget their own 
 dangers and their deeds in conjecturing the fate of 
 their kindred, and whether, if they escape the Indians, 
 they shall find the former still alive. They do not stop 
 to cook their meals upon the bank, nor land, except to 
 
344 A WEEK 
 
 carry their canoe about the falls. The stolen birch for 
 gets its master and does them good service, and the 
 swollen current bears them swiftly along with little 
 need of the paddle, except to steer and keep them 
 warm by exercise. For ice is floating in the river; the 
 spring is opening; the muskrat and the beaver are 
 driven out of their holes by the flood; deer gaze at 
 them from the bank; a few faint-singing forest birds, 
 perchance, fly across the river to the northernmost 
 shore; the fishhawk 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 In 
 dian's solitary corn-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 cheer 
 ful 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, 
 

 THURSDAY 345 
 
 one will manage the canoe, and the swift stream bear 
 them onward to the settlements, it may be, even to old 
 John Lovewell's house on Salmon Brook to-night. 
 
 According to the historian, they escaped as by a 
 miracle all roving bands of Indians, and reached their 
 homes in safety, with their trophies, for which the 
 General Court paid them fifty pounds. The family of 
 Hannah Dustan all assembled alive once more, except 
 the infant whose brains were dashed out against the 
 apple tree, and there have been many who in later 
 time have lived to say that they have eaten of the fruit 
 of that apple tree. 
 
 This seems a long while ago, and yet it happened 
 since Milton wrote his Paradise Lost. But its antiquity 
 is not the less great for that, for we do not regulate 
 our historical time by the English standard, nor did 
 the English by the Roman, nor the Roman by the 
 Greek. " We must look a long way back," says Ra 
 leigh, " to find the Romans giving laws to nations, and 
 their consuls bringing kings and princes bound in 
 chains to Rome in triumph ; to see men go to Greece 
 for wisdom, or Ophir for gold ; when now nothing re 
 mains but a poor paper remembrance of their former 
 condition." And yet, in one sense, not so far back as 
 to find the Penacooks and Pawtuckets using bows and 
 arrows and hatchets of stone, on the banks of the 
 Merrimack. From this September afternoon, and from 
 between these now cultivated shores, those times seemed 
 more remote than the dark ages. On beholding an old 
 picture of Concord, as it appeared but seventy-five 
 
346 A WEEK 
 
 years ago, with a fair open prospect and a light on 
 trees and river, as if it were broad noon, I find that 
 I had not thought the sun shone in those days, or 
 that men lived in broad daylight then. Still less do 
 we imagine the sun shining on hill and valley during 
 Philip's war, on the war-path of Church or Philip, 
 or later of Lovewell or Paugus, with serene summer 
 weather, but they must have lived and fought in a dim 
 twilight or night. 
 
 The age of the world is great enough for our imagi 
 nations, even according to the Mosaic account, without 
 borrowing any years from the geologist. From Adam 
 and Eve at one leap sheer down to the deluge, and then 
 through the ancient monarchies, through Babylon and 
 Thebes, Brahma and Abraham, to Greece and the Argo 
 nauts ; whence we might start again with Orpheus, and 
 the Trojan war, the Pyramids and the Olympic games, 
 and Homer and Athens, for our stages ; and after a 
 breathing space at the building of Rome, continue our 
 journey down through Odin and Christ to America. 
 It is a wearisome while. And yet the lives of but sixty 
 old women, such as live under the hill, say of a century 
 each, strung together, are sufficient to reach over the 
 whole ground. Taking hold of hands they would span 
 the interval from Eve to my own mother. A respect 
 able tea-party merely, whose gossip would be Uni 
 versal History. The fourth old woman from myself 
 suckled Columbus, the ninth was nurse to the Nor 
 man Conqueror, the nineteenth was the Virgin Mary, 
 the twenty-fourth theCumsean Sibyl, the thirtieth 
 was at the Trojan war and Helen her name, the 
 
THURSDAY 347 
 
 thirty-eighth was Queen Semiramis, the sixtieth was 
 Eve, the mother of mankind. So much for the 
 
 "Old woman that lives under the hill, 
 And if she's not gone she lives there still." 
 
 It will not take a very great-granddaughter of hers to 
 be in at the death of Time. 
 
 We can never safely exceed the actual facts in our 
 narratives. Of pure invention, such as some suppose, 
 there is no instance. To write a true work of fiction 
 even is only to take leisure and liberty to describe 
 some things more exactly as they are. A true account 
 of the actual is the rarest poetry, for common sense 
 always takes a hasty and superficial view. Though I 
 am not much acquainted with the works of Goethe, I 
 should say that it was one of his chief excellences as a 
 writer, that he was satisfied with giving an exact de 
 scription 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 relations than the actual 
 ones, and so we get no valuable report from them at 
 all. In his " Italian Travels " Goethe jogs along at a 
 snail's pace, but always mindful that the earth is be 
 neath and the heavens are above him. His Italy is not 
 merely the fatherland of lazzaroni and virtuosi, and 
 scene of splendid ruins, but a solid turf-clad soil, daily 
 shined on by the sun, and nightly by the moon. Even 
 the few showers are faithfully recorded. He speaks as 
 an unconcerned spectator, whose object is faithfully to 
 
348 A WEEK 
 
 describe what he sees, and that, for the most part, in 
 the order in which he sees it. Even his reflections do 
 not interfere with his descriptions. In one place he 
 speaks of himself as giving so glowing and truthful a 
 description of an old tower to the peasants who had 
 gathered around him, that tney 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 had added nothing, not even 
 the ivy which for centuries had decorated the walls." 
 It would thus be possible for inferior minds to produce 
 invaluable books, if this very moderation were not the 
 evidence of superiority ; for the wise are not so much 
 wiser than others as respecters of their own wisdom. 
 Some, poor in spirit, record plaintively only what has 
 happened to them ; but others how they have hap 
 pened to the universe, and the judgment which they 
 have 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, " Signer, perdonate, questa e la mia pa- 
 tria," he confesses that " to me poor northerner came 
 something tear-like into the eyes." 
 
 Goethe's whole education and life were those of the 
 artist. He lacks the unconsciousness of the poet. In 
 his autobiography he describes accurately the life of 
 the author of Wilhelm Meister. For as there is in that 
 book, mingled with a rare and serene wisdom, a certain 
 pettiness or exaggeration of trifles, wisdom applied to 
 produce a constrained and partial and merely well-bred 
 
THURSDAY 349 
 
 man, a magnifying of the theatre till life itself is 
 turned into a stage, for which it is our duty to study 
 our parts well, and conduct with propriety and pre 
 cision, so in the autobiography, the fault of his 
 education is, so to speak, its merely artistic complete 
 ness. Nature is hindered, though she prevails at last in 
 making an unusually catholic impression on the boy. 
 It is the life of a city boy, whose toys are pictures and 
 works of art, whose wonders are the theatre and kingly 
 processions and crownings. As the youth studied mi 
 nutely the order and the degrees in the imperial proces 
 sion, and suffered none of its effect to be lost on him, so 
 the man aimed to secure a rank in society which would 
 satisfy his notion of fitness and respectability. He 
 was defrauded of much which the savage boy enjoys. 
 Indeed, he himself has occasion to say in this very 
 autobiography, when at last he escapes into the woods 
 without the gates : " Thus much is certain, that only 
 the undefinable, wide-expanding feelings of youth and 
 of uncultivated nations are adapted to the sublime, 
 which, whenever it may be excited in us through exter 
 nal 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 paint 
 ers from my childhood, and had accustomed myself 
 to look at objects, as they did, with reference to art." 
 And this was his practice to the last. He was even too 
 well-bred to be thoroughly bred. He says that he had 
 had no intercourse with the lowest class of his towns- 
 boys. The child should have the advantage of igno- 
 
350 A WEEK 
 
 ranee as well as of knowledge, and is fortunate if he 
 gets his share of neglect and exposure. 
 
 "The laws of Nature break the rules of Art." 
 
 \ The Man of Genius may at the same time be, in 
 deed is commonly, an Artist, but the two are not to 
 be confounded. The Man of Genius, referred to man 
 kind, is an originator, an inspired or demonic man, 
 who produces a perfect work in obedience to laws yet 
 unexplored. The artist is he who detects and applies 
 the law from observation of the works of Genius, 
 whether of man or nature. The Artisan is he who 
 merely applies the rules which others have detected. 
 There has been no man of pure Genius, as there has 
 been none wholly destitute of Genius. 
 
 Poetry is the mysticism of mankind. 
 
 The expressions of the poet cannot be analyzed; his 
 sentence is one word, whose syllables are words. There 
 are indeed no words quite worthy to be set to his mu 
 sic. But what matter if we do not hear the words 
 always, if we hear the music ? 
 
 Much verse fails of being poetry because it was not 
 written exactly at the right crisis, though it may have 
 been inconceivably near to it. It is only by a miracle 
 that poetry is written at all. It is not recoverable 
 thought, but a hue caught from a vaster receding 
 thought. 
 
 A poem is one undivided, unimpeded expression 
 fallen ripe into literature, and it is undividedly and 
 unimpededly received by those for whom it was ma 
 tured. 
 
THURSDAY 351 
 
 If you can speak what you will never hear, if you 
 can write what you will never read, you have done 
 rare things. 
 
 The work we choose should be our own 
 God lets alone. 
 
 The unconsciousness of man is the consciousness of 
 God. 
 
 Deep are the foundations of sincerity. Even stone 
 walls have their foundation below the frost. 
 
 What is produced by a free stroke charms us, like 
 the forms of lichens and leaves. There is a certain 
 perfection in accident which we never consciously at 
 tain. Draw a blunt quill filled with ink over a sheet of 
 paper, and fold the paper before the ink is dry, trans 
 versely to this line, and a delicately shaded and regular 
 figure will be produced, in some respects more pleasing 
 than an elaborate drawing. 
 
 The talent of composition is very dangerous, the 
 striking out the heart of life at a blow, as the Indian 
 takes off a scalp. I feel as if my life had grown more 
 outward when I can express it. 
 
 On his journey from Brenner to Verona, Goethe 
 writes : " The Tees flows now more gently, and makes 
 in many places broad sands. On the land, near to 
 the water, upon the hillsides, everything is so closely 
 planted one to another, that you think they must choke 
 one another, vineyards, maize, mulberry-trees, ap 
 ples, 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, 
 
352 A WEEK 
 
 the lizard glides through the intervals, and everything 
 that wanders to and fro reminds one of the loveliest 
 pictures of art. The women's tufts of hair bound up, 
 the men's bare breasts and light jackets, the excellent 
 oxen which they drive home from market, the little 
 asses with their loads, everything forms a living ani 
 mated 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 immedi 
 ately after sunset the chirping of crickets begins to 
 grow more loud; then one feels for once at home in 
 the world, and not as concealed or in exile. I am con 
 tented as though I had been born and brought up here, 
 and were now returning from a Greenland or whaling 
 voyage. Even the dust of my Fatherland, which is 
 often whirled about the wagon, and which for so long 
 a time I had not seen, is greeted. The clock-and-bell 
 jingling of the crickets is altogether lovely, penetrating, 
 and agreeable. It sounds bravely when roguish boys 
 whistle in emulation of a field of such songstresses. 
 One fancies that they really enhance one another. 
 Also the evening is perfectly mild as the day. 
 
 "If one who dwelt in the south, and came hither 
 from the south, should hear of my rapture hereupon, 
 he would deem me very childish. Alas! what I here 
 express I have long known while I suffered under an 
 unpropitious heaven, and now may I joyful feel this 
 joy as an exception, which we should enjoy everforth 
 as an eternal necessity of our nature. " 
 
 Thus we "sayled by thought and pleasaunce," as 
 

 THURSDAY 353 
 
 Chaucer says, and all things seemed with us to flow ; 
 the shore itself and the distant cliffs were dissolved by 
 the undiluted air. The hardest material seemed to obey 
 the same law with the most fluid, and so indeed in 
 the long run it does. Trees were but rivers of sap and 
 woody fibre, flowing from the atmosphere, and 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 universe is built round 
 about us, and we are central still. If we look into the 
 heavens they are concave, and if we were to look into 
 a gulf as bottomless, it would be concave also. The sky 
 is curved downward to the earth in the horizon, because 
 we stand on the plain. I draw down its skirts. The 
 stars so low there seem loath to depart, but by a cir 
 cuitous path to be remembering me, and returning on 
 their steps. 
 
 We had already passed by broad daylight the scene 
 of our encampment at Coos Falls, and at length we 
 pitched our camp on the west bank, in the northern 
 part of Merrimack, nearly opposite to the large island 
 on which we had spent the noon in our way up the river. 
 
 There we went to bed that summer evening, on a 
 sloping shelf in the bank, a couple of rods from our 
 boat, which was drawn up on the sand, and just behind 
 a thin fringe of oaks which bordered the river ; with- 
 
354 A WEEK 
 
 out having disturbed any inhabitants but the spiders in 
 the grass, which came out by the light of our lamp, and 
 crawled over our buffaloes. When we looked out from 
 under the tent, the trees were seen dimly through the 
 mist, and a cool dew hung upon the grass, which seemed 
 to rejoice in the night, and with the damp air we inhaled 
 a solid fragrance. Having eaten our supper of hot cocoa 
 and bread and watermelon, we soon grew weary of con 
 versing, and writing in our journals, and putting out 
 the lantern which hung from the tentpole, fell asleep. 
 
 Unfortunately, many things have been omitted which 
 should have been recorded in our journal ; for though 
 we made it a rule to set down all our experiences therein, 
 yet such a resolution is very hard to keep, for the im 
 portant experience rarely allows us to remember such 
 obligations, and so indifferent things get recorded, while 
 that is frequently neglected. It is not easy to write in a 
 journal what interests us at any time, because to write 
 it is not what interests us. 
 
 Whenever we awoke in the night, still eking out our 
 dreams with half-awakened thoughts, it was not till 
 after an interval, when the wind breathed harder than 
 usual, flapping the curtains of the tent, and causing its 
 cords to vibrate, that we remembered that we lay on 
 the bank of the Merrimack, and not in our chamber at 
 home. With our heads so low in the grass, we heard 
 the river whirling and sucking, and lapsing downward, 
 kissing the shore as it went, sometimes rippling louder 
 than usual, and again its mighty current making only 
 a slight limpid, trickling sound, as if our water-pail had 
 sprung a leak, and the water were flowing into the 
 
THURSDAY 355 
 
 grass by our side. The wind, rustling the oaks and 
 hazels, impressed us like a wakeful and inconsiderate 
 person up at midnight, moving about, and putting things 
 to rights, occasionally stirring up whole drawers full of 
 leaves at a puff. There seemed to be a great haste and 
 preparation throughout Nature, as for a distinguished 
 visitor ; all her aisles had to be swept in the night by 
 a thousand 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 stedf astnesse, 
 Ne ever shroncke, ne ever sought to bayt 
 His tryed armes for toylesome wearinesse; 
 But with -his oares did sweepe the watry wilderaesse. 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 Summer's robe grows 
 Dusky, and like an oft-dyed garment shows. DONNE. 
 
 As we lay awake long before daybreak, listening to 
 the rippling of the river and the rustling of the leaves, 
 in suspense whether the wind blew up or down the 
 stream, was favorable or unfavorable to our voyage, we 
 already suspected that there was a change in the weather, 
 from a freshness as of autumn in these sounds. The 
 wind in the woods sounded like an incessant waterfall 
 dashing and roaring amid rocks, and we even felt en 
 couraged by the unusual activity of the element. He 
 who hears the rippling of rivers in these degenerate 
 days will not utterly despair. That night was the turn 
 ing-point in the season. We had gone to bed in sum 
 mer, and we awoke in autumn ; for summer passes into 
 autumn in some unimaginable point of time, like the 
 x turning of a leaf. 
 
 We found our boat in the dawn just as we had left 
 it, and as if waiting for us, there on the shore, in au 
 tumn, 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 
 
FRIDAY 357 
 
 fog, and, leaping in, at one shove were out of sight of 
 the shores, and began to sweep downward with the 
 rushing river, keeping a sharp lookout for rocks. We 
 could see only the yellow gurgling water, and a solid 
 bank of fog on every side, forming a small yard around 
 us. We soon passed the mouth of the Souhegan, and 
 the village of Merrimack, and as the mist gradually 
 rolled away, and we were relieved from the trouble of 
 watching for rocks, we saw by the flitting clouds, by the 
 first russet tinge on the hills, by the rushing river, the 
 cottages on shore, and the shore itself, so coolly fresh 
 and shining with dew, and later in the day, by the hue 
 of the grape-vine, the goldfinch on the willow, the 
 flickers flying in flocks, and when we passed near 
 enough to the shore, as we fancied, by the faces of men, 
 that the fall had commenced. The cottages looked 
 more snug and comfortable, and their inhabitants were 
 seen only for a moment, and then went quietly in and 
 shut the door, retreating inward to the haunts of sum 
 mer. 
 
 "And now the cold autumnal dews are seen 
 
 To cobweb ev'ry green; 
 And by the low-shorn rowens doth appear 
 The fast-dechning year." 
 
 We heard the sigh of the first autumnal wind, and 
 even the water had acquired a grayer hue. The su 
 mach, 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 
 
358 A WEEK 
 
 maples, stripped of their leaves among the earliest, 
 would soon stand like a wreath of smoke along the edge 
 of the meadow. Already the cattle were heard to low 
 wildly in the pastures and along the highways, restlessly 
 running to and fro, as if in apprehension of the with 
 ering 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 plow-boy's let loose that day ; 
 and they lead my thoughts away to the rustling woods, 
 where the trees are preparing for their winter campaign. 
 This autumnal festival, when men are gathered in 
 crowds in the streets as regularly and by as natural a 
 law as the leaves cluster and rustle by the wayside, is 
 naturally associated in my mind with the fall of the 
 year. The low of cattle in the streets sounds like a 
 hoarse symphony or running bass to the rustling of the 
 leaves. The wind goes hurrying down the country, 
 gleaning every loose straw that is left in the fields, 
 while every farmer lad too appears to scud before it, 
 having donned his best pea-jacket and pepper-and-salt 
 waistcoat, his unbent trousers, outstanding rigging of 
 duck or kerseymere or corduroy, and his furry hat 
 withal, to country fairs and cattle-shows, to that 
 Rome among the villages where the treasures of the 
 year are gathered. All the land over they go leaping 
 the fences with their tough, idle palms, which have 
 
FRIDAY 359 
 
 never learned to hang by their sides, amid the low of 
 calves and the bleating of sheep, Amos, Abner, El- 
 nathan, Elbridge, 
 
 " From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain." 
 
 I love these sons of earth, every mother's son of them, 
 with their great hearty hearts rushing tumultuously in 
 herds from spectacle to spectacle, as if fearful lest there 
 should not be time between sun and sun to see them 
 all, and the sun does not wait more than in haying- 
 time. 
 
 "Wise Nature's darlings, they live in the world 
 Perplexing not themselves how it is hurled." 
 
 Running hither and thither with appetite for the coarse 
 pastimes of the day, now with boisterous speed at the 
 heels of the inspired negro from whose larynx the melo 
 dies of all Congo and Guinea Coast have broke loose 
 into our streets ; now to see the procession of a hun 
 dred 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 nowadays of the 
 ancient festivals, games, and processions of the Greeks 
 
360 A WEEK 
 
 and Etruscans with a little incredulity, or at least with 
 little sympathy; but how natural and irrepressible in 
 every people is some hearty and palpable greeting of 
 Nature! The Corybantes, the Bacchantes, the rude 
 primitive tragedians with their procession and goat-song, 
 and the whole paraphernalia of the 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 cus 
 tom still survives, while antiquarians and scholars grow 
 gray in commemorating it. The farmers crowd to the 
 fair to-day in obedience to the same ancient law, which 
 Solon or Lycurgus did not enact, as naturally as bees 
 swarm and follow their queen. 
 
 It is worth the while to see the country's people, how 
 they pour into the town, the sober farmer folk, now all 
 agog, their very shirt and coat collars pointing forward, 
 collars so broad as if they had put their shirts on 
 wrong end upward, for the fashions always tend to 
 superfluity, and with an unusual springiness in their 
 gait, jabbering earnestly to one another. The more 
 supple vagabond, too, is sure to appear on the least ru 
 mor of such a gathering, and the next day to disappear, 
 and go into his hole like the seventeen-year locust, in 
 an ever-shabby coat, though finer than the farmer 's 
 best, yet never dressed; come to see the sport, and 
 have a hand in what is going, to know " what 's the 
 row," if there is any; to be where some men are drunk, 
 some horses race, some cockerels fight; anxious to be 
 shaking props under a table and above all to see the 
 " striped pig." He especially is the creature of the oc- 
 
FRIDAY 361 
 
 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 circumstances, like the third chestnut 
 in the bur, 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 ma 
 terial of which so many men are made ! 
 
 The wind blew steadily down the stream, so that we 
 kept our sails set, and lost not a moment of the fore 
 noon by delays, but from early morning until noon 
 were continually dropping downward. With our hands 
 on the steering-paddle, which was thrust deep into the 
 river, or bending to the oar, which indeed we rarely 
 relinquished, we felt each palpitation in the veins of 
 our steed, and each impulse of the wings which drew 
 us above. The current of our thoughts made as sudden 
 bends as the river, which was continually opening new 
 prospects to the east or south, but we are aware that 
 rivers flow most rapidly and shallowest at these points. 
 
362 A WEEK 
 
 The steadfast shores never once turned aside for us, 
 but still trended as they were made; why then should 
 we always turn aside for them ? 
 
 A man cannot wheedle nor overawe his Genius. It 
 requires to be conciliated by nobler conduct than 
 the world demands or can appreciate. These winged 
 thoughts are like birds, and will not be handled; even 
 hens will not let you touch them like quadrupeds. 
 Nothing was ever so unfamiliar and startling to a 
 man as his own thoughts. 
 
 To the rarest genius it is the most expensive to suc 
 cumb 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 
 poijits of the wind, and extract a motive power out of 
 the greatest obstacles. Most begin to veer and tack as 
 soon as the wind changes from aft, and as within the 
 tropics it does not blow from all points of the compass, 
 there are some harbors which they can never reach. 
 
 The poet is no tender slip of fairy stock, who re 
 quires peculiar institutions and edicts for his defense, 
 but the toughest son of earth and of Heaven, and by 
 his greater strength and endurance his fainting com 
 panions will recognize the God in him. It is the wor 
 shipers 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 
 
FRIDAY 363 
 
 nail on the head, and we shall not know the shape of 
 his hammer. He makes us free of his hearth and heart, 
 which is greater than to offer one the freedom of a city. 
 
 Great men, unknown to their generation, have their 
 fame among the great who have preceded them, and 
 all true worldly fame subsides from their high estimate 
 beyond the stars. 
 
 Orpheus does not hear the strains which issue from 
 his lyre, but only those which are breathed into it; for 
 the original strain precedes the sound, by as much as 
 the echo follows after. The rest is the perquisite of the 
 rocks and trees and beasts. 
 
 When I stand in a library where is all the recorded 
 wit of the world, but none of the recording, a mere ac 
 cumulated, and not truly cumulative treasure; where 
 immortal works stand side by side with anthologies 
 which did not survive their month, and cobweb and 
 mildew have already spread from these to the binding 
 of those; and happily I am reminded of what poetry 
 is, I perceive that Shakespeare and Milton did not 
 foresee into what company they were to fall. Alas! 
 that so soon the work of a true poet should be swept 
 into such a dust-hole ! 
 
 The poet will write for his peers alone. He will re 
 member 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 communication from our home 
 and solitude addressed to all Intelligence. It never 
 
364 A WEEK 
 
 whispers in a private ear. Knowing this we may un 
 derstand those sonnets said to be addressed to particu 
 lar persons, or " To a Mistress's Eyebrow." Let none 
 feel flattered by them. For poetry write love, and it 
 will be equally true. 
 
 No doubt it is an important difference between 
 men of genius or poets, and men not of genius, 
 that the latter are unable to grasp and confront the 
 thought which visits them. But it is because it is too 
 faint for expression, or even conscious impression. 
 What merely quickens or 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 stimu 
 lated by an aura which never even colors the afternoons 
 of common men, then his talent is all gone, and he is 
 no longer a poet. The gods do not grant him any skill 
 more than another. They never put their gifts into his 
 hands, but they encompass and sustain him with their 
 breath. 
 
 To say that God has given a man many and great 
 talents frequently means that he has brought his hea 
 vens down within reach of his hands. 
 
 When the poetic frenzy seizes us, we run and scratch 
 with our pen, intent only on worms, calling our mates 
 
FRIDAY 365 
 
 around us, like the cock, and delighting in the dust we 
 make, but do not detect where the jewel lies, which, 
 perhaps, we have in the mean tune cast to a distance, 
 or quite covered up again. 
 
 The poet's body even is not fed like other men's, 
 but he sometimes tastes the genuine nectar and am 
 brosia 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 pol 
 ished 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 re 
 spect more than great verse, since it implies a more 
 permanent and level height, a life more pervaded with 
 the grandeur of the thought. The poet often only 
 makes an irruption, like a Parthian, and is off again, 
 shooting while he retreats; but the prose writer has 
 conquered like a Roman, and settled colonies. 
 
 The true poem is not that which the public read. 
 There is always a poem not printed on paper, coinci 
 dent with the production of this, stereotyped in the 
 poet 's life. It is what he has become through his work. 
 Not how is the idea expressed in stone, or on canvas 
 or paper, is the question, but how far it has obtained 
 form and expression in the life of the artist. His true "^ 
 work will not stand in any prince's gallery. 
 
 My life has been the poem I would have writ, 
 But I could not both live and utter it. 
 
366 A WEEK 
 
 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 north 
 ern climes than Greece, and more wintry seas than the 
 jEgean. 
 
 The genuine remains of Ossian, or those ancient 
 poems which bear his name, though of less fame and 
 extent, are, in many respects, of the same stamp with 
 the Iliad itself. He asserts the dignity of the bard no 
 less than Homer, and in his era, we hear of no other 
 priest than he. It will not avail to call him a heathen, 
 because he personifies the sun and addresses it; and 
 what if his heroes did " worship the ghosts of their 
 fathers," their thin, airy, and unsubstantial forms ? we 
 worship but the ghosts of our fathers in more substan 
 tial form. We cannot but respect the vigorous faith of 
 those heathen, who sternly believed somewhat, and are 
 inclined to say to the critics, who are offended by their 
 superstitious rites, Don't interrupt these men's prayers. 
 
FRIDAY 367 
 
 As if we knew more about human life and a God, than 
 the heathen and ancients ! Does English theology con 
 tain the recent discoveries ? 
 
 Ossian reminds us of the most refined and rudest 
 eras, of Homer, Pindar, Isaiah, and the American In 
 dian. In his poetry, as in Homer's, only the simplest 
 and most enduring features of humanity are seen, such 
 essential parts of a man as Stonehenge exhibits of a 
 temple; we see the circles of stone, and the upright 
 shaft alone. The phenomena of life acquire almost an 
 unreal and gigantic size seen through his mists. Like 
 all older and grander poetry, it is distinguished by the 
 few elements in the lives of its heroes. They stand on 
 the heath, between the stars and the earth, shrunk to 
 the bones and sinews. The earth is a boundless plain 
 for their deeds. They lead such a simple, dry, and 
 everlasting life, as hardly needs depart with the flesh, 
 but is transmitted entire from age to age. There are 
 but few objects to distract their sight, and their life is 
 as unincumbered as the course of the stars they gaze at. 
 
 "The wrathful kings, on cairns apart, . 
 Look forward from behind their shields, 
 And mark the wandering stars, 
 That brilliant westward move." 
 
 It does not cost much for these heroes to live ; they do 
 not want much furniture. They are such forms of men 
 only as can be seen afar through the mist, and have no 
 costume nor dialect, but for language there is the 
 tongue itself, and for costume there are always the skins 
 of beasts and the bark of trees to be had. They live 
 out their years by the vigor of their constitutions. They 
 
368 A WEEK 
 
 survive storms and the spears of their foes, and per 
 form 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 weap 
 ons which laid their enemies low, and when at length 
 they die, by a convulsion of nature, the bard allows us 
 a short and misty glance into futurity, yet as clear per 
 chance as their lives had been. When MacRoine was 
 slain, 
 
 "His soul departed to his warlike sires, 
 To follow misty forms of boars, 
 In tempestuous islands bleak." 
 
 The hero's cairn is erected, and the bard sings a brief 
 significant strain, which will suffice for epitaph and 
 biography. 
 
 "The weak will find his bow in the dwelling, 
 The feeble will attempt to bend it." 
 
 Compared with this simple, fibrous life, our civilized 
 history appears the chronicle of debility, of fashion, 
 and the arts of luxury. But the civilized man misses 
 no real refinement in the poetry of the rudest era. It 
 reminds him that civilization does but dress men. It 
 makes shoes, but it does not toughen the soles of the 
 feet. It makes cloth of finer texture, but it does not 
 touch the skin. Inside the civilized man stands the 
 savage still in the place of honor. We are those blue- 
 eyed, yellow-haired Saxons, those slender, dark-haired 
 Normans. 
 
FRIDAY 369 
 
 The profession of the bard attracted more respect 
 in those days from the importance attached to fame. 
 It was his province to record the deeds of heroes. 
 When Ossian hears the traditions of inferior bards, 
 he exclaims, 
 
 "I straightway seize the unfutile tales, 
 And send them down in faithful verse." 
 
 His philosophy of life is expressed in the opening of the 
 
 third Duan of Ca-Lodin. 
 
 * 
 
 "Whence have sprung the things that are? 
 And whither roll the passing years ? 
 Where does Time conceal its two heads, 
 In dense impenetrable gloom, 
 Its surface marked with heroes' deeds alone? 
 I view the generations gone; 
 The past appears but dim; 
 As objects by the moon's faint beams, 
 Reflected from a distant lake. 
 I see, indeed, the thunderbolts of war, 
 But there the unmighty joyless dwell, 
 All those who send not down their deeds 
 To far, succeeding times." 
 
 The ignoble warriors die and are forgotten : 
 
 "Strangers come to build a tower, 
 
 And throw their ashes overhand; 
 
 Some rusted swords appear in dust, 
 
 One, bending forward, says, 
 'The arms belonged to heroes gone; 
 
 We never heard their praise in song.' " 
 
 The grandeur of the similes is another feature which 
 characterizes great poetry. Ossian seems to speak a 
 gigantic and universal language. The images and pic 
 tures occupy even much space in the landscape, as if 
 
370 A WEEK 
 
 they could be seen only from the sides of mountains, 
 and plains with a wide horizon, or across arms of the 
 sea. The machinery is so massive that it cannot be less 
 than natural. Oivana says to the spirit of her father, 
 " Gray-haired Torkil of Torne," seen in the skies, 
 
 "Thou glidest away like receding ships." 
 
 So when the hosts of Fingal and Starne approach to 
 battle, - 
 
 "With murmurs loud, like rivers far, 
 The race of Tome 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. Ven 
 geance 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 
 
FRIDAY 
 
 371 
 
 heroes. Their joy and their sorrow are made of one 
 stuff, like rain and snow, the rainbow and the mist. 
 When Fillan was worsted in fight, and ashamed in the 
 presence of Fingal, 
 
 "He strode away forthwith, 
 And bent in grief above a stream, 
 His cheeks bedewed with tears, 
 From time to time the thistles gray 
 He lopped with his inverted lance." 
 
 Crodar, blind and old, receives Ossian, son of Fingal, 
 who comes to aid him in war : 
 
 "'My eyes have failed,' says he, 'Crodar is blind, 
 Is thy strength like that of thy fathers? 
 Stretch, Ossian, thine arm to the hoary-haired.' 
 
 I gave my arm to the king. 
 The aged hero seized my hand; 
 He heaved a heavy sigh; 
 Tears flowed incessant down his cheek. 
 ' Strong art thou, son of the mighty, 
 Though not so dreadful as Morven's prince. 
 
 Let my feast be spread in the hall, 
 Let every sweet-voiced minstrel sing; 
 Great is he who is within my walls, 
 Sons of wave-echoing Croma.' " 
 
 Even Ossian himself, the hero-bard, pays tribute to the 
 superior strength of his father Fingal. 
 
 "How beauteous, mighty man, was thy mind, 
 Why succeeded Ossian without its strength?" 
 
 While we sailed fleetly before the wind, with the 
 river gurgling under our stern, the thoughts of autumn 
 
372 A WEEK 
 
 coursed as steadily through our minds, and we ob 
 served less what was passing on the shore than the 
 dateless associations and impressions which the season 
 awakened, anticipating in some measure the progress 
 of the year. 
 
 I hearing get, who had but ears, 
 
 And sight, who had but eyes before, 
 I moments live, who lived but years, 
 
 And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore. 
 
 Sitting with our faces now up-stream, we studied the 
 landscape by degrees, as one unrolls a map, rock, 
 tree, house, hill, and meadow assuming new and vary 
 ing positions as wind and water shifted the scene, and 
 there was variety enough for our entertainment in the 
 metamorphoses of the simplest objects. Viewed from 
 this side the scenery appeared new to us. 
 
 The most familiar sheet of water, viewed from a 
 new hilltop, yields a novel and unexpected pleasure. 
 When we have traveled a few miles, we do not recog 
 nize the profiles even of the hills which overlook our 
 native village, and perhaps no man is quite familiar 
 with the horizon as seen from the hill nearest to his 
 house, and can recall its outline distinctly when in the 
 valley. We do not commonly know, beyond a short 
 distance, which way the hills range which take in our 
 houses and farms in their sweep. As if our birth had 
 at first sundered things, and we had been thrust up 
 through into nature like a wedge, and not till the 
 wound heals and the scar disappears do we begin to 
 discover where we are, and that nature is one and con 
 tinuous everywhere. It is an important epoch when a 
 

 On the Banks of the Merrimac 
 
tkripating in 
 
 
 had b 
 
 . 
 
 m, we studied tiie 
 
 
 
 
 verloo 
 
 
 
 
 ;in to 
 
 i 
 

FRIDAY 373 
 
 man who has always lived on the east side of a moun 
 tain, and seen it in the west, travels round and sees it 
 in the east. Yet the universe is a sphere whose centre 
 is wherever there is intelligence. The sun is not so 
 central as a man. Upon an isolated hilltop, in an open 
 country, we seem to ourselves to be standing on the 
 boss of an immense shield, the immediate landscape 
 being apparently depressed below the more remote, 
 and rising gradually to the horizon, which is the rim 
 of the shield, villas, steeples, forests, mountains, one 
 above another, till they are swallowed up in the heav 
 ens. The most distant mountains in the horizon ap 
 pear 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 plowing and reaping, had a beauty to our 
 eyes which he never saw. How fortunate were we who 
 did not own an acre of these shores, who had not re 
 nounced our title to the whole ! One who knew how to 
 appropriate the true value of this world would be the 
 poorest man in it. The poor rich man! all he has is 
 what he has bought. What I see is mine. I am a 
 large owner in the Merrimack intervals. 
 
 Men dig and dive but cannot my wealth spend, 
 
 Who yet no partial store appropriate, 
 Who no armed ship into the Indies send, 
 
 To rob me of my orient estate. 
 
 He is the rich man, and enjoys the fruits of riches, 
 who summer and winter forever can find delight in his 
 
374 A WEEK 
 
 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 pleas 
 ant tract on the bank of the Concord, called Conantum, 
 which I have in my mind, the old deserted farmhouse, 
 the desolate pasture with its bleak cliff, the open wood, 
 the river-reach, the green meadow in the midst , and 
 the moss-grown wild-apple orchard, places where one 
 may have many thoughts and not decide anything. It 
 is a scene which I can not only remember, as I might 
 a vision, but when I will can bodily revisit, and find it 
 even so, unaccountable, yet unpretending in its pleasant 
 dreariness. When my thoughts are sensible of change, 
 I love to see and sit on rocks which I have known, and 
 pry into their moss, and see unchangeableness so estab 
 lished. I not yet gray on rocks forever gray, I no longer 
 green under the evergreens. There is something even 
 in the lapse of time by which time recovers itself. 
 
 As we have said, it proved a cool as well as breezy 
 day, and by the time we reached Penichook Brook 
 we were obliged to sit muffled in our cloaks, while 
 the wind and current carried us along. We bounded 
 swiftly over the rippling surface, far by many cultivated 
 lands and the ends of fences which divided innumerable 
 farms, with hardly a thought for the various lives which 
 they separated; now by long rows of alders or groves 
 of pines or oaks, and now by some homestead where 
 the women and children stood outside to gaze at us, 
 
FRIDAY 375 
 
 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 bates that still allure, 
 And dragon-fly 
 That floated by, 
 May they still endure ? 
 
 The shadows chased one another swiftly over wood 
 and meadow, and their alternation harmonized with our 
 mood. We could distinguish the clouds which cast each 
 one, though never so high in the heavens. When a shadow 
 flits across the landscape of the soul where is the sub 
 stance ? Probably, if we were wise enough, we should 
 see to what virtue we are indebted for any happier mo 
 ment we enjoy. No doubt we have earned it at some 
 tune, for the gifts of Heaven are never quite gratui 
 tous. 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, deter 
 mines the character of our second growth, whether that 
 be oaks or pines. Every man casts a shadow; not his 
 body only, but his imperfectly mingled spirit. This is 
 
376 A WEEK 
 
 his grief. Let him turn which way he will, it falls op 
 posite 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 capacity. 
 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 of the moon eclipsed. 
 There is no ill which may not be dissipated, like the 
 dark, if you let in a stronger light upon it. Shadows, 
 referred to the source of light, are pyramids whose 
 bases are never greater than those of the substances 
 which cast them, but light is a spherical congeries of 
 pyramids, whose very apexes are the sun itself, and 
 hence the system shines with uninterrupted light. But 
 if the light we use is but a paltry and narrow taper, 
 most objects will cast a shadow wider than them 
 selves. 
 
 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' voy 
 aging 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. 
 
FRIDAY 377 
 
 "And what's a life? The flourishing array 
 Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day 
 Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay." 
 
 The air was really the " fine element " which the poets 
 describe. It had a finer and sharper grain, seen against 
 the russet pastures and meadows, than before, as if 
 cleansed of the summer's impurities. 
 
 Having passed the New Hampshire line and reached 
 the Horseshoe Interval in Tyngsborough, where there 
 is a high and regular second bank, we climbed up this 
 in haste to get a nearer sight of the autumnal flowers, 
 asters, goldenrod, and yarrow, and blue-curls (Tricho- 
 stema 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 ap 
 pearance for the rest of the landscape, like a pink rib 
 bon on the bonnet of a Puritan woman. Asters and 
 goldenrods were the livery which nature wore at pre 
 sent. 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 mid 
 summer, when the particles of golden light, the sun- 
 dust, have, as it were, fallen like seeds on the earth, 
 and produced these blossoms. On every hillside, and 
 in every valley, stood countless asters, coreopses, tansies, 
 goldenrods, and the whole race of yellow flowers, like 
 Brahminical devotees, turning steadily with their lumi 
 nary from morning till night. 
 
378 A WEEK 
 
 "I see the goldenrod shine bright, 
 
 As sun-showers at the birth of day, 
 A golden plume of yellow light, 
 That robs the Day-god's splendid ray. 
 
 "The aster's violet rays divide 
 
 The bank with many stars for me, 
 And yarrow in blanch tints is dyed, 
 As moonlight floats across the sea. 
 
 "I see the emerald woods prepare 
 
 To shed their vestiture once more, 
 And distant elm-trees spot the air 
 With yellow pictures softly o'er. 
 
 "No more the water-lily's pride 
 
 In milk-white circles swims content, 
 No more the blue-weed's clusters ride 
 And mock the heavens' element. 
 
 "Autumn, thy wreath and mine are blent 
 
 With the same colors, for to me 
 A richer sky than all is lent, 
 
 While fades my dream-like company. 
 
 "Our skies glow purple, but the wind 
 
 Sobs chill through green trees and bright grass, 
 To-day shines fair, and lurk behind 
 The times that into winter pass. 
 
 "So fair we seem, so cold we are, 
 
 So fast we hasten to decay, 
 Yet through our night glows many a star, 
 That still shall claim its sunny day." 
 
 So sang a Concord poet once. 
 
 There is a peculiar interest belonging to the still 
 later flowers, which abide with us the approach of 
 
FRIDAY 379 
 
 winter. There is something witchlike in the appear 
 ance of the witch-hazel, which blossoms late in Octo 
 ber 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 for 
 merly sweetened the atmosphere, and rendered it salu 
 brious, by the grazing of cattle and the rooting of 
 swine, is the source of many diseases which now pre 
 vail ; the earth, say they, having been long subjected 
 to extremely artificial and luxurious modes of cultiva 
 tion, to gratify the appetite, converted into a stye and 
 hotbed, where men for profit increase the ordinary 
 decay of nature. 
 
 According to the record of an old inhabitant of 
 Tyngsborough, now dead, whose farm we were now 
 gliding past, one of the greatest freshets on this river 
 took place in October, 1785, and its height was marked 
 by a nail driven into an apple tree behind his house. 
 One of his descendants has shown this to me, and I 
 judged it to be at least seventeen or eighteen feet above 
 the level of the river at the time. According to Barber, 
 
380 A WEEK 
 
 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 meanwhile 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 disre 
 garded this statement, and I learn that there has since 
 been a freshet which rose within nine inches of the 
 rails at Biscuit Brook, and such a freshet as that of 
 1785 would have covered the railroad two feet deep. 
 
 The revolutions of nature tell as fine tales, and 
 make as interesting revelations, on this river's banks, as 
 on the Euphrates or the Nile. This apple tree, which 
 stands within a few rods of the river, is called " Elisha's 
 apple tree," from a friendly Indian who was anciently 
 in the service of Jonathan Tyng, and, with one other 
 man, was killed here by his own race in one of the Indian 
 wars, the particulars of which affair were told us on 
 the spot. He was buried close by, no one knew exactly 
 where, but in the flood of 1785, so great a weight of 
 water standing over the grave caused the earth to set 
 tle where it had once been disturbed, and when the 
 
FRIDAY 381 
 
 flood went down, a sunken spot, exactly of the form 
 and size of the grave, revealed its locality ; but this was 
 now lost again, and no future flood can detect it ; 
 yet, no doubt, nature will know how to point it out 
 in due time, if it be necessary, by methods yet more 
 searching and unexpected. Thus there is not only the 
 crisis when the spirit ceases to inspire and expand the 
 body, marked by a fresh mound in the churchyard, 
 but there is also a crisis when the body ceases to take 
 up room as such in nature, marked by a fainter de 
 pression in the earth. 
 
 We sat awhile to rest us here upon the brink of the 
 western bank, surrounded by the glossy leaves of the 
 red variety of the mountain laurel, just above the head 
 of Wicasuck Island, where we could observe some 
 scows which were loading with clay from the opposite 
 shore, and also overlook the grounds of the farmer, of 
 whom I have spoken, who once hospitably entertained 
 us for a night. He had on his pleasant farm, besides 
 an abundance of the beach plum, or Prunus littomlis, 
 which grew wild, the Canada plum under cultivation, 
 fine Porter apples, some peaches and large patches of 
 musk and water melons, which he cultivated for the 
 Lowell market. Elisha's apple tree, too, bore a native 
 fruit, which was prized by the family ; he raised the 
 blood peach, which, as he showed us with satisfaction, 
 was more like the oak in the color of its bark and in 
 the setting of its branches, and was less liable to break 
 down under the weight of the fruit, or the snow, than 
 other varieties. It was of slower growth, and its 
 branches strong and tough. There, also, was his nurs- 
 
382 A WEEK 
 
 ery of native apple trees, thickly set upon the bank, 
 which cost but little care, and which he sold to the 
 neighboring farmers when they were five or six years 
 old. To see a single peach upon its stem makes an 
 impression of paradisaical fertility and luxury. This 
 reminded us even of an old Roman farm, as de 
 scribed by Varro : " Caesar Vopiscus ^Edilicius, when 
 he pleaded before the Censors, said that the grounds 
 of Rosea were the garden (sumen, the tidbit) 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 plea 
 sure boat containing a youth and a maiden on the 
 island brook, which we were pleased to see, since it 
 proved that there were some hereabouts to whom our 
 excursion would not be wholly strange. Before this, a 
 canal-boatman, of whom we made some inquiries re 
 specting Wicasuck Island, and who told us that it was 
 disputed property, suspected that we had a claim upon 
 it, and though we assured him that all this was news 
 to us, and explained, as well as we could, why we had 
 come to see it, he believed not a word of it, and seri 
 ously offered us one hundred dollars for our title. The 
 only other small boats which we met with were used 
 to pick up driftwood. Some of the poorer class along 
 the stream collect, in this way, all the fuel which they 
 require. While one of us landed not far from this island 
 to forage for provisions among the farmhouses whose 
 
FRIDAY 383 
 
 roofs we saw, for our supply was now exhausted, 
 the other, sitting in the boat, which was moored to the 
 shore, was left alone to his reflections. 
 
 If there is nothing new on the earth, still the traveler 
 always has a resource in the skies. They are con 
 stantly turning a new page to view. The wind sets the 
 types on this blue ground, and the inquiring may al 
 ways read a new truth there. There are things there 
 written with such fine and subtle 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 sun 
 set, and we can make no highway or beaten track into 
 it, but the grass immediately springs up in the path, 
 for we travel there chiefly with our wings. 
 
 Sometimes we see objects as through a thin haze, in 
 their eternal relations, and they stand like Palenque 
 and the Pyramids, and we wonder who set them up, 
 and for what purpose. If we see the reality in things, 
 of what moment is the superficial and apparent longer ? 
 What are the earth and all its interests beside the deep 
 surmise which pierces and scatters them ? While I sit 
 here listening to the waves which ripple and break on 
 this shore, I am absolved from all obligation to the 
 past, and the council of nations may reconsider its votes. 
 The grating of a pebble annuls them. Still occasion 
 ally in my dreams I remember that rippling water. 
 
384 A WEEK 
 
 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 Tyngs- 
 borough and Chelmsford, each holding in one hand 
 half of a tart country apple pie which we had pur 
 chased 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 smack 
 ing 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 flow 
 ing sail, the running stream, the waving tree, the rov 
 ing 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 impa 
 tient when least effective; now bending to some gen 
 erous impulse of the breeze, and then fluttering and 
 flapping with a kind of human suspense. It was the 
 
FRIDAY 385 
 
 scale on which the varying temperature of distant 
 atmospheres was graduated, and it was some attrac 
 tion 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 plowing homeward with our brisk 
 and willing team, wind and stream, pulling together, 
 the former yet a wild steer, yoked to his more sedate 
 fellow. It was very near flying, as when the duck 
 rushes through the water with an impulse of her 
 wings, throwing the spray about her before she can 
 rise. How we had stuck fast if drawn up but a few 
 feet on the shore! 
 
 When we reached the great bend just above Middle 
 sex, 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 reli 
 gion was. It is so rare to meet with a man outdoors 
 who cherishes a worthy thought in his mind, which is 
 independent of the labor of his hands. Behind every 
 man's busy-ness there should be a level of undisturbed 
 serenity and industry, as within the reef encircling a 
 
386 A WEEK 
 
 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 abso 
 lute 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 Ao'yos rov Ipyov ai/ev v\rj<s, The 
 principle of the work without the wood ; but most men 
 prefer to have some of the wood along with the prin 
 ciple; 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 mathemat 
 ics, but very little of it has yet been sung. The an 
 cients had a juster notion of their poetic value than we. 
 The most distinct and beautiful statement of any truth 
 must take at last the mathematical form. We might so 
 simplify the rules of moral philosophy, as well as of 
 arithmetic, that one formula would express them both. 
 All the moral laws are readily translated into natural 
 philosophy, for often we have only to restore the primi 
 tive meaning of the words by which they are expressed, 
 or to attend to their literal instead of their metaphori 
 cal sense. They are already supernatural philosophy. 
 The whole body of what is now called moral or ethical 
 truth existed in the golden age as abstract science. Or, 
 
FRIDAY 387 
 
 if we prefer, we may say that the laws of Nature are 
 the purest morality. The Tree of Knowledge is a Tree 
 of Knowledge of good and evil. He is not a true man 
 of science who does not bring some sympathy to his 
 studies, and expect to learn something by behavior as 
 well as by application. It is childish to rest in the dis 
 covery of mere coincidences, or of partial and extra 
 neous 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 bio 
 graphical. Nothing will dignify and elevate science 
 while it is sundered so wholly from the moral life of 
 its devotee, and he professes another religion than it 
 teaches, and worships at a foreign shrine. Anciently 
 the faith of a philosopher was identical with his system, 
 or, in other words, his view of the universe. 
 
 My friends mistake when they communicate facts to 
 me with so much pains. Their presence, even their 
 exaggerations and loose statements, are equally good 
 facts for me. I have no respect for facts even except 
 when I would use them, and for the most part I am 
 independent of those which I hear, and can afford to 
 be inaccurate, or, in other words, to substitute more 
 present and pressing facts in their place. 
 
 The poet uses the results of science and philosophy, 
 and generalizes their widest deductions. 
 
 The process of discovery is very simple. An un 
 wearied and systematic application of known laws to 
 
388 A WEEK 
 
 nature causes the unknown to reveal themselves. Al 
 most any mode of observation will be successful at last, 
 for what is most wanted is method. Only let something 
 be determined and fixed around which observation may 
 rally. How many new relations a foot-rule alone will 
 reveal, and to how many things still this has not been 
 applied! What wonderful discoveries have been and 
 may still be made with a plumb-line, a level, a survey 
 or's compass, a thermometer, or a barometer! Where 
 there is an observatory and a telescope, we expect that 
 any eyes will see new worlds at once. I should say 
 that the most prominent scientific men of our country, 
 and perhaps of this age, are either serving the arts and 
 not pure science, or are performing faithful but quite 
 subordinate labors in particular departments. They 
 make no steady and systematic approaches to the cen 
 tral fact. A discovery is made, and at once the atten 
 tion of all observers is distracted to that, and it draws 
 many analogous discoveries in its train; as if their 
 work were not already laid out for them, but they had 
 been lying on their oars. There is wanting constant 
 and accurate observation with enough of theory to 
 direct and discipline it. 
 
 But, above all, there is wanting genius. Our books 
 of science, as they improve in accuracy, are in danger 
 of losing the freshness and vigor and readiness to ap 
 preciate the real laws of Nature, which is a marked 
 merit in the ofttimes false theories of the ancients. I 
 am attracted by the slight pride and satisfaction, the 
 emphatic and even exaggerated style, in which some of 
 the older naturalists speak of the operations of Na- 
 
FRIDAY 389 
 
 ture, though they are better qualified to appreciate 
 than to discriminate the facts. Their assertions are not 
 without value when disproved. If they are not facts, 
 they are suggestions for nature herself to act upon. 
 " The Greeks," says Gesner, "had a common proverb 
 (Aayos /ca&vSov), a sleeping hare, for a dissembler or 
 counterfeit; because the hare sees when she sleeps; for 
 this is an admirable and rare work of Nature, that all 
 the residue of her bodily parts take their rest, but the 
 eye standeth continually sentinel/' 
 
 Observation is so wide awake, and facts are being 
 so rapidly added to the sum of human experience, that 
 it appears as if the theorizer would always be in ar 
 rears, 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 sav 
 age will furnish him with facts enough to set him up as 
 a philosopher. The ancients can still speak to us with 
 authority, even on the themes of geology and chem 
 istry, though these studies are thought to have had 
 their birth in modern times. Much is said about the 
 progress of science in these centuries. I should say 
 that the useful results of science had accumulated, but 
 that there had been no accumulation of knowledge, 
 strictly speaking, for posterity; for knowledge is to be ac 
 quired only by a corresponding experience. How can we 
 know what we are told merely ? Each man can interpret 
 another's experience only by his own. We read that 
 Newton discovered the law of gravitation, but how 
 many who have heard of his famous discovery have 
 
390 A WEEK 
 
 recognized the same truth that he did ? It may be not 
 one. The revelation which was then made to him has 
 not been superseded by the revelation made to any 
 successor. 
 
 We see the planet fall, 
 
 And that is all. 
 
 In a review of Sir James Clark Ross's " Antarctic 
 Voyage of Discovery," there is a passage which shows 
 how far a body of men are commonly impressed by an 
 object of sublimity, and which is also a good instance 
 of the step from the sublime to the ridiculous. After 
 describing the discovery of the Antarctic Continent, at 
 first seen a hundred miles distant over fields of ice, 
 stupendous ranges of mountains from seven and eight 
 to twelve and fourteen thousand feet high, covered 
 with eternal snow and ice, in solitary and inaccessible 
 grandeur, at one time the weather being beautifully 
 clear, and the sun shining on the icy landscape; a con 
 tinent whose islands only are accessible, and these ex 
 hibited " not the smallest trace of vegetation," only in 
 a few places the rocks protruding through their icy 
 covering, to convince the beholder that land formed 
 the nucleus, and that it was not an iceberg, the 
 practical British reviewer proceeds thus, sticking to his 
 last: " On the 22d of January, afternoon, the Expedi 
 tion made the latitude of 74 20', and by 7 h p. M., hav 
 ing ground [ground ! where did they get ground ?] to 
 believe that they were then in a higher southern lati 
 tude than had been attained by that enterprising sea 
 man, the late Captain James Weddel, and therefore 
 higher than all their predecessors, an extra allowance 
 
FRIDAY 391 
 
 of grog was issued to the crews as a reward for their 
 perseverance." 
 
 Let not us sailors of late centuries take upon our 
 selves any airs on account of our Newtons and our 
 Cuviers ; we deserve an extra allowance of grog only. 
 
 We endeavored in vain to persuade the wind to blow 
 through the long corridor of the canal, which is here 
 cut straight through the woods, and were obliged to 
 resort to our old expedient of drawing by a cord. 
 When we reached the Concord, we were forced to row 
 once more in good earnest, with neither wind nor cur 
 rent in our favor, but by this time the rawness of the 
 day had disappeared, and we experienced the warmth 
 of a summer afternoon. This change in the weather 
 was favorable to our contemplative mood, and disposed 
 us to dream yet deeper at our oars, while we floated 
 in imagination farther down the stream of time, as we 
 had floated down the stream of the Merrimack, to 
 poets of a milder period than had engaged us in the 
 morning. Chelmsford and Billerica appeared like old 
 English towns, compared with Merrimack and Nashua, 
 and many generations of civil poets might have lived 
 and sung here. 
 
 What a contrast between the stern and desolate 
 poetry of Ossian, and that of Chaucer, and even of 
 Shakespeare and Milton, much more of Dryden, and 
 Pope, and Gray! Our summer of English poetry, like 
 the Greek and Latin before it, seems well advanced 
 towards its fall, and laden with the fruit and foliage 
 
392 A WEEK 
 
 of the season, with bright autumnal tints, but soon the 
 winter will scatter its myriad clustering and shading 
 leaves, and leave only a few desolate and fibrous 
 boughs to sustain the snow and rime, and creak in the 
 blasts of age. We cannot escape the impression that 
 the Muse has stooped a little in her flight, when we 
 come to the literature of civilized eras. Now first we 
 hear of various ages and styles of poetry; it is pastoral, 
 and lyric, and narrative, and didactic; but the poetry 
 of runic monuments is of one style, and for every age. 
 The bard has in a great measure lost the dignity and 
 sacredness of his office. Formerly he was called a seer, 
 but now it is thought that one man sees as much as 
 another. He has no longer the bardic rage, and only 
 conceives the deed, which he formerly stood ready to 
 perform. Hosts of warriors earnest for battle could not 
 mistake nor dispense with the ancient bard. His lays 
 were heard in the pauses of the fight. There was no 
 danger of his being overlooked by his contemporaries. 
 But now the hero and the bard are of different profes 
 sions. 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 fire 
 side, the hut of the Gael, and Stonehenge, with its 
 circles of stones, for the house of the Englishman. No 
 hero stands at the door prepared to break forth into 
 song or heroic action, but a homely Englishman, who 
 cultivates the art of poetry. We see the comfortable 
 fireside, and hear the crackling fagots, in all the verse. 
 Notwithstanding the broad humanity of Chaucer, 
 
FRIDAY 393 
 
 and the many social and domestic comforts which we 
 meet with in his verse, we have to narrow our vision 
 somewhat to consider him, as if he occupied less space 
 in the landscape, and did not stretch over hill and val 
 ley as Ossian does. Yet, seen from the side of poster 
 ity, as the father of English poetry, preceded by a long 
 silence or confusion in history, unenlivened by any 
 strain of pure melody, we easily come to reverence 
 him. Passing over the earlier Continental poets, since 
 we are bound to the pleasant archipelago of English 
 poetry, Chaucer's is the first name after that misty 
 weather in which Ossian lived, which can detain us 
 long. Indeed, though he represents so different a cul 
 ture and society, he may be regarded as in many re 
 spects 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 
 cheerful, compared with later poets, that we might al 
 most regard him as a personification of spring. To the 
 faithful reader his muse has even given an aspect to 
 his times, and when he is fresh from perusing him, 
 they seem related to the golden age. It is still the 
 poetry of youth and life, rather than of thought; and 
 though the moral vein is obvious and constant, it has 
 not yet banished the sun and daylight from his verse. 
 The loftiest strains of the Muse are, for the most part, 
 sublimely plaintive, and not a carol as free as Nature's. 
 The content which the sun shines to celebrate from 
 morning to evening is unsung. The Muse solaces her 
 self, and is not ravished but consoled. There is a ca- 
 
394 A WEEK 
 
 tastrophe implied, and a tragic element in all our verse, 
 and less of the lark and morning dews, than of the 
 nightingale and evening shades. But in Homer and 
 Chaucer there is more of the innocence and serenity of 
 youth than in the more modern and moral poets. The 
 Iliad is not Sabbath but morning reading, and men 
 cling to this old song, because they still have moments 
 of unbaptized and uncommitted life, which give them 
 an appetite for more. To the innocent there are 
 neither cherubim nor angels. At rare intervals we rise 
 above the necessity of virtue into an unchangeable 
 morning light, in which we have only to live right on 
 and breathe the ambrosial air. The Iliad represents 
 no creed nor opinion, and we read it with a rare sense 
 of freedom and irresponsibility, as if we trod on native 
 ground, and were autochthones of the soil. 
 
 Chaucer had eminently the habits of a literary man 
 and a scholar. There were never any times so stirring 
 that there were not to be found some sedentary still. 
 He was surrounded by the din of arms. The battles of 
 Hallidon Hill and Neville's Cross, and the still more 
 memorable battles of Cressy and Poictiers, were fought 
 in his youth; but these did not concern our poet much, 
 Wickliffe and his reform much more. He regarded 
 himself always as one privileged to sit and converse 
 with books. He helped to establish the literary class. 
 His character as one of the fathers of the English lan 
 guage would alone make his works important, even 
 those which have little poetical merit. He was as simple 
 as Wordsworth in preferring his homely but vigorous 
 Saxon tongue, when it was neglected by the court, and 
 
FRIDAY 395 
 
 had not yet attained to the dignity of a literature, and 
 rendered a similar service to his country to that which 
 Dante rendered to Italy. If Greek sufficeth for Greek, 
 and Arabic for Arabian, and Hebrew for Jew, and 
 Latin for Latin, then English shall suffice for him, for 
 any of these will serve to teach truth " right as divers 
 pathes leaden divers folke the right waye to Rome." In 
 the Testament of Love he writes, " Let then clerkes 
 enditen in Latin, for they have the propertie of science, 
 and the knowinge in that facultie, and lette Frenchmen 
 in their Frenche also enditen their queinte termes, for it 
 is kyndely to their mouthes, and let us she we our fan 
 tasies in soche wordes as we lemeden of our dames 
 tonge." 
 
 He will know how to appreciate Chaucer best who 
 has come down to him the natural way, through the 
 meagre pastures of Saxon and ante-Chaucerian poetry; 
 and yet, so human and wise he appears after such diet, 
 that we are liable to misjudge him still. In the Saxon 
 poetry extant, in the earliest English, and the contem 
 porary Scottish poetry, there is less to remind the 
 reader of the rudeness and vigor of youth than of the 
 feebleness of a declining age. It is for the most part 
 translation of imitation merely, with only an occasional 
 and slight tinge of poetry, oftentimes the falsehood and 
 exaggeration of fable, without its imagination to redeem 
 it, and we look in vain to find antiquity restored, hu 
 manized, and made blithe again by some natural sym 
 pathy between it and the present. But Chaucer is fresh 
 and modern still, and no dust settles on his true pas 
 sages. It lightens along the line, and we are reminded 
 
396 A WEEK 
 
 that flowers have bloomed, and birds sung, and hearts 
 beaten in England. Before the earnest gaze of the 
 reader, the rust and moss of time gradually drop off, 
 and the original green life is revealed. He was a 
 homely and domestic man, and did breathe quite as 
 modern men do. 
 
 There is no wisdom that can take place of humanity, 
 and we find that in Chaucer. We can expand at last in 
 his breadth, and we think that we could have been that 
 man's acquaintance. He was worthy to be a citizen of 
 England, while Petrarch and 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 contem 
 poraries; all stout and stirring names. The fame of 
 Roger Bacon came down from the preceding century, 
 and the name of Dante still possessed the influence of 
 a living presence. On the whole, Chaucer impresses 
 us as greater than his reputation, and not a little like 
 Homer and Shakespeare, for he would have held up his 
 head in their company. Among early English poets he 
 is the landlord and host, and has the authority of such. 
 The affectionate mention which succeeding early poets 
 make of him, coupling him with Homer and Virgil, is 
 to be taken into the account in estimating his character 
 and influence. King James and Dunbar of Scotland 
 speak of him with more love and reverence than any 
 modern author of his predecessors of the last century. 
 The same childlike relation is without a parallel now. 
 For the most part we read him without criticism, for he 
 
 
FRIDAY 397 
 
 does not plead his own cause, but speaks for his readers, 
 and has that greatness of trust and reliance which com 
 pels popularity. He confides in the reader, and speaks 
 privily with him, keeping nothing back. And in return 
 the reader has great confidence in him, that he tells no 
 lies, and reads his story with indulgence, as if it were 
 the circumlocution of a child, but often discovers after 
 wards that he has spoken with more directness and 
 economy of words than a sage. He is never heartless, 
 
 "For first the thing is thought within the hart, 
 Er any word out from the mouth astart." 
 
 And so new was all his theme in those days, that he did 
 not have to invent, but only to tell. 
 
 We admire Chaucer for his sturdy English wit. The 
 easy height he speaks from in his Prologue to the 
 Canterbury Tales, as if he were' equal to any of the 
 company there assembled, is as good as any particular 
 excellence in it. But though it is full of good sense and 
 humanity, it is not transcendent poetry. For pictur 
 esque description of persons it is, perhaps, without a 
 parallel in English poetry; yet it is essentially humor 
 ous, as the loftiest genius never is. Humor, however 
 broad and genial, takes a narrower view than enthu 
 siasm. To his own finer vein he added all the common 
 wit and wisdom of his time, and everywhere in his 
 works his remarkable knowledge of the world and nice 
 perception of character, his rare common sense and 
 proverbial wisdom, are apparent. His genius does not 
 soar like Milton's, but is genial and familiar. It shows 
 great tenderness and delicacy, but not the heroic senti 
 ment. It is only a greater portion of humanity with all 
 
398 A WEEK 
 
 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 con 
 sists often only in an exceeding naturalness, perfect sin 
 cerity, with the behavior of a child rather than of a man. 
 
 Gentleness and delicacy of character are everywhere 
 apparent in his verse. The simplest and humblest words 
 come readily to his lips. No one can read the Prioress's 
 tale, understanding the spirit in which it was written, 
 and in which the child sings alma redemptoris mater, or 
 the account of the departure of Constance with her 
 child upon the sea, in the Man of Lawe's tale, without 
 feeling the native innocence and refinement of the author. 
 Nor can we be mistaken respecting the essential purity 
 of his character, disregarding the apology of the man 
 ners of the age. A simple pathos and feminine gentle 
 ness, which Wordsworth only occasionally approaches, 
 but does not equal, are peculiar to him. W T e are tempted 
 to say that his genius was feminine, not masculine. It 
 was such a feminineness, however, as is rarest to find 
 in woman, though not the appreciation of it ; perhaps 
 it is not to be found at all in woman, but is only the 
 feminine in man. 
 
 Such pure and genuine and childlike love of Nature 
 is hardly to be found in any poet. 
 
 Chaucer's remarkably trustful and affectionate char 
 acter appears in his familiar, yet innocent and reverent, 
 manner of speaking of his God. He comes into his 
 thought without any false reverence, and with no more 
 parade than the zephyr to his ear. If Nature is our 
 
FRIDAY 399 
 
 mother, then God is our father. There is less love and 
 simple, practical trust in Shakespeare and Milton. 
 How rarely in our English tongue do we find expressed 
 any affection for God ! Certainly, there is no sentiment 
 so rare as the love of God. Herbert almost alone ex 
 presses it, " Ah, my dear God ! " Our poet uses similar 
 words with propriety ; and whenever he sees a beauti 
 ful person, or other object, prides himself on the " mais- 
 try" of his God. He even recommends Dido to be 
 his bride, 
 
 "If that God that heaven and yearth made, 
 Would have a love for beauty and goodnesse, 
 And womanhede, trouth, and semeliness." 
 
 But in justification of our praise, we must refer to 
 his works themselves ; to the prologue to the Canter 
 bury Tales, the account of Gentilesse, the Flower and 
 the Leaf, the stories of Griselda, Virginia, Ariadne, and 
 Blanche the Duchesse, and much more of less distin 
 guished 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 standard of perfection than others which 
 are refined and well balanced. Even the clown has taste, 
 whose dictates, though he disregards them, are higher 
 and purer than those which the artist obeys. If we 
 have to wander through many dull and prosaic passages 
 in Chaucer, we have at least the satisfaction of know 
 ing that it is not an artificial dullness, but too easily 
 matched by many passages in life. We confess that we 
 
400 A WEEK 
 
 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 pleasing, after all, to meet with a fine 
 thought in its natural setting. Surely fate has enshrined 
 it in these circumstances for some end. Nature strews 
 her nuts and flowers broadcast, and never collects them 
 into heaps. This was the soil it grew in, and this the 
 hour it bloomed in ; if sun, wind, and rain came here 
 to cherish and expand the flower, shall not we come 
 here to pluck it ? 
 
 A true poem is distinguished not so much by a feli 
 citous expression, or any thought it suggests, as by the 
 atmosphere which surrounds it. Most have beauty of 
 outline merely, and are striking as the form and bear 
 ing of a stranger ; but true verses come toward us indis 
 tinctly, 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 pas 
 sion 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 nutri 
 ment, the other for flavor ; one satisfies hunger, the 
 other gratifies the palate. There are two kinds of writ- 
 
FRIDAY 401 
 
 ing, both great and rare, one that of genius, or the 
 inspired , the other of intellect and taste , in the intervals 
 of inspiration. The former is above criticism, always 
 correct, giving the law to criticism. It vibrates and 
 pulsates with life forever. It is sacred, and to be read 
 with reverence, as the works of nature are studied. 
 There are few instances of a sustained style of this 
 kind ; perhaps every man has spoken words, but the 
 speaker is then careless of the record. Such a style 
 removes us out of personal relations with its author ; 
 we do not take his words on our lips, but his sense into 
 our hearts. It is the stream of inspiration, which bub 
 bles out, now here, now there, now in this man, now in 
 that. It matters not through what ice-crystals it is seen, 
 now a fountain, now the ocean stream running under 
 ground. It is in Shakespeare, Alpheus, in Burns, Are- 
 thuse ; but ever the same. The other is self-possessed 
 and wise. It is reverent of genius, and greedy of inspi 
 ration. It is conscious in the highest and the least de 
 gree. 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 sub 
 dued and measured step, like a caravan. But the pen 
 is only an instrument in its hand, and not instinct with 
 life, like a longer arm. It leaves a thin varnish or glaze 
 over all its work. The works of Goethe furnish re 
 markable instances of the latter. 
 
 There is no just and serene criticism as yet. No 
 thing is considered simply as it lies in the lap of eternal 
 beauty, but our thoughts, as well as our bodies, must 
 
402 A WEEK 
 
 be dressed after the latest fashions. Our taste is too 
 delicate and particular. It says nay to the poet's work, 
 but never yea to his hope. It invites him to adorn his 
 deformities, and not to cast them off by expansion, as 
 the tree its bark. We are a people who live in a bright 
 light, in houses of pearl and porcelain, and drink only 
 light wines, whose teeth are easily set on edge by the 
 least natural sour. If we had been consulted, the back 
 bone 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 some 
 thing more than a scald, " a smoother and polisher of 
 language; " he is a Cincinnatus in literature, and oc 
 cupies no west end of the world. Like the sun, he will 
 indifferently select his rhymes, and with a liberal taste 
 weave into his verse the planet and the stubble. 
 
 In these old books the stucco has long since crum 
 bled away, and we read what was sculptured in the 
 granite. They are rude and massive in their proportions, 
 rather than smooth and delicate in their finish. The 
 workers in stone polish only their chimney ornaments, 
 but their pyramids are roughly done. There is a so 
 berness in a rough aspect, as of unhewn granite, which 
 addresses a depth in us, but a polished surface hits only 
 the ball of the eye. The true finish is the work of time, 
 and the use to which a thing is put. The elements are 
 still polishing the pyramids. Art may varnish and gild, 
 but it can do no more. A work of genius is rough-hewn 
 from the first, because it anticipates the lapse of time, 
 and has an ingrained polish, which still appears when 
 fragments are broken off, an essential quality of its 
 
FRIDAY 403 
 
 substance. Its beauty is at the same time its strength, 
 and it breaks with a lustre. 
 
 The great poem must have the stamp of greatness as 
 well as its essence. The reader easily goes within the 
 shallowest contemporary poetry, and informs it with 
 all the life and promise of the day, as the pilgrim goes 
 within the temple, and hears the faintest strains of the 
 worshipers; but it will have to speak to posterity, tra 
 versing these deserts, through the ruins of its outmost 
 walls, by the grandeur and beauty of its proportions. 
 
 But here on the stream of the Concord, where we 
 have all the while been bodily, Nature, who is superior 
 to all styles and ages, is now, with pensive face, com 
 posing her poem Autumn, with which no work of man 
 will bear to be compared. 
 
 In summer we live out of doors, and have only im 
 pulses and feelings, which are all for action, and must 
 wait commonly for the stillness and longer nights of 
 autumn and winter before any thought will subside; 
 we are sensible that behind the rustling leaves, and the 
 stacks of grain, and the bare clusters of the grape, there 
 is the field of a wholly new life, which no man has 
 lived ; that even this earth was made for more mysteri 
 ous 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." 
 
404 A WEEK 
 
 Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature, not his 
 Father but his Mother stirs within him, and he becomes 
 immortal with her immortality. From time to time she 
 claims kindredship with us, and some globule from her 
 veins steals up into our own. 
 
 I am the autumnal sun, 
 With autumn gales my race is run; 
 When will the hazel put forth its flowers, 
 Or the grape ripen under my bowers ? 
 When will the harvest or the hunter's moon 
 Turn my midnight into mid-noon ? 
 
 I am all sere and yellow, 
 
 And to my core mellow. 
 The mast is dropping within my woods, 
 The winter is lurking within my moods, 
 And the rustling of the withered leaf 
 Is the constant music of my grief. 
 
 To an 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 ac 
 knowledge 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, an 
 nually watering and maturing it, and man never severs 
 the stalk which bears this palatable fruit. 
 
FRIDAY 405 
 
 Men nowhere, east or west, live yet a natural life, 
 round which the vine clings, and which the elm will 
 ingly shadows. Man would desecrate it by his touch, 
 and so the beauty of the world remains veiled to him. 
 He needs not only to be spiritualized, but naturalized, 
 on the soil of earth. Who shall conceive what kind of 
 roof the heavens might extend over him, what seasons 
 minister to him, and what employment dignify his life ! 
 Only the convalescent raise the veil of nature. An im 
 mortality 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 ephe 
 meral like the scenery which surrounds him, and does 
 not aspire to an enduring existence. When we come 
 down into the distant village, visible from the moun 
 tain-top, the nobler inhabitants with whom we peopled 
 it have departed, and left only vermin in its desolate 
 streets. It is the imagination of poets which puts those 
 brave speeches into the mouths of their heroes. They 
 may feign that Cato's last words were 
 
 "The earth, the air and seas I know, and all 
 The joys and horrors of their peace and wars; 
 And now will view the Gods' state and the stars," 
 
 but such are not the thoughts nor the destiny of common 
 men. What is this heaven which they expect, if it is 
 no better than they expect ? Are they prepared for a 
 better than they can now imagine ? Where is the heaven 
 of him who dies on a stage, in a theatre? Here or 
 nowhere is our heaven. 
 
406 A WEEK 
 
 "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, yT/ycvtis, 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 lumine vestit 
 JPurpureo: 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 perfumed, and the sound of their 
 voices falls on the ear like the rustling of leaves or the 
 crackling of the fire. They stand many deep. They 
 have the heavens for their abettors, as those who have 
 never stood from under them, and they look at the 
 stars with an answering ray. Their eyes are like glow 
 worms, and their motions graceful and flowing, as if a 
 place were already found for them, like rivers flowing 
 through valleys. The distinctions of morality, of right 
 and wrong, sense and nonsense, are petty, and have 
 
FRIDAY 407 
 
 lost their significance, beside these pure primeval na 
 tures. When I consider the clouds stretched in stu 
 pendous masses across the sky, frowning with darkness 
 or glowing with downy light, or gilded with the rays of 
 the setting sun, like the battlements of a city in the 
 heavens, their grandeur appears thrown away on the 
 meanness of my employment ; the drapery is altogether 
 too rich for such poor acting. I am hardly worthy to 
 be a suburban dweller outside those walls. 
 
 "Unless above himself he can 
 Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!" 
 
 With our music we would fain challenge transiently 
 another and finer sort of intercourse than our daily 
 toil permits. The strains come back to us amended in 
 the echo, as when a friend reads our verse. Why have 
 they so painted the fruits, and freighted them with such 
 fragrance as to satisfy a more than animal appetite ? 
 
 "I asked the schoolman, his advice was free, 
 But scored me out too intricate a way." 
 
 These things imply, perchance, that we live on the 
 verge of another and purer realm, from which these 
 odors and sounds are wafted over to us. The borders of 
 our plot are set with flowers, whose seeds were blown 
 from more Elysian fields adjacent. They are the pot 
 herbs of the gods. Some fairer fruits and sweeter 
 fragrances wafted over to us betray another realm's 
 vicinity. There, too, does Echo dwell, and there is the 
 abutment of the rainbow's arch. 
 
 A finer race and finer fed 
 Feast and revel o'er our head, 
 
408 A WEEK 
 
 And we titmen are only able 
 To catch the fragments from their table. 
 Theirs is the fragrance of the fruits, 
 While we consume the pulp and roots. 
 What are the moments that we stand 
 Astonished on the Olympian land! 
 
 We need pray for no higher heaven than the pure 
 senses can furnish, a purely sensuous life. Our present 
 senses are but the rudiments of what they are destined 
 to become. We are comparatively deaf and dumb and 
 blind, and without smell or taste or feeling. Every 
 generation makes the discovery that its divine vigor has 
 been dissipated, and each sense and faculty misapplied 
 and debauched. The ears were made, not for such 
 trivial uses as men are wont to suppose, but to hear 
 celestial sounds. The eyes were not made for such 
 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 commonly taken to be the 
 symbol merely? When the common man looks into 
 the sky, which he has not so much profaned, he thinks 
 it less gross than the earth, and with reverence speaks 
 of " the Heavens," but the seer will in the same sense 
 speak of " the Earths," and his Father who is in them. 
 " Did not he that made that which is within make that 
 which is without also ? " What is it, then, to educate 
 but to develop these divine germs called the senses ? 
 for individuals and states to deal magnanimously with 
 the rising generation, leading it not into temptation, 
 
FRIDAY 409 
 
 not teach the eye to squint, nor attune the ear to 
 profanity. But where is the instructed teacher ? Where 
 are the normal schools ? 
 
 A Hindoo sage said, " As a dancer, having exhibited 
 herself to the spectator, desists from the dance, so does 
 Nature desist, having manifested herself to soul. No 
 thing, in my opinion, is more gentle than Nature ; once 
 aware of having been seen, she does not again expose 
 herself to the gaze of soul." 
 
 It is easier to discover another such a new world as 
 Columbus did, than to go within one fold of this which 
 we appear to know so well; the land is lost sight of, 
 the compass varies, and mankind mutiny; and still 
 history accumulates like rubbish before the portals of 
 nature. But there is only necessary a moment's sanity 
 and sound senses, to teach us that there is a nature be 
 hind the ordinary, in which we have only some vague 
 preemption right and western reserve as yet. We live 
 on the outskirts of that region. Carved wood, and float 
 ing 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 eter 
 nal 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. 
 
410 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 We, 
 But ah! the children will not know, 
 Till time has withered them, 
 
 The woe 
 With which they 're rife. 
 
 But now I see I was not plucked for naught, 
 
 And after in life's vase 
 Of glass set while I might survive, 
 But by a kind hand brought 
 
 Alive 
 To a strange place. 
 
FRIDAY 411 
 
 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, in 
 conceivable spaces and ages separate them, and per 
 chance 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 trav 
 elers and geographers after the site of ancient Troy. 
 It is not near where they think it is. When a thing is 
 decayed and gone, how indistinct must be the place it 
 occupied ! 
 
 The anecdotes of modern astronomy affect me in the 
 same way as do those faint revelations of the Real which 
 are vouchsafed to men from time to time, or rather from 
 eternity to eternity. When I remember the history of 
 that faint light in our firmament which we call Venus, 
 which ancient men regarded, and which most modern 
 men still regard, as a bright spark attached to a hollow 
 sphere revolving about our earth, but which we have 
 discovered to be another world, in itself, how Coper- 
 
412 A WEEK 
 
 nicus, reasoning long and patiently about the matter, 
 predicted confidently concerning it, before yet the tele 
 scope 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 ac 
 curate 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 con 
 firmation of our reasoning, respecting so-called material 
 objects and events infinitely removed beyond the range 
 of our natural vision, so that the mind hesitates to 
 trust its calculations even when they are confirmed by 
 observation, why may not our speculations penetrate 
 as far into the immaterial starry system, of which the 
 former is but the outward and visible type ? Surely, 
 we are provided with senses as well fitted to penetrate 
 the spaces of the real, the substantial, the eternal, as 
 these outward are to penetrate the material universe. 
 Veias, Menu, Zoroaster, Socrates, Christ, Shakespeare, 
 Swedenborg, these are some of our astronomers. 
 
 There are perturbations in our orbits produced by 
 the influences of outlying spheres, and no astronomer 
 has ever yet calculated the elements of that undis 
 covered world which produces them. I perceive in the 
 common train of my thoughts a natural and uninter- 
 
FRIDAY 413 
 
 rupted 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 liberating one, from seeing things as men describe 
 them, to seeing them as men cannot describe them. 
 This implies a sense which is not common, but rare 
 in the wisest man's experience ; which is sensible or 
 sentient of more than common. 
 
 In what inclosures does the astronomer loiter! His 
 skies are shoal, and imagination, like a thirsty traveler, 
 pants to be through their desert. The roving mind im 
 patiently 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 sci 
 ence 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 inter 
 val between that which appears and that which is. I 
 know that there are many stars, I know that they are 
 far enough off, bright enough, steady enough in their 
 orbits, but what are they all worth ? They are more 
 waste land in the West, star territory, to be made 
 slave States, perchance, if we colonize them. I have 
 interest but for six feet of star, and that interest is 
 transient. Then farewell to all ye bodies, such as I 
 have known ye. 
 
 Every man, if he is wise, will stand on such bottom 
 
414 A WEEK 
 
 as will sustain him, and if one gravitates downward 
 more strongly than another, he will not venture on 
 those meads where the latter walks securely, but rather 
 leave the cranberries which grow there unraked by 
 himself. Perchance, some spring, a higher freshet will 
 float them within his reach, though they may be watery 
 and frost-bitten by that time. Such 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 
 fairness, and added sugar enough, stead mankind for 
 sauce to this world's dish. 
 
 What is called common sense is excellent in its de 
 partment, and as invaluable as the virtue of conformity 
 in the army and navy, for there must be subordina 
 tion, but uncommon sense, that sense which is com 
 mon only to the wisest, is as much more excellent as it 
 is more rare. Some aspire to excellence in the subor 
 dinate department, and may God speed them. What 
 Fuller says of masters of colleges is universally appli 
 cable, 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: 
 
 "By them went Fido, marshal of the field: 
 
 Weak was his mother when she gave him day; 
 And he at first a sick and weakly child, 
 As e'er with tears welcomed the sunny ray; 
 
FRIDAY 415 
 
 Yet when more years afford more growth and might, 
 A champion stout he was, and puissant knight, 
 As ever came in field, or shone in armor bright. 
 
 "Mountains he flings in seas with mighty hand; 
 
 Stops and turns back the sun's impetuous course; 
 Nature breaks Nature's laws at his command; 
 
 No force of Hell or Heaven withstands his force; 
 Events to come yet many ages hence, 
 He present makes, by wondrous prescience; 
 Proving the senses blind by being blind to sense." 
 
 " Yesterday, at dawn," says Hafiz, " God delivered me 
 from all worldly affliction; and amidst the gloom of 
 night presented me with the water of immortality." 
 
 In the life of Sadi by Dowlat Shah occurs this sen 
 tence: "The eagle of the immaterial soul of Shaikh 
 Sadi shook from his plumage the dust of his body." 
 
 Thus thoughtfully we were rowing homeward to find 
 some autumnal work to do, and help on the revolution 
 of the seasons. Perhaps Nature would condescend to 
 make use of us even without our knowledge, as when 
 we help to scatter her seeds in our walks, and carry 
 burs and cockles on our clothes from field to field. 
 
 All things are current found 
 On earthly ground, 
 Spirits and elements 
 Have their descents. 
 
 Night and day, year on year, 
 High and low, far and near, 
 These are our own aspects, 
 These are our own regrets. 
 
416 A WEEK 
 
 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 lei 
 surely 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 na 
 tive sky in the southwest horizon. The sun was just 
 setting behind the edge of a wooded hill, so rich a sun 
 set as would never have ended but for some reason 
 unknown to men, and to be marked with brighter col 
 ors 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 uninhab 
 ited 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 even 
 ing, surely not to alight in any marsh on the earth's 
 surface, but, perchance, on the other side of our at 
 mosphere, a symbol for the ages to study, whether 
 impressed upon the sky or sculptured amid the hiero 
 glyphics of Egypt. Bound to some northern meadow, 
 
FRIDAY 417 
 
 they held on their stately, stationary flight, like the 
 storks in the picture, and disappeared at length behind 
 the clouds. Dense flocks of blackbirds were winging 
 their way along the river's course, as if on a short 
 evening pilgrimage to some shrine of theirs, or to cele 
 brate 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 mom, 
 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 disap 
 peared, and as we rowed silently along with our backs 
 toward home through the darkness, only a few stars 
 being visible, we had little to say, but sat absorbed in 
 thought, or in silence listened to the monotonous sound 
 of our oars, a sort of rudimental music, suitable for 
 the ear of Night and the acoustics of her dimly lighted 
 halls; 
 
 "Pulsae referunt ad sidera valles," 
 
 and the valleys echoed the sound to the stars. 
 
 As we looked up in silence to those distant lights, 
 we were reminded that it was a rare imagination which 
 first taught that the stars are worlds, and had conferred 
 a great benefit on mankind. It is recorded in the 
 
418 A WEEK 
 
 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 ex 
 periences. " Let the immortal depth of your soul lead 
 you, but earnestly extend your eyes upwards." 
 
 As the truest society approaches always nearer to 
 solitude, so the most excellent speech finally falls into 
 Silence. Silence is audible to all men, at all times, 
 and in all places. She is when we hear inwardly, 
 sound when we hear outwardly. Creation has not dis 
 placed her, but is her visible framework and foil. All 
 sounds are her servants, and purveyors, proclaiming 
 not only that their mistress is, but is a rare mistress, 
 and earnestly to be sought after. They are so far akin 
 to Silence that they are but bubbles on her surface, 
 which straightway burst, an evidence of the strength 
 and prolificness of the under-current ; a faint utterance 
 of Silence, and then only agreeable to our auditory 
 nerves when they contrast themselves with and relieve 
 the former. In proportion as they do this, and are 
 heighteners and intensifies 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 disappoint 
 ment; that background which the painter may not 
 
FRIDAY 419 
 
 daub, be he master or bungler, and which, however 
 awkward a figure we may have made in the fore 
 ground, remains ever our inviolable asylum, where no 
 indignity can assail, no personality disturb us. 
 
 The orator puts off his individuality, and is then 
 most eloquent when most silent. He listens while he 
 speaks, and is a hearer along with his audience. Who 
 has not hearkened to her infinite din ? She is Truth's 
 speaking-trumpet, the sole oracle, the true Delphi and 
 Dodona, which kings and courtiers would do well to 
 consult, nor will they be balked by an ambiguous an 
 swer. For through her all revelations have been made, 
 and just in proportion as men have consulted her ora 
 cle 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 resound 
 ing in the ears of men. 
 
 A good book is the plectrum with which our else 
 silent lyres are struck. We not unfrequently refer the 
 interest which belongs to our own unwritten sequel 
 to the written and comparatively lifeless body of the 
 work. Of all books this sequel is the most indispensa 
 ble part. It should be the author's aim to say once 
 and emphatically, " He said," e^. 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. 
 
420 A WEEK 
 
 It were vain for me to endeavor to interpret the Si 
 lence. She cannot be done into English. For six 
 thousand years men have translated her with what 
 fidelity belonged to each, and still she is little better 
 than a sealed book. A man may run on confidently for 
 a time, thinking he has her under his thumb, and shall 
 one day exhaust her, but he too must at last be silent, 
 and men remark only how brave a beginning he made; 
 for when he at length dives into her, so vast is the 
 disproportion of the told to the untold that the for 
 mer will seem but the bubble on the surface where he 
 disappeared. Nevertheless, we will go on, like those 
 Chinese cliff swallows, feathering our nests with the 
 froth which may one day be bread of life to such as 
 dwell by the 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 sem 
 blance of its outline was still preserved in the flattened 
 flags which had scarce yet erected themselves since our 
 departure; and we leaped gladly on shore, drawing it 
 up and fastening it to the wild apple tree, whose stem 
 still bore the mark which its chain had worn in the 
 chafing of the spring freshets. 
 
TABLE OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS 
 
TABLE OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS 
 
 USED IN 
 
 PAGE 
 
 2. Flwninaque obliquis cinxit declivia ripis (He confined the 
 
 rivers). OVID. 
 
 3. Beneath low hills, in the broad interval. EMERSON. 
 10. And thou Simois, that as an arrowe, clere. 
 
 10. Sure there are poets which did never dream. 
 
 12. Come, come, my lovely fan-, and let us try. FRANCIS 
 
 QUARLES. 
 
 13. Were it the will of Heaven, an osier bough. PINDAR, 
 
 tr. by Emerson. 
 
 14. By the rude bridge that arched the flood. EMERSON. 
 21. renning aie downward to the sea. 
 
 34. a beggar on the way. 
 
 35. That bold adopts each house he views, his own. 
 42. The river calmly flows. W. E. CHANNING. 
 
 44. There is an inward voice, that in the stream. W. E. 
 
 CHANNING. 
 
 46. Sweet falls the summer air. W. E. CHANNING. 
 48. A man that looks on glass. GEORGE HERBERT. 
 50. Bedford, most noble Bedford. 
 
 56. Some nation yet shut in. WILLIAM HABINGTON. 
 
 57. And ladahel, as saith the boke. JOHN GOWER. 
 
 57. Jason first sayled, in story it is tolde. JOHN LYDGATE. 
 
 64. The seventh is a holy day. HESIOD. 
 
 68. Where is this love become in later age ? FRANCIS 
 
 QUARLES. 
 
 68. The world's a popular disease, that reigns. 
 68. All the world's a stage. SHAKESPEARE. 
 88. Doth grow the greater still, the further downe. 
 92. So silent is the cessile air. 
 
424 POETICAL QUOTATIONS 
 
 93. Jam laeto turgent in palmite gemmae. VIRGIL. 
 
 93. Strata jacent passim sua quaeque sub arbor e poma. VIR 
 GIL. 
 
 95. As from the clouds appears the full moon. HOMER. 
 
 95. While it was dawn, and sacred day was advancing. 
 HOMER. 
 
 95. They, thinking great things, upon the neutral ground 
 
 of war. HOMER. 
 
 96. Went down the Idaean mountains to far Olympus. 
 
 HOMER. 
 96. For there are very many. HOMER. 
 
 96. Then rose up to them sweet-worded Nestor, the shrill 
 
 orator of the Pylians. HOMER. 
 
 97. Homer is gone; and where is Jove? and where. 
 99. You grov'ling worldlings, you whose wisdom trades. 
 
 100. Merchants, arise. FRANCIS QUARLES. 
 
 100. To Athens gowned he goes, and from that school. 
 
 FRANCIS QUARLES. 
 
 101. What I have learned is mine; I've had my thought. 
 
 102. ask for that which is our whole life's light. 
 
 102. Let us set so just. WILLIAM HABINGTON. 
 
 103. Olympian bards who sung. EMERSON. 
 
 104. lips of cunning fell. EMERSON. 
 
 104. That 't is not in the power of kings to raise. SAM 
 UEL DANIEL. 
 
 104. And that the utmost powers of English rhyme. SAM 
 
 UEL DANIEL. 
 
 105. And who, in tune, knows whither we may vent. SAM 
 
 UEL DANIEL. 
 
 106. How many thousands never heard the name. SAMUEL 
 
 DANIEL. 
 
 113. campoque recepta. OVID. 
 
 115. Make bandog thy scout watch to bark at a thief. 
 
 121. I thynke for to touche also. JOHN GOWER. 
 
 121. The hye sheryfe of Notynghame. ROBIN HOOD BAL 
 LADS. 
 
 121. His shoote it was but loosely shott. ROBIN HOOD 
 BALLADS. 
 
POETICAL QUOTATIONS 425 
 
 121. Gazed on the Heavens for what he missed on Earth. 
 
 WILLIAM BROWNE. 
 121. All courageous knichtis. 
 
 123. He and his valiant soldiers did range the woods full 
 
 wide. OLD BALLAD OF LOVEWELL'S FIGHT. 
 
 124. Of all our valiant English, there were but thirty- 
 
 four. OLD BALLAD OF LOVEWELL'S FIGHT. 
 
 124. And braving many dangers and hardships in the way. 
 
 OLD BALLAD OF LOVEWELL'S FIGHT. 
 
 125. A man he was of comely form. 
 
 126. For as we are informed, so thick and fast they fell. 
 
 OLD BALLAD OF LOVEWELL'S FIGHT. 
 
 129. Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose 
 runs. TENNYSON. 
 
 132. Men find that action is another thing SAMUEL 
 DANIEL. 
 
 134. And round about good morrows fly. CHARLES COT 
 TON. 
 
 134. The early pilgrim blythe he hailed. ROBIN HOOD BAL 
 LADS. 
 
 136. Now turn again, turn again, said the pinder. OLD 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 137. Virtues as rivers pass. 
 
 163. Thro* the shadow of the globe we sweep into the 
 
 younger day. TENNYSON. 
 
 164. Fragments of the lofty strain. GRAY. 
 
 174. They carried these foresters into fair Nottingham. 
 
 ROBIN HOOD BALLADS. 
 
 175. Gentle river, gentle river. SPANISH BALLAD IN PERCY: 
 
 "Rio verde, rio verde." 
 
 176. Then did the crimson streams that flowed. 
 
 181. When the drum beat at dead of night. CAMPBELL. 
 
 186. Before each van. MILTON. 
 
 188. On either side the river lie. TENNYSON. 
 
 198. Heaven itself shall slide. 
 
 199. Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye. SHAKE 
 
 SPEARE. 
 199. Anon permit the basest clouds to ride. 
 
426 POETICAL QUOTATIONS 
 
 199. How may a worm that crawls along the dust. GILES 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 202. And now the taller sons, whom Titan warms. GILES 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 214. In a pleasant glade. SPENSER. 
 219. Amongst the pumy stones, which seemed to plain. 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 219. His reverend locks. BISHOP PERCY. 
 230. Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. EMERSON. 
 236. Too quick resolves do resolution wrong. 
 238. Nor has he ceased his charming song, for still that lyre. 
 
 SIMONIDES. 
 
 240. The young and tender stalk. 
 240-244. Translations from Anacreon. 
 249. Man is man's foe and destiny. CHARLES COTTON. 
 
 258. He knew of our haste. PINDAR. 
 
 259. springing up from the bottom. PINDAR. 
 259. The island sprang from the watery. PINDAR. 
 
 264. Rome living was the world's sole ornament. SPENSER. 
 266. bees that fly. 
 
 283. He that hath love and judgment too. 
 283. Why love among the virtues is not known. DR. DONNE. 
 288. And love as well the shepherd can. 
 291. When manhood shall be matched so. 
 293. There be mo sterres in the skie than a pair. CHAU 
 CER. 
 
 314. Silver sands and pebljles sing. 
 
 315. Who dreamt devoutlier than most use to pray. DR. 
 
 DONNE. 
 
 316. And, more to lulle him in his slumber soft. SPENSER. 
 
 317. He trode the unplanted forest floor, whereon. EMER 
 
 SON. 
 
 327-332. Lines from Persius. 
 
 335. Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright. GEORGE HER 
 BERT. 
 
 337. To journey for his marriage. CHAUCER. 
 
 338. The swaying soft. W. E. CHANNING. 
 
 340. Not only o'er the dial's face. J. MONTGOMERY. 
 
POETICAL QUOTATIONS 427 
 
 347. Old woman that lives under the hill. NURSERY BAL 
 LAD. 
 350. The laws of Nature break the rules of Art. FRANCIS 
 
 QUARLES. 
 
 356. The Boteman strayt. SPENSER. 
 
 356. Summer's robe grows. DR. DONNE. 
 
 357. And now the cold autumnal dews are seen. 
 
 359. From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain. 
 MARLOWE. 
 
 359. Wise Nature's darlings, they live in the world. MAR 
 LOWE. 
 
 359. at all, Came lovers home from this great festival. 
 MARLOWE. 
 
 367-371. Lines from Ossian. 
 
 377. And what 's a life ? The flourishing array. FRANCIS 
 
 QUARLES. 
 
 378. I see the goldenrod shine bright. W. E. CHANNING. 
 397. For first the thing is thought within the hart. CHAUCER. 
 399. If that God that heaven and yearth made. CHAUCER. 
 403. There is a place beyond that flaming hill. SIR WILLIAM 
 
 DAVENANT. 
 
 405. The earth, the air, and seas I know, and all. 
 
 406. Although we see celestial bodies move. 
 
 406. Largior hie campos aether et lumine vestit. VIRGIL. 
 
 407. Unless above himself he can. SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 407. I asked the schoolman, his advice was free. FRANCIS 
 
 QUARLES. 
 414. He that wants faith, and apprehends a grief. FRANCIS 
 
 QUARLES. 
 414. By them went Fido, marshal of the field. PHINEAS 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 417. Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night. 
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 
 417. Pulsae referunt ad sidera vattes. VIRGIL. 
 
INDEX 
 
 " A FINER race and finer fed," verse, 
 
 407. 
 Advertisements, the best part of 
 
 newspapers, 194. 
 Agassiz, Louis, 26, 31. 
 Agiocochook, 335. 
 " Ah, 't is in vain the peaceful din," 
 
 verse, 15. 
 Alewives, 32. 
 "All things are current found," 
 
 verse, 415. 
 
 Amonoosuck, the, 334. 
 Amoskeag Falls, 259, 260, 337. 
 Amoskeag (N. H.), 261, 262, 271, 273, 
 
 307. 
 "An early unconverted saint," 
 
 verse, 42. 
 Anacreon, 238-240 ; translations 
 
 from, 240-244. 
 Andover (Mass.), 124. 
 Antiquities, 264, 265-267. 
 Apprentices, the abundance of, 129. 
 " Apple tree, Elisha's," 380. 
 Aristotle, quoted, 133, 386. 
 Armchairs for fishermen, 91. 
 Arrowhead, 18. 
 Art and nature, 339. 
 Assabet River, North or, 4. 
 Astronomy, 411-413. 
 Atlantides, The, verse, 278. 
 Aubrey, John, quoted, 112. 
 Autumn, the coming of, 356; flowers 
 
 of, 377-379; 403. 
 Average ability, man's success in 
 
 proportion to his, 133. 
 " Away ! away ! away ! away ! " 
 
 verse, 186. 
 
 Baboosuck Brook, 232. 
 Background, all lives want a, 45. 
 Baker's River, 87, 268. 
 BaU's Hill, 19, 37, 43. 
 Bass tree, the, 166. 
 Battle-ground, first of the Revolu 
 tion, 14. 
 
 Beach plum, the, 381. 
 Beaumont, Francis, quoted, 69. 
 Beaver River, 92. 
 
 Bedford (Mass.), 4, 37; petition of 
 
 planters of, 50; 53, 62. 
 Bedford (N. H.), 247, 248, 251, 252. 
 Belknap, Jeremy, quoted, 91, 127, 189, 
 
 201. 
 
 Bellows, valley called the, 189. 
 Bellows Falls (Vt.), 91. 
 Bells, the sound of Sabbath, 78. 
 Bhagvat-Geeta, the, quoted, 140; 
 
 pure thought of the, 142; beauty 
 
 of the, 148, 153. 
 
 Bibles of several nations, the, 72. 
 Billerica (Mass.), 4, 32, 36, 38, 43; age 
 
 of the town of, 49; 51, 53, 62, 119, 
 
 391. 
 Biography, autobiography the best, 
 
 163. 
 
 Biscuit Brook, 380. 
 Bittern, the, 249. 
 Boat, T.'s, 12; hints for making a, 
 
 13. 
 
 Boat-building, 228. 
 Boatmen, the pleasant lives of, 220- 
 
 226. 
 Books, the reading and writing of, 
 
 93-112. 
 
 Botta, Paul Emile, quoted, 107, 130. 
 Bound Rock, 5. 
 Bradford (N. H.), 380. 
 Brahm, the bringing to earth of, 
 
 141. 
 
 Brahman, virtue of the, 146. 
 Bream, the, 24-26. 
 Britannia's Pastorals, quoted, 121. 
 Browne, Sir Thomas, quoted, 69. 
 Buddha and Christ, 68. 
 Buried money, 208. 
 " But since we sailed," verse, 16. 
 Buttrick's Plain, 51. 
 
 Calidas, the Sacontala, quoted, 183. 
 
 Canaan (N. H.), 263. 
 
 Canal, an old, 62. 
 
 Canal-boat, appearance of a, 150 ; 
 passing a, in fog, 200; later and 
 early thoughts about a, 221-226; 
 with sails, 273, 274. 
 
 Cardinals, 18. 
 
430 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Carlisle Bridge, 20, 37. 
 
 Carlisle (Mass.), 4, 37, 50, 53. 
 
 Carnac, 267. 
 
 Cattle-Show, the Concord, 358-361. 
 
 Charming, W. E., quoted, 42. 
 
 Chateaubriand, quoted, 137. 
 
 Chaucer, Geoffrey, quoted, 293, 352, 
 353; in praise of, 391-400. 
 
 Chelmsford (Mass.), 53, 63, 81, 85, 88, 
 92, 113, 268, 384, 391. 
 
 Chivin, dace, roach, or cousin trout, 
 27. 
 
 Christianity, practical and radical, 
 141. 
 
 Classics, study of the, 238. 
 
 Coat-of-arms, a Concord, 7. 
 
 Cohass Brook, 250. 
 
 Cohasset, the Indian, 251. 
 
 Commerce, 224. 
 
 Common and uncommon sense, 414. 
 
 Conantum, 374. 
 
 Concord (Mass.), settlement of, 3; 
 historian of, quoted, 3; 5; coat-of- 
 arms for, 7; territory of, in 1831, 
 8 ; described by Johnson, 8; 
 meadows, 9; a port of entry, 12; 
 14; poet, a, 14; 36, 43, 49, 51, 61, 
 64, 82, 124; history of, quoted, 
 125; 169; Cliffs, 170; 227, 345; 
 Cattle-Show in, 358-361 ; return 
 to, 420. 
 
 Concord (N. H.), 88,89; 268,308; enter 
 tained in, 322; origin of, 322, 323. 
 
 CONCORD RIVER, 3-11. 
 
 Concord River, 3; course of, 3; gen 
 tleness of, 7; 10, 11, 19, 20, 62, 90, 
 113; a canal-boat on, and Fair 
 Haven, 222-224; Conantum on 
 the, 374; reaching the, 391. 
 
 Confucius, quoted, 288, 299. 
 
 Connecticut River, the, 87, 88, 89, 
 212, 263. 
 
 Conscience, the, 75, 138; the chief of 
 conservatives, 140. 
 
 " Conscience is instinct bred in the 
 house," verse, 75. 
 
 Conservatism, the wisest, 140. 
 
 Contoocook, 87. 
 
 Cooking, 237. 
 
 Coos Falls, 248, 353. 
 
 Coreopsis, 18. 
 
 Cotton, Charles, quoted, 249. 
 
 Cousin trout. See Chivin. 
 
 Cranberry Island, 6. 
 
 Criticism, 401. 
 
 Cromwell's Falls, 88; story of Crom 
 well and, 206, 207. 
 
 Crooked River, the Souhegan or, 
 231. 
 
 Crusoe, Robinson, among the Arabs, 
 60. 
 
 Cultivation, wildness and, 55. 
 
 Cupid Wounded, verse, 244. 
 
 Custom, the grave of, 136; imme 
 morial, 140. 
 
 Dace. See Chivin. 
 
 Daggers, looking, 79. 
 
 De Monts, Sieur, quoted, 42. 
 
 Discovery, inner, 409. 
 
 Dogs, barking of house, 40. 
 
 "Dong, sounds the brass in the 
 
 east," verse, 50. 
 
 Donne, Dr. John, quoted, 315, 356. 
 Dracut (Mass.), 81. 
 Dreams, 119, 315. 
 Drum, sound of a, by night, 181. 
 Dunstable (Mass.), 64, 114, 123, 124, 
 
 128, 174, 175, 177, 208, 227 ; history 
 
 of, 175; quoted, 113, 126. 
 Dustan, Hannah, escape with nurse 
 
 and child from Indians, 341-345. 
 
 Eel, the common, 31. 
 
 Eel, the lamprey, 31. 
 
 Election-birds, 56. 
 
 Eliot, John, 82. 
 
 Emerson, R. W., quoted, 3, 14, 103, 
 
 104, 317. 
 
 End of Nature's creatures, the, 236. 
 Epitaphs, 177, 178. 
 Extemporaneous living, 332. 
 Eyes, movement of the, 80. 
 
 Fable, the universal appeal of, 58; 
 the Christian, 67. 
 
 Fair Haven, a canal-boat on, 224. 
 
 Farwell of Dunstable, 174-176, 208. 
 
 Fisherman, the, 21 ; account current 
 of a, 33. 
 
 Fishes, the nature of, 23. 
 
 Fish hawk, the, 205.' 
 
 Flea, deserts made by bite of a, 
 209. 
 
 Floating in a skiff as if in mid-air, 
 48. 
 
 Flowers, autumn, 377. 
 
 Fog, early morning, 188, 200, 201; pic 
 turesque effect of, 201, 202. 
 
 Fox Island, 43. 
 
INDEX 
 
 431 
 
 Framingham (Mass.), 4, 53. 
 
 Franconia (N. H.), 89. 
 
 Freshet on the Merrimack, 379. 
 
 FRIDAY, 356-420. 
 
 Friends and Friendship, 275-307. 
 
 Frontiers, wherever men front, 323. 
 
 Fuller, Thomas, quoted, 265, 414. 
 
 Gazetteer, reading the, 92; quoted, 
 206, 207, 259, 260, 269-271. 
 
 Genius, order in the development of, 
 329; the man of, 350; a man and 
 his, 362. 
 
 Gerardia, the purple, 18. 
 
 Gesner, Konrad von, quoted, 389. 
 
 God, T.'s idea of, 65, 66; men's im 
 pertinent knowledge of, 70, 71; 
 the personality of, 79. 
 
 Goethe, 347-350; quoted, 351-353. 
 
 Goff ' s Falls, 251. 
 
 Goffstown (N. H.), 205, 260, 271, 
 274. 
 
 Gookin, Daniel, quoted, 82, 114, 175, 
 176, 267. 
 
 Gower, John, quoted, 57, 121. 
 
 Grape Island, 43. 
 
 Grass-ground River, 3, 32. 
 
 Graves, Indian, 251. 
 
 Graveyards, monuments and, 177. 
 
 Great Meadows, the, 3, 16. 
 
 " Greece, who am I that should re 
 member thee," verse, 54. 
 
 Griffith's Falls, 257. 
 
 Groton (Mass.), 169. 
 
 Hafiz, quoted, 415. 
 
 Half lives, how the other, 227. 
 
 Hampstead (N. H.), 185, 202. 
 
 Harebell, the, 92. 
 
 Hastings, Warren, quoted, 142, 143. 
 
 Haverhill (Mass.), 87, 89, 185, 202; 
 historian of, quoted, 322 ; 342. 
 
 Haystack, the, 86. 
 
 Haze, 229. 
 
 Heaven, 405-409. 
 
 Heetopades of Veeshnoo Sarma, 153. 
 
 Henry, Alexander, Adventures of, 
 228, 230, 231 ; Wawatam's friend 
 ship with, 291. 
 
 Herons, 416. 
 
 Hesiod, quoted, 64. 
 
 Hibiscus, 19. 
 
 History, the reading and the anti 
 quity of, 161-163. 
 
 Homer, 97, 394. 
 
 Hooksett (N. H.), 225, 251, 260, 273, 
 274, 308, 309, 335; Pinnacle, 318; 
 Falls, 322. 
 
 Hoosack Mountain, T.'s ascent of. 
 
 Hopkinton (Mass.), 4, 32. 
 " Horses have the mark," verse, 243. 
 Horseshoe Interval, the, 126, 377. 
 Hudson (N. H.), 151, 152, 153, 169. 
 Huguenots of Staten Island, 190. 
 
 " I am a parcel of vain strivings 
 tied," verse, 410. 
 
 " I am bound, I am bound for a dis 
 tant shore," verse, 2. 
 
 " I am the autumnal sun," verse, 404. 
 
 " I hearing get, who had but ears," 
 verse, 392. 
 
 " I make ye an offer," verse, 69. 
 
 " I sailed up a river with a pleasant 
 wind," verse, 2. 
 
 " I wish to sing the Atridae," verse, 
 240. 
 
 Iliad, enduring beauty of the, 97. 
 
 "In vain I see the morning rise," 
 verse, 366. 
 
 Incivility, examples of, 212-220. 
 
 Indian, crowding out of the, by 
 whites, 53 ; civilizing the, 55 ; con 
 version of the, 82-85; capture of 
 two Dunstable men, 174; attacks, 
 letters to Governor about ex 
 pected, 232, 233; captivity, escape 
 of Hannah Dustan and others 
 from, 341-345. 
 
 Infidelity, the real, 77. 
 
 Institutions, the burden of, 135, 136. 
 
 Inward Morning, The, verse, 313. 
 
 Islands, 257, 258. 
 
 " It doth expand my privacies," 
 verse, 182. 
 
 Jamblichus, quoted, 184. 
 
 Jesus Christ, effect of the story of, 
 67; prince of Reformers and Rad 
 icals, 142. 
 
 Johnson, Edward, quoted, 8. 
 
 Jones, Sir William, 154. 
 
 Josselyn, John, 27, 29. 
 
 Kearsarge, 86. 
 
 Kreeshna, teachings of, 144-146. 
 
 Ladies'-tresses, 18. 
 Lamprey eel, 31. 
 
432 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Lancaster (Mass.), 169. 
 
 " Lately, alas, I knew a gentle boy," 
 verse, 276. 
 
 Lawrence (Mass.), 89. 
 
 "Let such pure hate still under 
 prop," verse, 305. 
 
 Life, the world and, 310-316. 
 
 Lincoln (Mass.), 5. 
 
 Litchfleld (N. H.), 204, 206, 227. 
 
 Londonderry (N. H.), 92, 268. 
 
 "Love once among roses," verse, 
 244. 
 
 " Love walking swiftly," verse, 242. 
 
 " Lovely dove," verse, 241. 
 
 Lovewell, Captain, and his Indian 
 fight, 123; John, father of, 168; 176. 
 
 "Low-anchored cloud," verse, 201. 
 
 " Low in the eastern sky," verse, 46. 
 
 Lowell (Mass.), 4, 31, 32, 39, 85, 87, 89, 
 115, 117, 225, 251, 264. 
 
 Lyceum, the, 102. 
 
 Lydgate, John, quoted, 57. 
 
 Mad River, 87. 
 
 Manchester (N. H.), 89, 225, 250, 251, 
 260, 264, 268, 274. 
 
 " Man's little acts are grand," verse, 
 224. 
 
 Massabesic Lake, 89, 250. 
 
 Massachusetts, T.'s wish not to be 
 associated with, 135. 
 
 Mathematics, 386. 
 
 McGaw's Island, 245. 
 
 Meadow River, Musketaquid or, 8. 
 
 Melon, buying a, 335. 
 
 "Men are by birth equal in this, 
 that given," verse, 311. 
 
 11 Men dig and dive, but cannot my 
 wealth spend," verse, 373. 
 
 Mencius, quoted, 280. 
 
 Menu, the Laws of, 154-161. 
 
 Merrimack (N. H.), 225, 227, 251, 353, 
 357, 391. 
 
 Merrimack River, 4, 8, 19, 62, 63, 80, 81 ; 
 origin and course of the, 85-92 ; 113, 
 122, 150, 169, 170, 174, 177, 181, 189, 
 200, 202, 203, 204; the Gazetteer 
 quoted, 206, 207; 209, 210, 225, 226, 
 227, 232, 251, 259, 260, 263, 269, 271, 
 309, 321, 345, 354 ; freshet on the, 
 379 ; 383, 391. 
 
 Mice, visited by, on Hoosack Moun 
 tain, 196. 
 
 Middlesex (Mass.), 62, 80, 226, 385. 
 
 Mikania, the climbing, 43. 
 
 Ministers, on Monday morning, 123. 
 
 Monadnock Mountain, 173. 
 
 MONDAY, 121-187. 
 
 Monuments, graveyards and, 177; 
 descendants more dead than, 269. 
 
 Moore's Falls, 245. 
 
 Moose-hillock, 86. 
 
 Morning, impressions of, 42. 
 
 Music, the suggestions of, 183-209. 
 
 Musketaquid or Grass-ground River, 
 the, 3, 8. 
 
 " My books I'd fain cast off, I can 
 not read," verse, 320. 
 
 " My life has been the poem I would 
 have writ," verse, 365. 
 
 "My life is like a stroll upon the 
 beach," verse, 255. 
 
 "My love must be as free," verse, 
 297. 
 
 Mythology, ancient history, 60. 
 
 Names of places, longing for Eng 
 lish, 54. 
 
 Nashua (N. H.), 87, 89, 115, 116, 126, 
 151, 152, 169, 170, 173, 179, 391; 
 river, the, 375. 
 
 Nashville (N. H.), 175, 179. 
 
 Naticook Brook, 227. 
 
 Natural life, the, 405. 
 
 Nature, adorned, 18, 19; laws of, for 
 man, 34; indifference of, 117; 
 provisions of, for end of her crea 
 tures, 236; tame and wild, 337; 
 and Art, 339 : composing her poem 
 Autumn, 403. 
 
 " Nature doth have her dawn each 
 day," verse, 302. 
 
 "Nature has given horns," verse, 
 242. 
 
 Nesenkeag, 206. 
 
 Nests, fishes', 24, 25. 
 
 New England life, the Arcadian ele 
 ment in, 256. 
 
 New Hampshire, 85; for the An 
 tipodes, leaving, 151; man, a, 211; 
 line, crossing the, 377. 
 
 New Testament, the, 72-75, 142; 
 practicalness of, 146. 
 
 Newbury (Mass.), 87. 
 
 Newburyport (Mass.), 87-89. 
 
 Newfound Lake, 87, 89. 
 
 News, getting the, from ocean steam 
 ers, 253. 
 
 Newspapers, reading, on Hoosack 
 Mountain, 194. 
 
INDEX 
 
 433 
 
 Night, thoughts in the, 354. 
 Night-fall, 37-40 ; 117. 
 Nine- Acre Corner, 5. 
 North Adams (Mass.), 189. 
 North Bridge, 14, 16, 33. 
 North or Assabet River, 4. 
 "Now chiefly is my natal hour," 
 verse, 182. 
 
 Observatory on Hoosack Mountain, 
 
 the, 197. 
 " Oft, as I turn me on my pillow 
 
 o'er," verse, 384. 
 On a Silver Cup, verse, 240. 
 On Himself, verse, 241. 
 On His Lyre, verse, 240. 
 On Love, verse, 242. 
 On Lovers, verse, 243. 
 "On Ponkawtasset, since we took 
 
 our way," verse, 16. 
 On Women, verse, 242. 
 Oriental and Occidental, the, 147; 
 
 exclusion of the, in Western 
 
 learning, 148, 149; quality in New 
 
 England life, the, 256, 257. 
 Ossian, 366-371, 393. 
 Otternic Pond, 169. 
 " Our uninquiring corpses lie more 
 
 low," verse, 227. 
 Ovid, quoted, 2, 228. 
 
 "Packed in my mind lie all the 
 clothes," verse, 313. 
 
 Pan not dead, 65. 
 
 Pasaconaway, 267, 269. 
 
 Past, darkness of the, 163. 
 
 Pawtucket Falls, the lock-keeper at, 
 80; Dam, 88; Canal, deepening 
 the, 263. 
 
 Pelhani (N. H.), 92. 
 
 Pembroke (N. H.), 124. 
 
 Pemigewasset River, 85,86, 88, 333; 
 basin on the, 261. 
 
 Penacook, now Concord (N. H.), 
 founding of, 322. 
 
 Penichook Brook, 179, 202, 374. 
 
 Pennyroyal, 272. 
 
 Perch, the common, 26. 
 
 Persius Flaccus, Aulus, 327-333. 
 
 Philosophy, Asiatic, 140, 141; lofti 
 ness of the Oriental, 142, 143. 
 
 Physician, priest and, 272. 
 
 Pickerel, the, 29. 
 
 Pickerel-weed, 18. 
 
 Pigeons, 235. 
 
 Pilgrim's Progress, the best sermon, 
 
 72. 
 
 Pindar, quoted, 259. 
 Pinnacle, Hooksett, 318, 321. 
 Pioneers, old and new, 124. 
 Piscataqua River, 202. 
 Piscataquoag, 87, 259. 
 Plaistow (N. H.), 185. 
 Plum Island, 86, 88, 210. 
 Plutarch, quoted, 183. 
 " Ply the oars! away! away! " verse, 
 
 188. 
 
 Plymouth (N. H.), 89. 
 Poet and poems, the, 362-366; 400-403. 
 Poetry, the nature of, 93-98; the 
 
 mysticism of mankind, 350. 
 Poet's Delay, The, verse, 366. 
 Political conditions and news, 133. 
 Polygonum, 18. 
 Ponkawtasset, 16. 
 Poplar Hill, 16, 61. 
 Pot-holes, various, 261-263. 
 Pout, the horned, 29, 30. 
 Practicalness, the triviality of, 145. 
 Priest, physician and, 272. 
 Prose, a poem in, 404. 
 Pythagoras, quoted, 338. 
 
 Quarles, Francis, quoted, 12. 
 
 Rabbit Island, 113. 
 
 Raleigh, Sir Walter, as a master of 
 
 style, 106. 
 Read's Ferry, 245. 
 Reformers, 130. 
 Religion and ligature, 64, 79. 
 Rhexia, the Virginian, 18. 
 Rice, story of the mountain farmer, 
 
 212-220. 
 
 River wolf, fresh-water or, 29. 
 Rivers of history, the famous, 10. 
 Roach. See Chivin. 
 Robin Hood Ballads, quoted, 121, 
 
 174, 175. 
 
 Romans, vestiges of the, 264. 
 Ross, Sir James Clark, quoted, 390. 
 Ruff, or bream, the, 24-26. 
 Rumors from an ^Eolian Harp, verse, 
 
 184. 
 
 Saddleback Mountain, 189. 
 
 Sadi, quoted, 70, 80, 324; the life of, 
 
 by Dowlat Shah, quoted, 415. 
 St. Anne's of Concord voyageurs, 
 
 Ball's Hill, the, 19. 
 
434 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Salmon, 32. 
 
 Salmon Brook, 167, 168, 375; Love- 
 well's house on, 345. 
 
 " Salmon Brook," verse, 375. 
 
 Sand, tracts of, near Nashua, 152; in 
 Litchfleld, N. H., 208, 209; on Plum 
 Island, 210, 211. 
 
 Sandwich (N. H.), 86. 
 
 San jay, quoted, 147. 
 
 Satire and poetry, 328-330. 
 
 SATURDAY, 12-40. 
 
 Savage instinct, the, 55. 
 
 Scene-shifter, the, 118. 
 
 Science, 386-391. 
 
 Scriptures of the world, 150. 
 
 "Sea and land are but his neigh 
 bors," verse, 279. 
 
 Seeds, the use of, 129. 
 
 Shad, 32, 35, 36; train-band nick 
 named the, 33. 
 
 Shadows, 375. 
 
 Sheep, alarm of a flock of, 317. 
 
 Shelburne Falls, 261. 
 
 Sherman's Bridge, 4. 
 
 Shiner, the, 28. 
 
 Short's Falls, 257. 
 
 Silence, 417-420. 
 
 " Since that first ' Away ! Away ! '" 
 verse, 200. 
 
 Skies, the, 383. 
 
 Smith, Captain John, quoted, 91, 
 92. 
 
 Smith's River, 87. 
 
 Snake-head, 18. 
 
 Soapwort gentian, the, 18. 
 
 Society-Islanders, gods of, 55, 66. 
 
 Soldier, a young, 334. 
 
 " Some tumultuous little rill," verse, 
 62. 
 
 Sophocles, the Antigone of, quoted, 
 139. 
 
 Soucook, 87. 
 
 Souhegan, 87, 357 ; or Crooked River, 
 231. 
 
 South Adams (Mass.), 192. 
 
 Southborough (Mass.), 3. 
 
 Spenser, Edmund, quoted, 356. 
 
 Springs, river-feeding, 203. 
 
 Squam (N. H.), 86, 87, 89. 
 
 Squirrel, the chipping or striped, 
 205,206. 
 
 Squirrel red, 206. 
 
 Stark, Gen. John, 268. 
 
 Staten Island, view from, 190; look 
 ing at ships from, 253. 
 
 Sturgeon River, Merrimack or, 85, 
 
 117. 
 
 Such near aspects had we," verse, 
 
 253. 
 
 Such water do the gods distil," 
 
 verse, 86. 
 
 Suckers, common and horned, 30. 
 Sudbury (Mass.), 3, 4, 5, 36, 53; early 
 
 church of, described by Johnson, 
 
 9. 
 
 Sudbury River, 4. 
 Suncook, 87. 
 SUNDAY, 42-120. 
 
 Sunday, the keeping of, 63, 64, 76, 77. 
 Sun-fish, Bream, or Ruff, the fresh 
 water, 24-26. 
 
 Sunrise on Hoosack Mountain, 198. 
 Sunset, 416-418. 
 Swamp, the luxury of standing in a, 
 
 319. 
 Swedenborg, Emanuel, 68. 
 
 Tansy, 18. 
 
 " That Phaethon of our day," 103. 
 
 " The Good how can we trust ? " 
 verse, 298. 
 
 " The respectable folks," verse, 7. 
 
 " The smothered streams of love, 
 which flow," verse, 278. 
 
 " The waves slowly beat," verse, 229. 
 
 " The western wind came lumbering 
 in," verse, 180. 
 
 "Then idle Time ran gadding by," 
 verse, 181. 
 
 " Then spend an age in whetting thy 
 desire," verse, 111. 
 
 "There is a vale which none hath 
 seen," verse, 184. 
 
 " Therefore a torrent of sadness 
 deep," verse, 183. 
 
 "This is my Carnac, whose un 
 measured dome," verse, 267. 
 
 Thoreau, Henry David, started on 
 week's river journey, 12; ascent 
 of Hoosack Mountain, 189-200; 
 experience with an uncivil moun 
 taineer, 214-220; invited to do 
 various sorts of work, 324; began 
 return voyage, 335. 
 
 Thoreau, John, brother, lines to, 2, 
 12 ; brings Nathan, a country boy, 
 to the boat, 308. 
 
 Thornton's Ferry, 174, 227, 232. 
 
 "Thou, indeed, dear swallow," 
 verse, 240. 
 
INDEX 
 
 435 
 
 " Thou sing'st the affairs of Thebes," 
 
 verse, 241. 
 " Though all the fates should prove 
 
 unkind," verse, 161. 
 " Thracian colt, why at me," verse, 
 
 243. 
 
 THUBSDAY, 317-355. 
 " Thus, perchance, the Indian hun 
 ter," verse, 247. 
 Time, measurement of the world's, 
 
 346. 
 
 To a Colt, verse, 243. 
 To a Dove, verse, 241. 
 To a Swallow, verse, 240, 243. 
 Traveling, the profession of, 325. 
 Trinity, the, 70. 
 Trumpet-weed, 18. 
 Truth, contact with, 310. 
 TUESDAY, 188-248. 
 " Turning the silver," verse, 240. 
 Turpentine-makers, Indian capture 
 
 of, 174. 
 Tyngsborough (Mass.), origin of, 113 ; 
 
 114, 118, 123, 126, 152, 170, 174, 325, 
 
 377, 379, 382, 384. 
 
 Unappropriated Land, the, 334. 
 Uncannunuc, 169, 205, 271, 308, 318, 
 
 321, 335. 
 Union Canal, the, 245. 
 
 Varro, quoted, 382. 
 View, the point of, 372. 
 Virgil, quoted, 93. 
 
 Wachusett Mountain, 169, 173. 
 Walton of Concord River, the, 22. 
 
 Wamesit, 82. 
 
 Wannalancet, 268, 269. 
 
 Water-lily, the white, 19. 
 
 Wawatam, the friendship of, 291. 
 
 Wayland (Mass.), 3, 4, 5, 36, 37. 
 
 " We see the planet fall," verse, 390. 
 
 WEDNESDAY, 249-316. 
 
 Westborough (Mass.), 3, 32. 
 
 " Westford (Mass.), 113. 
 
 " What dost thou wish me to do to 
 
 thee? " verse, 243. 
 "Where gleaming fields of haze," 
 
 verse, 234. 
 " Where'er thou sail'st who sailed 
 
 with me," verse, 2. 
 White Mountains, the, 85, 89. 
 " Who sleeps by day and walks by 
 
 night," verse, 41. 
 
 Wicasuck Island, 113, 115, 381, 382. 
 Wilderness, the need of, 179. 
 Wilduess and cultivation, 55. 
 Williamstown (Mass.), 192, 197. 
 Willow, the narrow-leaved, 18; the 
 
 water, 43. 
 
 Windham (N. H.), 92. 
 Winnipiseogee, 85, 87, 89, 90, 91. 
 "With frontier strength ye stand 
 
 your ground," verse, 170. 
 Wolff, Joseph, quoted, 60, 131. 
 Wolofs, the, 109, 138. 
 "Woof of the sun, ethereal gauze," 
 
 verse, 229. 
 Work, quiet, 110. 
 Writing, grace and power in, 108- 
 
 111. 
 
 Yankees, how first called, 53. 
 
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