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diff --git a/9221-h/9221-h.htm b/9221-h/9221-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..27f1170 --- /dev/null +++ b/9221-h/9221-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1496 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Old Manse, by Nathaniel Hawthorne</title> + +<style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> +</head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Old Manse, by Nathaniel Hawthorne</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Old Manse</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Nathaniel Hawthorne</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September 6, 2003 [eBook #9221]<br /> +[Most recently updated: November 9, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Widger and Al Haines</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD MANSE ***</div> + +<h1>The Old Manse</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Nathaniel Hawthorne</h2> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h4>The Author makes the Reader acquainted with his Abode.</h4> + +<p> +Between two tall gate-posts of rough-hewn stone (the gate itself having fallen +from its hinges at some unknown epoch) we beheld the gray front of the old +parsonage, terminating the vista of an avenue of black-ash trees. It was now a +twelvemonth since the funeral procession of the venerable clergyman, its last +inhabitant, had turned from that gateway towards the village burying-ground. +The wheel-track leading to the door, as well as the whole breadth of the +avenue, was almost overgrown with grass, affording dainty mouthfuls to two or +three vagrant cows and an old white horse who had his own living to pick up +along the roadside. The glimmering shadows that lay half asleep between the +door of the house and the public highway were a kind of spiritual medium, seen +through which the edifice had not quite the aspect of belonging to the material +world. Certainly it had little in common with those ordinary abodes which stand +so imminent upon the road that every passer-by can thrust his head, as it were, +into the domestic circle. From these quiet windows the figures of passing +travellers looked too remote and dim to disturb the sense of privacy. In its +near retirement and accessible seclusion, it was the very spot for the +residence of a clergyman,—a man not estranged from human life, yet +enveloped, in the midst of it, with a veil woven of intermingled gloom and +brightness. It was worthy to have been one of the time-honored parsonages of +England, in which, through many generations, a succession of holy occupants +pass from youth to age, and bequeath each an inheritance of sanctity to pervade +the house and hover over it as with an atmosphere. +</p> + +<p> +Nor, in truth, had the Old Manse ever been profaned by a lay occupant until +that memorable summer afternoon when I entered it as my home. A priest had +built it; a priest had succeeded to it; other priestly men from time to time +had dwelt in it; and children born in its chambers had grown up to assume the +priestly character. It was awful to reflect how many sermons must have been +written there. The latest inhabitant alone—he by whose translation to +paradise the dwelling was left vacant—had penned nearly three thousand +discourses, besides the better, if not the greater, number that gushed living +from his lips. How often, no doubt, had he paced to and fro along the avenue, +attuning his meditations to the sighs and gentle murmurs and deep and solemn +peals of the wind among the lofty tops of the trees! In that variety of natural +utterances he could find something accordant with every passage of his sermon, +were it of tenderness or reverential fear. The boughs over my head seemed +shadowy with solemn thoughts, as well as with rustling leaves. I took shame to +myself for having been so long a writer of idle stories, and ventured to hope +that wisdom would descend upon me with the falling leaves of the avenue, and +that I should light upon an intellectual treasure in the Old Manse well worth +those hoards of long-hidden gold which people seek for in moss-grown houses. +Profound treatises of morality; a layman’s unprofessional, and therefore +unprejudiced, views of religion; histories (such as Bancroft might have written +had he taken up his abode here, as he once purposed) bright with picture, +gleaming over a depth of philosophic thought,—these were the works that +might fitly have flowed from such a retirement. In the humblest event, I +resolved at least to achieve a novel that should evolve some deep lesson, and +should possess physical substance enough to stand alone. +</p> + +<p> +In furtherance of my design, and as if to leave me no pretext for not +fulfilling it, there was in the rear of the house the most delightful little +nook of a study that ever afforded its snug seclusion to a scholar. It was here +that Emerson wrote Nature; for he was then an inhabitant of the Manse, and used +to watch the Assyrian dawn and Paphian sunset and moonrise from the summit of +our eastern hill. When I first saw the room, its walls were blackened with the +smoke of unnumbered years, and made still blacker by the grim prints of Puritan +ministers that hung around. These worthies looked strangely like bad angels, or +at least like men who had wrestled so continually and so sternly with the Devil +that somewhat of his sooty fierceness had been imparted to their own visages. +They had all vanished now; a cheerful coat of paint and golden-tinted +paper-hangings lighted up the small apartment; while the shadow of a +willow-tree that swept against the overhanging eaves atempered the cheery +western sunshine. In place of the grim prints there was the sweet and lovely +head of one of Raphael’s Madonnas, and two pleasant little pictures of the Lake +of Como. The only other decorations were a purple vase of flowers, always +fresh, and a bronze one containing graceful ferns. My books (few, and by no +means choice; for they were chiefly such waifs as chance had thrown in my way) +stood in order about the room, seldom to be disturbed. +</p> + +<p> +The study had three windows, set with little, old-fashioned panes of glass, +each with a crack across it. The two on the western side looked, or rather +peeped, between the willow branches, down into the orchard, with glimpses of +the river through the trees. The third, facing northward, commanded a broader +view of the river, at a spot where its hitherto obscure waters gleam forth into +the light of history. It was at this window that the clergyman who then dwelt +in the Manse stood watching the outbreak of a long and deadly struggle between +two nations; he saw the irregular array of his parishioners on the farther side +of the river, and the glittering line of the British on the hither bank. He +awaited, in an agony of suspense, the rattle of the musketry. It came; and +there needed but a gentle wind to sweep the battle-smoke around this quiet +house. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps the reader, whom I cannot help considering as my guest in the Old +Manse, and entitled to all courtesy in the way of sight-showing,—perhaps +he will choose to take a nearer view of the memorable spot. We stand now on the +river’s brink. It may well be called the Concord,—the river of peace and +quietness; for it is certainly the most unexcitable and sluggish stream that +ever loitered imperceptibly towards its eternity,—the sea. Positively I +had lived three weeks beside it before it grew quite clear to my perception +which way the current flowed. It never has a vivacious aspect, except when a +northwestern breeze is vexing its surface on a sunshiny day. From the incurable +indolence of its nature, the stream is happily incapable of becoming the slave +of human ingenuity, as is the fate of so many a wild, free mountain torrent. +While all things else are compelled to subserve some useful purpose, it idles +its sluggish life away in lazy liberty, without turning a solitary spindle or +affording even water-power enough to grind the corn that grows upon its banks. +The torpor of its movement allows it nowhere a bright, pebbly shore, nor so +much as a narrow strip of glistening sand, in any part of its course. It +slumbers between broad prairies, kissing the long meadow grass, and bathes the +overhanging boughs of elder-bushes and willows, or the roots of elms and +ash-trees and clumps of maples. Flags and rushes grow along its plashy shore; +the yellow water-lily spreads its broad, flat leaves on the margin; and the +fragrant white pond-lily abounds, generally selecting a position just so far +from the river’s brink that it cannot be grasped save at the hazard of plunging +in. +</p> + +<p> +It is a marvel whence this perfect flower derives its loveliness and perfume, +springing as it does from the black mud over which the river sleeps, and where +lurk the slimy eel, and speckled frog, and the mud-turtle, whom continual +washing cannot cleanse. It is the very same black mud out of which the yellow +lily sucks its obscene life and noisome odor. Thus we see, too, in the world +that some persons assimilate only what is ugly and evil from the same moral +circumstances which supply good and beautiful results—the fragrance of +celestial flowers—to the daily life of others. +</p> + +<p> +The reader must not, from any testimony of mine, contract a dislike towards our +slumberous stream. In the light of a calm and golden sunset it becomes lovely +beyond expression; the more lovely for the quietude that so well accords with +the hour, when even the wind, after blustering all day long, usually hushes +itself to rest. Each tree and rock and every blade of grass is distinctly +imaged, and, however unsightly in reality, assumes ideal beauty in the +reflection. The minutest things of earth and the broad aspect of the firmament +are pictured equally without effort and with the same felicity of success. All +the sky glows downward at our feet; the rich clouds float through the unruffled +bosom of the stream like heavenly thoughts through a peaceful heart. We will +not, then, malign our river as gross and impure while it can glorify itself +with so adequate a picture of the heaven that broods above it; or, if we +remember its tawny hue and the muddiness of its bed, let it be a symbol that +the earthiest human soul has an infinite spiritual capacity and may contain the +better world within its depths. But, indeed, the same lesson might be drawn out +of any mud-puddle in the streets of a city; and, being taught us everywhere, it +must be true. +</p> + +<p> +Come, we have pursued a somewhat devious track in our walk to the +battle-ground. Here we are, at the point where the river was crossed by the old +bridge, the possession of which was the immediate object of the contest. On the +hither side grow two or three elms, throwing a wide circumference of shade, but +which must have been planted at some period within the threescore years and ten +that have passed since the battle-day. On the farther shore, overhung by a +clump of elder-bushes, we discern the stone abutment of the bridge. Looking +down into the river, I once discovered some heavy fragments of the timbers, all +green with half a century’s growth of water-moss; for during that length of +time the tramp of horses and human footsteps have ceased along this ancient +highway. The stream has here about the breadth of twenty strokes of a swimmer’s +arm,—a space not too wide when the bullets were whistling across. Old +people who dwell hereabouts will point out, the very spots on the western bank +where our countrymen fell down and died; and on this side of the river an +obelisk of granite has grown up from the soil that was fertilized with British +blood. The monument, not more than twenty feet in height, is such as it +befitted the inhabitants of a village to erect in illustration of a matter of +local interest rather than what was suitable to commemorate an epoch of +national history. Still, by the fathers of the village this famous deed was +done; and their descendants might rightfully claim the privilege of building a +memorial. +</p> + +<p> +A humbler token of the fight, yet a more interesting one than the granite +obelisk, may be seen close under the stone wall which separates the +battle-ground from the precincts of the parsonage. It is the +grave,—marked by a small, mossgrown fragment of stone at the head and +another at the foot,—the grave of two British soldiers who were slain in +the skirmish, and have ever since slept peacefully where Zechariah Brown and +Thomas Davis buried them. Soon was their warfare ended; a weary night-march +from Boston, a rattling volley of musketry across the river, and then these +many years of rest. In the long procession of slain invaders who passed into +eternity from the battle-fields of the Revolution, these two nameless soldiers +led the way. +</p> + +<p> +Lowell, the poet, as we were once standing over this grave, told me a tradition +in reference to one of the inhabitants below. The story has something deeply +impressive, though its circumstances cannot altogether be reconciled with +probability. A youth in the service of the clergyman happened to be chopping +wood, that April morning, at the back door of the Manse; and when the noise of +battle rang from side to side of the bridge, he hastened across the intervening +field to see what might be going forward. It is rather strange, by the way, +that this lad should have been so diligently at work when the whole population +of town and country were startled out of their customary business by the +advance of the British troops. Be that as it might, the tradition, says that +the lad now left his task and hurried to the battle-field with the axe still in +his hand. The British had by this time retreated; the Americans were in +pursuit; and the late scene of strife was thus deserted by both parties. Two +soldiers lay on the ground,—one was a corpse; but, as the young +New-Englander drew nigh, the other Briton raised himself painfully upon his +hands and knees and gave a ghastly stare into his face. The boy,—it must +have been a nervous impulse, without purpose, without thought, and betokening a +sensitive and impressible nature rather than a hardened one,—the boy +uplifted his axe and dealt the wounded soldier a fierce and fatal blow upon the +head. +</p> + +<p> +I could wish that the grave might be opened; for I would fain know whether +either of the skeleton soldiers has the mark of an axe in his skull. The story +comes home to me like truth. Oftentimes, as an intellectual and moral exercise, +I have sought to follow that poor youth through his subsequent career and +observe how his soul was tortured by the blood-stain, contracted as it had been +before the long custom of war had robbed human life of its sanctity and while +it still seemed murderous to slay a brother man. This one circumstance has +borne more fruit for me than all that history tells us of the fight. +</p> + +<p> +Many strangers come in the summer-time to view the battle-ground. For my own +part, I have never found my imagination much excited by this or any other scene +of historic celebrity; nor would the placid margin of the river have lost any +of its charm for me, had men never fought and died there. There is a wilder +interest in the tract of land-perhaps a hundred yards in breadth—which +extends between the battle-field and the northern face of our Old Manse, with +its contiguous avenue and orchard. Here, in some unknown age, before the white +man came, stood an Indian village, convenient to the river, whence its +inhabitants must have drawn so large a part of their substance. The site is +identified by the spear and arrow-heads, the chisels, and other implements of +war, labor, and the chase, which the plough turns up from the soil. You see a +splinter of stone, half hidden beneath a sod; it looks like nothing worthy of +note; but, if you have faith enough to pick it up, behold a relic! Thoreau, who +has a strange faculty of finding what the Indians have left behind them, first +set me on the search; and I afterwards enriched myself with some very perfect +specimens, so rudely wrought that it seemed almost as if chance had fashioned +them. Their great charm consists in this rudeness and in the individuality of +each article, so different from the productions of civilized machinery, which +shapes everything on one pattern. There is exquisite delight, too, in picking +up for one’s self an arrow-head that was dropped centuries ago and has never +been handled since, and which we thus receive directly from the hand of the red +hunter, who purposed to shoot it at his game or at an enemy. Such an incident +builds up again the Indian village and its encircling forest, and recalls to +life the painted chiefs and warriors, the squaws at their household toil, and +the children sporting among the wigwams, while the little wind-rocked pappose +swings from the branch of a tree. It can hardly be told whether it is a joy or +a pain, after such a momentary vision, to gaze around in the broad daylight of +reality and see stone fences, white houses, potato-fields, and men doggedly +hoeing in their shirt-sleeves and homespun pantaloons. But this is nonsense. +The Old Manse is better than a thousand wigwams. +</p> + +<p> +The Old Manse! We had almost forgotten it, but will return thither through the +orchard. This was set out by the last clergyman, in the decline of his life, +when the neighbors laughed at the hoary-headed man for planting trees from +which he could have no prospect of gathering fruit. Even had that been the +case, there was only so much the better motive for planting them, in the pure +and unselfish hope of benefiting his successors,—an end so seldom +achieved by more ambitious efforts. But the old minister, before reaching his +patriarchal age of ninety, ate the apples from this orchard during many years, +and added silver and gold to his annual stipend by disposing of the +superfluity. It is pleasant to think of him walking among the trees in the +quiet afternoons of early autumn and picking up here and there a windfall, +while he observes how heavily the branches are weighed down, and computes the +number of empty flour-barrels that will be filled by their burden. He loved +each tree, doubtless, as if it had been his own child. An orchard has a +relation to mankind, and readily connects itself with matters of the heart. The +trees possess a domestic character; they have lost the wild nature of their +forest kindred, and have grown humanized by receiving the care of man as well +as by contributing to his wants. There, is so much individuality of character, +too, among apple trees, that it gives them all additional claim to be the +objects of human interest. One is harsh and crabbed in its manifestations; +another gives us fruit as mild as charity. One is churlish and illiberal, +evidently grudging the few apples that it bears; another exhausts itself in +free-hearted benevolence. The variety of grotesque shapes into which apple, +trees contort themselves has its effect on those who get acquainted with them: +they stretch out their crooked branches, and take such hold of the imagination, +that we remember them as humorists and odd fellows. And what is more melancholy +than the old apple-trees that linger about the spot where once stood a +homestead, but where there is now only a ruined chimney rising out of a grassy +and weed-grown cellar? They offer their fruit to every wayfarer,—apples +that are bitter sweet with the moral of Time’s vicissitude. +</p> + +<p> +I have met with no other such pleasant trouble in the world as that of finding +myself, with only the two or three mouths which it was my privilege to feed, +the sole inheritor of the old clergyman’s wealth of fruits. Throughout the +summer there were cherries and currants; and then came Autumn, with his immense +burden of apples, dropping them continually from his over-laden shoulders as he +trudged along. In the stillest afternoon, if I listened, the thump of a great +apple was audible, falling without a breath of wind, from the mere necessity of +perfect ripeness. And, besides, there were pear-trees, that flung down bushels +upon bushels of heavy pears; and peach-trees, which, in a good year, tormented +me with peaches, neither to be eaten nor kept, nor, without labor and +perplexity, to be given away. The idea of an infinite generosity and +exhaustless bounty on the part of our Mother Nature was well worth obtaining +through such cares as these. That feeling can be enjoyed in perfection only by +the natives of summer islands, where the bread-fruit, the cocoa, the palm, and +the orange grow spontaneously and hold forth the ever-ready meal; but likewise +almost as well by a man long habituated to city life, who plunges into such a +solitude as that of the Old Manse, where he plucks the fruit of trees that he +did not plant, and which therefore, to my heterodox taste, bear the closest +resemblance to those that grew in Eden. It has been an apothegm these five +thousand years, that toil sweetens the bread it earns. For my part (speaking +from hard experience, acquired while belaboring the rugged furrows of Brook +Farm), I relish best the free gifts of Providence. +</p> + +<p> +Not that it can be disputed that the light toil requisite to cultivate a +moderately sized garden imparts such zest to kitchen vegetables as is never +found in those of the market-gardener. Childless men, if they would know +something of the bliss of paternity, should plant a seed,—be it squash, +bean, Indian corn, or perhaps a mere flower or worthless weed,—should +plant it with their own hands, and nurse it from infancy to maturity altogether +by their own care. If there be not too many of them, each individual plant +becomes an object of separate interest. My garden, that skirted the avenue of +the Manse, was of precisely the right extent. An hour or two of morning labor +was all that it required. But I used to visit and revisit it a dozen times a +day, and stand in deep contemplation over my vegetable progeny with a love that +nobody could share or conceive of who had never taken part in the process of +creation. It was one of the most bewitching sights in the world to observe a +hill of beans thrusting aside the soil, or a row of early peas just peeping +forth sufficiently to trace a line of delicate green. Later in the season the +humming-birds were attracted by the blossoms of a peculiar variety of bean; and +they were a joy to me, those little spiritual visitants, for deigning to sip +airy food out of my nectar-cups. Multitudes of bees used to bury themselves in +the yellow blossoms of the summer-squashes. This, too, was a deep satisfaction; +although, when they had laden themselves with sweets, they flew away to some +unknown hive, which would give back nothing in requital of what my garden had +contributed. But I was glad thus to fling a benefaction upon the passing breeze +with the certainty that somebody must profit by it and that there would be a +little more honey in the world to allay the sourness and bitterness which +mankind is always complaining of. Yes, indeed; my life was the sweeter for that +honey. +</p> + +<p> +Speaking of summer-squashes, I must say a word of their beautiful and varied +forms. They presented an endless diversity of urns and vases, shallow or deep, +scalloped or plain, moulded in patterns which a sculptor would do well to copy, +since Art has never invented anything more graceful. A hundred squashes in the +garden were worth, in my eyes at least, of being rendered indestructible in +marble. If ever Providence (but I know it never will) should assign me a +superfluity of gold, part of it shall be expended for a service of plate, or +most delicate porcelain, to be wrought into the shapes of summer-squashes +gathered from vines which I will plant with my own hands. As dishes for +containing vegetables, they would be peculiarly appropriate. +</p> + +<p> +But not merely the squeamish love of the beautiful was gratified by my toil in +the kitchen-garden. There was a hearty enjoyment, likewise, in observing the +growth of the crook-necked winter-squashes from the first little bulb, with the +withered blossom adhering to it, until they lay strewn upon the soil, big, +round fellows, hiding their heads beneath the leaves, but turning up their +great yellow rotundities to the noontide sun. Gazing at them, I felt that by my +agency something worth living for had been done. A new substance was born into +the world. They were real and tangible existences, which the mind could seize +hold of and rejoice in. A cabbage, too,—especially the early Dutch +cabbage, which swells to a monstrous circumference, until its ambitious heart +often bursts asunder,—is a matter to be proud of when we can claim a +share with the earth and sky in producing it. But, after all, the hugest +pleasure is reserved until these vegetable children of ours are smoking on the +table, and we, like Saturn, make a meal of them. +</p> + +<p> +What with the river, the battle-field, the orchard, and the garden, the reader +begins to despair of finding his way back into the Old Manse. But, in agreeable +weather, it is the truest hospitality to keep him out of doors. I never grew +quite acquainted with my habitation till a long spell of sulky rain had +confined me beneath its roof. There could not be a more sombre aspect of +external nature than as then seen from the windows of my study. The great +willow-tree had caught and retained among its leaves a whole cataract of water, +to be shaken down at intervals by the frequent gusts of wind. All day long, and +for a week together, the rain was drip-drip-dripping and +splash-splash-splashing from the eaves and bubbling and foaming into the tubs +beneath the spouts. The old, unpainted shingles of the house and outbuildings +were black with moisture; and the mosses of ancient growth upon the walls +looked green and fresh, as if they were the newest things and afterthought of +Time. The usually mirrored surface of the river was blurred by an infinity of +raindrops; the whole landscape had a completely water-soaked appearance, +conveying the impression that the earth was wet through like a sponge; while +the summit of a wooded hill, about a mile distant, was enveloped in a dense +mist, where the demon of the tempest seemed to have his abiding-place and to be +plotting still direr inclemencies. +</p> + +<p> +Nature has no kindness, no hospitality, during a rain. In the fiercest beat of +sunny days she retains a secret mercy, and welcomes the wayfarer to shady nooks +of the woods whither the sun cannot penetrate; but she provides no shelter +against her storms. It makes us shiver to think of those deep, umbrageous +recesses, those overshadowing banks, where we found such enjoyment during the +sultry afternoons. Not a twig of foliage there but would dash a little shower +into our faces. Looking reproachfully towards the impenetrable sky,—if +sky there be above that dismal uniformity of cloud,—we are apt to murmur +against the whole system of the universe, since it involves the extinction of +so many summer days in so short a life by the hissing and spluttering rain. In +such spells of weather,—and it is to be supposed such weather +came,—Eve’s bower in paradise must have been but a cheerless and aguish +kind of shelter, nowise comparable to the old parsonage, which had resources of +its own to beguile the week’s imprisonment. The idea of sleeping on a couch of +wet roses! +</p> + +<p> +Happy the man who in a rainy day can betake himself to a huge garret, stored, +like that of the Manse, with lumber that each generation has left behind it +from a period before the Revolution. Our garret was an arched hall, dimly +illuminated through small and dusty windows; it was but a twilight at the best; +and there were nooks, or rather caverns, of deep obscurity, the secrets of +which I never learned, being too reverent of their dust and cobwebs. The beams +and rafters, roughly hewn and with strips of bark still on them, and the rude +masonry of the chimneys, made the garret look wild and uncivilized, an aspect +unlike what was seen elsewhere in the quiet and decorous old house. But on one +side there was a little whitewashed apartment, which bore the traditionary +title of the Saint’s Chamber, because holy men in their youth had slept, and +studied, and prayed there. With its elevated retirement, its one window, its +small fireplace, and its closet convenient for an oratory, it was the very spot +where a young man might inspire himself with solemn enthusiasm and cherish +saintly dreams. The occupants, at various epochs, had left brief records and +ejaculations inscribed upon the walls. There, too, hung a tattered and +shrivelled roll of canvas, which on inspection proved to be the forcibly +wrought picture of a clergyman, in wig, band, and gown, holding a Bible in his +hand. As I turned his face towards the light, he eyed me with an air of +authority such as men of his profession seldom assume in our days. The original +had been pastor of the parish more than a century ago, a friend of Whitefield, +and almost his equal in fervid eloquence. I bowed before the effigy of the +dignified divine, and felt as if I had now met face to face with the ghost by +whom, as there was reason to apprehend, the Manse was haunted. +</p> + +<p> +Houses of any antiquity in New England are so invariably possessed with spirits +that the matter seems hardly worth alluding to. Our ghost used to heave deep +sighs in a particular corner of the parlor, and sometimes rustled paper, as if +he were turning over a sermon in the long upper entry,—where nevertheless +he was invisible, in spite of the bright moonshine that fell through the +eastern window. Not improbably he wished me to edit and publish a selection +from a chest full of manuscript discourses that stood in the garret. Once, +while Hillard and other friends sat talking with us in the twilight, there came +a rustling noise as of a minister’s silk gown, sweeping through the very midst +of the company, so closely as almost to brush against the chairs. Still there +was nothing visible. A yet stranger business was that of a ghostly +servant-maid, who used to be heard in the kitchen at deepest midnight, grinding +coffee, cooking, ironing,—performing, in short, all kinds of domestic +labor,—although no traces of anything accomplished could be detected the +next morning. Some neglected duty of her servitude, some ill-starched +ministerial band, disturbed the poor damsel in her grave and kept her at work +without any wages. +</p> + +<p> +But to return from this digression. A part of my predecessor’s library was +stored in the garret,—no unfit receptacle indeed for such dreary trash as +comprised the greater number of volumes. The old books would have been worth +nothing at an auction. In this venerable garret, however, they possessed an +interest, quite apart from their literary value, as heirlooms, many of which +had been transmitted down through a series of consecrated hands from the days +of the mighty Puritan divines. Autographs of famous names were to be seen in +faded ink on some of their fly-leaves; and there were marginal observations or +interpolated pages closely covered with manuscript in illegible shorthand, +perhaps concealing matter of profound truth and wisdom. The world will never be +the better for it. A few of the books were Latin folios, written by Catholic +authors; others demolished Papistry, as with a sledge-hammer, in plain English. +A dissertation on the Book of Job—which only Job himself could have had +patience to read—filled at least a score of small, thick-set quartos, at +the rate of two or three volumes to a chapter. Then there was a vast folio body +of divinity,—too corpulent a body, it might be feared, to comprehend the +spiritual element of religion. Volumes of this form dated back two hundred +years or more, and were generally bound in black leather, exhibiting precisely +such an appearance as we should attribute to books of enchantment. Others +equally antique were of a size proper to be carried in the large waistcoat +pockets of old times,—diminutive, but as black as their bulkier brethren, +and abundantly interfused with Greek and Latin quotations. These little old +volumes impressed me as if they had been intended for very large ones, but had +been unfortunately blighted at an early stage of their growth. +</p> + +<p> +The rain pattered upon the roof and the sky gloomed through the dusty +garret-windows while I burrowed among these venerable books in search of any +living thought which should burn like a coal of fire or glow like an +inextinguishable gem beneath the dead trumpery that had long hidden it. But I +found no such treasure; all was dead alike; and I could not but muse deeply and +wonderingly upon the humiliating fact that the works of man’s intellect decay +like those of his hands. Thought grows mouldy. What was good and nourishing +food for the spirits of one generation affords no sustenance for the next. +Books of religion, however, cannot be considered a fair test of the enduring +and vivacious properties of human thought, because such books so seldom really +touch upon their ostensible subject, and have, therefore, so little business to +be written at all. So long as an unlettered soul can attain to saving grace +there would seem to be no deadly error in holding theological libraries to be +accumulations of, for the most part, stupendous impertinence. +</p> + +<p> +Many of the books had accrued in the latter years of the last clergyman’s +lifetime. These threatened to be of even less interest than the elder works a +century hence to any curious inquirer who should then rummage then as I was +doing now. Volumes of the Liberal Preacher and Christian Examiner, occasional +sermons, controversial pamphlets, tracts, and other productions of a like +fugitive nature, took the place of the thick and heavy volumes of past time. In +a physical point of view, there was much the same difference as between a +feather and a lump of lead; but, intellectually regarded, the specific gravity +of old and new was about upon a par. Both also were alike frigid. The elder +books nevertheless seemed to have been earnestly written, and might be +conceived to have possessed warmth at some former period; although, with the +lapse of time, the heated masses had cooled down even to the freezing-point. +The frigidity of the modern productions, on the other hand, was characteristic +and inherent, and evidently had little to do with the writer’s qualities of +mind and heart. In fine, of this whole dusty heap of literature I tossed aside +all the sacred part, and felt myself none the less a Christian for eschewing +it. There appeared no hope of either mounting to the better world on a Gothic +staircase of ancient folios or of flying thither on the wings of a modern +tract. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing, strange to say, retained any sap except what had been written for the +passing day and year, without the remotest pretension or idea of permanence. +There were a few old newspapers, and still older almanacs, which reproduced to +my mental eye the epochs when they had issued from the press with a +distinctness that was altogether unaccountable. It was as if I had found bits +of magic looking-glass among the books with the images of a vanished century in +them. I turned my eyes towards the tattered picture above mentioned, and asked +of the austere divine wherefore it was that he and his brethren, after the most +painful rummaging and groping into their minds, had been able to produce +nothing half so real as these newspaper scribblers and almanac-makers had +thrown off in the effervescence of a moment. The portrait responded not; so I +sought an answer for myself. It is the age itself that writes newspapers and +almanacs, which therefore have a distinct purpose and meaning at the time, and +a kind of intelligible truth for all times; whereas most other +works—being written by men who, in the very act, set themselves apart +from their age—are likely to possess little significance when new, and +none at all when old. Genius, indeed, melts many ages into one, and thus +effects something permanent, yet still with a similarity of office to that of +the more ephemeral writer. A work of genius is but the newspaper of a century, +or perchance of a hundred centuries. +</p> + +<p> +Lightly as I have spoken of these old books, there yet lingers with me a +superstitious reverence for literature of all kinds. A bound volume has a charm +in my eyes similar to what scraps of manuscript possess for the good Mussulman. +He imagines that those wind-wafted records are perhaps hallowed by some sacred +verse; and I, that every new book or antique one may contain the “open +sesame,”—the spell to disclose treasures hidden in some unsuspected cave +of Truth. Thus it was not without sadness that I turned away from the library +of the Old Manse. +</p> + +<p> +Blessed was the sunshine when it came again at the close of another stormy day, +beaming from the edge of the western horizon; while the massive firmament of +clouds threw down all the gloom it could, but served only to kindle the golden +light into a more brilliant glow by the strongly contrasted shadows. Heaven +smiled at the earth, so long unseen, from beneath its heavy eyelid. To-morrow +for the hill-tops and the woodpaths. +</p> + +<p> +Or it might be that Ellery Charming came up the avenue to join me in a fishing +excursion on the river. Strange and happy times were those when we cast aside +all irksome forms and strait-laced habitudes and delivered ourselves up to the +free air, to live like the Indians or any less conventional race during one +bright semicircle of the sun. Rowing our boat against the current, between wide +meadows, we turned aside into the Assabeth. A more lovely stream than this, for +a mile above its junction with the Concord, has never flowed on earth, nowhere, +indeed, except to lave the interior regions of a poet’s imagination. It is +sheltered from the breeze by woods and a hillside; so that elsewhere there +might be a hurricane, and here scarcely a ripple across the shaded water. The +current lingers along so gently that the mere force of the boatman’s will seems +sufficient to propel his craft against it. It comes flowing softly through the +midmost privacy and deepest heart of a wood which whispers it to be quiet; +while the stream whispers back again from its sedgy borders, as if river and +wood were hushing one another to sleep. Yes; the river sleeps along its course +and dreams of the sky and of the clustering foliage, amid which fall showers of +broken sunlight, imparting specks of vivid cheerfulness, in contrast with the +quiet depth of the prevailing tint. Of all this scene, the slumbering river has +a dream-picture in its bosom. Which, after all, was the most real,—the +picture, or the original?—the objects palpable to our grosser senses, or +their apotheosis in the stream beneath? Surely the disembodied images stand in +closer relation to the soul. But both the original and the reflection had here +an ideal charm; and, had it been a thought more wild, I could have fancied that +this river had strayed forth out of the rich scenery of my companion’s inner +world; only the vegetation along its banks should then have had an Oriental +character. +</p> + +<p> +Gentle and unobtrusive as the river is, yet the tranquil woods seem hardly +satisfied to allow it passage. The trees are rooted on the very verge of the +water, and dip their pendent branches into it. At one spot there is a lofty +bank, on the slope of which grow some hemlocks, declining across the stream +with outstretched arms, as if resolute to take the plunge. In other places the +banks are almost on a level with the water; so that the quiet congregation of +trees set their feet in the flood, and are Fringed with foliage down to the +surface. Cardinal-flowers kindle their spiral flames and illuminate the dark +nooks among the shrubbery. The pond-lily grows abundantly along the +margin,—that delicious flower which, as Thoreau tells me, opens its +virgin bosom to the first sunlight and perfects its being through the magic of +that genial kiss. He has beheld beds of them unfolding in due succession as the +sunrise stole gradually from flower to flower,—a sight not to be hoped +for unless when a poet adjusts his inward eye to a proper focus with the +outward organ. Grapevines here and there twine themselves around shrub and tree +and hang their clusters over the water within reach of the boatman’s hand. +Oftentimes they unite two trees of alien race in an inextricable twine, +marrying the hemlock and the maple against their will and enriching them with a +purple offspring of which neither is the parent. One of these ambitious +parasites has climbed into the upper branches of a tall white-pine, and is +still ascending from bough to bough, unsatisfied till it shall crown the tree’s +airy summit with a wreath of its broad foliage and a cluster of its grapes. +</p> + +<p> +The winding course of the stream continually shut out the scene behind us and +revealed as calm and lovely a one before. We glided from depth to depth, and +breathed new seclusion at every turn. The shy kingfisher flew from the withered +branch close at hand to another at a distance, uttering a shrill cry of anger +or alarm. Ducks that had been floating there since the preceding eve were +startled at our approach and skimmed along the glassy river, breaking its dark +surface with a bright streak. The pickerel leaped from among the lilypads. The +turtle, sunning itself upon a rock or at the root of a tree, slid suddenly into +the water with a plunge. The painted Indian who paddled his canoe along the +Assabeth three hundred years ago could hardly have seen a wilder gentleness +displayed upon its banks and reflected in its bosom than we did. Nor could the +same Indian have prepared his noontide meal with more simplicity. We drew up +our skiff at some point where the overarching shade formed a natural bower, and +there kindled a fire with the pine cones and decayed branches that lay strewn +plentifully around. Soon the smoke ascended among the trees, impregnated with a +savory incense, not heavy, dull, and surfeiting, like the steam of cookery +within doors, but sprightly and piquant. The smell of our feast was akin to the +woodland odors with which it mingled: there was no sacrilege committed by our +intrusion there: the sacred solitude was hospitable, and granted us free leave +to cook and eat in the recess that was at once our kitchen and banqueting-hall. +It is strange what humble offices may be performed in a beautiful scene without +destroying its poetry. Our fire, red gleaming among the trees, and we beside +it, busied with culinary rites and spreading out our meal on a mossgrown log, +all seemed in unison with the river gliding by and the foliage rustling over +us. And, what was strangest, neither did our mirth seem to disturb the +propriety of the solemn woods; although the hobgoblins of the old wilderness +and the will-of-the-wisps that glimmered in the marshy places might have come +trooping to share our table-talk and have added their shrill laughter to our +merriment. It was the very spot in which to utter the extremest nonsense or the +profoundest wisdom, or that ethereal product of the mind which partakes of +both, and may become one or the other, in correspondence with the faith and +insight of the auditor. +</p> + +<p> +So, amid sunshine and shadow, rustling leaves and sighing waters, up gushed our +talk like the babble of a fountain. The evanescent spray was Ellery’s; and his, +too, the lumps of golden thought that lay glimmering in the fountain’s bed and +brightened both our faces by the reflection. Could he have drawn out that +virgin gold, and stamped it with the mint-mark that alone gives currency, the +world might have had the profit, and he the fame. My mind was the richer merely +by the knowledge that it was there. But the chief profit of those wild days, to +him and me, lay not in any definite idea, not in any angular or rounded truth, +which we dug out of the shapeless mass of problematical stuff, but in the +freedom which we thereby won from all custom and conventionalism and fettering +influences of man on man. We were so free to-day that it was impossible to be +slaves again to-morrow. When we crossed the threshold of the house or trod the +thronged pavements of a city, still the leaves of the trees that overhang the +Assabeth were whispering to us, “Be free! be free!” Therefore along that shady +river-bank there are spots, marked with a heap of ashes and half-consumed +brands, only less sacred in my remembrance than the hearth of a household fire. +</p> + +<p> +And yet how sweet, as we floated homeward adown the golden river at +sunset,—how sweet was it to return within the system of human society, +not as to a dungeon and a chain, but as to a stately edifice, whence we could +go forth at will into state—her simplicity! How gently, too, did the +sight of the Old Manse, best seen from the river, overshadowed with its willow +and all environed about with the foliage of its orchard and avenue,—how +gently did its gray, homely aspect rebuke the speculative extravagances of the +day! It had grown sacred in connection with the artificial life against which +we inveighed; it had been a home for many years, in spite of all; it was my +home too; and, with these thoughts, it seemed to me that all the artifice and +conventionalism of life was but an impalpable thinness upon its surface, and +that the depth below was none the worse for it. Once, as we turned our boat to +the bank, there was a cloud, in the shape of an immensely gigantic figure of a +hound, couched above the house, as if keeping guard over it. Gazing at this +symbol, I prayed that the upper influences might long protect the institutions +that had grown out of the heart of mankind. +</p> + +<p> +If ever my readers should decide to give up civilized life, cities, houses, and +whatever moral or material enormities in addition to these the perverted +ingenuity of our race has contrived, let it be in the early autumn. Then Nature +will love him better than at any other season, and will take him to her bosom +with a more motherly tenderness. I could scarcely endure the roof of the old +house above me in those first autumnal days. How early in the summer, too, the +prophecy of autumn comes! Earlier in some years than in others; sometimes even +in the first weeks of July. There is no other feeling like what is caused by +this faint, doubtful, yet real perception—if it be not rather a +foreboding—of the year’s decay, so blessedly sweet and sad in the same +breath. +</p> + +<p> +Did I say that there was no feeling like it? Ah, but there is a +half-acknowledged melancholy like to this when we stand in the perfected vigor +of our life and feel that Time has now given us all his flowers, and that the +next work of his never-idle fingers must be to steal them one by one away. +</p> + +<p> +I have forgotten whether the song of the cricket be not as early a token of +autumn’s approach as any other,—that song which may be called an audible +stillness; for though very loud and heard afar, yet the mind does not take note +of it as a sound, so completely is its individual existence merged among the +accompanying characteristics of the season. Alas for the pleasant summertime! +In August the grass is still verdant on the hills and in the valleys; the +foliage of the trees is as dense as ever and as green; the flowers gleam forth +in richer abundance along the margin of the river and by the stone walls and +deep among the woods; the days, too, are as fervid now as they were a month +ago; and yet in every breath of wind and in every beam of sunshine we hear the +whispered farewell and behold the parting smile of a dear friend. There is a +coolness amid all the heat, a mildness in the blazing noon. Not a breeze can +stir but it thrills us with the breath of autumn. A pensive glory is seen in +the far, golden gleams, among the shadows of the trees. The flowers—even +the brightest of them, and they are the most gorgeous of the year—have +this gentle sadness wedded to their pomp, and typify the character of the +delicious time each within itself. The brilliant cardinal-flower has never +seemed gay to me. +</p> + +<p> +Still later in the season Nature’s tenderness waxes stronger. It is impossible +not to be fond of our mother now; for she is so fond of us! At other periods +she does not make this impression on me, or only at rare intervals; but in +those genial days of autumn, when she has perfected her harvests and +accomplished every needful thing that was given her to do, then she overflows +with a blessed superfluity of love. She has leisure to caress her children now. +It is good to be alive and at such times. Thank Heaven for breath—yes, +for mere breath—when it is made up of a heavenly breeze like this! It +comes with a real kiss upon our cheeks; it would linger fondly around us if it +might; but, since it must be gone, it embraces us with its whole kindly heart +and passes onward to embrace likewise the next thing that it meets. A blessing +is flung abroad and scattered far and wide over the earth, to be gathered up by +all who choose. I recline upon the still unwithered grass and whisper to +myself, “O perfect day! O beautiful world! O beneficent God!” And it is the +promise of a blessed eternity; for our Creator would never have made such +lovely days and have given us the deep hearts to enjoy them, above and beyond +all thought, unless we were meant to be immortal. This sunshine is the golden +pledge thereof. It beams through the gates of paradise and shows us glimpses +far inward. +</p> + +<p> +By and by, in a little time, the outward world puts on a drear austerity. On +some October morning there is a heavy hoarfrost on the grass and along the tops +of the fences; and at sunrise the leaves fall from the trees of our avenue, +without a breath of wind, quietly descending by their own weight. All summer +long they have murmured like the noise of waters; they have roared loudly while +the branches were wrestling with the thunder-gust; they have made music both +glad and solemn; they have attuned my thoughts by their quiet sound as I paced +to and fro beneath the arch of intermingling boughs. Now they can only rustle +under my feet. Henceforth the gray parsonage begins to assume a larger +importance, and draws to its fireside,—for the abomination of the +air-tight stove is reserved till wintry weather,—draws closer and closer +to its fireside the vagrant impulses that had gone wandering about through the +summer. +</p> + +<p> +When summer was dead and buried the Old Manse became as lonely as a hermitage. +Not that ever—in my time at least—it had been thronged with +company; but, at no rare intervals, we welcomed some friend out of the dusty +glare and tumult of the world, and rejoiced to share with him the transparent +obscurity that was floating over us. In one respect our precincts were like the +Enchanted Ground through which the pilgrim travelled on his way to the +Celestial City. The guests, each and all, felt a slumberous influence upon +them; they fell asleep in chairs, or took a more deliberate siesta on the sofa, +or were seen stretched among the shadows of the orchard, looking up dreamily +through the boughs. They could not have paid a more acceptable compliment to my +abode nor to my own qualities as a host. I held it as a proof that they left +their cares behind them as they passed between the stone gate-posts at the +entrance of our avenue, and that the so powerful opiate was the abundance of +peace and quiet within and all around us. Others could give them pleasure and +amusement or instruction,—these could be picked up anywhere; but it was +for me to give them rest,—rest in a life of trouble. What better could be +done for those weary and world-worn spirits?—for him whose career of +perpetual action was impeded and harassed by the rarest of his powers and the +richest of his acquirements?—for another who had thrown his ardent heart +from earliest youth into the strife of politics, and now, perchance, began to +suspect that one lifetime is too brief for the accomplishment of any lofty +aim?—for her oil whose feminine nature had been imposed the heavy gift of +intellectual power, such as a strong man might have staggered under, and with +it the necessity to act upon the world?—in a word, not to multiply +instances, what better could be done for anybody who came within our magic +circle than to throw the spell of a tranquil spirit over him? And when it had +wrought its full effect, then we dismissed him, with but misty reminiscences, +as if he had been dreaming of us. +</p> + +<p> +Were I to adopt a pet idea as so many people do, and fondle it in my embraces +to the exclusion of all others, it would be, that the great want which mankind +labors under at this present period is sleep. The world should recline its vast +head on the first convenient pillow and take an age-long nap. It has gone +distracted through a morbid activity, and, while preternaturally wide awake, is +nevertheless tormented by visions that seem real to it now, but would assume +their true aspect and character were all things once set right by an interval +of sound repose. This is the only method of getting rid of old delusions and +avoiding new ones; of regenerating our race, so that it might in due time awake +as an infant out of dewy slumber; of restoring to us the simple perception of +what is right and the single-hearted desire to achieve it, both of which have +long been lost in consequence of this weary activity of brain and torpor or +passion of the heart that now afflict the universe. Stimulants, the only mode +of treatment hitherto attempted, cannot quell the disease; they do but heighten +the delirium. +</p> + +<p> +Let not the above paragraph ever be quoted against the author; for, though +tinctured with its modicum of truth, it is the result and expression of what he +knew, while he was writing, to be but a distorted survey of the state and +prospects of mankind. There were circumstances around me which made it +difficult to view the world precisely as it exists; for, severe and sober as +was the Old Manse, it was necessary to go but a little way beyond its threshold +before meeting with stranger moral shapes of men than might have been +encountered elsewhere in a circuit of a thousand miles. +</p> + +<p> +These hobgoblins of flesh and blood were attracted thither by the widespreading +influence of a great original thinker, who had his earthly abode at the +opposite extremity of our village. His mind acted upon other minds of a certain +constitution with wonderful magnetism, and drew many men upon long pilgrimages +to speak with him face to face. Young visionaries—to whom just so much of +insight had been imparted as to make life all a labyrinth around +them—came to seek the clew that should guide them out of their +self-involved bewilderment. Gray-headed theorists—whose systems, at first +air, had finally imprisoned them in an iron framework—travelled painfully +to his door, not to ask deliverance, but to invite the free spirit into their +own thraldom. People that had lighted on a new thought or a thought that they +fancied new, came to Emerson, as the finder of a glittering gem hastens to a +lapidary, to ascertain its quality and value. Uncertain, troubled, earnest +wanderers through the midnight of the moral world beheld his intellectual fire +as a beacon burning on a hill-top, and, climbing the difficult ascent, looked +forth into the surrounding obscurity more hopefully than hitherto. The light +revealed objects unseen before,—mountains, gleaming lakes, glimpses of a +creation among the chaos; but also, as was unavoidable, it attracted bats and +owls and the whole host of night birds, which flapped their dusky wings against +the gazer’s eyes, and sometimes were mistaken for fowls of angelic feather. +Such delusions always hover nigh whenever a beacon-fire of truth is kindled. +</p> + +<p> +For myself, there bad been epochs of my life when I, too, might have asked of +this prophet the master word that should solve me the riddle of the universe; +but now, being happy, I felt as if there were no question to be put, and +therefore admired Emerson as a poet, of deep beauty and austere tenderness, but +sought nothing from him as a philosopher. It was good, nevertheless, to meet +him in the woodpaths, or sometimes in our avenue, with that pure, intellectual +gleam diffused about his presence like the garment of a shining one; and be, so +quiet, so simple, so without pretension, encountering each man alive as if +expecting to receive more than he could impart. And, in truth, the heart of +many an ordinary man had, perchance, inscriptions which he could not read. But +it was impossible to dwell in his vicinity without inhaling more or less the +mountain atmosphere of his lofty thought, which, in the brains of some people, +wrought a singular giddiness,—new truth being as heady as new wine. Never +was a poor little country village infested with such a variety of queer, +strangely dressed, oddly behaved mortals, most of whom took upon themselves to +be important agents of the world’s destiny, yet were simply bores of a very +intense water. Such, I imagine, is the invariable character of persons who +crowd so closely about an original thinker as to draw in his unuttered breath +and thus become imbued with a false originality. This triteness of novelty is +enough to make any man of common-sense blaspheme at all ideas of less than a +century’s standing, and pray that the world may be petrified and rendered +immovable in precisely the worst moral and physical state that it ever yet +arrived at, rather than be benefited by such schemes of such philosophers. +</p> + +<p> +And now I begin to feel—and perhaps should have sooner felt—that we +have talked enough of the Old Manse. Mine honored reader, it may be, will +vilify the poor author as an egotist for babbling through so many pages about a +mossgrown country parsonage, and his life within its walls, and on the river, +and in the woods, and the influences that wrought upon him from all these +sources. My conscience, however, does not reproach me with betraying anything +too sacredly individual to be revealed by a human spirit to its brother or +sister spirit. How narrow-how shallow and scanty too—is the stream of +thought that has been flowing from my pen, compared with the broad tide of dim +emotions, ideas, and associations which swell around me from that portion of my +existence! How little have I told! and of that little, how almost nothing is +even tinctured with any quality that makes it exclusively my own! Has the +reader gone wandering, hand in hand with me, through the inner passages of my +being? and have we groped together into all its chambers and examined their +treasures or their rubbish? Not so. We have been standing on the greensward, +but just within the cavern’s mouth, where the common sunshine is free to +penetrate, and where every footstep is therefore free to come. I have appealed +to no sentiment or sensibilities save such as are diffused among us all. So far +as I am a man of really individual attributes I veil my face; nor am I, nor +have I ever been, one of those supremely hospitable people who serve up their +own hearts, delicately fried, with brain sauce, as a tidbit for their beloved +public. +</p> + +<p> +Glancing back over what I have written, it seems but the scattered +reminiscences of a single summer. In fairyland there is no measurement of time; +and, in a spot so sheltered from the turmoil of life’s ocean, three years +hastened away with a noiseless flight, as the breezy sunshine chases the +cloud-shadows across the depths of a still valley. Now came hints, growing more +and more distinct, that the owner of the old house was pining for his native +air. Carpenters next, appeared, making a tremendous racket among the +outbuildings, strewing the green grass with pine shavings and chips of chestnut +joists, and vexing the whole antiquity of the place with their discordant +renovations. Soon, moreover, they divested our abode of the veil of woodbine +which had crept over a large portion of its southern face. All the aged mosses +were cleared unsparingly away; and there were horrible whispers about brushing +up the external walls with a coat of paint,—a purpose as little to my +taste as might be that of rouging the venerable cheeks of one’s grandmother. +But the hand that renovates is always more sacrilegious than that which +destroys. In fine, we gathered up our household goods, drank a farewell cup of +tea in our pleasant little breakfast-room,—delicately fragrant tea, an +unpurchasable luxury, one of the many angel gifts that had fallen like dew upon +us,—and passed forth between the tall stone gate-posts as uncertain as +the wandering Arabs where our tent might next be pitched. Providence took me by +the hand, and—an oddity of dispensation which, I trust, there is no +irreverence in smiling at—has led me, as the newspapers announce while I +am writing, from the Old Manse into a custom-house. As a story-teller, I have +often contrived strange vicissitudes for my imaginary personages, but none like +this. +</p> + +<p> +The treasure of intellectual gold which I hoped to find in our secluded +dwelling had never come to light. No profound treatise of ethics, no +philosophic history, no novel even, that could stand unsupported on its edges. +All that I had to show, as a man of letters, were these, few tales and essays, +which had blossomed out like flowers in the calm summer of my heart and mind. +Save editing (an easy task) the journal of my friend of many years, the African +Cruiser, I had done nothing else. With these idle weeds and withering blossoms +I have intermixed some that were produced long ago,—old, faded things, +reminding me of flowers pressed between the leaves of a book,—and now +offer the bouquet, such as it is, to any whom it may please. These fitful +sketches, with so little of external life about them, yet claiming no +profundity of purpose,—so reserved, even while they sometimes seem so +frank,—often but half in earnest, and never, even when most so, +expressing satisfactorily the thoughts which they profess to image,—such +trifles, I truly feel, afford no solid basis for a literary reputation. +Nevertheless, the public—if my limited number of readers, whom I venture +to regard rather as a circle of friends, may be termed a public—will +receive them the more kindly, as the last offering, the last collection of this +nature which it is my purpose ever to put forth. Unless I could do better, I +have done enough in this kind. For myself the book will always retain one +charm,—as reminding me of the river, with its delightful solitudes, and +of the avenue, the garden, and the orchard, and especially the dear Old Manse, +with the little study on its western side, and the sunshine glimmering through +the willow branches while I wrote. +</p> + +<p> +Let the reader, if he will do me so much honor, imagine himself my guest, and +that, having seen whatever may be worthy of notice within and about the Old +Manse, he has finally been ushered into my study. There, after seating him in +an antique elbow-chair, an heirloom of the house, I take forth a roll of +manuscript and entreat his attention to the following tales,—an act of +personal inhospitality, however, which I never was guilty of, nor ever will be, +even to my worst enemy. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD MANSE ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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