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diff --git a/9221-0.txt b/9221-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3b4bc96 --- /dev/null +++ b/9221-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1346 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Old Manse, by Nathaniel Hawthorne + +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 +www.gutenberg.org. 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. + +Title: The Old Manse + +Author: Nathaniel Hawthorne + +Release Date: September 6, 2003 [eBook #9221] +[Most recently updated: November 9, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Widger and Al Haines + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD MANSE *** + + + + +The Old Manse + +by Nathaniel Hawthorne + + + + +The Author makes the Reader acquainted with his Abode. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD MANSE *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +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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