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diff --git a/9846-0.txt b/9846-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..152a496 --- /dev/null +++ b/9846-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7425 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Excursions, by Henry David Thoreau + +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: Excursions + +Author: Henry David Thoreau + +Release Date: 23, 2003 [eBook #9846] +[Most recently updated: January 21, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Charles Bidwell and PG Distributed Proofreaders + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EXCURSIONS *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +Excursions + +by Henry David Thoreau + +1863 + + +Contents + + BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH + NATURAL HISTORY OF MASSACHUSETTS + A WALK TO WACHUSETT + THE LANDLORD + A WINTER WALK + THE SUCCESSION OF FOREST TREES + WALKING + AUTUMNAL TINTS + WILD APPLES + NIGHT AND MOONLIGHT + + + + +BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. +BY R.W. EMERSON. + + +HENRY DAVID THOREAU was the last male descendant of a French ancestor +who came to this country from the Isle of Guernsey. His character +exhibited occasional traits drawn from this blood in singular +combination with a very strong Saxon genius. + +He was born in Concord, Massachusetts, on the 12th of July, 1817. He +was graduated at Harvard College in 1837, but without any literary +distinction. An iconoclast in literature, he seldom thanked colleges +for their service to him, holding them in small esteem, whilst yet his +debt to them was important. After leaving the University, he joined his +brother in teaching a private school, which he soon renounced. His +father was a manufacturer of lead-pencils, and Henry applied himself +for a time to this craft, believing he could make a better pencil than +was then in use. After completing his experiments, he exhibited his +work to chemists and artists in Boston, and having obtained their +certificates to its excellence and to its equality with the best London +manufacture, he returned home contented. His friends congratulated him +that he had now opened his way to fortune. But he replied, that he +should never make another pencil. “Why should I? I would not do again +what I have done once.” He resumed his endless walks and miscellaneous +studies, making every day some new acquaintance with Nature, though as +yet never speaking of zoölogy or botany, since, though very studious of +natural facts, he was incurious of technical and textual science. + +At this time, a strong, healthy youth, fresh from college, whilst all +his companions were choosing their profession, or eager to begin some +lucrative employment, it was inevitable that his thoughts should be +exercised on the same question, and it required rare decision to refuse +all the accustomed paths, and keep his solitary freedom at the cost of +disappointing the natural expectations of his family and friends: all +the more difficult that he had a perfect probity, was exact in securing +his own independence, and in holding every man to the like duty. But +Thoreau never faltered. He was a born protestant. He declined to give +up his large ambition of knowledge and action for any narrow craft or +profession, aiming at a much more comprehensive calling, the art of +living well. If he slighted and defied the opinions of others, it was +only that he was more intent to reconcile his practice with his own +belief. Never idle or self-indulgent, he preferred, when he wanted +money, earning it by some piece of manual labor agreeable to him, as +building a boat or a fence, planting, grafting, surveying, or other +short work, to any long engagements. With his hardy habits and few +wants, his skill in wood-craft, and his powerful arithmetic, he was +very competent to live in any part of the world. It would cost him less +time to supply his wants than another. He was therefore secure of his +leisure. + +A natural skill for mensuration, growing out of his mathematical +knowledge, and his habit of ascertaining the measures and distances of +objects which interested him, the size of trees, the depth and extent +of ponds and rivers, the height of mountains, and the air-line distance +of his favorite summits,—this, and his intimate knowledge of the +territory about Concord, made him drift into the profession of +land-surveyor. It had the advantage for him that it led him continually +into new and secluded grounds, and helped his studies of Nature. His +accuracy and skill in this work were readily appreciated, and he found +all the employment he wanted. + +He could easily solve the problems of the surveyor, but he was daily +beset with graver questions, which he manfully confronted. He +interrogated every custom, and wished to settle all his practice on an +ideal foundation. He was a protestant _à l’outrance_, and few lives +contain so many renunciations. He was bred to no profession; he never +married; he lived alone; he never went to church; he never voted; he +refused to pay a tax to the State: he ate no flesh, he drank no wine, +he never knew the use of tobacco; and, though a naturalist, he used +neither trap nor gun. He chose, wisely, no doubt, for himself, to be +the bachelor of thought and Nature. He had no talent for wealth, and +knew how to be poor without the least hint of squalor or inelegance. +Perhaps he fell into his way of living without forecasting it much, but +approved it with later wisdom. + +“I am often reminded,” he wrote in his journal, “that, if I had +bestowed on me the wealth of Croesus, my aims must be still the same, +and my means essentially the same.” He had no temptations to fight +against,—no appetites, no passions, no taste for elegant trifles. A +fine house, dress, the manners and talk of highly cultivated people +were all thrown away on him. He much preferred a good Indian, and +considered these refinements as impediments to conversation, wishing to +meet his companion on the simplest terms. He declined invitations to +dinner-parties, because there each was in every one’s way, and he could +not meet the individuals to any purpose. “They make their pride,” he +said, “in making their dinner cost much; I make my pride in making my +dinner cost little.” When asked at table what dish he preferred, he +answered, “The nearest.” He did not like the taste of wine, and never +had a vice in his life. He said,—“I have a faint recollection of +pleasure derived from smoking dried lily-stems, before I was a man. I +had commonly a supply of these. I have never smoked anything more +noxious.” + +He chose to be rich by making his wants few, and supplying them +himself. In his travels, he used the railroad only to get over so much +country as was unimportant to the present purpose, walking hundreds of +miles, avoiding taverns, buying a lodging in farmers’ and fishermen’s +houses, as cheaper, and more agreeable to him, and because there he +could better find the men and the information he wanted. + +There was somewhat military in his nature not to be subdued, always +manly and able, but rarely tender, as if he did not feel himself except +in opposition. He wanted a fallacy to expose, a blunder to pillory, I +may say required a little sense of victory, a roll of the drum, to call +his powers into full exercise. It cost him nothing to say No; indeed, +he found it much easier than to say Yes. It seemed as if his first +instinct on hearing a proposition was to controvert it, so impatient +was he of the limitations of our daily thought. This habit, of course, +is a little chilling to the social affections; and though the companion +would in the end acquit him of any malice or untruth, yet it mars +conversation. Hence, no equal companion stood in affectionate relations +with one so pure and guileless. “I love Henry,” said one of his +friends, “but I cannot like him; and as for taking his arm, I should as +soon think of taking the arm of an elm-tree.” + +Yet, hermit and stoic as he was, he was really fond of sympathy, and +threw himself heartily and childlike into the company of young people +whom he loved, and whom he delighted to entertain, as he only could, +with the varied and endless anecdotes of his experiences by field and +river. And he was always ready to lead a huckleberry party or a search +for chestnuts or grapes. Talking, one day, of a public discourse, Henry +remarked, that whatever succeeded with the audience was bad. I said, +“Who would not like to write something which all can read, like +‘Robinson Crusoe’? and who does not see with regret that his page is +not solid with a right materialistic treatment, which delights +everybody?” Henry objected, of course, and vaunted the better lectures +which reached only a few persons. But, at supper, a young girl, +understanding that he was to lecture at the Lyceum, sharply asked him, +“whether his lecture would be a nice, interesting story, such as she +wished to hear, or whether it was one of those old philosophical things +that she did not care about.” Henry turned to her, and bethought +himself, and, I saw, was trying to believe that he had matter that +might fit her and her brother, who were to sit up and go to the +lecture, if it was a good one for them. + +He was a speaker and actor of the truth,—born such,—and was ever +running into dramatic situations from this cause. In any circumstance, +it interested all bystanders to know what part Henry would take, and +what he would say; and he did not disappoint expectation, but used an +original judgment on each emergency. In 1845 he built himself a small +framed house on the shores of Walden Pond, and lived there two years +alone, a life of labor and study. This action was quite native and fit +for him. No one who knew him would tax him with affectation. He was +more unlike his neighbors in his thought than in his action. As soon as +he had exhausted the advantages of that solitude, he abandoned it. In +1847, not approving some uses to which the public expenditure was +applied, he refused to pay his town tax, and was put in jail. A friend +paid the tax for him, and he was released. The like annoyance was +threatened the next year. But, as his friends paid the tax, +notwithstanding his protest, I believe he ceased to resist. No +opposition or ridicule had any weight with him. He coldly and fully +stated his opinion without affecting to believe that it was the opinion +of the company. It was of no consequence, if every one present held the +opposite opinion. On one occasion he went to the University Library to +procure some books. The librarian refused to lend them. Mr. Thoreau +repaired to the President, who stated to him the rules and usages, +which permitted the loan of books to resident graduates, to clergymen +who were alumni, and to some others resident within a circle of ten +miles’ radius from the College. Mr. Thoreau explained to the President +that the railroad had destroyed the old scale of distances,—that the +library was useless, yes, and President and College useless, on the +terms of his rules,—that the one benefit he owed to the College was its +library,— that, at this moment, not only his want of books was +imperative, but he wanted a large number of books, and assured him that +he, Thoreau, and not the librarian, was the proper custodian of these. +In short, the President found the petitioner so formidable, and the +rules getting to look so ridiculous, that he ended by giving him a +privilege which in his hands proved unlimited thereafter. + +No truer American existed than Thoreau. His preference of his country +and condition was genuine, and his aversation from English and European +manners and tastes almost reached contempt. He listened impatiently to +news or _bon mots_ gleaned from London circles; and though he tried to +be civil, these anecdotes fatigued him. The men were all imitating each +other, and on a small mould. Why can they not live as far apart as +possible, and each be a man by himself? What he sought was the most +energetic nature; and he wished to go to Oregon, not to London. “In +every part of Great Britain,” he wrote in his diary, “are discovered +traces of the Romans, their funereal urns, their camps, their roads, +their dwellings. But New England, at least, is not based on any Roman +ruins. We have not to lay the foundations of our houses on the ashes of +a former civilization.” + +But, idealist as he was, standing for abolition of slavery, abolition +of tariffs, almost for abolition of government, it is needless to say +he found himself not only unrepresented in actual politics, but almost +equally opposed to every class of reformers. Yet he paid the tribute of +his uniform respect to the Anti-Slavery Party. One man, whose personal +acquaintance he had formed, he honored with exceptional regard. Before +the first friendly word had been spoken for Captain John Brown, after +the arrest, he sent notices to most houses in Concord, that he would +speak in a public hall on the condition and character of John Brown, on +Sunday evening, and invited all people to come. The Republican +Committee, the Abolitionist Committee, sent him word that it was +premature and not advisable. He replied,—“I did not send to you for +advice, but to announce that I am to speak.” The hall was filled at an +early hour by people of all parties, and his earnest eulogy of the hero +was heard by all respectfully, by many with a sympathy that surprised +themselves. + +It was said of Plotinus that he was ashamed of his body, and ’tis very +likely he had good reason for it,—that his body was a bad servant, and +he had not skill in dealing with the material world, as happens often +to men of abstract intellect. But Mr. Thoreau was equipped with a most +adapted and serviceable body. He was of short stature, firmly built, of +light complexion, with strong, serious blue eyes, and a grave +aspect,—his face covered in the late years with a becoming beard. His +senses were acute, his frame well-knit and hardy, his hands strong and +skilful in the use of tools. And there was a wonderful fitness of body +and mind. He could pace sixteen rods more accurately than another man +could measure them with rod and chain. He could find his path in the +woods at night, he said, better by his feet than his eyes. He could +estimate the measure of a tree very well by his eyes; he could estimate +the weight of a calf or a pig, like a dealer. From a box containing a +bushel or more of loose pencils, he could take up with his hands fast +enough just a dozen pencils at every grasp. He was a good swimmer, +runner, skater, boatman, and would probably outwalk most countrymen in +a day’s journey. And the relation of body to mind was still finer than +we have indicated. He said he wanted every stride his legs made. The +length of his walk uniformly made the length of his writing. If shut up +in the house, he did not write at all. + +He had a strong common sense, like that which Rose Flammock, the +weaver’s daughter, in Scott’s romance, commends in her father, as +resembling a yardstick, which, whilst it measures dowlas and diaper, +can equally well measure tapestry and cloth of gold. He had always a +new resource. When I was planting forest-trees, and had procured half a +peck of acorns, he said that only a small portion of them would be +sound, and proceeded to examine them, and select the sound ones. But +finding this took time, he said, “I think, if you put them all into +water, the good ones will sink;” which experiment we tried with +success. He could plan a garden, or a house, or a barn; would have been +competent to lead a “Pacific Exploring Expedition”; could give +judicious counsel in the gravest private or public affairs. + +He lived for the day, not cumbered and mortified by his memory. If he +brought you yesterday a new proposition, he would bring you to-day +another not less revolutionary. A very industrious man, and setting, +like all highly organized men, a high value on his time, he seemed the +only man of leisure in town, always ready for any excursion that +promised well, or for conversation prolonged into late hours. His +trenchant sense was never stopped by his rules of daily prudence, but +was always up to the new occasion. He liked and used the simplest food, +yet, when some one urged a vegetable diet, Thoreau thought all diets a +very small matter, saying that “the man who shoots the buffalo lives +better than the man who boards at the Graham House.” He said,—“You can +sleep near the railroad, and never be disturbed: Nature knows very well +what sounds are worth attending to, and has made up her mind not to +hear the railroad-whistle. But things respect the devout mind, and a +mental ecstasy was never interrupted.” He noted, what repeatedly befell +him, that, after receiving from a distance a rare plant, he would +presently find the same in his own haunts. And those pieces of luck +which happen only to good players happened to him. One day, walking +with a stranger, who inquired where Indian arrow-heads could he found, +he replied, “Everywhere,” and, stooping forward, picked one on the +instant from the ground. At Mount Washington, in Tuckerman’s Ravine, +Thoreau had a bad fall, and sprained his foot. As he was in the act of +getting up from his fall, he saw for the first time the leaves of the +_Arnica mollis_. + +His robust common sense, armed with stout hands, keen perceptions, and +strong will, cannot yet account for the superiority which shone in his +simple and hidden life. I must add the cardinal fact, that there was an +excellent wisdom in him, proper to a rare class of men, which showed +him the material world as a means and symbol. This discovery, which +sometimes yields to poets a certain casual and interrupted light, +serving for the ornament of their writing, was in him an unsleeping +insight; and whatever faults or obstructions of temperament might cloud +it, he was not disobedient to the heavenly vision. In his youth, he +said, one day, “The other world is all my art: my pencils will draw no +other; my jack-knife will cut nothing else; I do not use it as a +means.” This was the muse and genius that ruled his opinions, +conversation, studies, work, and course of life. This made him a +searching judge of men. At first glance he measured his companion, and, +though insensible to some fine traits of culture, could very well +report his weight and calibre. And this made the impression of genius +which his conversation often gave. + +He understood the matter in hand at a glance, and saw the limitations +and poverty of those he talked with, so that nothing seemed concealed +from such terrible eyes. I have repeatedly known young men of +sensibility converted in a moment to the belief that this was the man +they were in search of, the man of men, who could tell them all they +should do. His own dealing with them was never affectionate, but +superior, didactic,—scorning their petty ways,—very slowly conceding, +or not conceding at all, the promise of his society at their houses, or +even at his own. “Would he not walk with them?” “He did not know. There +was nothing so important to him as his walk; he had no walks to throw +away on company.” Visits were offered him from respectful parties, but +he declined them. Admiring friends offered to carry him at their own +cost to the Yellow-Stone River,—to the West Indies,—to South America. +But though nothing could be more grave or considered than his refusals, +they remind one in quite new relations of that fop Brummel’s reply to +the gentleman who offered him his carriage in a shower, “But where will +_you_ ride, then?”—and what accusing silences, and what searching and +irresistible speeches, battering down all defences, his companions can +remember! + +Mr. Thoreau dedicated his genius with such entire love to the fields, +hills, and waters of his native town, that he made them known and +interesting to all reading Americans, and to people over the sea. The +river on whose banks he was born and died he knew from its springs to +its confluence with the Merrimack. He had made summer and winter +observations on it for many years, and at every hour of the day and the +night. The result of the recent survey of the Water Commissioners +appointed by the State of Massachusetts he had reached by his private +experiments, several years earlier. Every fact which occurs in the bed, +on the banks, or in the air over it; the fishes, and their spawning and +nests, their manners, their food; the shad-flies which fill the air on +a certain evening once a year, and which are snapped at by the fishes +so ravenously that many of these die of repletion; the conical heaps of +small stones on the river-shallows, one of which heaps will sometimes +overfill a cart,—these heaps the huge nests of small fishes; the birds +which frequent the stream, heron, duck, sheldrake, loon, osprey; the +snake, musk-rat, otter, woodchuck, and fox, on the banks; the turtle, +frog, hyla, and cricket, which make the banks vocal,—were all known to +him, and, as it were, townsmen and fellow-creatures; so that he felt an +absurdity or violence in any narrative of one of these by itself apart, +and still more of its dimensions on an inch-rule, or in the exhibition +of its skeleton, or the specimen of a squirrel or a bird in brandy. He +liked to speak of the manners of the river, as itself a lawful +creature, yet with exactness, and always to an observed fact. As he +knew the river, so the ponds in this region. + +One of the weapons he used, more important than microscope or +alcohol-receiver to other investigators, was a whim which grew on him +by indulgence, yet appeared in gravest statement, namely, of extolling +his own town and neighborhood as the most favored centre for natural +observation. He remarked that the Flora of Massachusetts embraced +almost all the important plants of America,—most of the oaks, most of +the willows, the best pines, the ash, the maple, the beech, the nuts. +He returned Kane’s “Arctic Voyage” to a friend of whom he had borrowed +it, with the remark, that “most of the phenomena noted might be +observed in Concord.” He seemed a little envious of the Pole, for the +coincident sunrise and sunset, or five minutes’ day after six months: a +splendid fact, which Annursnuc had never afforded him. He found red +snow in one of his walks, and told me that he expected to find yet the +_Victoria regia_ in Concord. He was the attorney of the indigenous +plants, and owned to a preference of the weeds to the imported plants, +as of the Indian to the civilized man,—and noticed, with pleasure, that +the willow bean-poles of his neighbor had grown more than his beans. +“See these weeds,” he said, “which have been hoed at by a million +farmers all spring and summer, and yet have prevailed, and just now +come out triumphant over all lanes, pastures, fields, and gardens, such +is their vigor. We have insulted them with low names, too,—as Pigweed, +Wormwood, Chickweed, Shad-Blossom.” He says, “They have brave names, +too,—Ambrosia, Stellaria, Amelanchia, Amaranth, etc.” + +I think his fancy for referring everything to the meridian of Concord +did not grow out of any ignorance or depreciation of other longitudes +or latitudes, but was rather a playful expression of his conviction of +the indifferency of all places, and that the best place for each is +where he stands. He expressed it once in this wise:—“I think nothing is +to be hoped from you, if this bit of mould under your feet is not +sweeter to you to eat than any other in this world, or in any world.” + +The other weapon with which he conquered all obstacles in science was +patience. He knew how to sit immovable, a part of the rock he rested +on, until the bird, the reptile, the fish, which had retired from him, +should come back, and resume its habits, nay, moved by curiosity, +should come to him and watch him. + +It was a pleasure and a privilege to walk with him. He knew the country +like a fox or a bird, and passed through it as freely by paths of his +own. He knew every track in the snow or on the ground, and what +creature had taken this path before him. One must submit abjectly to +such a guide, and the reward was great. Under his arm he carried an old +music-book to press plants; in his pocket, his diary and pencil, a +spy-glass for birds, microscope, jack-knife, and twine. He wore straw +hat, stout shoes, strong gray trousers, to brave shrub-oaks and smilax, +and to climb a tree for a hawk’s or a squirrel’s nest. He waded into +the pool for the water-plants, and his strong legs were no +insignificant part of his armor. On the day I speak of he looked for +the Menyanthes, detected it across the wide pool, and, on examination +of the florets, decided that it had been in flower five days. He drew +out of his breast-pocket his diary, and read the names of all the +plants that should bloom on this day, whereof he kept account as a +banker when his notes fall due. The Cypripedium not due till to-morrow. +He thought, that, if waked up from a trance, in this swamp, he could +tell by the plants what time of the year it was within two days. The +redstart was flying about, and presently the fine grosbeaks, whose +brilliant scarlet makes the rash gazer wipe his eye, and whose fine +clear note Thoreau compared to that of a tanager which has got rid of +its hoarseness. Presently he heard a note which he called that of the +night-warbler, a bird he had never identified, had been in search of +twelve years, which always, when he saw it, was in the act of diving +down into a tree or bush, and which it was vain to seek; the only bird +that sings indifferently by night and by day. I told him he must beware +of finding and booking it, lest life should have nothing more to show +him. He said, “What you seek in vain for, half your life, one day you +come full upon all the family at dinner. You seek it like a dream, and +as soon as you find it you become its prey.” + +His interest in the flower or the bird lay very deep in his mind, was +connected with Nature,—and the meaning of Nature was never attempted to +be defined by him. He would not offer a memoir of his observations to +the Natural History Society. “Why should I? To detach the description +from its connections in my mind would make it no longer true or +valuable to me: and they do not wish what belongs to it.” His power of +observation seemed to indicate additional senses. He saw as with +microscope, heard as with ear-trumpet, and his memory was a +photographic register of all he saw and heard. And yet none knew better +than he that it is not the fact that imports, but the impression or +effect of the fact on your mind. Every fact lay in glory in his mind, a +type of the order and beauty of the whole. His determination on Natural +History was organic. He confessed that he sometimes felt like a hound +or a panther, and, if born among Indians, would have been a fell +hunter. But, restrained by his Massachusetts culture, he played out the +game in this mild form of botany and ichthyology. His intimacy with +animals suggested what Thomas Fuller records of Butler the apiologist, +that “either he had told the bees things or the bees had told him.” +Snakes coiled round his leg; the fishes swam into his hand, and he took +them out of the water; he pulled the woodchuck out of its hole by the +tail, and took the foxes under his protection from the hunters. Our +naturalist had perfect magnanimity; he had no secrets: he would carry +you to the heron’s haunt, or even to his most prized botanical +swamp,—possibly knowing that you could never find it again, yet willing +to take his risks. + +No college ever offered him a diploma, or a professor’s chair; no +academy made him its corresponding secretary, its discoverer, or even +its member. Whether these learned bodies feared the satire of his +presence. Yet so much knowledge of Nature’s secret and genius few +others possessed, none in a more large and religious synthesis. For not +a particle of respect had he to the opinions of any man or body of men, +but homage solely to the truth itself; and as he discovered everywhere +among doctors some leaning of courtesy, it discredited them. He grew to +be revered and admired by his townsmen, who had at first known him only +as an oddity. The farmers who employed him as a surveyor soon +discovered his rare accuracy and skill, his knowledge of their lands, +of trees, of birds, of Indian remains, and the like, which enabled him +to tell every farmer more than he knew before of his own farm; so that +he began to feel as if Mr. Thoreau had better rights in his land than +he. They felt, too, the superiority of character which addressed all +men with a native authority. + +Indian relics abound in Concord,—arrow-heads, stone chisels, pestles, +and fragments of pottery; and on the river-bank, large heaps of +clam-shells and ashes mark spots which the savages frequented. These, +and every circumstance touching the Indian, were important in his eyes. +His visits to Maine were chiefly for love of the Indian. He had the +satisfaction of seeing the manufacture of the bark-canoe, as well as of +trying his hand in its management on the rapids. He was inquisitive +about the making of the stone arrow-head, and in his last days charged +a youth setting out for the Rocky Mountains to find an Indian who could +tell him that: “It was well worth a visit to California to learn it.” +Occasionally, a small party of Penobscot Indians would visit Concord, +and pitch their tents for a few weeks in summer on the river-bank. He +failed not to make acquaintance with the best of them; though he well +knew that asking questions of Indians is like catechizing beavers and +rabbits. In his last visit to Maine he had great satisfaction from +Joseph Polis, an intelligent Indian of Oldtown, who was his guide for +some weeks. + +He was equally interested in every natural fact. The depth of his +perception found likeness of law throughout Nature, and I know not any +genius who so swiftly inferred universal law from the single fact. He +was no pedant of a department. His eye was open to beauty, and his ear +to music. He found these, not in rare conditions, but wheresoever he +went. He thought the best of music was in single strains; and he found +poetic suggestion in the humming of the telegraph-wire. + +His poetry might be bad or good; he no doubt wanted a lyric facility +and technical skill; but he had the source of poetry in his spiritual +perception. He was a good reader and critic, and his judgment on poetry +was to the ground of it. He could not be deceived as to the presence or +absence of the poetic element in any composition, and his thirst for +this made him negligent and perhaps scornful of superficial graces. He +would pass by many delicate rhythms, but he would have detected every +live stanza or line in a volume, and knew very well where to find an +equal poetic charm in prose. He was so enamored of the spiritual beauty +that he held all actual written poems in very light esteem in the +comparison. He admired Aeschylus and Pindar; but, when some one was +commending them, he said that “Aeschylus and the Greeks, in describing +Apollo and Orpheus, had given no song, or no good one. They ought not +to have moved trees, but to have chanted to the gods such a hymn as +would have sung all their old ideas out of their heads, and new ones +in.” His own verses are often rude and defective. The gold does not yet +run pure, is drossy and crude. The thyme and marjoram are not yet +honey. But if he want lyric fineness and technical merits, if he have +not the poetic temperament, he never lacks the causal thought, showing +that his genius was better than his talent. He knew the worth of the +Imagination for the uplifting and consolation of human life, and liked +to throw every thought into a symbol. The fact you tell is of no value, +but only the impression. For this reason his presence was poetic, +always piqued the curiosity to know more deeply the secrets of his +mind. He had many reserves, an unwillingness to exhibit to profane eyes +what was still sacred in his own, and knew well how to throw a poetic +veil over his experience. All readers of “Walden” will remember his +mythical record of his disappointments:— + +“I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse, and a turtledove, and am still +on their trail. Many are the travellers I have spoken concerning them, +describing their tracks, and what calls they answered to. I have met +one or two who had heard the hound, and the tramp of the horse, and +even seen the dove disappear behind a cloud; and they seemed as anxious +to recover them as if they had lost them themselves.” [“Walden” p.20] + +His riddles were worth the reading, and I confide, that, if at any time +I do not understand the expression, it is yet just. Such was the wealth +of his truth that it was not worth his while to use words in vain. His +poem entitled “Sympathy” reveals the tenderness under that triple steel +of stoicism, and the intellectual subtilty it could animate. His +classic poem on “Smoke” suggests Simonides, but is better than any poem +of Simonides. His biography is in his verses. His habitual thought +makes all his poetry a hymn to the Cause of causes, the Spirit which +vivifies and controls his own. + +“I hearing get, who had but ears, +And sight, who had but eyes before; +I moments live, who lived but years, +And truth discern, who knew but learning’s lore.” + + +And still more in these religious lines:— + +“Now chiefly is my natal hour, +And only now my prime of life; +I will not doubt the love untold, +Which not my worth or want hath bought, +Which wooed me young, and wooes me old, +And to this evening hath me brought.” + + +Whilst he used in his writings a certain petulance of remark in +reference to churches or churchmen, he was a person of a rare, tender, +and absolute religion, a person incapable of any profanation, by act or +by thought. Of course, the same isolation which belonged to his +original thinking and living detached him from the social religious +forms. This is neither to be censured nor regretted. Aristotle long ago +explained it, when he said, “One who surpasses his fellow-citizens in +virtue is no longer a part of the city. Their law is not for him, since +he is a law to himself.” + +Thoreau was sincerity itself, and might fortify the convictions of +prophets in the ethical laws by his holy living. It was an affirmative +experience which refused to be set aside. A truth-speaker he, capable +of the most deep and strict conversation; a physician to the wounds of +any soul; a friend, knowing not only the secret of friendship, but +almost worshipped by those few persons who resorted to him as their +confessor and prophet, and knew the deep value of his mind and great +heart. He thought that without religion or devotion of some kind +nothing great was ever accomplished: and he thought that the bigoted +sectarian had better bear this in mind. + +His virtues, of course, sometimes ran into extremes. It was easy to +trace to the inexorable demand on all for exact truth that austerity +which made this willing hermit more solitary even than he wished. +Himself of a perfect probity, he required not less of others. He had a +disgust at crime, and no worldly success could cover it. He detected +paltering as readily in dignified and prosperous persons as in beggars, +and with equal scorn. Such dangerous frankness was in his dealing that +his admirers called him “that terrible Thoreau,” as if he spoke when +silent, and was still present when he had departed. I think the +severity of his ideal interfered to deprive him of a healthy +sufficiency of human society. + +The habit of a realist to find things the reverse of their appearance +inclined him to put every statement in a paradox. A certain habit of +antagonism defaced his earlier writings,—a trick of rhetoric not quite +outgrown in his later, of substituting for the obvious word and thought +its diametrical opposite. He praised wild mountains and winter forests +for their domestic air, in snow and ice he would find sultriness, and +commended the wilderness for resembling Rome and Paris. “It was so dry, +that you might call it wet.” + +The tendency to magnify the moment, to read all the laws of Nature in +the one object or one combination under your eye, is of course comic to +those who do not share the philosopher’s perception of identity. To him +there was no such thing as size. The pond was a small ocean; the +Atlantic, a large Walden Pond. He referred every minute fact to +cosmical laws. Though he meant to be just, he seemed haunted by a +certain chronic assumption that the science of the day pretended +completeness, and he had just found out that the _savans_ had neglected +to discriminate a particular botanical variety, had failed to describe +the seeds or count the sepals. “That is to say,” we replied, “the +blockheads were not born in Concord; but who said they were? It was +their unspeakable misfortune to be born in London, or Paris, or Rome; +but, poor fellows, they did what they could, considering that they +never saw Bateman’s Pond, or Nine-Acre Corner, or Becky-Stow’s Swamp. +Besides, what were you sent into the world for, but to add this +observation?” + +Had his genius been only contemplative, he had been fitted to his life, +but with his energy and practical ability he seemed born for great +enterprise and for command; and I so much regret the loss of his rare +powers of action, that I cannot help counting it a fault in him that he +had no ambition. Wanting this, instead of engineering for all America, +he was the captain of a huckleberry party. Pounding beans is good to +the end of pounding empires one of these days; but if, at the end of +years, it is still only beans! + +But these foibles, real or apparent, were fast vanishing in the +incessant growth of a spirit so robust and wise, and which effaced its +defeats with new triumphs. His study of Nature was a perpetual ornament +to him, and inspired his friends with curiosity to see the world +through his eyes, and to hear his adventures. They possessed every kind +of interest. + +He had many elegances of his own, whilst he scoffed at conventional +elegance. Thus, he could not bear to hear the sound of his own steps, +the grit of gravel; and therefore never willingly walked in the road, +but in the grass, on mountains and in woods. His senses were acute, and +he remarked that by night every dwelling-house gives out bad air, like +a slaughter-house. He liked the pure fragrance of melilot. He honored +certain plants with special regard, and, over all, the pond-lily,—then, +the gentian, and the _Mikania scandens_, and “life-everlasting,” and a +bass-tree which he visited every year when it bloomed, in the middle of +July. He thought the scent a more oracular inquisition than the +sight,—more oracular and trustworthy. The scent, of course, reveals +what is concealed from the other senses. By it he detected earthiness. +He delighted in echoes, and said they were almost the only kind of +kindred voices that he heard. He loved Nature so well, was so happy in +her solitude, that he became very jealous of cities, and the sad work +which their refinements and artifices made with man and his dwelling. +The axe was always destroying his forest. “Thank God,” he said, “they +cannot cut down the clouds!” “All kinds of figures are drawn on the +blue ground with this fibrous white paint.” + +I subjoin a few sentences taken from his unpublished manuscripts, not +only as records of his thought and feeling, but for their power of +description and literary excellence. + +“Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout +in the milk.” + +“The chub is a soft fish, and tastes like boiled brown paper salted.” + +“The youth gets together his materials to build a bridge to the moon, +or, perchance, a palace or temple on the earth, and at length the +middle-aged man concludes to built a wood-shed with them.” + +“The locust z-ing.” + +“Devil’s-needles zigzagging along the Nut-Meadow brook.” + +“Sugar is not so sweet to the palate as sound to the healthy ear.” + +“I put on some hemlock-boughs, and the rich salt crackling of their +leaves was like mustard to the ear, the crackling of uncountable +regiments. Dead trees love the fire.” + +“The bluebird carries the sky on his back.” + +“The tanager flies through the green foliage as if it would ignite the +leaves.” + +“If I wish for a horse-hair for my compass-sight, I must go to the +stable; but the hair-bird, with her sharp eyes, goes to the road.” + +“Immortal water, alive even to the superficies.” + +“Fire is the most tolerable third party.” + +“Nature made ferns for pure leaves, to show what she could do in that +line.” + +“No tree has so fair a bole and so handsome an instep as the beech.” + +“How did these beautiful rainbow-tints get into the shell of the +fresh-water clam, buried in the mud at the bottom of our dark river?” + +“Hard are the times when the infant’s shoes are second-foot.” + +“We are strictly confined to our men to whom we give liberty.” + +“Nothing is so much to be feared as fear. Atheism may comparatively be +popular with God himself.” + +“Of what significance the things you can forget? A little thought is +sexton to all the world.” + +“How can we expect a harvest of thought who have not had a seed-time of +character?” + +“Only he can be trusted with gifts who can present a face of bronze to +expectations.” + +“I ask to be melted. You can only ask of the metals that they be tender +to the fire that melts them. To nought else can they be tender.” + +There is a flower known to botanists, one of the same genus with our +summer plant called “Life-Everlasting,” a _Gnaphalium_ like that, which +grows on the most inaccessible cliffs of the Tyrolese mountains, where +the chamois dare hardly venture, and which the hunter, tempted by its +beauty, and by his love, (for it is immensely valued by the Swiss +maidens,) climbs the cliffs to gather, and is sometimes found dead at +the foot, with the flower in his hand. It is called by botanists the +_Gnaphalium leontopodium_, but by the Swiss _Edelweisse_, which +signifies _Noble Purity_. Thoreau seemed to me living in the hope to +gather this plant, which belonged to him of right. The scale on which +his studies proceeded was so large as to require longevity, and we were +the less prepared for his sudden disappearance. The country knows not +yet, or in the least part, how great a son it has lost. It seems an +injury that he should leave in the midst his broken task, which none +else can finish,—a kind of indignity to so noble a soul, that it should +depart out of Nature before yet he has been really shown to his peers +for what he is. But he, at least, is content. His soul was made for the +noblest society; he had in a short life exhausted the capabilities of +this world; wherever there is knowledge, wherever there is virtue, +wherever there is beauty, he will find a home. + + + + +EXCURSIONS + + + + +NATURAL HISTORY OF MASSACHUSETTS.[1] + + +[1842.] + +Books of natural history make the most cheerful winter reading. I read +in Audubon with a thrill of delight, when the snow covers the ground, +of the magnolia, and the Florida keys, and their warm sea-breezes; of +the fence-rail, and the cotton-tree, and the migrations of the +rice-bird; of the breaking up of winter in Labrador, and the melting of +the snow on the forks of the Missouri; and owe an accession of health +to these reminiscences of luxuriant nature. + +Within the circuit of this plodding life, +There enter moments of an azure hue, +Untarnished fair as is the violet +Or anemone, when the spring strews them +By some meandering rivulet, which make +The best philosophy untrue that aims +But to console man for his grievances. +I have remembered when the winter came, +High in my chamber in the frosty nights, +When in the still light of the cheerful moon, +On every twig and rail and jutting spout, +The icy spears were adding to their length +Against the arrows of the coming sun, +How in the shimmering noon of summer past +Some unrecorded beam slanted across +The upland pastures where the Johnswort grew; +Or heard, amid the verdure of my mind, +The bee’s long smothered hum, on the blue flag +Loitering amidst the mead; or busy rill, +Which now through all its course stands still and dumb +Its own memorial,—purling at its play +Along the slopes, and through the meadows next, +Until its youthful sound was hushed at last +In the staid current of the lowland stream; +Or seen the furrows shine but late upturned, +And where the fieldfare followed in the rear, +When all the fields around lay bound and hoar +Beneath a thick integument of snow. +So by God’s cheap economy made rich +To go upon my winter’s task again. + + +I am singularly refreshed in winter when I hear of service-berries, +poke-weed, juniper. Is not heaven made up of these cheap summer +glories? There is a singular health in those words, Labrador and East +Main, which no desponding creed recognizes. How much more than Federal +are these States. If there were no other vicissitudes than the seasons, +our interest would never tire. Much more is adoing than Congress wots +of. What journal do the persimmon and the buckeye keep, and the +sharp-shinned hawk? What is transpiring from summer to winter in the +Carolinas, and the Great Pine Forest, and the Valley of the Mohawk? The +merely political aspect of the land is never very cheering; men are +degraded when considered as the members of a political organization. On +this side all lands present only the symptoms of decay. I see but +Bunker Hill and Sing-Sing, the District of Columbia and Sullivan’s +Island, with a few avenues connecting them. But paltry are they all +beside one blast of the east or the south wind which blows over them. + +In society you will not find health, but in nature. Unless our feet at +least stood in the midst of nature, all our faces would be pale and +livid. Society is always diseased, and the best is the most so. There +is no scent in it so wholesome as that of the pines, nor any fragrance +so penetrating and restorative as the life-everlasting in high +pastures. I would keep some book of natural history always by me as a +sort of elixir, the reading of which should restore the tone of the +system. To the sick, indeed, nature is sick, but to the well, a +fountain of health. To him who contemplates a trait of natural beauty +no harm nor disappointment can come. The doctrines of despair, of +spiritual or political tyranny or servitude, were never taught by such +as shared the serenity of nature. Surely good courage will not flag +here on the Atlantic border, as long as we are flanked by the Fur +Countries. There is enough in that sound to cheer one under any +circumstances. The spruce, the hemlock, and the pine will not +countenance despair. Methinks some creeds in vestries and churches do +forget the hunter wrapped in furs by the Great Slave Lake, and that the +Esquimaux sledges are drawn by dogs, and in the twilight of the +northern night, the hunter does not give over to follow the seal and +walrus on the ice. They are of sick and diseased imaginations who would +toll the world’s knell so soon. Cannot these sedentary sects do better +than prepare the shrouds and write the epitaphs of those other busy +living men? The practical faith of all men belies the preacher’s +consolation. What is any man’s discourse to me, if I am not sensible of +something in it as steady and cheery as the creak of crickets? In it +the woods must be relieved against the sky. Men tire me when I am not +constantly greeted and refreshed as by the flux of sparkling streams. +Surely joy is the condition of life. Think of the young fry that leap +in ponds, the myriads of insects ushered into being on a summer +evening, the incessant note of the hyla with which the woods ring in +the spring, the nonchalance of the butterfly carrying accident and +change painted in a thousand hues upon its wings, or the brook minnow +stoutly stemming the current, the lustre of whose scales worn bright by +the attrition is reflected upon the bank. + +We fancy that this din of religion, literature, and philosophy, which +is heard in pulpits, lyceums, and parlors, vibrates through the +universe, and is as catholic a sound as the creaking of the earth’s +axle; but if a man sleep soundly, he will forget it all between sunset +and dawn. It is the three-inch swing of a pendulum in a cupboard, which +the great pulse of nature vibrates by and through each instant. When we +lift our eyelids and open our ears, it disappears with smoke and rattle +like the cars on a railroad. When I detect a beauty in any of the +recesses of nature, I am reminded, by the serene and retired spirit in +which it requires to be contemplated, of the inexpressible privacy of a +life,—how silent and unambitious it is. The beauty there is in mosses +must be considered from the holiest, quietest nook. What an admirable +training is science for the more active warfare of life. Indeed, the +unchallenged bravery, which these studies imply, is far more impressive +than the trumpeted valor of the warrior. I am pleased to learn that +Thales was up and stirring by night not unfrequently, as his +astronomical discoveries prove. Linnaeus, setting out for Lapland, +surveys his “comb” and “spare shirt,” “leathern breeches” and “gauze +cap to keep off gnats,” with as much complacency as Bonaparte a park of +artillery for the Russian campaign. The quiet bravery of the man is +admirable. His eye is to take in fish, flower, and bird, quadruped and +biped. Science is always brave, for to know, is to know good; doubt and +danger quail before her eye. What the coward overlooks in his hurry, +she calmly scrutinizes, breaking ground like a pioneer for the array of +arts that follow in her train. But cowardice is unscientific; for there +cannot be a science of ignorance. There may be a science of bravery, +for that advances; but a retreat is rarely well conducted; if it is, +then is it an orderly advance in the face of circumstances. + +But to draw a little nearer to our promised topics. Entomology extends +the limits of being in a new direction, so that I walk in nature with a +sense of greater space and freedom. It suggests besides, that the +universe is not rough-hewn, but perfect in its details. Nature will +bear the closest inspection; she invites us to lay our eye level with +the smallest leaf, and take an insect view of its plain. She has no +interstices; every part is full of life. I explore, too, with pleasure, +the sources of the myriad sounds which crowd the summer noon, and which +seem the very grain and stuff of which eternity is made. Who does not +remember the shrill roll-call of the harvest fly? There were ears for +these sounds in Greece long ago, as Anacreon’s ode will show. + +“We pronounce thee happy, Cicada, +For on the tops of the trees, +Drinking a little dew, +Like any king thou singest, +For thine are they all, +Whatever thou seest in the fields, +And whatever the woods bear. +Thou art the friend of the husbandmen, +In no respect injuring any one; +And thou art honored among men, +Sweet prophet of summer. +The Muses love thee, +And Phoebus himself loves thee, +And has given thee a shrill song; +Age does not wrack thee, +Thou skilful, earthborn, song-loving, +Unsuffering, bloodless one; +Almost thou art like the gods.” + + +In the autumn days, the creaking of crickets is heard at noon over all +the land, and as in summer they are heard chiefly at nightfall, so then +by their incessant chirp they usher in the evening of the year. Nor can +all the vanities that vex the world alter one whit the measure that +night has chosen. Every pulse-beat is in exact time with the cricket’s +chant and the tickings of the deathwatch in the wall. Alternate with +these if you can. + +About two hundred and eighty birds either reside permanently in the +State, or spend the summer only, or make us a passing visit. Those +which spend the winter with us have obtained our warmest sympathy. The +nut-hatch and chicadee flitting in company through the dells of the +wood, the one harshly scolding at the intruder, the other with a faint +lisping note enticing him on; the jay screaming in the orchard; the +crow cawing in unison with the storm; the partridge, like a russet link +extended over from autumn to spring, preserving unbroken the chain of +summers; the hawk with warrior-like firmness abiding the blasts of +winter; the robin[2] and lark lurking by warm springs in the woods; the +familiar snow-bird culling a few seeds in the garden, or a few crumbs +in the yard; and occasionally the shrike, with heedless and unfrozen +melody bringing back summer again;— + +His steady sails he never furls +At any time o’ year, +And perching now on Winter’s curls, +He whistles in his ear. + + +As the spring advances, and the ice is melting in the river, our +earliest and straggling visitors make their appearance. Again does the +old Teian poet sing, as well for New England as for Greece, in the + +RETURN OF SPRING. + + +“Behold, how Spring appearing, +The Graces send forth roses; +Behold, how the wave of the sea +Is made smooth by the calm; +Behold, how the duck dives; +Behold, how the crane travels; +And Titan shines constantly bright. +The shadows of the clouds are moving; +The works of man shine; +The earth puts forth fruits; +The fruit of the olive puts forth. +The cup of Bacchus is crowned, +Along the leaves, along the branches, +The fruit, bending them down, flourishes.” + + +The ducks alight at this season in the still water, in company with the +gulls, which do not fail to improve an east wind to visit our meadows, +and swim about by twos and threes, pluming themselves, and diving to +peck at the root of the lily, and the cranberries which the frost has +not loosened. The first flock of geese is seen beating to north, in +long harrows and waving lines; the gingle of the song-sparrow salutes +us from the shrubs and fences; the plaintive note of the lark comes +clear and sweet from the meadow; and the bluebird, like an azure ray, +glances past us in our walk. The fish-hawk, too, is occasionally seen +at this season sailing majestically over the water, and he who has once +observed it will not soon forget the majesty of its flight. It sails +the air like a ship of the line, worthy to struggle with the elements, +falling back from time to time like a ship on its beam ends, and +holding its talons up as if ready for the arrows, in the attitude of +the national bird. It is a great presence, as of the master of river +and forest. Its eye would not quail before the owner of the soil, but +make him feel like an intruder on its domains. And then its retreat, +sailing so steadily away, is a kind of advance. I have by me one of a +pair of ospreys, which have for some years fished in this vicinity, +shot by a neighboring pond, measuring more than two feet in length, and +six in the stretch of its wings. Nuttall mentions that “The ancients, +particularly Aristotle, pretended that the ospreys taught their young +to gaze at the sun, and those who were unable to do so were destroyed. +Linnaeus even believed, on ancient authority, that one of the feet of +this bird had all the toes divided, while the other was partly webbed, +so that it could swim with one foot, and grasp a fish with the other.” +But that educated eye is now dim, and those talons are nerveless. Its +shrill scream seems yet to linger in its throat, and the roar of the +sea in its wings. There is the tyranny of Jove in its claws, and his +wrath in the erectile feathers of the head and neck. It reminds me of +the Argonautic expedition, and would inspire the dullest to take flight +over Parnassus. + +The booming of the bittern, described by Goldsmith and Nuttall, is +frequently heard in our fens, in the morning and evening, sounding like +a pump, or the chopping of wood in a frosty morning in some distant +farm-yard. The manner in which this sound is produced I have not seen +anywhere described. On one occasion, the bird has been seen by one of +my neighbors to thrust its bill into the water, and suck up as much as +it could hold, then raising its head, it pumped it out again with four +or five heaves of the neck, throwing it two or three feet, and making +the sound each time. + +At length the summer’s eternity is ushered in by the cackle of the +flicker among the oaks on the hill-side, and a new dynasty begins with +calm security. + +In May and June the woodland quire is in full tune, and given the +immense spaces of hollow air, and this curious human ear, one does not +see how the void could be better filled. + +Each summer sound +Is a summer round. + + +As the season advances, and those birds which make us but a passing +visit depart, the woods become silent again, and but few feathers +ruffle the drowsy air. But the solitary rambler may still find a +response and expression for every mood in the depths of the wood. + +Sometimes-I hear the veery’s[3] clarion, +Or brazen trump of the impatient jay, +And in secluded woods the chicadee +Doles out her scanty notes, which sing the praise +Of heroes, and set forth the loveliness +Of virtue evermore. + + +The phoebe still sings in harmony with the sultry weather by the brink +of the pond, nor are the desultory hours of noon in the midst of the +village without their minstrel. + +Upon the lofty elm-tree sprays +The vireo rings the changes sweet, +During the trivial summer days, +Striving to lift our thoughts above the street. + + +With the autumn begins in some measure a new spring. The plover is +heard whistling high in the air over the dry pastures, the finches flit +from tree to tree, the bobolinks and flickers fly in flocks, and the +goldfinch rides on the earliest blast, like a winged hyla peeping amid +the rustle of the leaves. The crows, too, begin now to congregate; you +may stand and count them as they fly low and straggling over the +landscape, singly or by twos and threes, at intervals of half a mile, +until a hundred have passed. + +I have seen it suggested somewhere that the crow was brought to this +country by the white man; but I shall as soon believe that the white +man planted these pines and hemlocks. He is no spaniel to follow our +steps; but rather flits about the clearings like the dusky spirit of +the Indian, reminding me oftener of Philip and Powhatan, than of +Winthrop and Smith. He is a relic of the dark ages. By just so slight, +by just so lasting a tenure does superstition hold the world ever; +there is the rook in England, and the crow in New England. + +Thou dusky spirit of the wood, +Bird of an ancient brood, +Flitting thy lonely way, +A meteor in the summer’s day, +From wood to wood, from hill to hill, +Low over forest, field, and rill, +What wouldst thou say? +Why shouldst thou haunt the day? +What makes thy melancholy float? +What bravery inspires thy throat, +And bears thee up above the clouds, +Over desponding human crowds, +Which far below +Lay thy haunts low? + + +The late walker or sailor, in the October evenings, may hear the +murmurings of the snipe, circling over the meadows, the most +spirit-like sound in nature; and still later in the autumn, when the +frosts have tinged the leaves, a solitary loon pays a visit to our +retired ponds, where he may lurk undisturbed till the season of +moulting is passed, making the woods ring with his wild laughter. This +bird, the Great Northern Diver, well deserves its name; for when +pursued with a boat, it will dive, and swim like a fish under water, +for sixty rods or more, as fast as a boat can be paddled, and its +pursuer, if he would discover his game again, must put his ear to the +surface to hear where it comes up. When it comes to the surface, it +throws the water off with one shake of its wings, and calmly swims +about until again disturbed. + +These are the sights and sounds which reach our senses oftenest during +the year. But sometimes one hears a quite new note, which has for +background other Carolinas and Mexicos than the books describe, and +learns that his ornithology has done him no service. + +It appears from the Report that there are about forty quadrupeds +belonging to the State, and among these one is glad to hear of a few +bears, wolves, lynxes, and wildcats. + +When our river overflows its banks in the spring, the wind from the +meadows is laden with a strong scent of musk, and by its freshness +advertises me of an unexplored wildness. Those backwoods are not far +off then. I am affected by the sight of the cabins of the musk-rat, +made of mud and grass, and raised three or four feet along the river, +as when I read of the barrows of Asia. The musk-rat is the beaver of +the settled States. Their number has even increased within a few years +in this vicinity. Among the rivers which empty into the Merrimack, the +Concord is known to the boatmen as a dead stream. The Indians are said +to have called it Musketaquid, or Prairie River. Its current being much +more sluggish, and its water more muddy than the rest, it abounds more +in fish and game of every kind. According to the History of the town, +“The fur-trade was here once very important. As early as 1641, a +company was formed in the colony, of which Major Willard of Concord was +superintendent, and had the exclusive right to trade with the Indians +in furs and other articles; and for this right they were obliged to pay +into the public treasury one twentieth of all the furs they obtained.” +There are trappers in our midst still, as well as on the streams of the +far West, who night and morning go the round of their traps, without +fear of the Indian. One of these takes from one hundred and fifty to +two hundred musk-rats in a year, and even thirty-six have been shot by +one man in a day. Their fur, which is not nearly as valuable as +formerly, is in good condition in the winter and spring only; and upon +the breaking up of the ice, when they are driven out of their holes by +the water, the greatest number is shot from boats, either swimming or +resting on their stools, or slight supports of grass and reeds, by the +side of the stream. Though they exhibit considerable cunning at other +times, they are easily taken in a trap, which has only to be placed in +their holes, or wherever they frequent, without any bait being used, +though it is sometimes rubbed with their musk. In the winter the hunter +cuts holes in the ice, and shoots them when they come to the surface. +Their burrows are usually in the high banks of the river, with the +entrance under water, and rising within to above the level of high +water. Sometimes their nests, composed of dried meadow grass and flags, +may be discovered where the bank is low and spongy, by the yielding of +the ground under the feet. They have from three to seven or eight young +in the spring. + +Frequently, in the morning or evening, a long ripple is seen in the +still water, where a musk-rat is crossing the stream, with only its +nose above the surface, and sometimes a green bough in its mouth to +build its house with. When it finds itself observed, it will dive and +swim five or six rods under water, and at length conceal itself in its +hole, or the weeds. It will remain under water for ten minutes at a +time, and on one occasion has been seen, when undisturbed, to form an +air-bubble under the ice, which contracted and expanded as it breathed +at leisure. When it suspects danger on shore, it will stand erect like +a squirrel, and survey its neighborhood for several minutes, without +moving. + +In the fall, if a meadow intervene between their burrows and the +stream, they erect cabins of mud and grass, three or four feet high, +near its edge. These are not their breeding-places, though young are +sometimes found in them in late freshets, but rather their +hunting-lodges, to which they resort in the winter with their food, and +for shelter. Their food consists chiefly of flags and fresh-water +muscles, the shells of the latter being left in large quantities around +their lodges in the spring. + +The Penobscot Indian wears the entire skin of a musk-rat, with the legs +and tail dangling, and the head caught under his girdle, for a pouch, +into which he puts his fishing tackle, and essences to scent his traps +with. + +The bear, wolf, lynx, wildcat, deer, beaver, and marten, have +disappeared; the otter is rarely if ever seen here at present; and the +mink is less common than formerly. + +Perhaps of all our untamed quadrupeds, the fox has obtained the widest +and most familiar reputation, from the time of Pilpay and Aesop to the +present day. His recent tracks still give variety to a winter’s walk. I +tread in the steps of the fox that has gone before me by some hours, or +which perhaps I have started, with such a tiptoe of expectation, as if +I were on the trail of the Spirit itself which resides in the wood, and +expected soon to catch it in its lair. I am curious to know what has +determined its graceful curvatures, and how surely they were coincident +with the fluctuations of some mind. I know which way a mind wended, +what horizon it faced, by the setting of these tracks, and whether it +moved slowly or rapidly, by their greater or less intervals and +distinctness; for the swiftest step leaves yet a lasting trace. +Sometimes you will see the trails of many together, and where they have +gambolled and gone through a hundred evolutions, which testify to a +singular listlessness and leisure in nature. + +When I see a fox run across the pond on the snow, with the carelessness +of freedom, or at intervals trace his course in the sunshine along the +ridge of a hill, I give up to him sun and earth as to their true +proprietor. He does not go in the sun, but it seems to follow him, and +there is a visible sympathy between him and it. Sometimes, when the +snow lies light, and but five or six inches deep, you may give chase +and come up with one on foot. In such a case he will show a remarkable +presence of mind, choosing only the safest direction, though he may +lose ground by it. Notwithstanding his fright, he will take no step +which is not beautiful. His pace is a sort of leopard canter, as if he +were in nowise impeded by the snow, but were husbanding his strength +all the while. When the ground is uneven, the course is a series of +graceful curves, conforming to the shape of the surface. He runs as +though there were not a bone in his back. Occasionally dropping his +muzzle to the ground for a rod or two, and then tossing his head aloft, +when satisfied of his course. When he comes to a declivity, he will put +his forefeet together, and slide swiftly down it, shoving the snow +before him. He treads so softly that you would hardly hear it from any +nearness, and yet with such expression that it would not be quite +inaudible at any distance. + +Of fishes, seventy-five genera and one hundred and seven species are +described in the Report. The fisherman will be startled to learn that +there are but about a dozen kinds in the ponds and streams of any +inland town; and almost nothing is known of their habits. Only their +names and residence make one love fishes. I would know even the number +of their fin-rays, and how many scales compose the lateral line. I am +the wiser in respect to all knowledges, and the better qualified for +all fortunes, for knowing that there is a minnow in the brook. Methinks +I have need even of his sympathy, and to be his fellow in a degree. + +I have experienced such simple delight in the trivial matters of +fishing +and sporting, formerly, as might have inspired the muse of Homer or +Shakspeare; and now, when I turn the pages and ponder the plates of the +Angler’s Souvenir, I am fain to exclaim,— + + + “Can these things be, +And overcome us like a summer’s cloud?” + + +Next to nature, it seems as if man’s actions were the most natural, +they so gently accord with her. The small seines of flax stretched +across the shallow and transparent parts of our river, are no more +intrusion than the cobweb in the sun. I stay my boat in midcurrent, and +look down in the sunny water to see the civil meshes of his nets, and +wonder how the blustering people of the town could have done this +elvish work. The twine looks like a new river weed, and is to the river +as a beautiful memento of man’s presence in nature, discovered as +silently and delicately as a footprint in the sand. + +When the ice is covered with snow, I do not suspect the wealth under my +feet; that there is as good as a mine under me wherever I go. How many +pickerel are poised on easy fin fathoms below the loaded wain. The +revolution of the seasons must be a curious phenomenon to them. At +length the sun and wind brush aside their curtain, and they see the +heavens again. + +Early in the spring, after the ice has melted, is the time for spearing +fish. Suddenly the wind shifts from northeast and east to west and +south, and every icicle, which has tinkled on the meadow grass so long, +trickles down its stem, and seeks its level unerringly with a million +comrades. The steam curls up from every roof and fence. + +I see the civil sun drying earth’s tears, +Her tears of joy, which only faster flow. + + +In the brooks is heard the slight grating sound of small cakes of ice, +floating with various speed, full of content and promise, and where the +water gurgles under a natural bridge, you may hear these hasty rafts +hold conversation in an undertone. Every rill is a channel for the +juices of the meadow. In the ponds the ice cracks with a merry and +inspiriting din, and down the larger streams is whirled grating +hoarsely, and crashing its way along, which was so lately a highway for +the woodman’s team and the fox, sometimes with the tracks of the +skaters still fresh upon it, and the holes cut for pickerel. Town +committees anxiously inspect the bridges and causeways, as if by mere +eye-force to intercede with the ice, and save the treasury. + +The river swelleth more and more, +Like some sweet influence stealing o’er +The passive town; and for a while +Each tussuck makes a tiny isle, +Where, on some friendly Ararat, +Resteth the weary water-rat. + +No ripple shows Musketaquid, +Her very current e’en is hid, +As deepest souls do calmest rest, +When thoughts are swelling in the breast, +And she that in the summer’s drought +Doth make a rippling and a rout, +Sleeps from Nabshawtuck to the Cliff, +Unruffled by a single skiff. +But by a thousand distant hills +The louder roar a thousand rills, +And many a spring which now is dumb, +And many a stream with smothered hum, +Doth swifter well and faster glide, +Though buried deep beneath the tide. + +Our village shows a rural Venice, +Its broad lagoons where yonder fen is; +As lovely as the Bay of Naples +Yon placid cove amid the maples; +And in my neighbor’s field of corn +I recognize the Golden Horn. + +Here Nature taught from year to year, +When only red men came to hear, +Methinks ’twas in this school of art +Venice and Naples learned their part; +But still their mistress, to my mind, +Her young disciples leaves behind. + + +The fisherman now repairs and launches his boat. The best time for +spearing is at this season, before the weeds have begun to grow, and +while the fishes lie in the shallow water, for in summer they prefer +the cool depths, and in the autumn they are still more or less +concealed by the grass. The first requisite is fuel for your crate; and +for this purpose the roots of the pitchpine are commonly used, found +under decayed stumps, where the trees have been felled eight or ten +years. + +With a crate, or jack, made of iron hoops, to contain your fire, and +attached to the bow of your boat about three feet from the water, a +fish-spear with seven tines, and fourteen feet long, a large basket, or +barrow, to carry your fuel and bring back your fish, and a thick outer +garment, you are equipped for a cruise. It should be a warm and still +evening; and then with a fire crackling merrily at the prow, you may +launch forth like a cucullo into the night. The dullest soul cannot go +upon such an expedition without some of the spirit of adventure; as if +he had stolen the boat of Charon and gone down the Styx on a midnight +expedition into the realms of Pluto. And much speculation does this +wandering star afford to the musing nightwalker, leading him on and on, +jack-o’lantern-like, over the meadows; or, if he is wiser, he amuses +himself with imagining what of human life, far in the silent night, is +flitting mothlike round its candle. The silent navigator shoves his +craft gently over the water, with a smothered pride and sense of +benefaction, as if he were the phosphor, or light-bringer, to these +dusky realms, or some sister moon, blessing the spaces with her light. +The waters, for a rod or two on either hand and several feet in depth, +are lit up with more than noonday distinctness, and he enjoys the +opportunity which so many have desired, for the roofs of a city are +indeed raised, and he surveys the midnight economy of the fishes. There +they lie in every variety of posture; some on their backs, with their +white bellies uppermost, some suspended in midwater, some sculling +gently along with a dreamy motion of the fins, and others quite active +and wide awake,—a scene not unlike what the human city would present. +Occasionally he will encounter a turtle selecting the choicest morsels, +or a musk-rat resting on a tussuck. He may exercise his dexterity, if +he sees fit, on the more distant and active fish, or fork the nearer +into his boat, as potatoes out of a pot, or even take the sound +sleepers with his hands. But these last accomplishments he will soon +learn to dispense with, distinguishing the real object of his pursuit, +and find compensation in the beauty and never-ending novelty of his +position. The pines growing down to the water’s edge will show newly as +in the glare of a conflagration; and as he floats under the willows +with his light, the song-sparrow will often wake on her perch, and sing +that strain at midnight, which she had meditated for the morning. And +when he has done, he may have to steer his way home through the dark by +the north star, and he will feel himself some degrees nearer to it for +having lost his way on the earth. + +The fishes commonly taken in this way are pickerel, suckers, perch, +eels, pouts, breams, and shiners,—from thirty to sixty weight in a +night. Some are hard to be recognized in the unnatural light, +especially the perch, which, his dark bands being exaggerated, acquires +a ferocious aspect. The number of these transverse bands, which the +Report states to be seven, is, however, very variable, for in some of +our ponds they have nine and ten even. + +It appears that we have eight kinds of tortoises, twelve snakes,—but +one of which is venomous,—nine frogs and toads, nine salamanders, and +one lizard, for our neighbors. + +I am particularly attracted by the motions of the serpent tribe. They +make our hands and feet, the wings of the bird, and the fins of the +fish seems very superfluous, as if nature had only indulged her fancy +in making them. The black snake will dart into a bush when pursued, and +circle round and round with an easy and graceful motion, amid the thin +and bare twigs, five or six feet from the ground, as a bird flits from +bough to bough, or hang in festoons between the forks. Elasticity and +flexibleness in the simpler forms of animal life are equivalent to a +complex system of limbs in the higher; and we have only to be as wise +and wily as the serpent, to perform as difficult feats without the +vulgar assistance of hands and feet. + +In May, the snapping turtle, _Emysaurus serpentina,_ is frequently +taken on the meadows and in the river. The fisherman, taking sight over +the calm surface, discovers its snout projecting above the water, at +the distance of many rods, and easily secures his prey through its +unwillingness to disturb the water by swimming hastily away, for, +gradually drawing its head under, it remains resting on some limb or +clump of grass. Its eggs, which are buried at a distance from the +water, in some soft place, as a pigeon-bed, are frequently devoured by +the skunk. It will catch fish by daylight, as a toad catches flies, and +is said to emit a transparent fluid from its mouth to attract them. + +Nature has taken more care than the fondest parent for the education +and refinement of her children. Consider the silent influence which +flowers exert, no less upon the ditcher in the meadow than the lady in +the bower. When I walk in the woods, I am reminded that a wise purveyor +has been there before me; my most delicate experience is typified +there. I am struck with the pleasing friendships and unanimities of +nature, as when the lichen on the trees takes the form of their leaves. +In the most stupendous scenes you will see delicate and fragile +features, as slight wreaths of vapor, dewlines, feathery sprays, which +suggest a high refinement, a noble blood and breeding, as it were. It +is not hard to account for elves and fairies; they represent this light +grace, this ethereal gentility. Bring a spray from the wood, or a +crystal from the brook, and place it on your mantel, and your household +ornaments will seem plebeian beside its nobler fashion and bearing. It +will wave superior there, as if used to a more refined and polished +circle. It has a salute and a response to all your enthusiasm and +heroism. + +In the winter, I stop short in the path to admire how the trees grow up +without forethought, regardless of the time and circumstances. They do +not wait as man does, but now is the golden age of the sapling. Earth, +air, sun, and rain, are occasion enough; they were no better in +primeval centuries. The “winter of _their_ discontent” never comes. +Witness the buds of the native poplar standing gayly out to the frost +on the sides of its bare switches. They express a naked confidence. +With cheerful heart one could be a sojourner in the wilderness, if he +were sure to find there the catkins of the willow or the alder. When I +read of them in the accounts of northern adventurers, by Baffin’s Bay +or Mackenzie’s river, I see how even there too I could dwell. They are +our little vegetable redeemers. Methinks our virtue will hold out till +they come again. They are worthy to have had a greater than Minerva or +Ceres for their inventor. Who was the benignant goddess that bestowed +them on mankind? + +Nature is mythical and mystical always, and works with the license and +extravagance of genius. She has her luxurious and florid style as well +as art. Having a pilgrim’s cup to make, she gives to the whole, stem, +bowl, handle, and nose, some fantastic shape, as if it were to be the +car of some fabulous marine deity, a Nereus or Triton. + +In the winter, the botanist needs not confine himself to his books and +herbarium, and give over his out-door pursuits, but may study a new +department of vegetable physiology, what may be called crystalline +botany, then. The winter of 1837 was unusually favorable for this. In +December of that year, the Genius of vegetation seemed to hover by +night over its summer haunts with unusual persistency. Such a +hoarfrost, as is very uncommon here or anywhere, and whose full effects +can never be witnessed after sunrise, occurred several times. As I went +forth early on a still and frosty morning, the trees looked like airy +creatures of darkness caught napping; on this side huddled together +with their gray hairs streaming in a secluded valley, which the sun had +not penetrated; on that hurrying off in Indian file along some +watercourse, while the shrubs and grasses, like elves and fairies of +the night, sought to hide their diminished heads in the snow. The +river, viewed from the high bank, appeared of a yellowish green color, +though all the landscape was white. Every tree, shrub, and spire of +grass, that could raise its head above the snow, was covered with a +dense ice-foliage, answering, as it were, leaf for leaf to its summer +dress. Even the fences had put forth leaves in the night. The centre, +diverging, and more minute fibres were perfectly distinct, and the +edges regularly indented. These leaves were on the side of the twig or +stubble opposite to the sun, meeting it for the most part at right +angles, and there were others standing out at all possible angles upon +these and upon one another, with no twig or stubble supporting them. +When the first rays of the sun slanted over the scene, the grasses +seemed hung with innumerable jewels, which jingled merrily as they were +brushed by the foot of the traveller, and reflected all the hues of the +rainbow as he moved from side to side. It struck me that these ghost +leaves, and the green ones whose forms they assume, were the creatures +of but one law; that in obedience to the same law the vegetable juices +swell gradually into the perfect leaf, on the one hand, and the +crystalline particles troop to their standard in the same order, on the +other. As if the material were indifferent, but the law one and +invariable, and every plant in the spring but pushed up into and filled +a permanent and eternal mould, which, summer and winter forever, is +waiting to be filled. + +This foliate structure is common to the coral and the plumage of birds, +and to how large a part of animate and inanimate nature. The same +independence of law on matter is observable in many other instances, as +in the natural rhymes, when some animal form, color, or odor, has its +counterpart in some vegetable. As, indeed, all rhymes imply an eternal +melody, independent of any particular sense. + +As confirmation of the fact, that vegetation is but a kind of +crystallization, every one may observe how, upon the edge of the +melting frost on the window, the needle-shaped particles are bundled +together so as to resemble fields waving with grain, or shocks rising +here and there from the stubble; on one side the vegetation of the +torrid zone, high-towering palms and widespread banyans, such as are +seen in pictures of oriental scenery; on the other, arctic pines stiff +frozen, with downcast branches. + +Vegetation has been made the type of all growth; but as in crystals the +law is more obvious, their material being more simple, and for the most +part more transient and fleeting, would it not be as philosophical as +convenient to consider all growth, all filling up within the limits of +nature, but a crystallization more or less rapid? + +On this occasion, in the side of the high bank of the river, wherever +the water or other cause had formed a cavity, its throat and outer +edge, like the entrance to a citadel, bristled with a glistening +ice-armor. In one place you might see minute ostrich-feathers, which +seemed the waving plumes of the warriors filing into the fortress; in +another, the glancing, fan-shaped banners of the Lilliputian host; and +in another, the needle-shaped particles collected into bundles, +resembling the plumes of the pine, might pass for a phalanx of spears. +From the under side of the ice in the brooks, where there was a thicker +ice below, depended a mass of crystallization, four or five inches +deep, in the form of prisms, with their lower ends open, which, when +the ice was laid on its smooth side, resembled the roofs and steeples +of a Gothic city, or the vessels of a crowded haven under a press of +canvas. The very mud in the road, where the ice had melted, was +crystallized with deep rectilinear fissures, and the crystalline masses +in the sides of the ruts resembled exactly asbestos in the disposition +of their needles. Around the roots of the stubble and flower-stalks, +the frost was gathered into the form of irregular conical shells, or +fairy rings. In some places the ice-crystals were lying upon granite +rocks, directly over crystals of quartz, the frost-work of a longer +night, crystals of a longer period, but to some eye unprejudiced by the +short term of human life, melting as fast as the former. + +In the Report on the Invertebrate Animals, this singular fact is +recorded, which teaches us to put a new value on time and space. “The +distribution of the marine shells is well worthy of notice as a +geological fact. Cape Cod, the right arm of the Commonwealth, reaches +out into the ocean, some fifty or sixty miles. It is nowhere many miles +wide; but this narrow point of land has hitherto proved a barrier to +the migrations of many species of Mollusca. Several genera and numerous +species, which are separated by the intervention of only a few miles of +land, are effectually prevented from mingling by the Cape, and do not +pass from one side to the other…. Of the one hundred and ninety-seven +marine species, eighty-three do not pass to the south shore, and fifty +are not found on the north shore of the Cape.” + +That common muscle, the _Unio complanalus_, or more properly +_fluviatilis_, left in the spring by the musk-rat upon rocks and +stumps, appears to have been an important article of food with the +Indians. In one place, where they are said to have feasted, they are +found in large quantities, at an elevation of thirty feet above the +river, filling the soil to the depth of a foot, and mingled with ashes +and Indian remains. + +The works we have placed at the head of our chapter, with as much +license, as the preacher selects his text, are such as imply more labor +than enthusiasm. The State wanted complete catalogues of its natural +riches, with such additional facts merely as would be directly useful. + +The reports on Fishes, Reptiles, Insects, and Invertebrate Animals, +however, indicate labor and research, and have a value independent of +the object of the legislature. + +Those on Herbaceous Plants and Birds cannot be of much value, as long +as Bigelow and Nuttall are accessible. They serve but to indicate, with +more or less exactness, what species are found in the State. We detect +several errors ourselves, and a more practised eye would no doubt +expand the list. + +The Quadrupeds deserved a more final and instructive report than they +have obtained. + +These volumes deal much in measurements and minute descriptions, not +interesting to the general reader, with only here and there a colored +sentence to allure him, like those plants growing in dark forests, +which bear only leaves without blossoms. But the ground was +comparatively unbroken, and we will not complain of the pioneer, if he +raises no flowers with his first crop. Let us not underrate the value +of a fact; it will one day flower in a truth. It is astonishing how few +facts of importance are added in a century to the natural history of +any animal. The natural history of man himself is still being gradually +written. Men are knowing enough after their fashion. Every countryman +and dairymaid knows that the coats of the fourth stomach of the calf +will curdle milk, and what particular mushroom is a safe and nutritious +diet. You cannot go into any field or wood, but it will seem as if +every stone had been turned, and the bark on every tree ripped up. But, +after all, it is much easier to discover than to see when the cover is +off! It has been well said that “the attitude of inspection is prone.” +Wisdom does not inspect, but behold. We must look a long time before we +can see. Slow are the beginnings of philosophy. He has something +demoniacal in him, who can discern a law or couple two facts. We can +imagine a time when,—“Water runs down hill,”—may have been taught in +the schools. The true man of science will know nature better by his +finer organization; he will smell, taste, see, hear, feel, better than +other men. His will be a deeper and finer experience. We do not learn +by inference and deduction, and the application of mathematics to +philosophy, but by direct intercourse and sympathy. It is with science +as with ethics,—we cannot know truth by contrivance and method; the +Baconian is as false as any other, and with all the helps of machinery +and the arts, the most scientific will still be the healthiest and +friendliest man, and possess a more perfect Indian wisdom. + + [2] A white robin, and a white quail have occasionally been seen. It + is mentioned in Audubon as remarkable that the nest of a robin should + be found on the ground; but this bird seems to be less particular than + most in the choice of a building spot. I have seen its nest placed + under the thatched roof of a deserted barn, and in one instance, where + the adjacent country was nearly destitute of trees, together with two + of the phoebe, upon the end of a board in the loft of a saw-mill, but + a few feet from the saw, which vibrated several inches with the motion + of the machinery. + + + [3] This bird, which is so well described by Nuttall, but is + apparently unknown by the author of the Report, is one of the most + common in the woods in this vicinity, and in Cambridge I have heard + the college yard ring with its trill. The boys call it “_yorrick_,” + from the sound of its querulous and chiding note, as it flits near the + traveller through the underwood. The cowbird’s egg is occasionally + found in its nest, as mentioned by Audubon. + + + [1] _Reports—on the Fishes, Reptiles, and Birds; the Herbaceous Plants + and Quadrupeds; the Insects Injurious to Vegetation; and the + Invertebrate Animals of Massachusetts_. Published agreeably to an + Order of the Legislature, by the Commissioners on the Zoölogical and + Botanical Survey of the State. + + + + +A WALK TO WACHUSETT. + + +[1843.] + +The needles of the pine +All to the west incline. + +CONCORD, _July_ 19, 1842. + +Summer and winter our eyes had rested on the dim outline of the +mountains in our horizon, to which distance and indistinctness lent a +grandeur not their own, so that they served equally to interpret all +the allusions of poets and travellers; whether with Homer, on a spring +morning, we sat down on the many-peaked Olympus, or, with Virgil and +his compeers, roamed the Etrurian and Thessalian hills, or with +Humboldt measured the more modern Andes and Teneriffe. Thus we spoke +our mind to them, standing on the Concord cliffs.— + +With frontier strength ye stand your ground, +With grand content ye circle round, +Tumultuous silence for all sound, +Ye distant nursery of rills, +Monadnock, and the Peterboro’ hills; +Like some vast fleet, +Sailing through rain and sleet, +Through winter’s cold and summer’s heat; +Still holding on, upon your high emprise, +Until ye find a shore amid the skies; +Not skulking close to land, +With cargo contraband. +For they who sent a venture out by ye +Have set the sun to see +Their honesty. +Ships of the line, each one, +Ye to the westward run, +Always before the gale, +Under a press of sail, +With weight of metal all untold. +I seem to feel ye, in my firm seat here, +Immeasurable depth of hold, +And breadth of beam, and length of running gear. + +Methinks ye take luxurious pleasure +In your novel western leisure; +So cool your brows, and freshly blue, +As Time had nought for ye to do; +For ye lie at your length, +An unappropriated strength, +Unhewn primeval timber, +For knees so stiff, for masts so limber; +The stock of which new earths are made, +One day to be our western trade, +Fit for the stanchions of a world +Which through the seas of space is hurled. + +While we enjoy a lingering ray, +Ye still o’ertop the western day, +Reposing yonder, on God’s croft, +Like solid stacks of hay. +Edged with silver, and with gold, +The clouds hang o’er in damask fold, +And with such depth of amber light +The west is dight, +Where still a few rays slant, +That even heaven seems extravagant. +On the earth’s edge mountains and trees +Stand as they were on air graven, +Or as the vessels in a haven +Await the morning breeze. +I fancy even +Through your defiles windeth the way to heaven; +And yonder still, in spite of history’s page, +Linger the golden and the silver age; +Upon the laboring gale +The news of future centuries is brought, +And of new dynasties of thought, +From your remotest vale. + +But special I remember thee, +Wachusett, who like me +Standest alone without society. +Thy far blue eye, +A remnant of the sky, +Seen through the clearing or the gorge, +Or from the windows on the forge, +Doth leaven all it passes by. +Nothing is true, +But stands ’tween me and you, +Thou western pioneer, +Who know’st not shame nor fear, +By venturous spirit driven, +Under the eaves of heaven, +And can’st expand thee there, +And breathe enough of air? +Upholding heaven, holding down earth, +Thy pastime from thy birth, +Not steadied by the one, nor leaning on the other; +May I approve myself thy worthy brother! + + +At length, like Rasselas, and other inhabitants of happy valleys, we +resolved to scale the blue wall which bound the western horizon, though +not without misgivings, that thereafter no visible fairy land would +exist for us. But we will not leap at once to our journey’s end, though +near, but imitate Homer, who conducts his reader over the plain, and +along the resounding sea, though it be but to the tent of Achilles. In +the spaces of thought are the reaches of land and water, where men go +and come. The landscape lies far and fair within, and the deepest +thinker is the farthest travelled. + +At a cool and early hour on a pleasant morning in July, my companion +and I passed rapidly through Acton and Stow, stopping to rest and +refresh us on the bank of a small stream, a tributary of the Assabet, +in the latter town. As we traversed the cool woods of Acton, with stout +staves in our hands, we were cheered by the song of the red-eye, the +thrushes, the phoebe, and the cuckoo; and as we passed through the open +country, we inhaled the fresh scent of every field, and all nature lay +passive, to be viewed and travelled. Every rail, every farm-house, seen +dimly in the twilight, every tinkling sound told of peace and purity, +and we moved happily along the dank roads, enjoying not such privacy as +the day leaves when it withdraws, but such as it has not profaned. It +was solitude with light; which is better than darkness. But anon, the +sound of the mower’s rifle was heard in the fields, and this, too, +mingled with the lowing kine. + +This part of our route lay through the country of hops, which plant +perhaps supplies the want of the vine in American scenery, and may +remind the traveller of Italy, and the South of France, whether he +traverses the country when the hop-fields, as then, present solid and +regular masses of verdure, hanging in graceful festoons from pole to +pole; the cool coverts where lurk the gales which refresh the wayfarer; +or in September, when the women and children, and the neighbors from +far and near, are gathered to pick the hops into long troughs; or later +still, when the poles stand piled in vast pyramids in the yards, or lie +in heaps by the roadside. + +The culture of the hop, with the processes of picking, drying in the +kiln, and packing for the market, as well as the uses to which it is +applied, so analogous to the culture and uses of the grape, may afford +a theme for future poets. + +The mower in the adjacent meadow could not tell us the name of the +brook on whose banks we had rested, or whether it had any, but his +younger companion, perhaps his brother, knew that it was Great Brook. +Though they stood very near together in the field, the things they knew +were very far apart; nor did they suspect each other’s reserved +knowledge, till the stranger came by. In Bolton, while we rested on the +rails of a cottage fence, the strains of music which issued from +within, probably in compliment to us, sojourners, reminded us that thus +far men were fed by the accustomed pleasures. So soon did we, +wayfarers, begin to learn that man’s life is rounded with the same few +facts, the same simple relations everywhere, and it is vain to travel +to find it new. The flowers grow more various ways than he. But coming +soon to higher land, which afforded a prospect of the mountains, we +thought we had not travelled in vain, if it were only to hear a truer +and wilder pronunciation of their names, from the lips of the +inhabitants; not _Way_-tatic, _Way_-chusett, but _Wor_-tatic, +_Wor_-chusett. It made us ashamed of our tame and civil pronunciation, +and we looked upon them as born and bred farther west than we. Their +tongues had a more generous accent than ours, as if breath was cheaper +where they wagged. A countryman, who speaks but seldom, talks +copiously, as it were, as his wife sets cream and cheese before you +without stint. Before noon we had reached the highlands overlooking the +valley of Lancaster, (affording the first fair and open prospect into +the west,) and there, on the top of a hill, in the shade of some oaks, +near to where a spring bubbled out from a leaden pipe, we rested during +the heat of the day, reading Virgil, and enjoying the scenery. It was +such a place as one feels to be on the outside of the earth, for from +it we could, in some measure, see the form and structure of the globe. +There lay Wachusett, the object of our journey, lowering upon us with +unchanged proportions, though with a less ethereal aspect than had +greeted our morning gaze, while further north, in successive order, +slumbered its sister mountains along the horizon. + +We could get no further into the Aeneid than + +—atque altae moenia Romae, +—and the wall of high Rome, + + +before we were constrained to reflect by what myriad tests a work of +genius has to be tried; that Virgil, away in Rome, two thousand years +off, should have to unfold his meaning, the inspiration of Italian +vales, to the pilgrim on New England hills. This life so raw and +modern, that so civil and ancient; and yet we read Virgil, mainly to be +reminded of the identity of human nature in all ages, and, by the +poet’s own account, we are both the children of a late age, and live +equally under the reign of Jupiter. + +“He shook honey from the leaves, and removed fire, +And stayed the wine, everywhere flowing in rivers; +That experience, by meditating, might invent various arts +By degrees, and seek the blade of corn in furrows, +And strike out hidden fire from the veins of the flint.” + + +The old world stands serenely behind the new, as one mountain yonder +towers behind another, more dim and distant. Rome imposes her story +still upon this late generation. The very children in the school we had +that morning passed, had gone through her wars, and recited her alarms, +ere they had heard of the wars of neighboring Lancaster. The roving eye +still rests inevitably on her hills, and she still holds up the skirts +of the sky on that side, and makes the past remote. + +The lay of the land hereabouts is well worthy the attention of the +traveller. The hill on which we were resting made part of an extensive +range, running from southwest to northeast, across the country, and +separating the waters of the Nashua from those of the Concord, whose +banks we had left in the morning; and by bearing in mind this fact, we +could easily determine whither each brook was bound that crossed our +path. Parallel to this, and fifteen miles further west, beyond the deep +and broad valley in which lie Groton, Shirley, Lancaster, and Boylston, +runs the Wachusett range, in the same general direction. The descent +into the valley on the Nashua side, is by far the most sudden; and a +couple of miles brought us to the southern branch of the Nashua, a +shallow but rapid stream, flowing between high and gravelly banks. But +we soon learned that there were no _gelidae valles_ into which we had +descended, and missing the coolness of the morning air, feared it had +become the sun’s turn to try his power upon us. + +“The sultry sun had gained the middle sky, +And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh.” + + +and with melancholy pleasure we echoed the melodious plaint of our +fellow-traveller, Hassan, in the desert,— + +“Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, +When first from Schiraz’ walls I bent my way.” + + +The air lay lifeless between the hills, as in a seething caldron, with +no leaf stirring, and instead of the fresh odor of grass and clover, +with which we had before been regaled, the dry scent of every herb +seemed merely medicinal. Yielding, therefore, to the heat, we strolled +into the woods, and along the course of a rivulet, on whose banks we +loitered, observing at our leisure the products of these new fields. He +who traverses the woodland paths, at this season, will have occasion to +remember the small drooping bell-like flowers and slender red stem of +the dogs-bane, and the coarser stem and berry of the poke, which are +both common in remoter and wilder scenes; and if “the sun casts such a +reflecting heat from the sweet fern,” as makes him faint, when he is +climbing the bare hills, as they complained who first penetrated into +these parts, the cool fragrance of the swamp pink restores him again, +when traversing the valleys between. + +As we went on our way late in the afternoon, we refreshed ourselves by +bathing our feet in every rill that crossed the road, and anon, as we +were able to walk in the shadows of the hills, recovered our morning +elasticity. Passing through Sterling, we reached the banks of the +Stillwater, in the western part of the town, at evening, where is a +small village collected. We fancied that there was already a certain +western look about this place, a smell of pines and roar of water, +recently confined by dams, belying its name, which were exceedingly +grateful. When the first inroad has been made, a few acres levelled, +and a few houses erected, the forest looks wilder than ever. Left to +herself, nature is always more or less civilized, and delights in a +certain refinement; but where the axe has + +encroached upon the edge of the forest, the dead and unsightly limbs of +the pine, which she had concealed with green banks of verdure, are +exposed to sight. This village had, as yet, no post-office, nor any +settled name. In the small villages which we entered, the villagers +gazed after us, with a complacent, almost compassionate look, as if we +were just making our _debut_ in the world at a late hour. +“Nevertheless,” did they seem to say, “come and study us, and learn men +and manners.” So is each one’s world but a clearing in the forest, so +much open and inclosed ground. The landlord had not yet returned from +the field with his men, and the cows had yet to be milked. But we +remembered the inscription on the wall of the Swedish inn, “You will +find at Trolhate excellent bread, meat, and wine, provided you bring +them with you,” and were contented. But I must confess it did somewhat +disturb our pleasure, in this withdrawn spot, to have our own village +newspaper handed us by our host, as if the greatest charm the country +offered to the traveller was the facility of communication with the +town. Let it recline on its own everlasting hills, and not be looking +out from their summits for some petty Boston or New York in the +horizon. + +At intervals we heard the murmuring of water, and the slumberous +breathing of crickets throughout the night; and left the inn the next +morning in the gray twilight, after it had been hallowed by the night +air, and when only the innocent cows were stirring, with a kind of +regret. It was only four miles to the base of the mountain, and the +scenery was already more picturesque. Our road lay along the course of +the Stillwater, which was brawling at the bottom of a deep ravine, +filled with pines and rocks, tumbling fresh from the mountains, so +soon, alas! to commence its career of usefulness. At first, a cloud +hung between us and the summit, but it was soon blown away. As we +gathered the raspberries, which grew abundantly by the roadside, we +fancied that that action was consistent with a lofty prudence, as if +the traveller who ascends into a mountainous region should fortify +himself by eating of such light ambrosial fruits as grow there; and, +drinking of the springs which gush out from the mountain sides, as he +gradually inhales the subtler and purer atmosphere of those elevated +places, thus propitiating the mountain gods, by a sacrifice of their +own fruits. The gross products of the plains and valleys are for such +as dwell therein; but it seemed to us that the juices of this berry had +relation to the thin air of the mountain-tops. + +In due time we began to ascend the mountain, passing, first, through a +grand sugar maple wood, which bore the marks of the augur, then a +denser forest, which gradually became dwarfed, till there were no trees +whatever. We at length pitched our tent on the summit. It is but +nineteen hundred feet above the village of Princeton, and three +thousand above the level of the sea; but by this slight elevation it is +infinitely removed from the plain, and when we reached it, we felt a +sense of remoteness, as if we had travelled into distant regions, to +Arabia Petrea, or the farthest east. A robin upon a staff, was the +highest object in sight. Swallows were flying about us, and the chewink +and cuckoo were heard near at hand. The summit consists of a few acres, +destitute of trees, covered with bare rocks, interspersed with +blueberry bushes, raspberries, gooseberries, strawberries, moss, and a +fine wiry grass. The common yellow lily, and dwarf-cornel, grow +abundantly in the crevices of the rocks. This clear space, which is +gently rounded, is bounded a few feet lower by a thick shrubbery of +oaks, with maples, aspens, beeches, cherries, and occasionally a +mountain-ash intermingled, among which we found the bright blueberries +of the Solomon’s Seal, and the fruit of the pyrola. From the foundation +of a wooden observatory, which was formerly erected on the highest +point, forming a rude, hollow structure of stone, a dozen feet in +diameter, and five or six in height, we could see Monadnock, in simple +grandeur, in the northwest, rising nearly a thousand feet higher, still +the “far blue mountain,” though with an altered profile. The first day +the weather was so hazy that it was in vain we endeavored to unravel +the obscurity. It was like looking into the sky again, and the patches +of forest here and there seemed to flit like clouds over a lower +heaven. As to voyagers of an aërial Polynesia, the earth seemed like a +larger island in the ether; on every side, even as low as we, the sky +shutting down, like an unfathomable deep, around it, a blue Pacific +island, where who knows what islanders inhabit? and as we sail near its +shores we see the waving of trees, and hear the lowing of kine. + +We read Virgil and Wordsworth in our tent, with new pleasure there, +while, waiting for a clearer atmosphere, nor did the weather prevent +our appreciating the simple truth and beauty of Peter Bell: + +“And he had lain beside his asses, +On lofty Cheviot hills.” + +“And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales, +Among the rocks and winding _scars_, +Where deep and low the hamlets lie +Beneath their little patch of sky, +And little lot of stars.” + + +Who knows but this hill may one day be a Helvellyn, or even a +Parnassus, and the Muses haunt here, and other Homers frequent the +neighboring plains, + +Not unconcerned Wachusett rears his head + Above the field, so late from nature won, +With patient brow reserved, as one who read + New annals in the history of man. + + +The blue-berries which the mountain afforded, added to the milk we had +brought, made our frugal supper, while for entertainment the evensong +of the wood-thrush rung along the ridge. Our eyes rested on no painted +ceiling nor carpeted hall, but on skies of nature’s painting, and hills +and forests of her embroidery. Before sunset, we rambled along the +ridge to the north, while a hawk soared still above us. It was a place +where gods might wander, so solemn and solitary, and removed from all +contagion with the plain. As the evening came on, the haze was +condensed in vapor, and the landscape became more distinctly visible, +and numerous sheets of water were brought to light. + +Et jam summa procul villarum culmina fumant, +Majoresque cadunt altis de montibus umbrae. + + +And now the tops of the villas smoke afar off, +And the shadows fall longer from the high mountains. + + +As we stood on the stone tower while the sun was setting, we saw the +shades of night creep gradually over the valleys of the east, and the +inhabitants went into their houses, and shut their doors, while the +moon silently rose up, and took possession of that part. And then the +same scene was repeated on the west side, as far as the Connecticut and +the Green Mountains, and the sun’s rays fell on us two alone, of all +New England men. + +It was the night but one before the full of the moon, so bright that we +could see to read distinctly by moonlight, and in the evening strolled +over the summit without danger. There was, by chance, a fire blazing on +Monadnock that night, which lighted up the whole western horizon, and +by making us aware of a community of mountains, made our position seem +less solitary. But at length the wind drove us to the shelter of our +tent, and we closed its door for the night, and fell asleep. + +It was thrilling to hear the wind roar over the rocks, at intervals +when we waked, for it had grown quite cold and windy. The night was in +its elements, simple even to majesty in that bleak place,—a bright +moonlight and a piercing wind. It was at no time darker than twilight +within the tent, and we could easily see the moon through its +transparent roof as we lay; for there was the moon still above us, with +Jupiter and Saturn on either hand, looking down on Wachusett, and it +was a satisfaction to know that they were our fellow-travellers still, +as high and out of our reach as our own destiny. Truly the stars were +given for a consolation to man. We should not know but our life were +fated to be always grovelling, but it is permitted to behold them, and +surely they are deserving of a fair destiny. We see laws which never +fail, of whose failure we never conceived; and their lamps burn all the +night, too, as well as all day,— so rich and lavish is that nature +which can afford this superfluity of light. + +The morning twilight began as soon as the moon had set, and we arose +and kindled our fire, whose blaze might have been seen for thirty miles +around. As the daylight increased, it was remarkable how rapidly the +wind went down. There was no dew on the summit, but coldness supplied +its place. When the dawn had reached its prime, we enjoyed the view of +a distinct horizon line, and could fancy ourselves at sea, and the +distant hills the waves in the horizon, as seen from the deck of a +vessel. The cherry-birds flitted around us, the nuthatch and flicker +were heard among the bushes, the titmouse perched within a few feet, +and the song of the wood-thrush again rung along the ridge. At length +we saw the sun rise up out of the sea, and shine on Massachusetts; and +from this moment the atmosphere grew more and more transparent till the +time of our departure, and we began to realize the extent of the view, +and how the earth, in some degree, answered to the heavens in breadth, +the white villages to the constellations in the sky. There was little +of the sublimity and grandeur which belong to mountain scenery, but an +immense landscape to ponder on a summer’s day. We could see how ample +and roomy is nature. As far as the eye could reach, there was little +life in the landscape; the few birds that flitted past did not crowd. +The travellers on the remote highways, which intersect the country on +every side, had no fellow-travellers for miles, before or behind. On +every side, the eye ranged over successive circles of towns, rising one +above another, like the terraces of a vineyard, till they were lost in +the horizon. Wachusett is, in fact, the observatory of the State. There +lay Massachusetts, spread out before us in its length and breadth, like +a map. There was the level horizon, which told of the sea on the east +and south, the well-known hills of New Hampshire on the north, and the +misty summits of the Hoosac and Green Mountains, first made visible to +us the evening before, blue and unsubstantial, like some bank of clouds +which the morning wind would dissipate, on the northwest and west. +These last distant ranges, on which the eye rests unwearied, commence +with an abrupt boulder in the north, beyond the Connecticut, and travel +southward, with three or four peaks dimly seen. But Monadnock, rearing +its masculine front in the northwest, is the grandest feature. As we +beheld it, we knew that it was the height of land between the two +rivers, on this side the valley of the Merrimack, or that of the +Connecticut, fluctuating with their blue seas of air,—these rival +vales, already teeming with Yankee men along their respective streams, +born to what destiny who shall tell? Watatic, and the neighboring hills +in this State and in New Hampshire, are a continuation of the same +elevated range on which we were standing. But that New Hampshire +bluff,—that promontory of a State,—lowering day and night on this our +State of Massachusetts, will longest haunt our dreams. + +We could, at length, realize the place mountains occupy on the land, +and how they come into the general scheme of the universe. When first +we climb their summits and observe their lesser irregularities, we do +not give credit to the comprehensive intelligence which shaped them; +but when afterward we behold their outlines in the horizon, we confess +that the hand which moulded their opposite slopes, making one to +balance the other, worked round a deep centre, and was privy to the +plan of the universe. So is the least part of nature in its bearings +referred to all space. These lesser mountain ranges, as well as the +Alleghanies, run from northeast to southwest, and parallel with these +mountain streams are the more fluent rivers, answering to the general +direction of the coast, the bank of the great ocean stream itself. Even +the clouds, with their thin bars, fall into the same direction by +preference, and such even is the course of the prevailing winds, and +the migration of men and birds. A mountain-chain determines many things +for the statesman and philosopher. The improvements of civilization +rather creep along its sides than cross its summit. How often is it a +barrier to prejudice and fanaticism? In passing over these heights of +land, through their thin atmosphere, the follies of the plain are +refined and purified; and as many species of plants do not scale their +summits, so many species of folly no doubt do not cross the +Alleghanies; it is only the hardy mountain plant that creeps quite over +the ridge, and descends into the valley beyond. + +We get a dim notion of the flight of birds, especially of such as fly +high in the air, by having ascended a mountain. We can now see what +landmarks mountains are to their migrations; how the Catskills and +Highlands have hardly sunk to them, when Wachusett and Monadnock open a +passage to the northeast; how they are guided, too, in their course by +the rivers and valleys; and who knows but by the stars, as well as the +mountain ranges, and not by the petty landmarks which we use. The bird +whose eye takes in the Green Mountains on the one side, and the ocean +on the other, need not be at a loss to find its way. + +At noon we descended the mountain, and having returned to the abodes of +men, turned our faces to the east again; measuring our progress, from +time to time, by the more ethereal hues which the mountain assumed. +Passing swiftly through Stillwater and Sterling, as with a downward +impetus, we found ourselves almost at home again in the green meadows +of Lancaster, so like our own Concord, for both are watered by two +streams which unite near their centres, and have many other features in +common. There is an unexpected refinement about this scenery; level +prairies of great extent, interspersed with elms and hop-fields and +groves of trees, give it almost a classic appearance. This, it will be +remembered, was the scene of Mrs. Kowlandson’s capture, and of other +events in the Indian wars, but from this July afternoon, and under that +mild exterior, those times seemed as remote as the irruption of the +Goths. They were the dark age of New England. On beholding a picture of +a New England village as it then appeared, with a fair open prospect, +and a light on trees and river, as if it were broad noon, we find we +had not thought the sun shone in those days, or that men lived in broad +daylight then. We do not imagine the sun shining on hill and valley +during Philip’s war, nor on the war-path of Paugus, or Standish, or +Church, or Lovell, with serene summer weather, but a dim twilight or +night did those events transpire in. They must have fought in the shade +of their own dusky deeds. + +At length, as we plodded along the dusty roads, our thoughts became as +dusty as they; all thought indeed stopped, thinking broke down, or +proceeded only passively in a sort of rhythmical cadence of the +confused material of thought, and we found ourselves mechanically +repeating some familiar measure which timed with our tread; some verse +of the Robin Hood ballads, for instance, which one can recommend to +travel by. + +“Swearers are swift, sayd lyttle John, + As the wind blows over the hill; +For if it be never so loud this night, + To-morrow it may be still.” + + +And so it went up hill and down till a stone interrupted the line, when +a new verse was chosen. + +“His shoote it was but loosely shot, + Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, +For it met one of the sheriffe’s men, + And William-a-Trent was slaine.” + + +There is, however, this consolation to the most way-worn traveller, +upon the dustiest road, that the path his feet describe is so perfectly +symbolical of human life,—now climbing the hills, now descending into +the vales. From the summits he beholds the heavens and the horizon, +from the vales he looks up to the heights again. He is treading his old +lessons still, and though he may be very weary and travel-worn, it is +yet sincere experience. + +Leaving the Nashua, we changed our route a little, and arrived at +Stillriver Village, in the western part of Harvard, just as the sun was +setting. From this place, which lies to the northward, upon the western +slope of the same range of hills on which we had spent the noon before, +in the adjacent town, the prospect is beautiful, and the grandeur of +the mountain outlines unsurpassed. There was such a repose and quiet +here at this hour, as if the very hill-sides were enjoying the scene, +and we passed slowly along, looking back over the country we had +traversed, and listening to the evening song of the robin, we could not +help contrasting the equanimity of nature with the bustle and +impatience of man. His words and actions presume always a crisis near +at hand, but she is forever silent and unpretending. + +And now that we have returned to the desultory life of the plain, let +us endeavor to import a little of that mountain grandeur into it. We +will remember within what walls we lie, and understand that this level +life too has its summit, and why from the mountain-top the deepest +valleys have a tinge of blue; that there is elevation in every hour, as +no part of the earth is so low that the heavens may not be seen from, +and we have only to stand on the summit of our hour to command an +uninterrupted horizon. + +We rested that night at Harvard, and the next morning, while one bent +his steps to the nearer village of Groton, the other took his separate +and solitary way to the peaceful meadows of Concord; but let him not +forget to record the brave hospitality of a farmer and his wife, who +generously entertained him at their board, though the poor wayfarer +could only congratulate the one on the continuance of hayweather, and +silently accept the kindness of the other. Refreshed by this instance +of generosity, no less than by the substantial viands set before him, +he pushed forward with new vigor, and reached the banks of the Concord +before the sun had climbed many degrees into the heavens. + + + + +THE LANDLORD. + + +[1843.] + +Under the one word, house, are included the school-house, the +alms-house, the jail, the tavern, the dwelling-house; and the meanest +shed or cave in which men live contains the elements of all these. But +nowhere on the earth stands the entire and perfect house. The +Parthenon, St. Peter’s, the Gothic minster, the palace, the hovel, are +but imperfect executions of an imperfect idea. Who would dwell in them? +Perhaps to the eye of the gods, the cottage is more holy than the +Parthenon, for they look down with no especial favor upon the shrines +formally dedicated to them, and that should be the most sacred roof +which shelters most of humanity. Surely, then, the gods who are most +interested in the human race preside over the Tavern, where especially +men congregate. Methinks I see the thousand shrines erected to +Hospitality shining afar in all countries, as well Mahometan and +Jewish, as Christian, khans, and caravansaries, and inns, whither all +pilgrims without distinction resort. + +Likewise we look in vain, east or west over the earth, to find the +perfect man; but each represents only some particular excellence. The +Landlord is a man of more open and general sympathies, who possesses a +spirit of hospitality which is its own reward, and feeds and shelters +men from pure love of the creatures. To be sure, this profession is as +often filled by imperfect characters, and such as have sought it from +unworthy motives, as any other, but so much the more should we prize +the true and honest Landlord when we meet with him. + +Who has not imagined to himself a country inn, where the traveller +shall really feel _in_, and at home, and at his public-house, who was +before at his private house; whose host is indeed a _host_, and a +_lord_ of the _land_, a self-appointed brother of his race; called to +his place, beside, by all the winds of heaven and his good genius, as +truly as the preacher is called to preach; a man of such universal +sympathies, and so broad and genial a human nature, that he would fain +sacrifice the tender but narrow ties of private friendship, to a broad, +sunshiny, fair-weather-and-foul friendship for his race; who loves men, +not as a philosopher, with philanthropy, nor as an overseer of the +poor, with charity, but by a necessity of his nature, as he loves dogs +and horses; and standing at his open door from morning till night, +would fain see more and more of them come along the highway, and is +never satiated. To him the sun and moon are but travellers, the one by +day and the other by night; and they too patronize his house. To his +imagination all things travel save his sign-post and himself; and +though you may be his neighbor for years, he will show you only the +civilities of the road. But on the other hand, while nations and +individuals are alike selfish and exclusive, he loves all men equally; +and if he treats his nearest neighbor as a stranger, since he has +invited all nations to share his hospitality, the farthest travelled is +in some measure kindred to him who takes him into the bosom of his +family. + +He keeps a house of entertainment at the sign of the Black Horse or the +Spread Eagle, and is known far and wide, and his fame travels with +increasing radius every year. All the neighborhood is in his interest, +and if the traveller ask how far to a tavern, he receives some such +answer as this: “Well, sir, there’s a house about three miles from +here, where they haven’t taken down their sign yet; but it’s only ten +miles to Slocum’s, and that’s a capital house, both for man and beast.” +At three miles he passes a cheerless barrack, standing desolate behind +its sign-post, neither public nor private, and has glimpses of a +discontented couple who have mistaken their calling. At ten miles see +where the Tavern stands,—really an _entertaining_ prospect,—so public +and inviting that only the rain and snow do not enter. It is no gay +pavilion, made of bright stuffs, and furnished with nuts and +gingerbread, but as plain and sincere as a caravansary; located in no +Tarrytown, where you receive only the civilities of commerce, but far +in the fields it exercises a primitive hospitality, amid the fresh +scent of new hay and raspberries, if it be summer time, and the +tinkling of cow-bells from invisible pastures; for it is a land flowing +with milk and honey, and the newest milk courses in a broad, deep +stream across the premises. + +In these retired places the tavern is first of all a house—elsewhere, +last of all, or never,—and warms and shelters its inhabitants. It is as +simple and sincere in its essentials as the caves in which the first +men dwelt, but it is also as open and public. The traveller steps +across the threshold, and lo! he too is master, for he only can be +called proprietor of the house here who behaves with most propriety in +it. The Landlord stands clear back in nature, to my imagination, with +his axe and spade felling trees and raising potatoes with the vigor of +a pioneer; with Promethean energy making nature yield her increase to +supply the wants of so many; and he is not so exhausted, nor of so +short a stride, but that he comes forward even to the highway to this +wide hospitality and publicity. Surely, he has solved some of the +problems of life. He comes in at his backdoor, holding a log fresh cut +for the hearth upon his shoulder with one hand, while he greets the +newly arrived traveller with the other. + +Here at length we have free range, as not in palaces, nor cottages, nor +temples, and intrude nowhere. All the secrets of housekeeping are +exhibited to the eyes of men, above and below, before and behind. This +is the necessary way to live, men have confessed, in these days, and +shall he skulk and hide? And why should we have any serious disgust at +kitchens? Perhaps they are the holiest recess of the house. There is +the hearth, after all,—and the settle, and the fagots, and the kettle, +and the crickets. We have pleasant reminiscences of these. They are the +heart, the left ventricle, the very vital part of the house. Here the +real and sincere life which we meet in the streets was actually fed and +sheltered. Here burns the taper that cheers the lonely traveller by +night, and from this hearth ascend the smokes that populate the valley +to his eyes by day. On the whole, a man may not be so little ashamed of +any other part of his house, for here is his sincerity and earnest, at +least. It may not be here that the besoms are plied most,—it is not +here that they need to be, for dust will not settle on the kitchen +floor more than in nature. + +Hence it will not do for the Landlord to possess too fine a nature. He +must have health above the common accidents of life, subject to no +modern fashionable diseases; but no taste, rather a vast relish or +appetite. His sentiments on all subjects will be delivered as freely as +the wind blows; there is nothing private or individual in them, though +still original, but they are public, and of the hue of the heavens over +his house,—a certain out-of-door obviousness and transparency not to be +disputed. What he does, his manners are not to be complained of, though +abstractly offensive, for it is what man does, and in him the race is +exhibited. When he eats, he is liver and bowels, and the whole +digestive apparatus to the company, and so all admit the thing is done. +He must have no idiosyncrasies, no particular bents or tendencies to +this or that, but a general, uniform, and healthy development, such as +his portly person indicates, offering himself equally on all sides to +men. He is not one of your peaked and inhospitable men of genius, with +particular tastes, but, as we said before, has one uniform relish, and +taste which never aspires higher than a tavern-sign, or the cut of a +weather-cock. The man of genius, like a dog with a bone, or the slave +who has swallowed a diamond, or a patient with the gravel, sits afar +and retired, off the road, hangs out no sign of refreshment for man and +beast, but says, by all possible hints and signs, I wish to be +alone—good-by—farewell. But the landlord can afford to live without +privacy. He entertains no private thought, he cherishes no solitary +hour, no Sabbath day, but thinks,—enough to assert the dignity of +reason,—and talks, and reads the newspaper. What he does not tell to +one traveller, he tells to another. He never wants to be alone, but +sleeps, wakes, eats, drinks, sociably, still remembering his race. He +walks abroad through the thoughts of men, and the Iliad and Shakspeare +are tame to him, who hears the rude but homely incidents of the road +from every traveller. The mail might drive through his brain in the +midst of his most lonely soliloquy, without disturbing his equanimity, +provided it brought plenty of news and passengers. There can be no +_pro_-fanity where there is no fane behind, and the whole world may see +quite round him. Perchance his lines have fallen to him in dustier +places, and he has heroically sat down where two roads meet, or at the +Four Corners, or the Five Points, and his life is sublimely trivial for +the good of men. The dust of travel blows ever in his eyes, and they +preserve their clear, complacent look. The hourlies and half-hourlies, +the dailies and weeklies, whirl on well-worn tracks, round and round +his house, as if it were the goal in the stadium, and still he sits +within in unruffled serenity, with no show of retreat. His neighbor +dwells timidly behind a screen of poplars and willows, and a fence with +sheaves of spears at regular intervals, or defended against the tender +palms of visitors by sharp spikes,—but the traveller’s wheels rattle +over the door-step of the tavern, and he cracks his whip in the entry. +He is truly glad to see you, and sincere as the bull’s-eye over his +door. The traveller seeks to find, wherever he goes, some one who will +stand in this broad and catholic relation to him, who will be an +inhabitant of the land to him a stranger, and represent its human +nature, as the rock stands for its inanimate nature; and this is he. As +his crib furnishes provender for the traveller’s horse, and his larder +provisions for his appetite, so his conversation furnishes the +necessary aliment to his spirits. He knows very well what a man wants, +for he is a man himself, and as it were the farthest travelled, though +he has never stirred from his door. He understands his needs and +destiny. He would be well fed and lodged, there can be no doubt, and +have the transient sympathy of a cheerful companion, and of a heart +which always prophesies fair weather. And after all the greatest men, +even, want much more the sympathy which every honest fellow can give, +than that which the great only can impart. If he is not the most +upright, let us allow him this praise, that he is the most downright of +men. He has a hand to shake and to be shaken, and takes a sturdy and +unquestionable interest in you, as if he had assumed the care of you, +but if you will break your neck, he will even give you the best advice +as to the method. + +The great poets have not been ungrateful to their landlords. Mine host +of the Tabard Inn, in the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, was an +honor to his profession:— + +“A semely man our Hoste was, with alle, +For to han been an marshal in an halle. +A large man he was, with eyen stepe; +A fairer burgeis is ther nou in Chepe: +Bold of his speche, and wise, and well ytaught, +And of manhood him lacked righte naught. +Eke thereto, was he right a mery man, +And after souper plaien he began, +And spake of mirthe amonges other thinges, +Whan that we hadden made our reckoninges.” + + +He is the true house-band, and centre of the company—of greater +fellowship and practical social talent than any. He it is that proposes +that each shall tell a tale to while away the time to Canterbury, and +leads them himself, and concludes with his own tale:— + +“Now, by my fader’s soule that is ded, +But ye be mery, smiteth of my hed: +Hold up your hondes withouten more speche.” + + +If we do not look up to the Landlord, we look round for him on all +emergencies, for he is a man of infinite experience, who unites hands +with wit. He is a more public character than a statesman,—a publican, +and not consequently a sinner; and surely, he, if any, should be +exempted from taxation and military duty. + +Talking with our host is next best and instructive to talking with +one’s self. It is a more conscious soliloquy; as it were, to speak +generally, and try what we would say provided we had an audience. He +has indulgent and open ears, and does not require petty and particular +statements. “Heigho!” exclaims the traveller. Them’s my sentiments, +thinks mine host, and stands ready for what may come next, expressing +the purest sympathy by his demeanor. “Hot as blazes!” says the +other,—“Hard weather, sir,—not much stirring nowadays,” says he. He is +wiser than to contradict his guest in any case; he lets him go on, he +lets him travel. + +The latest sitter leaves him standing far in the night, prepared to +live right on, while suns rise and set, and his “good night” has as +brisk a sound as his “good morning;” and the earliest riser finds him +tasting his liquors in the bar ere flies begin to buzz, with a +countenance fresh as the morning star over the sanded floor,—and not as +one who had watched all night for travellers. And yet, if beds be the +subject of conversation, it will appear that no man has been a sounder +sleeper in his time. + +Finally, as for his moral character, we do not hesitate to say, that he +has no grain of vice or meanness in him, but represents just that +degree of virtue which all men relish without being obliged to respect. +He is a good man, as his bitters are good,—an unquestionable goodness. +Not what is called a good man,—good to be considered, as a work of art +in galleries and museums,—but a good fellow, that is, good to be +associated with. Who ever thought of the religion of an +innkeeper—whether he was joined to the Church, partook of the +sacrament, said his prayers, feared God, or the like? No doubt he has +had his experiences, has felt a change, and is a firm believer in the +perseverance of the saints. In this last, we suspect, does the +peculiarity of his religion consist. But he keeps an inn, and not a +conscience. How many fragrant charities and sincere social virtues are +implied in this, daily offering of himself to the public. He cherishes +good will to all, and gives the wayfarer as good and honest advice to +direct him on his road as the priest. + +To conclude, the tavern will compare favorably with the church. The +church is the place where prayers and sermons are delivered, but the +tavern is where they are to take effect, and if the former are good, +the latter cannot be bad. + + + + +A WINTER WALK. + + +[1843.] + +The wind has gently murmured through the blinds, or puffed with +feathery softness against the windows, and occasionally sighed like a +summer zephyr lifting the leaves along, the livelong night. The +meadow-mouse has slept in his snug gallery in the sod, the owl has sat +in a hollow tree in the depth of the swamp, the rabbit, the squirrel, +and the fox have all been housed. The watch-dog has lain quiet on the +hearth, and the cattle have stood silent in their stalls. The earth +itself has slept, as it were its first, not its last sleep, save when +some street-sign or wood-house door has faintly creaked upon its hinge, +cheering forlorn nature at her midnight work,—the only sound awake +twixt Venus and Mars,—advertising us of a remote inward warmth, a +divine cheer and fellowship, where gods are met together, but where it +is very bleak for men to stand. But while the earth has slumbered, all +the air has been alive with feathery flakes descending, as if some +northern Ceres reigned, showering her silvery grain over all the +fields. + +We sleep, and at length awake to the still reality of a winter morning. +The snow lies warm as cotton or down upon the window-sill; the +broadened sash and frosted panes admit a dim and private light, which +enhances the snug cheer within. The stillness of the morning is +impressive. The floor creaks under our feet as we move toward the +window to look abroad through some clear space over the fields. We see +the roofs stand under their snow burden. From the eaves and fences hang +stalactites of snow, and in the yard stand stalagmites covering some +concealed core. The trees and shrubs rear white arms to the sky on +every side; and where were walls and fences, we see fantastic forms +stretching in frolic gambols across the dusky landscape, as if nature +had strewn her fresh designs over the fields by night as models for +man’s art. + +Silently we unlatch the door, letting the drift fall in, and step +abroad to face the cutting air. Already the stars have lost some of +their sparkle, and a dull, leaden mist skirts the horizon. A lurid +brazen light in the east proclaims the approach of day, while the +western landscape is dim and spectral still, and clothed in a sombre +Tartarian light, like the shadowy realms. They are Infernal sounds only +that you hear,—the crowing of cocks, the barking of dogs, the chopping +of wood, the lowing of kine, all seem to come from Pluto’s barn-yard +and beyond the Styx;—not for any melancholy they suggest, but their +twilight bustle is too solemn and mysterious for earth. The recent +tracks of the fox or otter, in the yard, remind us that each hour of +the night is crowded with events, and the primeval nature is still +working and making tracks in the snow. Opening the gate, we tread +briskly along the lone country road, crunching the dry and crisped snow +under our feet, or aroused by the sharp clear creak of the wood-sled, +just starting for the distant market, from the early farmer’s door, +where it has lain the summer long, dreaming amid the chips and stubble; +while far through the drifts and powdered windows we see the farmer’s +early candle, like a paled star, emitting a lonely beam, as if some +severe virtue were at its matins there. And one by one the smokes begin +to ascend from the chimneys amidst the trees and snows. + +The sluggish smoke curls up from some deep dell, +The stiffened air exploring in the dawn, +And making slow acquaintance with the day; +Delaying now upon its heavenward course, +In wreathed loiterings dallying with itself, +With as uncertain purpose and slow deed, +As its half-wakened master by the hearth, +Whose mind still slumbering and sluggish thoughts +Have not yet swept into the onward current +Of the new day;—and now it streams afar, +The while the chopper goes with step direct, +And mind intent to swing the early axe. + First in the dusky dawn he sends abroad +His early scout, his emissary, smoke, +The earliest, latest pilgrim from the roof, +To feel the frosty air, inform the day; +And while he crouches still beside the hearth, +Nor musters courage to unbar the door, +It has gone down the glen with the light wind, +And o’er the plain unfurled its venturous wreath, +Draped the tree-tops, loitered upon the hill, +And warmed the pinions of the early bird; +And now, perchance, high in the crispy air, +Has caught sight of the day o’er the earth’s edge, +And greets its master’s eye at his low door, +As some refulgent cloud in the upper sky. + + +We hear the sound of wood-chopping at the farmers’ doors, far over the +frozen earth, the baying of the house-dog, and the distant clarion of +the cock. Though the thin and frosty air conveys only the finer +particles of sound to our ears, with short and sweet vibrations, as the +waves subside soonest on the purest and lightest liquids, in which +gross substances sink to the bottom. They come clear and bell-like, and +from a greater distance in the horizon, as if there were fewer +impediments than in summer to make them faint and ragged. The ground is +sonorous, like seasoned wood, and even the ordinary rural sounds are +melodious, and the jingling of the ice on the trees is sweet and +liquid. There is the least possible moisture in the atmosphere, all +being dried up, or congealed, and it is of such extreme tenuity and +elasticity, that it becomes a source of delight. The withdrawn and +tense sky seems groined like the aisles of a cathedral, and the +polished air sparkles as if there were crystals of ice floating in it. +As they who have resided in Greenland tell us, that, when it freezes, +“the sea smokes like burning turf-land, and a fog or mist arises, +called frost-smoke,” which “cutting smoke frequently raises blisters on +the face and hands, and is very pernicious to the health.” But this +pure stinging cold is an elixir to the lungs, and not so much a frozen +mist, as a crystallized midsummer haze, refined and purified by cold. + +The sun at length rises through the distant woods, as if with the faint +clashing swinging sound of cymbals, melting the air with his beams, and +with such rapid steps the morning travels, that already his rays are +gilding the distant western mountains. Meanwhile we step hastily along +through the powdery snow, warmed by an inward heat, enjoying an Indian +summer still, in the increased glow of thought and feeling. Probably if +our lives were more conformed to nature, we should not need to defend +ourselves against her heats and colds, but find her our constant nurse +and friend, as do plants and quadrupeds. If our bodies were fed with +pure and simple elements, and not with a stimulating and heating diet, +they would afford no more pasture for cold than a leafless twig, but +thrive like the trees, which find even winter genial to their +expansion. + +The wonderful purity of nature at this season is a most pleasing fact. +Every decayed stump and moss-grown stone and rail, and the dead leaves +of autumn, are concealed by a clean napkin of snow. In the bare fields +and tinkling woods, see what virtue survives. In the coldest and +bleakest places, the warmest charities still maintain a foothold. A +cold and searching wind drives away all contagion, and nothing can +withstand it but what has a virtue in it; and accordingly, whatever we +meet with in cold and bleak places, as the tops of mountains, we +respect for a sort of sturdy innocence, a Puritan toughness. All things +beside seem to be called in for shelter, and what stays out must be +part of the original frame of the universe, and of such valor as God +himself. It is invigorating to breathe the cleansed air. Its greater +fineness and purity are visible to the eye, and we would fain stay out +long and late, that the-gales may sigh through us, too, as through the +leafless trees, and fit us for the winter:—as if we hoped so to borrow +some pure and steadfast virtue, which will stead us in all seasons. + +There is a slumbering subterranean fire in nature which never goes out, +and which no cold can chill. It finally melts the great snow, and in +January or July is only buried under a thicker or thinner covering. In +the coldest day it flows somewhere, and the snow melts around every +tree. This field of winter rye, which sprouted late in the fall, and +now speedily dissolves the snow, is where the fire is very thinly +covered. We feel warmed by it. In the winter, warmth stands for all +virtue, and we resort in thought to a trickling rill, with its bare +stones shining in the sun, and to warm springs in the woods, with as +much eagerness as rabbits and robins. The steam which rises from swamps +and pools, is as dear and domestic as that of our own kettle. What fire +could ever equal the sunshine of a winter’s day, when the meadow mice +come out by the wallsides, and the chicadee lisps in the defiles of the +wood? The warmth comes directly from the sun, and is not radiated from +the earth, as in summer; and when we feel his beams on our backs as we +are treading some snowy dell, we are grateful as for a special +kindness, and bless the sun which has followed us into that by-place. + +This subterranean fire has its altar in each man’s breast, for in the +coldest day, and on the bleakest hill, the traveller cherishes a warmer +fire within the folds of his cloak than is kindled on any hearth. A +healthy man, indeed, is the complement of the seasons, and in winter, +summer is in his heart. There is the south. Thither have all birds and +insects migrated, and around the warm springs in his breast are +gathered the robin and the lark. + +At length, having reached the edge of the woods, and shut out the +gadding town, we enter within their covert as we go under the roof of a +cottage, and cross its threshold, all ceiled and banked up with snow. +They are glad and warm still, and as genial and cheery in winter as in +summer. As we stand in the midst of the pines, in the nickering and +checkered light which straggles but little way into their maze, we +wonder if the towns have ever heard their simple story. It seems to us +that no traveller has ever explored them, and notwithstanding the +wonders which science is elsewhere revealing every day, who would not +like to hear their annals? Our humble villages in the plain are their +contribution. We borrow from the forest the boards which shelter, and +the sticks which warm us. How important is their evergreen to the +winter, that portion of the summer which does not fade, the permanent +year, the unwithered grass. Thus simply, and with little expense of +altitude, is the surface of the earth diversified. What would human +life be without forests, those natural cities? From the tops of +mountains they appear like smooth shaven lawns, yet whither shall we +walk but in this taller grass? + +In this glade covered with bushes of a year’s growth, see how the +silvery dust lies on every seared leaf and twig, deposited in such +infinite and luxurious forms as by their very variety atone for the +absence of color. Observe the tiny tracks of mice around every stem, +and the triangular tracks of the rabbit. A pure elastic heaven hangs +over all, as if the impurities of the summer sky, refined and shrunk by +the chaste winter’s cold, had been winnowed from the heavens upon the +earth. + +Nature confounds her summer distinctions at this season. The heavens +seem to be nearer the earth. The elements are less reserved and +distinct. Water turns to ice, rain to snow. The day is but a +Scandinavian night. The winter is an arctic summer. + +How much more living is the life that is in nature, the furred life +which still survives the stinging nights, and, from amidst fields and +woods covered with frost and snow, sees the sun rise. + + “The foodless wilds +Pour forth their brown inhabitants.”. + + +The gray squirrel and rabbit are brisk and playful in the remote glens, +even on the morning of the cold Friday. Here is our Lapland and +Labrador, and for our Esquimaux and Knistenaux, Dog-ribbed Indians, +Novazemblaites, and Spitzbergeners, are there not the ice-cutter and +wood-chopper, the fox, musk-rat, and mink? + +Still, in the midst of the arctic day, we may trace the summer to its +retreats, and sympathize with some contemporary life. Stretched over +the brooks, in the midst of the frost-bound meadows, we may observe the +submarine cottages of the caddice-worms, the larvae of the Plicipennes. +Their small cylindrical cases built around themselves, composed of +flags, sticks, grass, and withered leaves, shells, and pebbles, in form +and color like the wrecks which strew the bottom,—now drifting along +over the pebbly bottom, now whirling in tiny eddies and dashing down +steep falls, or sweeping rapidly along with the current, or else +swaying to and fro at the end of some grass-blade or root. Anon they +will leave their sunken habitations, and, crawling up the stems of +plants, or to the surface, like gnats, as perfect insects henceforth, +flutter over the surface of the water, or sacrifice their short lives +in the flame of our candles at evening. Down yonder little glen the +shrubs are drooping under their burden, and the red alder-berries +contrast with the white ground. Here are the marks of a myriad feet +which have already been abroad. The sun rises as proudly over such a +glen, as over the valley of the Seine or the Tiber, and it seems the +residence of a pure and self-subsistent valor, such as they never +witnessed; which never knew defeat nor fear. Here reign the simplicity +and purity of a primitive age, and a health and hope far remote from +towns and cities. Standing quite alone, far in the forest, while the +wind is shaking down snow from the trees, and leaving the only human +tracks behind us, we find our reflections of a richer variety than the +life of cities. The chicadee and nuthatch are more inspiring society +than statesmen and philosophers, and we shall return to these last, as +to more vulgar companions. In this lonely glen, with its brook draining +the slopes, its creased ice and crystals of all hues, where the spruces +and hemlocks stand up on either side, and the rush and sere wild oats +in the rivulet itself, our lives are more serene and worthy to +contemplate. + +As the day advances, the heat of the sun is reflected by the +hill-sides, and we hear a faint but sweet music, where flows the rill +released from its fetters, and the icicles are melting on the trees; +and the nuthatch and partridge are heard and seen. The south wind melts +the snow at noon, and the bare ground appears with its withered grass +and leaves, and we are invigorated by the perfume which exhales from +it, as by the scent of strong meats. + +Let us go into this deserted woodman’s hut, and see how he has passed +the long winter nights and the short and stormy days. For here man has +lived under this south hill-side, and it seems a civilized and public +spot. We have such associations as when the traveller stands by the +ruins of Palmyra or Hecatompolis. Singing birds and flowers perchance +have begun to appear here, for flowers as well as weeds follow in the +footsteps of man. These hemlocks whispered over his head, these hickory +logs were his fuel, and these pitch-pine roots kindled his fire; yonder +fuming rill in the hollow, whose thin and airy vapor still ascends as +busily as ever, though he is far off now, was his well. These hemlock +boughs, and the straw upon this raised platform, were his bed, and this +broken dish held his drink. But he has not been here this season, for +the phoebes built their nest upon this shelf last summer. I find some +embers left, as if he had but just gone out, where he baked his pot of +beans; and while at evening he smoked his pipe, whose stemless bowl +lies in the ashes, chatted with his only companion, if perchance he had +any, about the depth of the snow on the morrow, already falling fast +and thick without, or disputed whether the last sound was the screech +of an owl, or the creak of a bough, or imagination only; and through +this broad chimney throat, in the late winter evening, ere he stretched +himself upon the straw, he looked up to learn the progress of the +storm, and, seeing the bright stars of Cassiopeia’s chair shining +brightly down upon him, fell contentedly asleep. See how many traces +from which we may learn the chopper’s history. From this stump we may +guess the sharpness of his axe, and, from the slope of the stroke, on +which side he stood, and whether he cut down the tree without going +round it or changing hands; and, from the flexure of the splinters, we +may know which way it fell. This one chip contains inscribed on it the +whole history of the wood-chopper and of the world. On this scrap of +paper, which held his sugar or salt, perchance, or was the wadding of +his gun, sitting on a log in the forest, with what interest we read the +tattle of cities, of those larger huts, empty and to let, like this, in +High Streets and Broadways. The eaves are dripping on the south side of +this simple roof, while the titmouse lisps in the pine, and the genial +warmth of the sun around the door is somewhat kind and human. + +After two seasons, this rude dwelling does not deform the scene. +Already the birds resort to it, to build their nests, and you may track +to its door the feet of many quadrupeds. Thus, for a long time, nature +overlooks the encroachment and profanity of-man. The wood still +cheerfully and unsuspiciously echoes the strokes of the axe that fells +it, and while they are few and seldom, they enhance its wildness, and +all the elements strive to naturalize the sound. + +Now our path begins to ascend gradually to the top of this high hill, +from whose precipitous south side we can look over the broad country, +of forest and field and river, to the distant snowy mountains. See +yonder thin column of smoke curling up through the woods from some +invisible farm-house; the standard raised over some rural homestead. +There must be a warmer and more genial spot there below, as where we +detect the vapor from a spring forming a cloud above the trees. What +fine relations are established between the traveller who discovers this +airy column from some eminence in the forest, and him who sits below. +Up goes the smoke as silently and naturally as the vapor exhales from +the leaves, and as busy disposing itself in wreathes as the housewife +on the hearth below. It is a hieroglyphic of man’s life, and suggests +more intimate and important things than the boiling of a pot. Where its +fine column rises above the forest, like an ensign, some human life has +planted itself,—and such is the beginning of Rome, the establishment of +the arts, and the foundation of empires, whether on the prairies of +America, or the steppes of Asia. + +And now we descend again to the brink of this woodland lake, which lies +in a hollow of the hills, as if it were their expressed juice, and that +of the leaves, which are annually steeped in it. Without outlet or +inlet to the eye, it has still its history, in the lapse of its waves, +in the rounded pebbles on its shore, and in the pines which grow down +to its brink. It has not been idle, though sedentary, but, like Abu +Musa, teaches that “sitting still at home is the heavenly way; the +going out is the way of the world.” Yet in its evaporation it travels +as far as any. In summer it is the earth’s liquid eye; a mirror in the +breast of nature. The sins of the wood are washed out in it. See how +the woods form an amphitheatre about it, and it is an arena for all the +genialness of nature. All trees direct the traveller to its brink, all +paths seek it out, birds fly to it, quadrupeds flee to it, and the very +ground inclines toward it. It is nature’s saloon, where she has sat +down to her toilet. Consider her silent economy and tidiness; how the +sun comes with his evaporation to sweep the dust from its surface each +morning, and a fresh surface is constantly welling up; and annually, +after whatever impurities have accumulated herein, its liquid +transparency appears again in the spring. In summer a hushed music +seems to sweep across its surface. But now a plain sheet of snow +conceals it from our eyes, except where the wind has swept the ice +bare, and the sere leaves are gliding from side to side, tacking and +veering on their tiny voyages. Here is one just keeled up against a +pebble on shove, a dry beech-leaf, rocking still, as if it would start +again. A skilful engineer, methinks, might project its course since it +fell from the parent stem. Here are all the elements for such a +calculation. Its present position, the direction of the wind, the level +of the pond, and how much more is given. In its scarred edges and veins +is its log rolled up. + +We fancy ourselves in the interior of a larger house. The surface of +the pond is our deal table or sanded floor, and the woods rise abruptly +from its edge, like the walls of a cottage. The lines set to catch +pickerel through the ice look like a larger culinary preparation, and +the men stand about on the white ground like pieces of forest +furniture. The actions of these men, at the distance of half a mile +over the ice and snow, impress us as when we read the exploits of +Alexander in history. They seem not unworthy of the scenery, and as +momentous as the conquest of kingdoms. + +Again we have wandered through the arches of the wood, until from its +skirts we hear the distant booming of ice from yonder bay of the river, +as if it were moved by some other and subtler tide than oceans know. To +me it has a strange sound of home, thrilling as the voice of one’s +distant and noble kindred. A mild summer sun shines over forest and +lake, and though there is but one green leaf for many rods, yet nature +enjoys a serene health. Every sound is fraught with the same mysterious +assurance of health, as well now the creaking of the boughs in January, +as the soft sough of the wind in July. + +When Winter fringes every bough + With his fantastic wreath, +And puts the seal of silence now + Upon the leaves beneath; + +When every stream in its pent-house + Goes gurgling on its way, +And in his gallery the mouse + Nibbleth the meadow hay; + +Methinks the summer still is nigh, + And lurketh underneath, +As that same meadow-mouse doth lie + Snug in that last year’s heath. + +And if perchance the chicadee + Lisp a faint note anon, +The snow is summer’s canopy, + Which she herself put on. + +Fair blossoms deck the cheerful trees, + And dazzling fruits depend, +The north wind sighs a summer breeze, + The nipping frosts to fend, + +Bringing glad tidings unto me, + The while I stand all ear, +Of a serene eternity, + Which need not winter fear. + +Out on the silent pond straightway + The restless ice doth crack, +And pond sprites merry gambols play + Amid the deafening rack. + +Eager I hasten to the vale, + As if I heard brave news, +How nature held high festival, + Which it were hard to lose. + +I gambol with my neighbor ice, + And sympathizing quake, +As each new crack darts in a trice + Across the gladsome lake. + +One with the cricket in the ground, + And fagot on the hearth, +Resounds the rare domestic sound + Along the forest path. + + +Before night we will take a journey on skates along the course of this +meandering river, as full of novelty to one who sits by the cottage +fire all the winter’s day, as if it were over the polar ice, with +Captain Parry or Franklin; following the winding of the stream, now +flowing amid hills, now spreading out into fair meadows, and forming a +myriad coves and bays where the pine and hemlock overarch. The river +flows in the rear of the towns, and we see all things from a new and +wilder side. The fields and gardens come down to it with a frankness, +and freedom from pretension, which they do not wear on the highway. It +is the outside and edge of the earth. Our eyes are not offended by +violent contrasts. The last rail of the farmer’s fence is some swaying +willow bough, which still preserves its freshness, and here at length +all fences stop, and we no longer cross any road. We may go far up +within the country now by the most retired and level road, never +climbing a hill, but by broad levels ascending to the upland meadows. +It is a beautiful illustration of the law of obedience, the flow of a +river; the path for a sick man, a highway down which an acorn cup may +float secure with its freight. Its slight occasional falls, whose +precipices would not diversify the landscape, are celebrated by mist +and spray, and attract the traveller from far and near. From the remote +interior, its current conducts him by broad and easy steps, or by one +gentle inclined plane, to the sea. Thus by an early and constant +yielding to the inequalities of the ground, it secures itself the +easiest passage. + +No domain of nature is quite closed to man at all times, and now we +draw near to the empire of the fishes. Our feet glide swiftly over +unfathomed depths, where in summer our line tempted the pout and perch, +and where the stately pickerel lurked in the long corridors formed by +the bulrushes. The deep, impenetrable marsh, where the heron waded, and +bittern squatted, is made pervious to our swift shoes, as if a thousand +railroads had been made into it. With one impulse we are carried to the +cabin of the musk-rat, that earliest settler, and see him dart away +under the transparent ice, like a furred fish, to his hole in the bank; +and we glide rapidly over meadows where lately “the mower whet his +scythe,” through beds of frozen cranberries mixed with meadow grass. We +skate near to where the blackbird, the pewee, and the kingbird hung +their nests over the water, and the hornets builded from the maple in +the swamp. How many gay warblers following the sun, have radiated from +this nest of silver-birch and thistledown. On the swamp’s outer edge +was hung the supermarine village, where no foot penetrated. In this +hollow tree the wood-duck reared her brood, and slid away each day to +forage in yonder fen. + +In winter, nature is a cabinet of curiosities, full of dried specimens, +in their natural order and position. The meadows and forests are a +_hortus siccus_. The leaves and grasses stand perfectly pressed by the +air without screw or gum, and the birds’ nests are not hung on an +artificial twig, but where they builded them. We go about dryshod to +inspect the summer’s work in the rank swamp, and see what a growth have +got the alders, the willows, and the maples; testifying to how many +warm suns, and fertilizing dews and showers. See what strides their +boughs took in the luxuriant summer,—and anon these dormant buds will +carry them onward and upward another span into the heavens. + +Occasionally we wade through fields of snow, under whose depths the +river is lost for many rods, to appear again to the right or left, +where we least expected; still holding on its way underneath, with a +faint, stertorous, rumbling sound, as if, like the bear and marmot, it +too had hibernated, and we had followed its faint summer-trail to where +it earthed itself in snow and ice. At first we should have thought that +rivers would be empty and dry in midwinter, or else frozen solid till +the spring thawed them; but their volume is not diminished even, for +only a superficial cold bridges their surface. The thousand springs +which feed the lakes and streams are flowing still. The issues of a few +surface springs only are closed, and they go to swell the deep +reservoirs. Nature’s wells are below the frost. The summer brooks are +not filled with snow-water, nor does the mower quench his thirst with +that alone. The streams are swollen when the snow melts in the spring, +because nature’s work has been delayed, the water being turned into ice +and snow, whose particles are less smooth and round, and do not find +their level so soon. + +Far over the ice, between the hemlock woods and snow-clad hills, stands +the pickerel fisher, his lines set in some retired cove, like a +Finlander, with his arms thrust into the pouches of his dreadnought; +with dull, snowy, fishy thoughts, himself a finless fish, separated a +few inches from his race; dumb, erect, and made to be enveloped in +clouds and snows, like the pines on shore. In these wild scenes, men +stand about in the scenery, or move deliberately and heavily, having +sacrificed the sprightliness and vivacity of towns to the dumb sobriety +of nature. He does not make the scenery less wild, more than the jays +and musk-rats, but stands there as a part of it, as the natives are +represented in the voyages of early navigators, at Nootka Sound, and on +the Northwest coast, with their furs about them, before they were +tempted to loquacity by a scrap of iron. He belongs to the natural +family of man, and is planted deeper in nature and has more root than +the inhabitants of towns. Go to him, ask what luck, and you will learn +that he too is a worshipper of the unseen. Hear with what sincere +deference and waving gesture in his tone, he speaks of the lake +pickerel, which he has never seen, his primitive and ideal race of +pickerel. He is connected with the shore still, as by a fish-line, and +yet remembers the season when he took fish through the ice on the pond, +while the peas were up in his garden at home. + +But now, while we have loitered, the clouds have gathered again, and a +few straggling snow-flakes are beginning to descend. Faster and faster +they fall, shutting out the distant objects from sight. The snow falls +on every wood and field, and no crevice is forgotten; by the river and +the pond, on the hill and in the valley. Quadrupeds are confined to +their coverts, and the birds sit upon their perches this peaceful hour. +There is not so much sound as in fair weather, but silently and +gradually every slope, and the gray walls and fences, and the polished +ice, and the sere leaves, which were not buried before, are concealed, +and the tracks of men and beasts are lost. With so little effort does +nature reassert her rule and blot out the traces of men. Hear how Homer +has described the same. “The snow-flakes fall thick and fast on a +winter’s day. The winds are lulled, and the snow falls incessant, +covering the tops of the mountains, and the hills, and the plains where +the lotus-tree grows, and the cultivated fields, and they are falling +by the inlets and shores of the foaming sea, but are silently dissolved +by the waves.” The snow levels all things, and infolds them deeper in +the bosom of nature, as, in the slow summer, vegetation creeps up to +the entablature of the temple, and the turrets of the castle, and helps +her to prevail over art. + +The surly night-wind rustles through the wood, and warns us to retrace +our steps, while the sun goes down behind the thickening storm, and +birds seek their roosts, and cattle their stalls. + + “Drooping the lab’rer ox +Stands covered o’er with snow, and _now_ demands +The fruit of all his toil.” + + +Though winter is represented in the almanac as an old man, facing the +wind and sleet, and drawing his cloak about him, we rather think of him +as a merry wood-chopper, and warm-blooded youth, as blithe as summer. +The unexplored grandeur of the storm keeps up the spirits of the +traveller. It does not trifle with us, but has a sweet earnestness. In +winter we lead a more inward life. Our hearts are warm and cheery, like +cottages under drifts, whose windows and doors are half concealed, but +from whose chimneys the smoke cheerfully ascends. The imprisoning +drifts increase the sense of comfort which the house affords, and in +the coldest days we are content to sit over the hearth and see the sky +through the chimney top, enjoying the quiet and serene life that may be +had in a warm corner by the chimney side, or feeling our pulse by +listening to the low of cattle in the street, or the sound of the flail +in distant barns all the long afternoon. No doubt a skilful physician +could determine our health by observing how these simple and natural +sounds affected us. We enjoy now, not an oriental, but a boreal +leisure, around warm stoves and fireplaces, and watch the shadow of +motes in the sunbeams. + +Sometimes our fate grows too homely and familiarly serious ever to be +cruel. Consider how for three months the human destiny is wrapped in +furs. The good Hebrew Revelation takes no cognizance of all this +cheerful snow. Is there no religion for the temperate and frigid zones? +We know of no scripture which records the pure benignity of the gods on +a New England winter night. Their praises have never been sung, only +their wrath deprecated. The best scripture, after all, records but a +meagre faith. Its saints live reserved and austere. Let a brave devout +man spend the year in the woods of Maine or Labrador, and see if the +Hebrew Scriptures speak adequately to his condition and experience, +from the setting in of winter to the breaking up of the ice. + +Now commences the long winter evening around the farmer’s hearth, when +the thoughts of the indwellers travel far abroad, and men are by nature +and necessity charitable and liberal to all creatures. Now is the happy +resistance to cold, when the farmer reaps his reward, and thinks of his +preparedness for winter, and, through the glittering panes, sees with +equanimity “the mansion of the northern bear,” for now the storm is +over, + + “The full ethereal round, +Infinite worlds disclosing to the view, +Shines out intensely keen; and all one cope +Of starry glitter glows from pole to pole.” + + + + +THE SUCCESSION OF FOREST TREES.[4] + + +[1860.] + +Every man is entitled to come to Cattle-show, even a transcendentalist; +and for my part I am more interested in the men than in the cattle. I +wish to see once more those old familiar faces, whose names I do not +know, which for me represent the Middlesex country, and come as near +being indigenous to the soil as a white man can; the men who are not +above their business, whose coats are not too black, whose shoes do not +shine very much, who never wear gloves to conceal their hands. It is +true, there are some queer specimens of humanity attracted to our +festival, but all are welcome. I am pretty sure to meet once more that +weak-minded and whimsical fellow, generally weak-bodied too, who +prefers a crooked stick for a cane; perfectly useless, you would say, +only _bizarre_, fit for a cabinet, like a petrified snake. A ram’s horn +would be as convenient, and is yet more curiously twisted. He brings +that much indulged bit of the country with him, from some town’s end or +other, and introduces it to Concord groves, as if he had promised it so +much sometime. So some, it seems to me, elect their rulers for their +crookedness. But I think that a straight stick makes the best cane, and +an upright man the best ruler. Or why choose a man to do plain work who +is distinguished for his oddity? However, I do not know but you will +think that they have committed this mistake who invited me to speak to +you to-day. + +In my capacity of surveyor, I have often talked with some of you, my +employers, at your dinner-tables, after having gone round and round and +behind your farming, and ascertained exactly what its limits were. +Moreover, taking a surveyor’s and a naturalist’s liberty, I have been +in the habit of going across your lots much oftener than is usual, as +many of you, perhaps to your sorrow, are aware. Yet many of you, to my +relief, have seemed not to be aware of it; and when I came across you +in some out-of-the-way nook of your farms, have inquired, with an air +of surprise, if I were not lost, since you had never seen me in that +part of the town or county before; when, if the truth were known, and +it had not been for betraying my secret, I might with more propriety +have inquired if _you_ were not lost, since I had never seen _you_ +there before. I have several times shown the proprietor the shortest +way out of his wood-lot. + +Therefore, it would seem that I have some title to speak to you to-day; +and considering what that title is, and the occasion that has called us +together, I need offer no apology if I invite your attention, for the +few moments that are allotted me, to a purely scientific subject. + +At those dinner-tables referred to, I have often been asked, as many of +you have been, if I could tell how it happened, that when a pine wood +was cut down an oak one commonly sprang up, and _vice versa_. To which +I have answered, and now answer, that I can tell,—that it is no mystery +to me. As I am not aware that this has been clearly shown by any one, I +shall lay the more stress on this point. Let me lead you back into your +wood-lots again. + +When, hereabouts, a single forest tree or a forest springs up naturally +where none of its kind grew before, I do not hesitate to say, though in +some quarters still it may sound paradoxical, that it came from a seed. +Of the various ways by which trees are _known_ to be propagated,—by +transplanting, cuttings, and the like,—this is the only supposable one +under these circumstances. No such tree has ever been known to spring +from anything else. If any one asserts that it sprang from something +else, or from nothing, the burden of proof lies with him. + +It remains, then, only to show how the seed is transported from where +it grows, to where it is planted. This is done chiefly by the agency of +the wind, water, and animals. The lighter seeds, as those of pines and +maples, are transported chiefly by wind and water; the heavier, as +acorns and nuts, by animals. + +In all the pines, a very thin membrane, in appearance much like an +insect’s wing, grows over and around the seed, and independent of it, +while the latter is being developed within its base. Indeed this is +often perfectly developed, though the seed is abortive; nature being, +you would say, more sure to provide the means of transporting the seed, +than to provide the seed to be transported. In other words, a beautiful +thin sack is woven around the seed, with a handle to it such as the +wind can take hold of, and it is then committed to the wind, expressly +that it may transport the seed and extend the range of the species; and +this it does, as effectually, as when seeds are sent by mail in a +different kind of sack from the patent-office. There is a patent-office +at the seat of government of the universe, whose managers are as much +interested in the dispersion of seeds as anybody at Washington can be, +and their operations are infinitely more extensive and regular. + +There is then no necessity for supposing that the pines have sprung up +from nothing, and I am aware that I am not at all peculiar in asserting +that they come from seeds, though the mode of their propagation _by +nature_ has been but little attended to. They are very extensively +raised from the seed in Europe, and are beginning to be here. + +When you cut down an oak wood, a pine wood will not _at once_ spring up +there unless there are, or have been, quite recently, seed-bearing +pines near enough for the seeds to be blown from them. But, adjacent to +a forest of pines, if you prevent other crops from growing there, you +will surely have an extension of your pine forest, provided the soil is +suitable. + +As for the heavy seeds and nuts which are not furnished with wings, the +notion is still a very common one that, when the trees which bear these +spring up where none of their kind were noticed before, they have come +from seeds or other principles spontaneously generated there in an +unusual manner, or which have lain dormant in the soil for centuries, +or perhaps been called into activity by the heat of a burning. I do not +believe these assertions, and I will state some of the ways in which, +according to my observation, such forests are planted and raised. + +Every one of these seeds, too, will be found to be winged or legged in +another fashion. Surely it is not wonderful that cherry-trees of all +kinds are widely dispersed, since their fruit is well known to be the +favorite food of various birds. Many kinds are called bird-cherries, +and they appropriate many more kinds, which are not so called. Eating +cherries is a bird-like employment, and unless we disperse the seeds +occasionally, as they do, I shall think that the birds have the best +right to them. See how artfully the seed of a cherry is placed in order +that a bird may be compelled to transport it—in the very midst of a +tempting pericarp, so that the creature that would devour this must +commonly take the stone also into its mouth or bill. If you ever ate a +cherry, and did not make two bites of it, you must have perceived +it—right in the centre of the luscious morsel, a large earthy residuum +left on the tongue. We thus take into our mouths cherry stones as big +as peas, a dozen at once, for Nature can persuade us to do almost +anything when she would compass her ends. Some wild men and children +instinctively swallow these, as the birds do when in a hurry, it being +the shortest way to get rid of them. Thus, though these seeds are not +provided with vegetable wings, Nature has impelled the thrush tribe to +take them into their bills and fly away with them; and they are winged +in another sense, and more effectually than the seeds of pines, for +these are carried even against the wind. The consequence is, that +cherry-trees grow not only here but there. The same is true of a great +many other seeds. + +But to come to the observation which suggested these remarks. As I have +said, I suspect that I can throw some light on the fact, that when +hereabouts a dense pine wood is cut down, oaks and other hard woods may +at once take its place. I have got only to show that the acorns and +nuts, provided they are grown in the neighborhood, are regularly +planted in such woods; for I assert that if an oak-tree has not grown +within ten miles, and man has not carried acorns thither, then an oak +wood will not spring up _at once_, when a pine wood is cut down. + +Apparently, there were only pines there before. They are cut off, and +after a year or two you see oaks and other hard woods springing up +there, with scarcely a pine amid them, and the wonder commonly is, how +the seed could have lain in the ground so long without decaying. But +the truth is, that it has not lain in the ground so long, but is +regularly planted each year by various quadrupeds and birds. + +In this neighborhood, where oaks and pines are about equally dispersed, +if you look through the thickest pine wood, even the seemingly unmixed +pitch-pine ones, you will commonly detect many little oaks, birches, +and other hard woods, sprung from seeds carried into the thicket by +squirrels and other animals, and also blown thither, but which are +over-shadowed and choked by the pines. The denser the evergreen wood, +the more likely it is to be well planted with these seeds, because the +planters incline to resort with their forage to the closest covert. +They also carry it into birch and other woods. This planting is carried +on annually, and the oldest seedlings annually die; but when the pines +are cleared off, the oaks, having got just the start they want, and now +secured favorable conditions, immediately spring up to trees. + +The shade of a dense pine wood, is more unfavorable to the springing up +of pines of the same species than of oaks within it, though the former +may come up abundantly when the pines are cut, if there chance to be +sound seed in the ground. + +But when you cut off a lot of hard wood, very often the little pines +mixed with it have a similar start, for the squirrels have carried off +the nuts to the pines, and not to the more open wood, and they commonly +make pretty clean work of it; and moreover, if the wood was old, the +sprouts will be feeble or entirely fail; to say nothing about the soil +being, in a measure, exhausted for this kind of crop. + +If a pine wood is surrounded by a white oak one chiefly, white oaks may +be expected to succeed when the pines are cut. If it is surrounded, +instead by an edging of shrub-oaks, then you will probably have a dense +shrub-oak thicket. + +I have no time to go into details, but will say, in a word, that while +the wind is conveying the seeds of pines into hard woods and open +lands, the squirrels and other animals are conveying the seeds of oaks +and walnuts into the pine woods, and thus a rotation of crops is kept +up. + +I affirmed this confidently many years ago, and an occasional +examination of dense pine woods confirmed me in my opinion. It has long +been known to observers that squirrels bury nuts in the ground, but I +am not aware that any one has thus accounted for the regular succession +of forests. + +On the 24th of September, in 1857, as I was paddling down the Assabet, +in this town, I saw a red squirrel run along the bank under some +herbage, with something large in its mouth. It stopped near the foot of +a hemlock, within a couple of rods of me, and, hastily pawing a hole +with its forefeet, dropped its booty into it, covered it up, and +retreated part way up the trunk of the tree. As I approached the shore +to examine the deposit, the squirrel, descending part way, betrayed no +little anxiety about its treasure, and made two or three motions to +recover it before it finally retreated. Digging there, I found two +green pig-nuts joined together, with the thick husks on, buried about +an inch and a half under the reddish soil of decayed hemlock +leaves,—just the right depth to plant it. In short, this squirrel was +then engaged in accomplishing two objects, to wit, laying up a store of +winter food for itself, and planting a hickory wood for all creation. +If the squirrel was killed, or neglected its deposit, a hickory would +spring up. The nearest hickory tree was twenty rods distant. These nuts +were there still just fourteen days later, but were gone when I looked +again, November 21, or six weeks later still. + +I have since examined more carefully several dense woods, which are +said to be, and are apparently exclusively pine, and always with the +same result. For instance, I walked the same day to a small, but very +dense and handsome white-pine grove, about fifteen rods square, in the +east part of this town. The trees are large for Concord, being from ten +to twenty inches in diameter, and as exclusively pine as any wood that +I know. Indeed, I selected this wood because I thought it the least +likely to contain anything else. It stands on an open plain or pasture, +except that it adjoins another small pine wood, which has a few little +oaks in it, on the southeast side. On every other side, it was at least +thirty rods from the nearest woods. Standing on the edge of this grove +and looking through it, for it is quite level and free from underwood, +for the most part bare, red-carpeted ground, you would have said that +there was not a hard wood tree in it, young or old. But on looking +carefully along over its floor I discovered, though it was not till my +eye had got used to the search, that, alternating with thin ferns, and +small blueberry bushes, there was, not merely here and there, but as +often as every five feet and with a degree of regularity, a little oak, +from three to twelve inches high, and in one place I found a green +acorn dropped by the base of a pine. + +I confess, I was surprised to find my theory so perfectly proved in +this case. One of the principal agents in this planting, the red +squirrels, were all the while curiously inspecting me, while I was +inspecting their plantation. Some of the little oaks had been browsed +by cows, which resorted to this wood for shade. + +After seven or eight years, the hard woods evidently find such a +locality unfavorable to their growth, the pines being allowed to stand. +As an evidence of this, I observed a diseased red-maple twenty-five +feet long, which had been recently prostrated, though it was still +covered with green leaves, the only maple in any position in the wood. + +But although these oaks almost invariably die if the pines are not cut +down, it is probable that they do better for a few years under their +shelter than they would anywhere else. + +The very extensive and thorough experiments of the English, have at +length led them to adopt a method of raising oaks almost precisely like +this, which somewhat earlier had been adopted by nature and her +squirrels here; they have simply rediscovered the value of pines as +nurses for oaks. The English experimenters seem early and generally, to +have found out the importance of using trees of some kind, as +nurse-plants for the young oaks. I quote from Loudon what he describes +as “the ultimatum on the subject of planting and sheltering oaks,”—“an +abstract of the practice adopted by the government officers in the +national forests” of England, prepared by Alexander Milne. + +At first some oaks had been planted by themselves, and others mixed +with Scotch pines; “but in all cases,” says Mr. Milne, “where oaks were +planted actually among the pines, and surrounded by them, [though the +soil might be inferior,] the oaks were found to be much the best.” “For +several years past, the plan pursued has been to plant the inclosures +with Scotch pines only, [a tree very similar to our pitch-pine,] and +when the pines have got to the height of five or six feet, then to put +in good strong oak plants of about four or five years’ growth among the +pines,—not cutting away any pines at first, unless they happen to be so +strong and thick as to overshadow the oaks. In about two years, it +becomes necessary to shred the branches of the pines, to give light and +air to the oaks, and in about two or three more years to begin +gradually to remove the pines altogether, taking out a certain number +each year, so that, at the end of twenty or twenty-five years, not a +single Scotch pine shall be left; although, for the first ten or twelve +years, the plantation may have appeared to contain nothing else but +pine. The advantage of this mode of planting has been found to be that +the pines dry and ameliorate the soil, destroying the coarse grass and +brambles which frequently choke and injure oaks; and that no mending +over is necessary, as scarcely an oak so planted is found to fail.” + +Thus much the English planters have discovered by patient experiment, +and, for aught I know, they have taken out a patent for it; but they +appear not to have discovered that it was discovered before, and that +they are merely adopting the method of Nature, which she long ago made +patent to all. She is all the while planting the oaks amid the pines +without our knowledge, and at last, instead of government officers, we +send a party of wood-choppers to cut down the pines, and so rescue an +oak forest, at which we wonder as if it had dropped from the skies. + +As I walk amid hickories, even in August, I hear the sound of green +pig-nuts falling from time to time, cut off by the chickaree over my +head. In the fall, I notice on the ground, either within or in the +neighborhood of oak woods, on all sides of the town, stout oak twigs +three or four inches long, bearing half-a-dozen empty acorn-cups, which +twigs have been gnawed off by squirrels, on both sides of the nuts, in +order to make them more portable. The jays scream and the red squirrels +scold while you are clubbing and shaking the chestnut trees, for they +are there on the same errand, and two of a trade never agree. I +frequently see a red or gray squirrel cast down a green chestnut bur, +as I am going through the woods, and I used to think, sometimes, that +they were cast at me. In fact, they are so busy about it, in the midst +of the chestnut season, that you cannot stand long in the woods without +hearing one fall. A sportsman told me that he had, the day before,—that +was in the middle of October,—seen a green chestnut bur dropt on our +great river meadow, fifty rods from the nearest wood, and much further +from the nearest chestnut-tree, and he could not tell how it came +there. Occasionally, when chestnutting in midwinter, I find thirty or +forty nuts in a pile, left in its gallery, just under the leaves, by +the common wood-mouse (_mus leucopus_). + +But especially, in the winter, the extent to which this transportation +and planting of nuts is carried on is made apparent by the snow. In +almost every wood, you will see where the red or gray squirrels have +pawed down through the snow in a hundred places, sometimes two feet +deep, and almost always directly to a nut or a pine-cone, as directly +as if they had started from it and bored upward,—which you and I could +not have done. It would be difficult for us to find one before the snow +falls. Commonly, no doubt, they had deposited them there in the fall. +You wonder if they remember the localities, or discover them by the +scent. The red squirrel commonly has its winter abode in the earth +under a thicket of evergreens, frequently under a small clump of +evergreens in the midst of a deciduous wood. If there are any +nut-trees, which still retain their nuts, standing at a distance +without the wood, their paths often lead directly to and from them. We, +therefore, need not suppose an oak standing here and there _in_ the +wood in order to seed it, but if a few stand within twenty or thirty +rods of it, it is sufficient. + +I think that I may venture to say that every white-pine cone that falls +to the earth naturally in this town, before opening and losing its +seeds, and almost every pitch-pine one that falls at all, is cut off by +a squirrel, and they begin to pluck them long before they are ripe, so +that when the crop of white-pine cones is a small one, as it commonly +is, they cut off thus almost every one of these before it fairly +ripens. I think, moreover, that their design, if I may so speak, in +cutting them off green, is, partly, to prevent their opening and losing +their seeds, for these are the ones for which they dig through the +snow, and the only white-pine cones which contain anything then. I have +counted in one heap, within a diameter of four feet, the cores of 239 +pitch-pine cones which had been cut off and stripped by the red +squirrel the previous winter. + +The nuts thus left on the surface, or buried just beneath it, are +placed in the most favorable circumstances for germinating. I have +sometimes wondered how those which merely fell on the surface of the +earth got planted; but, by the end of December, I find the chestnut of +the same year partially mixed with the mould, as it were, under the +decaying and mouldy leaves, where there is all the moisture and manure +they want, for the nuts fall first. In a plentiful year, a large +proportion of the nuts are thus covered loosely an inch deep, and are, +of course, somewhat concealed from squirrels. One winter, when the crop +had been abundant, I got, with the aid of a rake, many quarts of these +nuts as late as the tenth of January, and though some bought at the +store the same day were more than half of them mouldy, I did not find a +single mouldy one among these which I picked from under the wet and +mouldy leaves, where they had been snowed on once or twice. Nature +knows how to pack them best. They were still plump and tender. +Apparently, they do not heat there, though wet. In the spring they were +all sprouting. + +Loudon says that “when the nut [of the common walnut of Europe] is to +be preserved through the winter for the purpose of planting in the +following spring, it should be laid in a rot-heap, as soon as gathered, +with the husk on; and the heap should be turned over frequently in the +course of the winter.” + +Here, again, he is stealing Nature’s “thunder.” How can a poor mortal +do otherwise? for it is she that finds fingers to steal with, and the +treasure to be stolen. In the planting of the seeds of most trees, the +best gardeners do no more than follow Nature, though they may not know +it. Generally, both large and small ones are most sure to germinate, +and succeed best, when only beaten into the earth with the back of a +spade, and then covered with leaves or straw. These results to which +planters have arrived, remind us of the experience of Kane and his +companions at the North, who, when learning to live in that climate, +were surprised to find themselves steadily adopting the customs of the +natives, simply becoming Esquimaux. So, when we experiment in planting +forests, we find ourselves at last doing as Nature does. Would it not +be well to consult with Nature in the outset? for she is the most +extensive and experienced planter of us all, not excepting the Dukes of +Athol. + +In short, they who have not attended particularly to this subject are +but little aware to what an extent quadrupeds and birds are employed, +especially in the fall, in collecting, and so disseminating and +planting the seeds of trees. It is the almost constant employment of +the squirrels at that season and you rarely meet with one that has not +a nut in its mouth, or is not just going to get one. One +squirrel-hunter of this town told me that he knew of a walnut-tree +which bore particularly good nuts, but that on going to gather them one +fall, he found that he had been anticipated by a family of a dozen red +squirrels. He took out of the tree, which was hollow, one bushel and +three pecks by measurement, without the husks, and they supplied him +and his family for the winter. It would be easy to multiply instances +of this kind. How commonly in the fall you see the cheek-pouches of the +striped squirrel distended by a quantity of nuts! This species gets its +scientific name _Tamias_, or the steward, from its habit of storing up +nuts and other seeds. Look under a nut-tree a month after the nuts have +fallen, and see what proportion of sound nuts to the abortive ones and +shells you will find ordinarily. They have been already eaten, or +dispersed far and wide. The ground looks like a platform before a +grocery, where the gossips of the village sit to crack nuts and less +savory jokes. You have come, you would say, after the feast was over, +and are presented with the shells only. + +Occasionally, when threading the woods in the fall, you will hear a +sound as if some one had broken a twig, and, looking up, see a jay +pecking at an acorn, or you will see a flock of them at once about it, +in the top of an oak, and hear them break them off. They then fly to a +suitable limb, and placing the acorn under one foot, hammer away at it +busily, making a sound like a woodpecker’s tapping, looking round from +time to time to see if any foe is approaching, and soon reach the meat, +and nibble at it, holding up their heads to swallow, while they hold +the remainder very firmly with their claws. Nevertheless, it often +drops to the ground before the bird has done with it. I can confirm +what Wm. Bartram wrote to Wilson, the Ornithologist, that “The jay is +one of the most useful agents in the economy of nature, for +disseminating forest trees and other nuciferous and hard-seeded +vegetables on which they feed. Their chief employment during the +autumnal season is foraging to supply their winter stores. In +performing this necessary duty they drop abundance of seed in their +flight over fields, hedges, and by fences, where they alight to deposit +them in the post-holes, &c. It is remarkable what numbers of young +trees rise up in fields and pastures after a wet winter and spring. +These birds alone are capable, in a few years’ time, to replant all the +cleared lands.” + +I have noticed that squirrels also frequently drop their nuts in open +land, which will still further account for the oaks and walnuts which +spring up in pastures, for, depend on it, every new tree comes from a +seed. When I examine the little oaks, one or two years old, in such +places, I invariably find the empty acorn from which they sprung. + +So far from the seed having lain dormant in the soil since oaks grew +there before, as many believe, it is well known that it is difficult to +preserve the vitality of acorns long enough to transport them to +Europe; and it is recommended in Loudon’s Arboretum, as the safest +course, to sprout them in pots on the voyage. The same authority states +that “very few acorns of any species will germinate after having been +kept a year,” that beechmast, “only retains its vital properties one +year,” and the black-walnut, “seldom more than six months after it has +ripened.” I have frequently found that in November, almost every acorn +left on the ground had sprouted or decayed. What with frost, drouth, +moisture, and worms, the greater part are soon destroyed. Yet it is +stated by one botanical writer that “acorns that have lain for +centuries, on being ploughed up, have soon vegetated.” + +Mr. George B. Emerson, in his valuable Report on the Trees and Shrubs +of this State, says of the pines: “The tenacity of life of the seeds is +remarkable. They will remain for many years unchanged in the ground, +protected by the coolness and deep shade of the forest above them. But +when the forest is removed, and the warmth of the sun admitted, they +immediately vegetate.” Since he does not tell us on what observation +his remark is founded, I must doubt its truth. Besides, the experience +of nurserymen makes it the more questionable. + +The stories of wheat raised from seed buried with an ancient Egyptian, +and of raspberries raised from seed found in the stomach of a man in +England, who is supposed to have died sixteen or seventeen hundred +years ago, are generally discredited, simply because the evidence is +not conclusive. + +Several men of science, Dr. Carpenter among them, have used the +statement that beach-plums sprang up in sand which was dug up forty +miles inland in Maine, to prove that the seed had lain there a very +long time, and some have inferred that the coast has receded so far. +But it seems to me necessary to their argument to show, first, that +beach-plums grow only on a beach. They are not uncommon here, which is +about half that distance from the shore; and I remember a dense patch a +few miles north of us, twenty-five miles inland, from which the fruit +was annually carried to market. How much further inland they grow, I +know not. Dr. Chas. T. Jackson speaks of finding “beach-plums” (perhaps +they were this kind) more than one hundred miles inland in Maine. + +It chances that similar objections lie against all the more notorious +instances of the kind on record. + +Yet I am prepared to believe that some seeds, especially small ones, +may retain their vitality for centuries under favorable circumstances. +In the spring of 1859, the old Hunt House, so called, in this town, +whose chimney bore the date 1703, was taken down. This stood on land +which belonged to John Winthrop, the first Governor of Massachusetts, +and a part of the house was evidently much older than the above date, +and belonged to the Winthrop family. For many years, I have ransacked +this neighborhood for plants, and I consider myself familiar with its +productions. Thinking of the seeds which are said to be sometimes dug +up at an unusual depth in the earth, and thus to reproduce long extinct +plants, it occurred to me last fall that some new or rare plants might +have sprung up in the cellar of this house, which had been covered from +the light so long. Searching there on the 22d of September, I found, +among other rank weeds, a species of nettle (_Urtica urens_), which I +had not found before; dill, which I had not seen growing spontaneously; +the Jerusalem oak (_Chenopodium botrys_), which I had seen wild in but +one place; black nightshade (_Solanum nigrum_), which is quite rare +hereabouts, and common tobacco, which, though it was often cultivated +here in the last century, has for fifty years been an unknown plant in +this town, and a few months before this not even I had heard that one +man in the north part of the town, was cultivating a few plants for his +own use. I have no doubt that some or all of these plants sprang from +seeds which had long been buried under or about that house, and that +that tobacco is an additional evidence that the plant was formerly +cultivated here. The cellar has been filled up this year, and four of +those plants, including the tobacco, are now again extinct in that +locality. + +It is true, I have shown that the animals consume a great part of the +seeds of trees, and so, at least, effectually prevent their becoming +trees; but in all these cases, as I have said, the consumer is +compelled to be at the same time the disperser and planter, and this is +the tax which he pays to nature. I think it is Linnaeus, who says, that +while the swine is rooting for acorns, he is planting acorns. + +Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has +been, I have great faith in a seed—a, to me, equally mysterious origin +for it. Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to +expect wonders. I shall even believe that the millennium is at hand, +and that the reign of justice is about to commence, when the Patent +Office, or Government, begins to distribute, and the people to plant +the seeds of these things.’ + +In the spring of 1857, I planted six seeds sent to me from the Patent +Office, and labelled, I think, “_Poitrine jaune grosse,_” large yellow +squash. Two came up, and one bore a squash which weighed 123-1/2 +pounds, the other bore four, weighing together 186-1/4 pounds. Who +would have believed that there was 310 pounds of _poitrine jaune +grosse_ in that corner of my garden? These seeds were the bait I used +to catch it, my ferrets which I sent into its burrow, my brace of +terriers which unearthed it. A little mysterious hoeing and manuring +was all the _abra cadabra presto-change,_ that I used, and lo! true to +the label, they found for me 310 pounds of _poitrine jaune grosse_ +there, where it never was known to be, nor was before. These talismen +had perchance sprung from America at first, and returned to it with +unabated force. The big squash took a premium at your fair that fall, +and I understood that the man who bought it, intended to sell the seeds +for ten cents a piece. (Were they not cheap at that?) But I have more +hounds of the same breed. I learn that one which I despatched to a +distant town, true to its instinct, points to the large yellow squash +there, too, where no hound ever found it before, as its ancestors did +here and in France. + +Other seeds I have which will find other things in that corner of my +garden, in like fashion, almost any fruit you wish, every year for +ages, until the crop more than fills the whole garden. You have but +little more to do, than throw up your cap for entertainment these +American days. Perfect alchemists I keep, who can transmute substances +without end; and thus the corner of my garden is an inexhaustible +treasure-chest. Here you can dig, not gold, but the value which gold +merely represents; and there is no Signor Blitz about it. Yet farmers’ +sons will stare by the hour to see a juggler draw ribbons from his +throat, though he tells them it is all deception. Surely, men love +darkness rather than light. + + [4] An Address read to the Middlesex Agricultural Society, in Concord, + September, 1860. + + + + +WALKING. + + +[1862.] + +I wish to speak a word for Nature, for absolute freedom and wildness, +as contrasted with a freedom and culture merely civil,—to regard man as +an inhabitant, or a part and parcel of Nature, rather than a member of +society. I wish to make an extreme statement, if so I may make an +emphatic one, for there are enough champions of civilization: the +minister and the school-committee, and every one of you will take care +of that. + +I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who +understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks,—who had a +genius, so to speak, for _sauntering_: which word is beautifully +derived “from idle people who roved about the country, in the Middle +Ages, and asked charity, under pretence of going _à la Sainte Terre_” +to the Holy Land, till the children exclaimed, “There goes a +_Sainte-Terrer_,” a Saunterer,—a Holy-Lander. They who never go to the +Holy Land in their walks, as they pretend, are indeed mere idlers and +vagabonds; but they who do go there are saunterers in the good sense, +such as I mean. Some, however, would derive the word from _sans terre_, +without land or a home, which, therefore, in the good sense, will mean, +having no particular home, but equally at home everywhere. For this is +the secret of successful sauntering. He who sits still in a house all +the time may be the greatest vagrant of all; but the saunterer, in the +good sense, is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all +the while sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea. But I +prefer the first, which, indeed, is the most probable derivation. For +every walk is a sort of crusade, preached by some Peter the Hermit in +us, to go forth and reconquer this Holy Land from the hands of the +Infidels. + +It is true, we are but faint-hearted crusaders, even the walkers, +nowadays, who undertake no persevering, never-ending enterprises. Our +expeditions are but tours, and come round again at evening to the old +hearth-side from which we set out. Half the walk is but retracing our +steps. We should go forth on the shortest walk, perchance, in the +spirit of undying adventure, never to return,—prepared to send back our +embalmed hearts only as relics to our desolate kingdoms. If you are +ready to leave father and mother, and brother and sister, and wife and +child and friends, and never see them again,—if you have paid your +debts, and made your will, and settled all your affairs, and are a free +man, then you are ready for a walk. + +To come down to my own experience, my companion and I, for I sometimes +have a companion, take pleasure in fancying ourselves knights of a new, +or rather an old, order,—not Equestrians or Chevaliers, not Ritters or +riders, but Walkers, a still more ancient and honorable class, I trust. +The chivalric and heroic spirit which once belonged to the Rider seems +now to reside in, or perchance to have subsided into, the Walker,—not +the Knight, but Walker Errant. He is a sort of fourth estate, outside +of Church and State and People. + +We have felt that we almost alone hereabouts practised this noble art; +though, to tell the truth, at least, if their own assertions are to be +received, moat of my townsmen would fain walk sometimes, as I do, but +they cannot. No wealth can buy the requisite leisure, freedom, and +independence, which are the capital in this profession. It comes only +by the grace of God. It requires a direct dispensation from Heaven to +become a walker. You must be born into the family of the Walkers. +_Ambulator nascitur, non fit._ Some of my townsmen, it is true, can +remember and have described to me some walks which they took ten years +ago, in which they were so blessed as to lose themselves for half an +hour in the woods; but I know very well that they have confined +themselves to the highway ever since, whatever pretensions they may +make to belong to this select class. No doubt they were elevated for a +moment as by the reminiscence of a previous state of existence, when +even they were foresters and outlaws. + +“When he came to grene wode, + In a mery mornynge, +There he herde the notes small + Of byrdes mery syngynge. + +“It is ferre gone, sayd Robyn, + That I was last here; +Me lyste a lytell for to shote + At the donne dere.” + + +I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits, unless I spend +four hours a day at least,—and it is commonly more than +that,—sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields, +absolutely free from all worldly engagements. You may safely say, A +penny for your thoughts, or a thousand pounds. When sometimes I am +reminded that the mechanics and shopkeepers stay in their shops not +only all the forenoon, but all the afternoon too, sitting with crossed +legs, so many of them,—as if the legs were made to sit upon, and not to +stand or walk upon,—I think that they deserve some credit for not +having all committed suicide long ago. + +I, who cannot stay in my chamber for a single day without acquiring +some rust, and when sometimes I have stolen forth for a walk at the +eleventh hour of four o’clock in the afternoon, too late to redeem the +day, when the shades of night were already beginning to be mingled with +the daylight, have felt as if I had committed some sin to be atoned +for,—I confess that I am astonished at the power of endurance, to say +nothing of the moral insensibility, of my neighbors who confine +themselves to shops and offices the whole day for weeks and months, ay, +and years almost together. I know not what manner of stuff they are +of,—sitting there now at three o’clock in the afternoon, as if it were +three o’clock in the morning. Bonaparte may talk of the +three-o’clock-in-the-morning courage, but it is nothing to the courage +which can sit down cheerfully at this hour in the afternoon over +against one’s self whom you have known all the morning, to starve out a +garrison to whom you are bound by such strong ties of sympathy. I +wonder that about this time, or say between four and five o’clock in +the afternoon, too late for the morning papers and too early for the +evening ones, there is not a general explosion heard up and down the +street, scattering a legion of antiquated and house-bred notions and +whims to the four winds for an airing,—and so the evil cure itself. + +How womankind, who are confined to the house still more than men, stand +it I do not know; but I have ground to suspect that most of them do not +_stand_ it at all. When, early in a summer afternoon, we have been +shaking the dust of the village from the skirts of our garments, making +haste past those houses with purely Doric or Gothic fronts, which have +such an air of repose about them, my companion whispers that probably +about these times their occupants are all gone to bed. Then it is that +I appreciate the beauty and the glory of architecture, which itself +never turns in, but forever stands out and erect, keeping watch over +the slumberers. + +No doubt temperament, and, above all, age, have a good deal to do with +it. As a man grows older, his ability to sit still and follow indoor +occupations increases. He grows vespertinal in his habits as the +evening of life approaches, till at last he comes forth only just +before sundown, and gets all the walk that he requires in half an hour. + +But the walking of which I speak has nothing in it akin to taking +exercise, as it is called, as the sick take medicine at stated +hours,—as the swinging of dumb-bells or chairs; but is itself the +enterprise and adventure of the day. If you would get exercise, go in +search of the springs of life. Think of a man’s swinging dumb-bells for +his health, when those springs are bubbling up in far-off pastures +unsought by him! + +Moreover, you must walk like a camel, which is said to be the only +beast which ruminates when walking. When a traveller asked Wordsworth’s +servant to show him her master’s study, she answered, “Here is his +library, but his study is out of doors.” + +Living much out of doors, in the sun and wind, will no doubt produce a +certain roughness of character,—will cause a thicker cuticle to grow +over some of the finer qualities of our nature, as on the face and +hands, or as severe manual labor robs the hands of some of their +delicacy of touch. So staying in the house, on the other hand, may +produce a softness and smoothness, not to say thinness of skin, +accompanied by an increased sensibility to certain impressions. Perhaps +we should be more susceptible to some influences important to our +intellectual and moral growth, if the sun had shone and the wind blown +on us a little less; and no doubt it is a nice matter to proportion +rightly the thick and thin skin. But methinks that is a scurf that will +fall off fast enough,—that the natural remedy is to be found in the +proportion which the night bears to the day, the winter to the summer, +thought to experience. There will be so much the more air and sunshine +in our thoughts. The callous palms of the laborer are conversant with +finer tissues of self-respect and heroism, whose touch thrills the +heart, than the languid fingers of idleness. That is mere +sentimentality that lies abed by day and thinks itself white, far from +the tan and callus of experience. + +When we walk, we naturally go to the fields and woods: what would +become of us, if we walked only in a garden or a mall? Even some sects +of philosophers have felt the necessity of importing the woods to +themselves, since they did not go to the woods. “They planted groves +and walks of Platanes,” where they took _subdiales ambulationes_ in +porticos open to the air. Of course it is of no use to direct our steps +to the woods, if they do not carry us thither. I am alarmed when it +happens that I have walked a mile into the woods bodily, without +getting there in spirit. In my afternoon walk I would fain forget all +my morning occupations and my obligations to society. But it sometimes +happens that I cannot easily shake off the village. The thought of some +work will run in my head, and I am not where my body is,—I am out of my +senses. In my walks I would fain return to my senses. What business +have I in the woods, if I am thinking of something out of the woods? I +suspect myself, and cannot help a shudder, when I find myself so +implicated even in what are called good works,—for this may sometimes +happen. + +My vicinity affords many good walks; and though for so many years I +have walked almost every day, and sometimes for several days together, +I have not yet exhausted them. An absolutely new prospect is a great +happiness, and I can still get this any afternoon. Two or three hours’ +walking will carry me to as strange a country as I expect ever to see. +A single farmhouse which I had not seen before is sometimes as good as +the dominions of the King of Dahomey. There is in fact a sort of +harmony discoverable between the capabilities of the landscape within a +circle of ten miles’ radius, or the limits of an afternoon walk, and +the threescore years and ten of human life. It will never become quite +familiar to you. + +Nowadays almost all man’s improvements, so called, as the building of +houses, and the cutting down of the forest and of all large trees, +simply deform the landscape, and make it more and more tame and cheap. +A people who would begin by burning the fences and let the forest +stand! I saw the fences half consumed, their ends lost in the middle of +the prairie, and some worldly miser with a surveyor looking after his +bounds, while heaven had taken place around him, and he did not see the +angels going to and fro, but was looking for an old post-hole in the +midst of paradise. I looked again, and saw him standing in the middle +of a boggy, stygian fen, surrounded by devils, and he had found his +bounds without a doubt, three little stones, where a stake had been +driven, and looking nearer, I saw that the Prince of Darkness was his +surveyor. + +I can easily walk ten, fifteen, twenty, any number of miles, commencing +at my own door, without going by any house, without crossing a road +except where the fox and the mink do: first along by the river, and +then the brook, and then the meadow and the wood-side. There are square +miles in my vicinity which have no inhabitant. From many a hill I can +see civilization and the abodes of man afar. The farmers and their +works are scarcely more obvious than woodchucks and their burrows. Man +and his affairs, church and state and school, trade and commerce, and +manufactures and agriculture, even politics, the most alarming of them +all,—I am pleased to see how little space they occupy in the landscape. +Politics is but a narrow field, and that still narrower highway yonder +leads to it. I sometimes direct the traveller thither. If you would go +to the political world, follow the great road,—follow that market-man, +keep his dust in your eyes, and it will lead you straight to it; for +it, too, has its place merely, and does not occupy all space. I pass +from it as from a bean-field into the forest, and it is forgotten. In +one half-hour I can walk off to some portion of the earth’s surface +where a man does not stand from one year’s end to another, and there, +consequently, politics are not, for they are but as the cigar-smoke of +a man. + +The village is the place to which the roads tend, a sort of expansion +of the highway, as a lake of a river. It is the body of which roads are +the arms and legs,—a trivial or quadrivial place, the thoroughfare and +ordinary of travellers. The word is from the Latin _villa_, which, +together with _via_, a way, or more anciently _ved_ and _vella_, Varro +derives from _veho_, to carry, because the villa is the place to and +from which things are carried. They who got their living by teaming +were said _vellaturam facere_. Hence, too, apparently, the Latin word +_vilis_ and our vile; also _villain_. This suggests what kind of +degeneracy villagers are liable to. They are wayworn by the travel that +goes by and over them, without travelling themselves. + +Some do not walk at all; others walk in the highways; a few walk across +lots. Roads are made for horses and men of business. I do not travel in +them much, comparatively, because I am not in a hurry to get to any +tavern or grocery or livery-stable or depot to which they lead. I am a +good horse to travel, but not from choice a roadster. The +landscape-painter uses the figures of men to mark a road. He would not +make that use of my figure. I walk out into a Nature such as the old +prophets and poets, Menu, Moses, Homer, Chaucer, walked in. You may +name it America, but it is not America: neither Atnericus Vespucius, +nor Columbus, nor the rest were the discoverers of it. There is a truer +account of it in mythology than in any history of America, so called, +that I have seen. + +However, there are a few old roads that may be trodden with profit, as +if they led somewhere now that they are nearly discontinued. There is +the Old Marlborough Road, which does not go to Marlborough now, +methinks, unless that is Marlborough where it carries me. I am the +bolder to speak of it here, because I presume that there are one or two +such roads in every town. + +THE OLD MARLBOROUGH ROAD. + + + Where they once dug for money, + But never found any; + Where sometimes Martial Miles + Singly files, + And Elijah Wood, + I fear for no good: + No other man, + Save Elisha Dugan,— + O man of wild habits, + Partridges and rabbits, + Who hast no cares + Only to set snares, + Who liv’st all alone, + Close to the bone, + And where life is sweetest + Constantly eatest. +When the spring stirs my blood + With the instinct to travel, + I can get enough gravel +On the Old Marlborough Road. + Nobody repairs it, + For nobody wears it; + It is a living way, + As the Christians say. +Not many there be + Who enter therein, +Only the guests of the + Irishman Quin. +What is it, what is it, + But a direction out there, +And the bare possibility + Of going somewhere? + Great guide-boards of stone, + But travellers none; + Cenotaphs of the towns + Named on their crowns. + It is worth going to see + Where you _might_ be. + What king + Did the thing, + I am still wondering; + Set up how or when, + By what selectmen, + Gourgas or Lee, + Clark or Darby? + They’re a great endeavor + To be something forever; + Blank tablets of stone, + Where a traveller might groan, + And in one sentence + Grave all that is known; + Which another might read, + In his extreme need. + I know one or two + Lines that would do, + Literature that might stand + All over the land, + Which a man could remember + Till next December, + And read again in the spring, + After the thawing. +If with fancy unfurled + You leave your abode, +You may go round the world + By the Old Marlborough Road. + + +At present, in this vicinity, the best part of the land is not private +property; the landscape is not owned, and the walker enjoys comparative +freedom. But possibly the day will come when it will be partitioned off +into so-called pleasure-grounds, in which a few will take a narrow and +exclusive pleasure only,—when fences shall be multiplied, and man-traps +and other engines invented to confine men to the _public_ road, and +walking over the surface of God’s earth shall be construed to mean +trespassing on some gentleman’s grounds. To enjoy a thing exclusively +is commonly to exclude yourself from the true enjoyment of it. Let us +improve our opportunities, then, before the evil days come. + +What is it that makes it so hard sometimes to determine whither we will +walk? I believe that there is a subtile magnetism in Nature, which, if +we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright. It is not +indifferent to us which way we walk. There is a right way; but we are +very liable from heedlessness and stupidity to take the wrong one. We +would fain take that walk, never yet taken by us through this actual +world, which is perfectly symbolical of the path which we love to +travel in the interior and ideal world; and sometimes, no doubt, we +find it difficult to choose our direction, because it does not yet +exist distinctly in our idea. + +When I go out of the house for a walk, uncertain as yet whither I will +bend my steps, and submit myself to my instinct to decide for me, I +find, strange and whimsical as it may seem, that I finally and +inevitably settle southwest, toward some particular wood or meadow or +deserted pasture or hill in that direction. My needle is slow to +settle,—varies a few degrees, and does not always point due southwest, +it is true, and it has good authority for this variation, but it always +settles between west and south-southwest. The future lies that way to +me, and the earth seems more unexhausted and richer on that side. The +outline which would bound my walks would be, not a circle, but a +parabola, or rather like one of those cometary orbits which have been +thought to be non-returning curves, in this case opening westward, in +which my house occupies the place of the sun. I turn round and round +irresolute sometimes for a quarter of an hour, until I decide, for a +thousandth time, that I will walk into the southwest or west. Eastward +I go only by force; but westward I go free. Thither no business leads +me. It is hard for me to believe that I shall find fair landscapes or +sufficient wildness and freedom behind the eastern horizon. I am not +excited by the prospect of a walk thither; but I believe that the +forest which I see in the western horizon stretches uninterruptedly +toward the setting sun, and there are no towns nor cities in it of +enough consequence to disturb me. Let me live where I will, on this +side is the city, on that the wilderness, and ever I am leaving the +city more and more, and withdrawing into the wilderness. I should not +lay so much stress on this fact, if I did not believe that something +like this is the prevailing tendency of my countrymen. I must walk +toward Oregon, and not toward Europe. And that way the nation is +moving, and I may say that mankind progress from east to west. Within a +few years we have witnessed the phenomenon of a southeastward +migration, in the settlement of Australia; but this affects us as a +retrograde movement, and, judging from the moral and physical character +of the first generation of Australians, has not yet proved a successful +experiment. The eastern Tartars think that there is nothing west beyond +Thibet. “The world ends there,” say they, “beyond there is nothing but +a shoreless sea.” It is unmitigated East where they live. + +We go eastward to realize history and study the works of art and +literature, retracing the steps of the race; we go westward as into the +future, with a spirit of enterprise and adventure. The Atlantic is a +Lethean stream, in our passage over which we have had an opportunity to +forget the Old World and its institutions. If we do not succeed this +time, there is perhaps one more chance for the race left before it +arrives on the banks of the Styx; and that is in the Lethe of the +Pacific, which is three times as wide. + +I know not how significant it is, or how far it is an evidence of +singularity, that an individual should thus consent in his pettiest +walk with the general movement of the race; but I know that something +akin to the migratory instinct in birds and quadrupeds,—which, in some +instances, is known to have affected the squirrel tribe, impelling them +to a general and mysterious movement, in which they were seen, say +some, crossing the broadest rivers, each on its particular chip, with +its tail raised for a sail, and bridging narrower streams with their +dead,—that something like the _furor_ which affects the domestic cattle +in the spring, and which is referred to a worm in their tails,—affects +both nations and individuals, either perennially or from time to time. +Not a flock of wild geese cackles over our town, but it to some extent +unsettles the value of real estate here, and, if I were a broker, I +should probably take that disturbance into account. + +“Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages, +And palmeres for to seken strange strondes.” + + +Every sunset which I witness inspires me with the desire to go to a +West as distant and as fair as that into which the sun goes down. He +appears to migrate westward daily, and tempt us to follow him. He is +the Great Western Pioneer whom the nations follow. We dream all night +of those mountain-ridges in the horizon, though they may be of vapor +only, which were last gilded by his rays. The island of Atlantis, and +the islands and gardens of the Hesperides, a sort of terrestrial +paradise, appear to have been the Great West of the ancients, enveloped +in mystery and poetry. Who has not seen in imagination, when looking +into the sunset sky, the gardens of the Hesperides, and the foundation +of all those fables? + +Columbus felt the westward tendency more strongly than any before. He +obeyed it, and found a New World for Castile and Leon. The herd of men +in those days scented fresh pastures from afar. + +“And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, +And now was dropped into the western bay; +At last _he_ rose, and twitched his mantle blue; +To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.” + + +Where on the globe can there be found an area of equal extent with that +occupied by the bulk of our States, so fertile and so rich and varied +in its productions, and at the same time so habitable by the European, +as this is? Michaux, who knew but part of them, says that “the species +of large trees are much more numerous in North America than in Europe; +in the United States there are more than one hundred and forty species +that exceed thirty feet in height; in France there are but thirty that +attain this size.” Later botanists more than confirm his observations. +Humboldt came to America to realize his youthful dreams of a tropical +vegetation, and he beheld it in its greatest perfection in the +primitive forests of the Amazon, the most gigantic wilderness on the +earth, which he has so eloquently described. The geographer Guyot, +himself a European, goes farther,—farther than I am ready to follow +him; yet not when he says,— “As the plant is made for the animal, as +the vegetable world is made for the animal world, America is made for +the man of the Old World…. The man of the Old World sets out upon his +way. Leaving the highlands of Asia, he descends from station to station +towards Europe. Each of his steps is marked by a new civilization +superior to the preceding, by a greater power of development. Arrived +at the Atlantic, he pauses on the shore of this unknown ocean, the +bounds of which he knows not, and turns upon his footprints for an +instant.” When he has exhausted the rich soil of Europe, and +reinvigorated himself, “then recommences his adventurous career +westward as in the earliest ages.” So far Guyot. + +From this western impulse coming in contact with the barrier of the +Atlantic sprang the commerce and enterprise of modern times. The +younger Michaux, in his “Travels West of the Alleghanies in 1802,” says +that the common inquiry in the newly settled West was, “‘From what part +of the world have you come?’ As if these vast and fertile regions would +naturally be the place of meeting and common country of all the +inhabitants of the globe.” + +To use an obsolete Latin word, I might say, _Ex Oriente lux; ex +Occidente_ FRUX. From the East light; from the West fruit. + +Sir Francis, Head, an English traveller and a Governor-General of +Canada, tells us that “in both the northern and southern hemispheres of +the New World, Nature has not only outlined her works on a larger +scale, but has painted the whole picture with brighter and more costly +colors than she used in delineating and in beautifying the Old World…. +The heavens of America appear infinitely higher, the sky is bluer, the +air is fresher, the cold is intenser, the moon looks larger, the stars +are brighter, the thunder is louder, the lightning is vivider, the wind +is stronger, the rain is heavier, the mountains are higher, the rivers +longer, the forests bigger, the plains broader.” This statement will do +at least to set against Buffon’s account of this part of the world and +its productions. + +Linnaeus said long ago, “Nescio quae facies _laeta, glabra_ plantis +Americanis: I know not what there is of joyous and smooth in the aspect +of American plants;” and I think that in this country there are no, or +at most very few, _Africanae bestiae_, African beasts, as the Romans +called them, and that in this respect also it is peculiarly fitted for +the habitation of man. We are told that within three miles of the +centre of the East-Indian city of Singapore, some of the inhabitants +are annually carried off by tigers; but the traveller can lie down in +the woods at night almost anywhere in North America without fear of +wild beasts. + +These are encouraging testimonies. If the moon looks larger here than +in Europe, probably the sun looks larger also. If the heavens of +America appear infinitely higher, and the stars brighter, I trust that +these facts are symbolical of the height to which the philosophy and +poetry and religion of her inhabitants may one day soar. At length, +perchance, the immaterial heaven will appear as much higher to the +American mind, and the intimations that star it as much brighter. For I +believe that climate does thus react on man,—as there is something in +the mountain-air that feeds the spirit and inspires. Will not man grow +to greater perfection intellectually as well as physically under these +influences? Or is it unimportant how many foggy days there are in his +life? I trust that we shall be more imaginative, that our thoughts will +be clearer, fresher, and more ethereal, as our sky,—our understanding +more comprehensive and broader, like our plains,—our intellect +generally on a grander scale, like our thunder and lightning, our +rivers and mountains and forests,—and our hearts shall even correspond +in breadth and depth and grandeur to our inland seas. Perchance there +will appear to the traveller something, he knows not what, of _laeta_ +and _glabra_, of joyous and serene, in our very faces. Else to what end +does the world go on, and why was America discovered? + +To Americans I hardly need to say,— + +“Westward the star of empire takes its way.” + + +As a true patriot, I should be ashamed to think that Adam in paradise +was more favorably situated on the whole than the backwoodsman in this +country. + +Our sympathies in Massachusetts are not confined to New England; though +we may be estranged from the South, we sympathize with the West. There +is the home of the younger sons, as among the Scandinavians they took +to the sea for their inheritance. It is too late to be studying Hebrew; +it is more important to understand even the slang of to-day. + +Some months ago I went to see a panorama of the Rhine. It was like a +dream of the Middle Ages. I floated down its historic stream in +something more than imagination, under bridges built by the Romans, and +repaired by later heroes, past cities and castles whose very names were +music to my ears, and each of which was the subject of a legend. There +were Ehrenbreitstein and Rolandseck and Coblentz, which I knew only in +history. They were ruins that interested me chiefly. There seemed to +come up from its waters and its vine-clad hills and valleys a hushed +music as of Crusaders departing for the Holy Land. I floated along +under the spell of enchantment, as if I had been transported to an +heroic age, and breathed an atmosphere of chivalry. + +Soon after, I went to see a panorama of the Mississippi, and as I +worked my way up the river in the light of to-day, and saw the +steamboats wooding up, counted the rising cities, gazed on the fresh +ruins of Nauvoo, beheld the Indians moving west across the stream, and, +as before I had looked up the Moselle now looked up the Ohio and the +Missouri, and heard the legends of Dubuque and of Wenona’s Cliff,—still +thinking more of the future than of the past or present,—I saw that +this was a Rhine stream of a different kind; that the foundations of +castles were yet to be laid, and the famous bridges were yet to be +thrown over the river; and I felt that _this was the heroic age +itself_, though we know it not, for the hero is commonly the simplest +and obscurest of men. + +The West of which I speak is but another name for the Wild; and what I +have been preparing to say is, that in Wildness is the preservation of +the World. Every tree sends its fibres forth in search of the Wild. The +cities import it at any price. Men plough and sail for it. From the +forest and wilderness come the tonics and barks which brace mankind. +Our ancestors were savages. The story of Romulus and Remus being +suckled by a wolf is not a meaningless fable. The founders of every +State which has risen to eminence have drawn their nourishment and +vigor from a similar wild source. It was because the children of the +Empire were not suckled by the wolf that they were conquered and +displaced by the children of the Northern forests who were. + +I believe in the forest, and in the meadow, and in the night in which +the corn grows. We require an infusion of hemlock-spruce or arbor-vitae +in our tea. There is a difference between eating and drinking for +strength and from mere gluttony. The Hottentots eagerly devour the +marrow of the koodoo and other antelopes raw, as a matter of course. +Some of our Northern Indians eat raw the marrow of the Arctic reindeer, +as well as various other parts, including the summits of the antlers, +as long as they are soft. And herein, perchance, they have stolen a +march on the cooks of Paris. They get what usually goes to feed the +fire. This is probably better than stall-fed beef and slaughter-house +pork to make a man of. Give me a wildness whose glance no civilization +can endure,—as if we lived on the marrow of koodoos devoured raw. + +There are some intervals which border the strain of the wood-thrush, to +which I would migrate,—wild lands where no settler has squatted; to +which, methinks, I am already acclimated. + +The African hunter Cummings tells us that the skin of the eland, as +well as that of most other antelopes just killed, emits the most +delicious perfume of trees and grass. I would have every man so much +like a wild antelope, so much a part and parcel of Nature, that his +very person should thus sweetly advertise our senses of his presence, +and remind us of those parts of Nature which he most haunts. I feel no +disposition to be satirical, when the trapper’s coat emits the odor of +musquash even; it is a sweeter scent to me than that which commonly +exhales from the merchant’s or the scholar’s garments. When I go into +their wardrobes and handle their vestments, I am reminded of no grassy +plains and flowery meads which they have frequented, but of dusty +merchants’ exchanges and libraries rather. + +A tanned skin is something more than respectable, and perhaps olive is +a fitter color than white for a man,—a denizen of the woods. “The pale +white man!” I do not wonder that the African pitied him. Darwin the +naturalist says, “A white man bathing by the side of a Tahitian was +like a plant bleached by the gardener’s art, compared with a fine, dark +green one, growing vigorously in the open fields.” + +Ben Jonson exclaims,— + +“How near to good is what is fair!” + + +So I would say,— + +How near to good is what is _wild_! + + +Life consists with wildness. The most alive is the wildest. Not yet +subdued to man, its presence refreshes him. One who pressed forward +incessantly and never rested from his labors, who grew fast and made +infinite demands on life, would always find himself in a new country or +wilderness, and surrounded by the raw material of life. He would be +climbing over the prostrate stems of primitive forest-trees. + +Hope and the future for me are not in lawns and cultivated fields, not +in towns and cities, but in the impervious and quaking swamps. When, +formerly, I have analyzed my partiality for some farm which I had +contemplated purchasing, I have frequently found that I was attracted +solely by a few square rods of impermeable and unfathomable bog,—a +natural sink in one corner of it. That was the jewel which dazzled me. +I derive more of my subsistence from the swamps which surround my +native town than from the cultivated gardens in the village. There are +no richer parterres to my eyes than the dense beds of dwarf andromeda +_(Cassandra calyculata_) which cover these tender places on the earth’s +surface. Botany cannot go farther than tell me the names of the shrubs +which grow there,—the high-blueberry, panicled andromeda, lamb-kill, +azalea, and rhodora,—all standing in the quaking sphagnum. I often +think that I should like to have my house front on this mass of dull +red bushes, omitting other flower plots and borders, transplanted +spruce and trim box, even gravelled walks,—to have this fertile spot +under my windows, not a few imported barrow-fulls of soil only to cover +the sand which was thrown out in digging the cellar. Why not put my +house, my parlor, behind this plot, instead of behind that meagre +assemblage of curiosities, that poor apology for a Nature and Art, +which I call my front-yard? It is an effort to clear up and make a +decent appearance when the carpenter and mason have departed, though +done as much for the passer-by as the dweller within. The most tasteful +front-yard fence was never an agreeable object of study to me; the most +elaborate ornaments, acorn-tops, or what not, soon wearied and +disgusted me. Bring your sills up to the very edge of the swamp, then, +(though it may not be the best place for a dry cellar,) so that there +be no access on that side to citizens. Front-yards are not made to walk +in, but, at most, through, and you could go in the back way. + +Yes, though you may think me perverse, if it were proposed to me to +dwell in the neighborhood of the most beautiful garden that ever human +art contrived, or else of a Dismal swamp, I should certainly decide for +the swamp. How vain, then, have been all your labors, citizens, for me! + +My spirits infallibly rise in proportion to the outward dreariness. +Give me the ocean, the desert or the wilderness! In the desert, pure +air and solitude compensate for want of moisture and fertility. The +traveller Burton says of it,—“Your _morale_ improves; you become frank +and cordial, hospitable and single-minded….. In the desert, spirituous +liquors excite only disgust. There is a keen enjoyment in a mere animal +existence.” They who have been travelling long on the steppes of +Tartary say,—“On reëntering cultivated lands, the agitation, +perplexity, and turmoil of civilization oppressed and suffocated us; +the air seemed to fail us, and we felt every moment as if about to die +of asphyxia.” When I would recreate myself, I seek the darkest wood, +the thickest and most interminable, and, to the citizen, most dismal +swamp. I enter a swamp as a sacred place,—a _sanctum sanctorum_. There +is the strength, the marrow of Nature. The wild-wood covers the virgin +mould,—and the same soil is good for men and for trees. A man’s health +requires as many acres of meadow to his prospect as his farm does loads +of muck. There are the strong meats on which he feeds. A town is saved, +not more by the righteous men in it than by the woods and swamps that +surround it. A township where one primitive forest waves above, while +another primitive forest rots below,—such a town is fitted to raise not +only corn and potatoes, but poets and philosophers for the coming ages. +In such a soil grew Homer and Confucius and the rest, and out of such a +wilderness comes the Reformer eating locusts and wild honey. + +To preserve wild animals implies generally the creation of a forest for +them to dwell in or resort to. So it is with man. A hundred years ago +they sold bark in our streets peeled from our own woods. In the very +aspect of those primitive and rugged trees, there was, methinks, a +tanning principle which hardened and consolidated the fibres of men’s +thoughts. Ah! already I shudder for these comparatively degenerate days +of my native village, when you cannot collect a load of bark of good +thickness,—and we no longer produce tar and turpentine. + +The civilized nations—Greece, Rome, England—have been sustained by the +primitive forests which anciently rotted where they stand. They survive +as long as the soil is not exhausted. Alas for human culture! little is +to be expected of a nation, when the vegetable mould is exhausted, and +it is compelled to make manure of the bones of its fathers. There the +poet sustains himself merely by his own superfluous fat, and the +philosopher comes down on his marrow-bones. + +It is said to be the task of the American “to work the virgin soil,” +and that “agriculture here already assumes proportions unknown +everywhere else.” I think that the farmer displaces the Indian even +because he redeems the meadow, and so makes himself stronger and in +some respects more natural. I was surveying for a man the other day a +single straight line one hundred and thirty-two rods long, through a +swamp, at whose entrance might have been written the words which Dante +read over the entrance to the infernal regions,—“Leave all hope, ye +that enter,”—that is, of ever getting out again; where at one time I +saw my employer actually up to his neck and swimming for his life in +his property, though it was still winter. He had another similar swamp +which I could not survey at all, because it was completely under water, +and nevertheless, with regard to a third swamp, which I did _survey_ +from a distance, he remarked to me, true to his instincts, that he +would not part with it for any consideration, on account of the mud +which it contained. And that man intends to put a girdling ditch round +the whole in the course of forty months, and so redeem it by the magic +of his spade. I refer to him only as the type of a class. + +The weapons with which we have gained our most important victories, +which should be handed down as heirlooms from father to son, are not +the sword and the lance, but the bushwhack, the turf-cutter, the spade, +and the bog-hoe, rusted with the blood of many a meadow, and begrimed +with the dust of many a hard-fought field. The very winds blew the +Indian’s cornfield into the meadow, and pointed out the way which he +had not the skill to follow. He had no better implement with which to +intrench himself in the land than a clam-shell. But the farmer is armed +with plough and spade. + +In Literature it is only the wild that attracts us. Dullness is but +another name for tameness. It is the uncivilized free and wild thinking +in “Hamlet” and the “Iliad,” in all the Scriptures and Mythologies, not +learned in the schools, that delights us. As the wild duck is more +swift and beautiful than the tame, so is the wild—the mallard—thought, +which ’mid falling dews wings its way above the fens. A truly good book +is something as natural, and as unexpectedly and unaccountably fair and +perfect, as a wild flower discovered on the prairies of the West or in +the jungles of the East. Genius is a light which makes the darkness +visible, like the lightning’s flash, which perchance shatters the +temple of knowledge itself,—and not a taper lighted at the hearth-stone +of the race, which pales before the light of common day. + +English literature, from the days of the minstrels to the Lake Poets,— +Chaucer and Spenser and Milton, and even Shakspeare, included,—breathes +no quite fresh and in this sense wild strain. It is an essentially tame +and civilized literature, reflecting Greece and Rome. Her wilderness is +a green wood,—her wild man a Robin Hood. There is plenty of genial love +of Nature, but not so much of Nature herself. Her chronicles inform us +when her wild animals, but not when the wild man in her, became +extinct. + +The science of Humboldt is one thing, poetry is another thing. The poet +to-day, notwithstanding all the discoveries of science, and the +accumulated learning of mankind, enjoys no advantage over Homer. + +Where is the literature which gives expression to Nature? He would be a +poet who could impress the winds and streams into his service, to speak +for him; who nailed words to their primitive senses, as farmers drive +down stakes in the spring, which the frost has heaved; who derived his +words as often as he used them,—transplanted them to his page with +earth adhering to their roots; whose words were so true and fresh and +natural that they would appear to expand like the buds at the approach +of spring, though they lay half-smothered between two musty leaves in a +library,—ay, to bloom and bear fruit there, after their kind, annually, +for the faithful reader, in sympathy with surrounding Nature. + +I do not know of any poetry to quote which adequately expresses this +yearning for the Wild. Approached from this side, the best poetry is +tame. I do not know where to find in any literature, ancient or modern, +any account which contents me of that Nature with which even I am +acquainted. You will perceive that I demand something which no Augustan +nor Elizabethan age, which no _culture_, in short, can give. Mythology +comes nearer to it than anything. How much more fertile a Nature, at +least, has Grecian mythology its root in than English literature! +Mythology is the crop which the Old World bore before its soil was +exhausted, before the fancy and imagination were affected with blight; +and which it still bears, wherever its pristine vigor is unabated. All +other literatures endure only as the elms which overshadow our houses; +but this is like the great dragon-tree of the Western Isles, as old as +mankind, and, whether that does or not, will endure as long; for the +decay of other literatures makes the soil in which it thrives. + +The West is preparing to add its fables to those of the East. The +valleys of the Ganges, the Nile, and the Rhine, having yielded their +crop, it remains to be seen what the valleys of the Amazon, the Plate, +the Orinoco, the St. Lawrence, and the Mississippi will produce. +Perchance, when, in the course of ages, American liberty has become a +fiction of the past,—as it is to some extent a fiction of the +present,—the poets of the world will be inspired by American mythology. + +The wildest dreams of wild men, even, are not the less true, though +they may not recommend themselves to the sense which is most common +among Englishmen and Americans today. It is not every truth that +recommends itself to the common sense. Nature has a place for the wild +clematis as well as for the cabbage. Some expressions of truth are +reminiscent,— others merely _sensible_, as the phrase is,—others +prophetic. Some forms of disease, even, may prophesy forms of health. +The geologist has discovered that the figures of serpents, griffins, +flying dragons, and other fanciful embellishments of heraldry, have +their prototypes in the forms of fossil species which were extinct +before man was created, and hence “indicate a faint and shadowy +knowledge of a previous state of organic existence.” The Hindoos +dreamed that the earth rested on an elephant, and the elephant on a +tortoise, and the tortoise on a serpent; and though it may be an +unimportant coincidence, it will not be out of place here to state, +that a fossil tortoise has lately been discovered in Asia large enough +to support an elephant. I confess that I am partial to these wild +fancies, which transcend the order of time and development. They are +the sublimest recreation of the intellect. The partridge loves peas, +but not those that go with her into the pot. + +In short, all good things are wild and free. There is something in a +strain of music, whether produced by an instrument or by the human +voice,—take the sound of a bugle in a summer night, for instance,—which +by its wildness, to speak without satire, reminds me of the cries +emitted by wild beasts in their native forests. It is so much of their +wildness as I can understand. Give me for my friends and neighbors wild +men, not tame ones. The wildness of the savage is but a faint symbol of +the awful ferity with which good men and lovers meet. + +I love even to see the domestic animals reassert their native +rights,—any evidence that they have not wholly lost their original wild +habits and vigor; as when my neighbor’s cow breaks out of her pasture +early in the spring and boldly swims the river, a cold, gray tide, +twenty-five or thirty rods wide, swollen by the melted snow. It is the +buffalo crossing the Mississippi. This exploit confers some dignity on +the herd in my eyes,—already dignified. The seeds of instinct are +preserved under the thick hides of cattle and horses, like seeds in the +bowels of the earth, an indefinite period. + +Any sportiveness in cattle is unexpected. I saw one day a herd of a +dozen bullocks and cows running about and frisking in unwieldly sport, +like huge rats, even like kittens. They shook their heads, raised their +tails, and rushed up and down a hill, and I perceived by their horns, +as well as by their activity, their relation to the deer tribe. But, +alas! a sudden loud _Whoa_! would have damped their ardor at once, +reduced them from venison to beef, and stiffened their sides and sinews +like the locomotive. Who but the Evil One has cried, “Whoa!” to +mankind? Indeed, the life of cattle, like that of many men, is but a +sort of locomotiveness; they move a side at a time, and man, by his +machinery, is meeting the horse and the ox half-way. Whatever part the +whip has touched is thenceforth palsied. Who would ever think of a +_side_ of any of the supple cat tribe, as we speak of a _side_ of beef? + +I rejoice that horses and steers have to be broken before they can be +made the slaves of men, and that men themselves have some, wild oats +still left to sow before they become submissive members of society. +Undoubtedly, all men are not equally fit subjects for civilization; and +because the majority, like dogs and sheep, are tame by inherited +disposition, this is no reason why the others should have their natures +broken that they may be reduced to the same level. Men are in the main +alike, but they were made several in order that they might be various. +If a low use is to be served, one man will do nearly or quite as well +as another; if a high one, individual excellence is to be regarded. Any +man can stop a hole to keep the wind away, but no other man could serve +so rare a use as the author of this illustration did. Confucius +says,—“The skins of the tiger and the leopard, when they are tanned, +are as the skins of the dog and the sheep tanned.” But it is not the +part of a true culture to tame tigers, any more than it is to make +sheep ferocious; and tanning their skins for shoes is not the best use +to which they can be put. + +When looking over a list of men’s names in a foreign language, as of +military officers, or of authors who have written on a particular +subject, I am reminded once more that there is nothing in a name. The +name Menschikoff, for instance, has nothing in it to my ears more human +than a whisker, and it may belong to a rat. As the names of the Poles +and Russians are to us, so are ours to them. It is as if they had been +named by the child’s rigmarole,—_Iery wiery ichery van, +tittle-tol-tan._ I see in my mind a herd of wild creatures swarming +over the earth, and to each the herdsman has affixed some barbarous +sound in his own dialect. The names of men are of course as cheap and +meaningless as _Bose_ and _Tray_, the names of dogs. + +Methinks it would be some advantage to philosophy, if men were named +merely in the gross, as they are known. It would be necessary only to +know the genus and perhaps the race or variety, to know the individual. +We are not prepared to believe that every private soldier in a Roman +army had a name of his own,—because we have not supposed that he had a +character of his own. At present our only true names are nicknames. I +knew a boy who, from his peculiar energy, was called “Buster” by his +playmates, and this rightly supplanted his Christian name. Some +travellers tell us that an Indian had no name given him at first, but +earned it, and his name was his fame; and among some tribes he acquired +a new name with every new exploit. It is pitiful when a man bears a +name for convenience merely, who has earned neither name nor fame. + +I will not allow mere names to make distinctions for me, but still see +men in herds for all them. A familiar name cannot make a man less +strange to me. It may be given to a savage who retains in secret his +own wild title earned in the woods. We have a wild savage in us, and a +savage name is perchance somewhere recorded as ours. I see that my +neighbor, who bears the familiar epithet William, or Edwin, takes it +off with his jacket. It does not adhere to him when asleep or in anger, +or aroused by any passion or inspiration. I seem to hear pronounced by +some of his kin at such a time his original wild name in some +jaw-breaking or else melodious tongue. + +Here is this vast, savage, howling mother of ours, Nature, lying all +around, with such beauty, and such affection for her children, as the +leopard; and yet we are so early weaned from her breast to society, to +that culture which is exclusively an interaction of man on man,—a sort +of breeding in and in, which produces at most a merely English +nobility, a civilization destined to have a speedy limit. + +In society, in the best institutions of men, it is easy to detect a +certain precocity. When we should still be growing children, we are +already little men. Give me a culture which imports much muck from the +meadows, and deepens the soil,—not that which trusts to heating +manures, and improved implements and modes of culture only! + +Many a poor sore-eyed student that I have heard of would grow faster, +both intellectually and physically, if, instead of sitting up so very +late, he honestly slumbered a fool’s allowance. + +There may be an excess even of informing light. Niépce, a Frenchman, +discovered “actinism,” that power in the sun’s rays which produces a +chemical effect,—that granite rocks, and stone structures, and statues +of metal, “are all alike destructively acted upon during the hours of +sunshine, and, but for provisions of Nature no less wonderful, would +soon perish under the delicate touch of the most subtile of the +agencies of the universe.” But he observed that “those bodies which +underwent this change during the daylight possessed the power of +restoring themselves to their original conditions during the hours of +night, when this excitement was no-longer influencing them.” Hence it +has been inferred that “the hours of darkness are as necessary to the +inorganic creation as we know night and sleep are to the organic +kingdom.” Not even does the moon shine every night, but gives place to +darkness. + +I would not have every man nor every part of a man cultivated, any more +than I would have every acre of earth cultivated: part will be tillage, +but the greater part will be meadow and forest, not only serving an +immediate use, but preparing a mould against a distant future, by the +annual decay of the vegetation which it supports. + +There are other letters for the child to learn than those which Cadmus +invented. The Spaniards have a good term to express this wild and dusky +knowledge,—_Gramática parda_, tawny grammar,—a kind of mother-wit +derived from that same leopard to which I have referred. + +We have heard of a Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge. It is +said that knowledge is power; and the like. Methinks there is equal +need of a Society for the Diffusion of Useful Ignorance, what we will +call Beautiful Knowledge, a knowledge useful in a higher sense: for +what is most of our boasted so-called knowledge but a conceit that we +know something, which robs us of the advantage of our actual ignorance? +What we call knowledge is often our positive ignorance; ignorance our +negative knowledge. By long years of patient industry and reading of +the newspapers,—for what are the libraries of science but files of +newspapers?—a man accumulates a myriad facts, lays them up in his +memory, and then when in some spring of his life he saunters abroad +into the Great Fields of thought, he, as it were, goes to grass like a +horse, and leaves all his harness behind in the stable. I would say to +the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, sometimes,—Go to +grass. You have eaten hay long enough. The spring has come with its +green crop. The very cows are driven to their country pastures before +the end of May; though I have heard of one unnatural farmer who kept +his cow in the barn and fed her on hay all the year round. So, +frequently, the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge treats +its cattle. + +A man’s ignorance sometimes is not only useful, but beautiful,—while +his knowledge, so called, is oftentimes worse than useless, besides +being ugly. Which is the best man to deal with,—he who knows nothing +about a subject, and, what is extremely rare, knows that he knows +nothing, or he who really knows something about it, but thinks that he +knows all? + +My desire for knowledge is intermittent; but my desire to bathe my head +in atmospheres unknown to my feet is perennial and constant. The +highest that we can attain to is not Knowledge, but Sympathy with +Intelligence. I do not know that this higher knowledge amounts to +anything more definite than a novel and grand surprise on a sudden +revelation of the insufficiency of all that we called Knowledge +before,—a discovery that there are more things in heaven and earth than +are dreamed of in our philosophy. It is the lighting up of the mist by +the sun. Man cannot _know_ in any higher sense than this, any more than +he can look serenely and with impunity in the face of sun: Ὁς τὶ νοῶν, +οὐ κεῖνον νοήσεις,—“You will not perceive that, as perceiving a +particular thing,” say the Chaldean Oracles. + +There is something servile in the habit of seeking after a law which we +may obey. We may study the laws of matter at and for our convenience, +but a successful life knows no law. It is an unfortunate discovery +certainly, that of a law which binds us where we did not know before +that we were bound. Live free, child of the mist,—and with respect to +knowledge we are all children of the mist. The man who takes the +liberty to live is superior to all the laws, by virtue of his relation +to the law-maker. “That is active duty,” says the Vishnu Parana, “which +is not for our bondage; that is knowledge which is for our liberation: +all other duty is good only unto weariness; all other knowledge is only +the cleverness of an artist.” + +It is remarkable how few events or crises there are in our histories; +how little exercised we have been in our minds; how few experiences we +have had. I would fain be assured that I am growing apace and rankly, +though my very growth disturb this dull equanimity,—though it be with +struggle through long, dark, muggy nights or seasons of gloom. It would +be well, if all our lives were a divine tragedy even, instead of this +trivial comedy or farce. Dante, Bunyan, and others, appear to have been +exercised in their minds more than we: they were subjected to a kind of +culture such as our district schools and colleges do not contemplate. +Even Mahomet, though many may scream at his name, had a good deal more +to live for, ay, and to die for, than they have commonly. + +When, at rare intervals, some thought visits one, as perchance he is +walking on a railroad, then indeed the cars go by without his hearing +them. But soon, by some inexorable law, our life goes by and the cars +return. + +“Gentle breeze, that wanderest unseen, +And bendest the thistles round Loira of storms, +Traveller of the windy glens, +Why hast thou left my ear so soon?” + + +While almost all men feel an attraction drawing them to society, few +are attracted strongly to Nature. In their relation to Nature men +appear to me for the most part, notwithstanding their arts, lower than +the animals. It is not often a beautiful relation, as in the case of +the animals. How little appreciation of the beauty of the landscape +there is among us! We have to be told that the Greeks called the world +Κόσμος, Beauty, or Order, but we do not see clearly why they did so, +and we esteem it at best only a curious philological fact. + +For my part, I feel that with regard to Nature I live a sort of border +life, on the confines of a world into which I make occasional and +transional and transient forays only, and my patriotism and allegiance +to the State into whose territories I seem to retreat are those of a +moss-trooper. Unto a life which I call natural I would gladly follow +even a will-o’-the-wisp through bogs and sloughs unimaginable, but no +moon nor fire-fly has shown me the causeway to it. Nature is a +personality so vast and universal that we have never seen one of her +features. The walker in the familiar fields which stretch around my +native town sometimes finds himself in another land than is described +in their owners’ deeds, as it were in some far-away field on the +confines of the actual Concord, where her jurisdiction ceases, and the +idea which the word Concord suggests ceases to be suggested. These +farms which I have myself surveyed, these bounds which I have set up, +appear dimly still as through a mist; but they have no chemistry to fix +them; they fade from the surface of the glass; and the picture which +the painter painted stands out dimly from beneath. The world with which +we are commonly acquainted leaves no trace, and it will have no +anniversary. + +I took a walk on Spaulding’s Farm the other afternoon. I saw the +setting sun lighting up the opposite side of a stately pine wood. Its +golden rays straggled into the aisles of the wood as into some noble +hall. I was impressed as if some ancient and altogether admirable and +shining family had settled there in that part of the land called +Concord, unknown to me,—to whom the sun was servant,—who had not gone +into society in the village,—who had not been called on. I saw their +park, their pleasure-ground, beyond through the wood, in Spaulding’s +cranberry-meadow. The pines furnished them with gables as they grew. +Their house was not obvious, to vision; the trees grew through it. I do +not know whether I heard the sounds of a suppressed hilarity or not. +They seemed to recline on the sunbeams. They have sons and daughters. +They are quite well. The farmer’s cart-path, which leads directly +through their hall, does not in the least put them out,—as the muddy +bottom of a pool is sometimes seen through the reflected skies. They +never heard of Spaulding, and do not know that he is their +neighbor,—notwithstanding I heard him whistle as he drove his team +through the house. Nothing can equal the serenity of their lives. Their +coat of arms is simply a lichen. I saw it painted on the pines and +oaks. Their attics were in the tops of the trees. They are of no +politics. There was no noise of labor. I did not perceive that they +were weaving or spinning. Yet I did detect, when the wind lulled and +hearing was done away, the finest imaginable sweet musical hum,—as of a +distant hive in May, which perchance was the sound of their thinking. +They had no idle thoughts, and no one without could see their work, for +their industry was not as in knots and excrescences embayed. + +But I find it difficult to remember them. They fade irrevocably out of +my mind even now while I speak and endeavor to recall them, and +recollect myself. It is only after a long and serious effort to +recollect my best thoughts that I become again aware of their +cohabitancy. If it were not for such families as this, I think I should +move out of Concord. + +We are accustomed to say in New England that few and fewer pigeons +visit us every year. Our forests furnish no mast for them. So, it would +seem, few and fewer thoughts visit each growing man from year to year, +for the grove in our minds is laid waste,—sold to feed unnecessary +fires of ambition, or sent to mill, and there is scarcely a twig left +for them to perch on. They no longer build nor breed with us. In some +more genial season, perchance, a faint shadow flits across the +landscape of the mind, cast by the _wings_ of some thought in its +vernal or autumnal migration, but, looking up, we are unable to detect +the substance of the thought itself. Our winged thoughts are turned to +poultry. They no longer soar, and they attain only to a Shanghai and +Cochin-China grandeur. Those _gra-a-ate thoughts_, those _gra-a-ate +men_ you hear of! + +We hug the earth,—how rarely we mount! Methinks we might elevate +ourselves a little more. We might climb a tree, at least. I found my +account in climbing a tree once. It was a tall white pine, on the top +of a hill; and though I got well pitched, I was well paid for it, for I +discovered new mountains in the horizon which I had never seen +before,—so much more of the earth and the heavens. I might have walked +about the foot of the tree for threescore years and ten, and yet I +certainly should never have seen them. But, above all, I discovered +around me,—it was near the end of June,—on the ends of the topmost +branches only, a few minute and delicate red cone-like blossoms, the +fertile flower of the white pine looking heavenward. I carried +straightway to the village the topmost spire, and showed it to stranger +jurymen who walked the streets,—for it was court-week,—and to farmers +and lumber-dealers and wood-choppers and hunters, and not one had ever +seen the like before, but they wondered as at a star dropped down. Tell +of ancient architects finishing their works on the tops of columns as +perfectly as on the lower and more visible parts! Nature has from the +first expanded the minute blossoms of the forest only toward the +heavens, above men’s heads and unobserved by them. We see only the +flowers that are under our feet in the meadows. The pines have +developed their delicate blossoms on the highest twigs of the wood +every summer for ages, as well over the heads of Nature’s red children +as of her white ones; yet scarcely a farmer or hunter in the land has +ever seen them. + +Above all, we cannot afford not to live in the present. He is blessed +over all mortals who loses no moment of the passing life in remembering +the past. Unless our philosophy hears the cock crow in every barn-yard +within our horizon, it is belated. That sound commonly reminds us that +we are growing rusty and antique in our employments and habits of +thought. His philosophy comes down to a more recent time than ours. +There is something suggested by it that is a newer testament,—the +gospel according to this moment. He has not fallen astern; he has got +up early, and kept up early, and to be where he is to be in season, in +the foremost rank of time. It is an expression of the health and +soundness of Nature, a brag for all the world,—healthiness as of a +spring burst forth, a new fountain of the Muses, to celebrate this last +instant of time. Where he lives no fugitive slave laws are passed. Who +has not betrayed his master many times since last he heard that note? + +The merit of this bird’s strain is in its freedom from all +plaintiveness. The singer can easily move us to tears or to laughter, +but where is he who can excite in us a pure morning joy? When, in +doleful dumps, breaking the awful stillness of our wooden sidewalk on a +Sunday, or, perchance, a watcher in the house of mourning, I hear a +cockerel crow far or near, I think to myself, “There is one of us well, +at any rate,”—and with a sudden gush return to my senses. + +We had a remarkable sunset one day last November. I was walking in a +meadow, the source of a small brook, when the sun at last, just before +setting, after a cold gray day, reached a clear stratum in the horizon, +and the softest, brightest morning sunlight fell on the dry grass and +on the stems of the trees in the opposite horizon, and on the leaves of +the shrub-oaks on the hill-side, while our shadows stretched long over +the meadow eastward, as if we were the only motes in its beams. It was +such a light as we could not have imagined a moment before, and the air +also was so warm and serene that nothing was wanting to make a paradise +of that meadow. When we reflected that this was not a solitary +phenomenon, never to happen again, but that it would happen forever and +ever an infinite number of evenings, and cheer and reassure the latest +child that walked there, it was more glorious still. + +The sun sets on some retired meadow, where no house is visible, with +all the glory and splendor that it lavishes on cities, and perchance, +as it has never set before,—where there is but a solitary marsh-hawk to +have his wings gilded by it, or only a musquash looks out from his +cabin, and there is some little black-veined brook in the midst of the +marsh, just beginning to meander, winding slowly round a decaying +stump. We walked in so pure and bright a light, gilding the withered +grass and leaves, so softly and serenely bright, I thought I had never +bathed in such a golden flood, without a ripple or a murmur to it. The +west side of every wood and rising ground gleamed like the boundary of +Elysium, and the sun on our backs seemed like a gentle herdsman driving +us home at evening. + +So we saunter toward the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall shine +more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our +minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening +light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bank-side in autumn. + + + + +AUTUMNAL TINTS. + + +[1862.] + +Europeans coming to America are surprised by the brilliancy of our +autumnal foliage. There is no account of such a phenomenon in English +poetry, because the trees acquire but few bright colors there. The most +that Thomson says on this subject in his “Autumn” is contained in the +lines,— + +“But see the fading many-colored woods, +Shade deepening over shade, the country round +Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun, +Of every hue, from wan declining green to sooty dark”:— + + +and in the line in which he speaks of + +“Autumn beaming o’er the yellow woods.” + + +The autumnal change of our woods has not made a deep impression on our +own literature yet. October has hardly tinged our poetry. + +A great many, who have spent their lives in cities, and have never +chanced to come into the country at this season, have never seen this, +the flower, or rather the ripe fruit, of the year. I remember riding +with one such citizen, who, though a fortnight too, late for the most +brilliant tints, was taken by surprise, and would not believe that +there had been any brighter. He had never heard of this phenomenon +before. Not only many in our towns have never witnessed it, but it is +scarcely remembered by the majority from year to year. + +Most appear to confound changed leaves with withered ones, as if they +were to confound ripe apples with rotten ones. I think that the change +to some higher color in a leaf is an evidence that it has arrived at a +late and perfect maturity, answering to the maturity of fruits. It is +generally the lowest and oldest leaves which change first. But as the +perfect winged and usually bright-colored insect is short-lived, so the +leaves ripen but to fall. + +Generally, every fruit, on ripening, and just before it falls, when it +commences a more independent and individual existence, requiring less +nourishment from any source, and that not so much from the earth +through its stem as from the sun and air, acquires a bright tint. So do +leaves. The physiologist says it is “due to an increased absorption of +oxygen.” That is the scientific account of the matter,—only a +reassertion of the fact. But I am more interested in the rosy cheek +than I am to know what particular diet the maiden fed on. The very +forest and herbage, the pellicle of the earth, must acquire a bright +color, an evidence of its ripeness,—as if the globe itself were a fruit +on its stem, with ever a cheek toward the sun. + +Flowers are but colored leaves, fruits but ripe ones. The edible part +of most fruits is, as the physiologist says, “the parenchyma or fleshy +tissue of the leaf,” of which they are formed. + +Our appetites have commonly confined our views of ripeness and its +phenomena, color, mellowness, and perfectness, to the fruits which we +eat, and we are wont to forget that an immense harvest which we do not +eat, hardly use at all, is annually ripened by Nature. At our annual +Cattle Shows and Horticultural Exhibitions, we make, as we think, a +great show of fair fruits, destined, however, to a rather ignoble end, +fruits not valued for their beauty chiefly. But round about and within +our towns there is annually another show of fruits, on an infinitely +grander scale, fruits which address our taste for beauty alone. + +October is the month for painted leaves. Their rich glow now flashes +round the world. As fruits and leaves and the day itself acquire a +bright tint just before they fall, so the year near its setting. +October is its sunset sky; November the later twilight. + +I formerly thought that it would be worth the while to get a specimen +leaf from each changing tree, shrub, and herbaceous plant, when it had +acquired its brightest characteristic color, in its transition from the +green to the brown state, outline it, and copy its color exactly, with +paint in a book, which should be entitled, “_October, or Autumnal +Tints_”;—beginning with the earliest reddening,—Woodbine and the lake +of radical leaves, and coming down through the Maples, Hickories, and +Sumachs, and many beautifully freckled leaves less generally known, to +the latest Oaks and Aspens. What a memento such a book would be! You +would need only to turn over its leaves to take a ramble through the +autumn woods whenever you pleased. Or if I could preserve the leaves +themselves, unfaded, it would be better still. I have made but little +progress toward such a book, but I have endeavored, instead, to +describe all these bright tints in the order in which they present +themselves. The following are some extracts from my notes. + +THE PURPLE GRASSES. + + +By the twentieth of August, everywhere in woods and swamps, we are +reminded of the fall, both by the richly spotted Sarsaparilla-leaves +and Brakes, and the withering and blackened Skunk-Cabbage and +Hellebore, and, by the river-side, the already blackening Pontederia. + +The Purple Grass (_Eragròstis pectinàcea_) is now in the height of its +beauty. I remember still when I first noticed this grass particularly. +Standing on a hillside near our river, I saw, thirty or forty rods off, +a stripe of purple half a dozen rods long, under the edge of a wood, +where the ground sloped toward a meadow. It was as high-colored and +interesting, though not quite so bright, as the patches of Rhexia, +being a darker purple, like a berry’s stain laid on close and thick. On +going to and examining it, I found it to be a kind of grass in bloom, +hardly a foot high, with but few green blades, and a fine spreading +panicle of purple flowers, a shallow, purplish mist trembling around +me. Close at hand it appeared but a dull purple, and made little +impression on the eye; it was even difficult to detect; and if you +plucked a single plant, you were surprised to find how thin it was, and +how little color it had. But viewed at a distance in a favorable light, +it was of a fine lively purple, flower-like, enriching the earth. Such +puny causes combine to produce these decided effects. I was the more +surprised and charmed because grass is commonly of a sober and humble +color. + +With its beautiful purple blush it reminds me, and supplies the place, +of the Rhexia, which is now leaving off, and it is one of the most +interesting phenomena of August. The finest patches of it grow on waste +strips or selvages of land at the base of dry hills, just above the +edge of the meadows, where the greedy mower does not deign to swing his +scythe; for this is a thin and poor grass, beneath his notice. Or, it +may be, because it is so beautiful he does not know that it exists; for +the same eye does not see this and Timothy. He carefully gets the +meadow hay and the more nutritious grasses which grow next to that, but +he leaves this fine purple mist for the walker’s harvest,—fodder for +his fancy stock. Higher up the hill, perchance, grow also Blackberries, +John’s-Wort, and neglected, withered, and wiry June-Grass. How +fortunate that it grows in such places, and not in the midst of the +rank grasses which are annually cut! Nature thus keeps use and beauty +distinct. I know many such localities, where it does not fail to +present itself annually, and paint the earth with its blush. It grows +on the gentle slopes, either in a continuous patch or in scattered and +rounded tufts a foot in diameter, and it lasts till it is killed by the +first smart frosts. + +In most plants the corolla or calyx is the part which attains the +highest color, and is the most attractive; in many it is the +seed-vessel or fruit; in others, as the Red Maple, the leaves; and in +others still it is the very culm itself which is the principal flower +or blooming part. + +The last is especially the case with the Poke or Garget (_Phytolacca +decandra_). Some which stand under our cliffs quite dazzle me with +their purple stems now and early in September. They are as interesting +to me as most flowers, and one of the most important fruits of our +autumn. Every part is flower, (or fruit,) such is its superfluity of +color,—stem, branch, peduncle, pedicel, petiole, and even the at length +yellowish purple-veined leaves. Its cylindrical racemes of berries of +various hues, from green to dark purple, six or seven inches long, are +gracefully drooping on all sides, offering repasts to the birds; and +even the sepals from which the birds have picked the berries are a +brilliant lake-red, with crimson flame-like reflections, equal to +anything of the kind,—all on fire with ripeness. Hence the _lacca_, +from _lac_, lake. There are at the same time flower-buds, flowers, +green berries, dark purple or ripe ones, and these flower-like sepals, +all on the same plant. + +We love to see any redness in the vegetation of the temperate zone. It +is the color of colors. This plant speaks to our blood. It asks a +bright sun on it to make it show to best advantage, and it must be seen +at this season of the year. On warm hillsides its stems are ripe by the +twenty-third of August. At that date I walked through a beautiful grove +of them, six or seven feet high, on the side of one of our cliffs, +where they ripen early. Quite to the ground they were a deep brilliant +purple with a bloom, contrasting with the still clear green leaves. It +appears a rare triumph of Nature to have produced and perfected such a +plant, as if this were enough for a summer. What a perfect maturity it +arrives at! It is the emblem of a successful life concluded by a death +not premature, which is an ornament to Nature. What if we were to +mature as perfectly, root and branch, glowing in the midst of our +decay, like the Poke! I confess that it excites me to behold them. I +cut one for a cane, for I would fain handle and lean on it. I love to +press the berries between my fingers, and see their juice staining my +hand. To walk amid these upright, branching casks of purple wine, which +retain and diffuse a sunset glow, tasting each one with your eye, +instead of counting the pipes on a London dock, what a privilege! For +Nature’s vintage is not confined to the vine. Our poets have sung of +wine, the product of a foreign plant which commonly they never saw, as +if our own plants had no juice in them more than the singers. Indeed, +this has been called by some the American Grape, and, though a native +of America, its juices are used in some foreign countries to improve +the color of the wine; so that the poetaster may be celebrating the +virtues of the Poke without knowing it. Here are berries enough to +paint afresh the western sky, and play the bacchanal with, if you will. +And what flutes its ensanguined stems would make, to be used in such a +dance! It is truly a royal plant. I could spend the evening of the year +musing amid the Poke-stems. And perchance amid these groves might arise +at last a new school of philosophy or poetry. It lasts all through +September. + +At the same time with this, or near the end of August, a to me very +interesting genus of grasses, Andropogons, or Beard-Grasses, is in its +prime. _Andropogon furcatus_, Forked Beard-Grass, or call it +Purple-Fingered Grass; _Andropogon scoparius,_ Purple Wood Grass; and +_Andropogon_ (now called _Sorghum_) _nutans_, Indian-Grass. The first +is a very tall and slender-culmed grass, three to seven feet high, with +four or five purple finger-like spikes raying upward from the top. The +second is also quite slender, growing in tufts two feet high by one +wide, with culms often somewhat curving, which, as the spikes go out of +bloom, have a whitish fuzzy look. These two are prevailing grasses at +this season on dry and sandy fields and hillsides. The culms of both, +not to mention their pretty flowers, reflect a purple tinge, and help +to declare the ripeness of the year. Perhaps I have the more sympathy +with them because they are despised by the farmer, and occupy sterile +and neglected soil. They are high-colored, like ripe grapes, and +express a maturity which the spring did not suggest. Only the August +sun could have thus burnished these culms and leaves. The farmer has +long since done his upland haying, and he will not condescend to bring +his scythe to where these slender wild grasses have at length flowered +thinly; you often see spaces of bare sand amid them. But I walk +encouraged between the tufts of Purple Wood-Grass, over the sandy +fields, and along the edge of the Shrub-Oaks, glad to recognize these +simple contemporaries. With thoughts cutting a broad swathe I “get” +them, with horse-raking thoughts I gather them into windrows. The +fine-eared poet may hear the whetting of my scythe. These two were +almost the first grasses that I learned to distinguish, for I had not +known by how many friends I was surrounded,—I had seen them simply as +grasses standing. The purple of their culms also excites me like that +of the Poke-Weed stems. + +Think what refuge there is for one, before August is over, from college +commencements and society that isolates! I can skulk amid the tufts of +Purple Wood-Grass on the borders of the “Great Fields.” Wherever I walk +these afternoons, the Purple-Fingered Grass also stands like a +guide-board, and points my thoughts to more poetic paths than they have +lately travelled. + +A man shall perhaps rush by and trample down plants as high as his +head, and cannot be said to know that they exist, though he may have +cut many tons of them, littered his stables with them, and fed them to +his cattle for years. Yet, if he ever favorably attends to them, he may +be overcome by their beauty. Each humblest plant, or weed, as we call +it, stands there to express some thought or mood of ours; and yet how +long it stands in vain! I had walked over those Great Fields so many +Augusts, and never yet distinctly recognized these purple companions +that I had there. I had brushed against them and trodden on them, +forsooth; and now, at last, they, as it were, rose up and blessed me. +Beauty and true wealth are always thus cheap and despised. Heaven might +be defined as the place which men avoid. Who can doubt that these +grasses, which the farmer says are of no account to him, find some +compensation in your appreciation of them? I may say that I never saw +them before,—though, when I came to look them face to face, there did +come down to me a purple gleam from previous years; and now, wherever I +go, I see hardly anything else. It is the reign and presidency of the +Andropogons. + +Almost the very sands confess the ripening influence of the August sun, +and methinks, together with the slender grasses waving over them, +reflect a purple tinge. The impurpled sands! Such is the consequence of +all this sunshine absorbed into the pores of plants and of the earth. +All sap or blood is now wine-colored. At last we have not only the +purple sea, but the purple land. + +The Chestnut Beard-Grass, Indian-Grass, or Wood-Grass, growing here and +there in waste places, but more rare than the former, (from two to four +or five feet high,) is still handsomer and of more vivid colors than +its congeners, and might well have caught the Indian’s eye. It has a +long, narrow, one-sided, and slightly nodding panicle of bright purple +and yellow flowers, like a banner raised above its reedy leaves. These +bright standards are now advanced on the distant hill-sides, not in +large armies, but in scattered troops or single file, like the red men. +They stand thus fair and bright, representative of the race which they +are named after, but for the most part unobserved as they. The +expression of this grass haunted me for a week, after I first passed +and noticed it, like the glance of an eye. It stands like an Indian +chief taking a last look at his favorite hunting-grounds. + +THE RED MAPLE. + + +By the twenty-fifth of September, the Red Maples generally are +beginning to be ripe. Some large ones have been conspicuously changing +for a week, and some single trees are now very brilliant. I notice a +small one, half a mile off across a meadow, against the green wood-side +there, a far brighter red than the blossoms of any tree in summer, and +more conspicuous. I have observed this tree for several autumns +invariably changing earlier than its fellows, just as one tree ripens +its fruit earlier than another. It might serve to mark the season, +perhaps. I should be sorry, if it were cut down. I know of two or three +such trees in different parts of our town, which might, perhaps, be +propagated from, as early ripeners or September trees, and their seed +be advertised in the market, as well as that of radishes, if we cared +as much about them. + +At present these burning bushes stand chiefly along the edge of the +meadows, or I distinguish them afar on the hillsides here and there. +Sometimes you will see many small ones in a swamp turned quite crimson +when all other trees around are still perfectly green, and the former +appear so much the brighter for it. They take you by surprise, as you +are going by on one side, across the fields, thus early in the season, +as if it were some gay encampment of the red men, or other foresters, +of whose arrival you had not heard. + +Some single trees, wholly bright scarlet, seen against others of their +kind still freshly green, or against evergreens, are more memorable +than whole groves will be by-and-by. How beautiful, when a whole tree +is like one great scarlet fruit full of ripe juices, every leaf, from +lowest limb to topmost spire, all aglow, especially if you look toward +the sun! What more remarkable object can there be in the landscape? +Visible for miles, too fair to be believed. If such a phenomenon +occurred but once, it would be handed down by tradition to posterity, +and get into the mythology at last. + +The whole tree thus ripening in advance of its fellows attains a +singular preeminence, and sometimes maintains it for a week or two. I +am thrilled at the sight of it, bearing aloft its scarlet standard for +the regiment of green-clad foresters around, and I go half a mile out +of my way to examine it. A single tree becomes thus the crowning beauty +of some meadowy vale, and the expression of the whole surrounding +forest is at once more spirited for it. + +A small Red Maple has grown, perchance, far away at the head of some +retired valley, a mile from any road, unobserved. It has faithfully +discharged the duties of a Maple there, all winter and summer, +neglected none of its economies, but added to its stature in the virtue +which belongs to a Maple, by a steady growth for so many months, never +having gone gadding abroad, and is nearer heaven than it was in the +spring. It has faithfully husbanded its sap, and afforded a shelter to +the wandering bird, has long since ripened its seeds and committed them +to the winds, and has the satisfaction of knowing, perhaps, that a +thousand little well-behaved Maples are already settled in life +somewhere. It deserves well of Mapledom. Its leaves have been asking it +from time to time, in a whisper, “When shall we redden?” And now, in +this month of September, this month of travelling, when men are +hastening to the sea-side, or the mountains, or the lakes, this modest +Maple, still without budging an inch, travels in its reputation,—runs +up its scarlet flag on that hillside, which shows that it has finished +its summer’s work before all other trees, and withdraws from the +contest. At the eleventh hour of the year, the tree which no scrutiny +could have detected here when it was most industrious is thus, by the +tint of its maturity, by its very blushes, revealed at last to the +careless and distant traveller, and leads his thoughts away from the +dusty road into those brave solitudes which it inhabits. It flashes out +conspicuous with all the virtue and beauty of a Maple,—_Acer rubrum_. +We may now read its title, or _rubric_, clear. Its _virtues_, not its +sins, are as scarlet. + +Notwithstanding the Red Maple is the most intense scarlet of any of our +trees, the Sugar-Maple has been the most celebrated, and Michaux in his +“Sylva” does not speak of the autumnal color of the former. About the +second of October, these trees, both large and small, are most +brilliant, though many are still green. In “sprout-lands” they seem to +vie with one another, and ever some particular one in the midst of the +crowd will be of a peculiarly pure scarlet, and by its more intense +color attract our eye even at a distance, and carry off the palm. A +large Red-Maple swamp, when at the height of its change, is the most +obviously brilliant of all tangible things, where I dwell, so abundant +is this tree with us. It varies much both in form and color. A great +many are merely yellow, more scarlet, others scarlet deepening into +crimson, more red than common. Look at yonder swamp of Maples mixed +with Pines, at the base of a Pine-clad hill, a quarter of a mile off, +so that you get the full effect of the bright colors, without detecting +the imperfections of the leaves, and see their yellow, scarlet, and +crimson fires, of all tints, mingled and contrasted with the green. +Some Maples are yet green, only yellow or crimson-tipped on the edges +of their flakes, like the edges of a Hazel-Nut burr; some are wholly +brilliant scarlet, raying out regularly and finely every way, +bilaterally, like the veins of a leaf; others, of more irregular form, +when I turn my head slightly, emptying out some of its earthiness and +concealing the trunk of the tree, seem to rest heavily flake on flake, +like yellow and scarlet clouds, wreath upon wreath, or like snowdrifts +driving through the air, stratified by the wind. It adds greatly to the +beauty of such a swamp at this season, that, even though there may be +no other trees interspersed, it is not seen as a simple mass of color, +but, different trees being of different colors and hues, the outline of +each crescent tree-top is distinct, and where one laps on to another. +Yet a painter would hardly venture to make them thus distinct a quarter +of a mile off. + +As I go across a meadow directly toward a low rising ground this bright +afternoon, I see, some fifty rods off toward the sun, the top of a +Maple swamp just appearing over the sheeny russet edge of the hill, a +stripe apparently twenty rods long by ten feet deep, of the most +intensely brilliant scarlet, orange, and yellow, equal to any flowers +or fruits, or any tints ever painted. As I advance, lowering the edge +of the hill which makes the firm foreground or lower frame of the +picture, the depth of the brilliant grove revealed steadily increases, +suggesting that the whole of the inclosed valley is filled with such +color. One wonders that the tithing-men and fathers of the town are not +out to see what the trees mean by their high colors and exuberance of +spirits, fearing that some mischief is brewing. I do not see what the +Puritans did at this season, when the Maples blaze out in scarlet. They +certainly could not have worshipped in groves then. Perhaps that is +what they built meeting-houses and fenced them round with horse-sheds +for. + +THE ELM. + + +Now, too, the first of October, or later, the Elms are at the height of +their autumnal beauty, great brownish-yellow masses, warm from their +September oven, hanging over the highway Their leaves are perfectly +ripe. I wonder if there is any answering ripeness in the lives of the +men who live beneath them. As I look down our street, which is lined +with them, they remind me both by their form and color of yellowing +sheaves of grain, as if the harvest had indeed come to the village +itself, and we might expect to find some maturity and _flavor_ in the +thoughts of the villagers at last. Under those bright rustling yellow +piles just ready to fall on the heads of the walkers, how can any +crudity or greenness of thought or act prevail? When I stand where half +a dozen large Elms droop over a house, it is as if I stood within a +ripe pumpkin-rind, and I feel as mellow as if I were the pulp, though I +may be somewhat stringy and seedy withal. What is the late greenness of +the English Elm, like a cucumber out of season, which does not know +when to have done, compared with the early and golden maturity of the +American tree? The street is the scene of a great harvest-home. It +would be worth the while to set out these trees, if only for their +autumnal value. Think of these great yellow canopies or parasols held +over our heads and houses by the mile together, making the village all +one and compact,—an _ulmarium_, which is at the same time a nursery of +men! And then how gently and unobserved they drop their burden and let +in the sun when it is wanted, their leaves not heard when they fall on +our roofs and in our streets; and thus the village parasol is shut up +and put away! I see the market-man driving into the village, and +disappearing under its canopy of Elm-tops, with _his_ crop, as into a +great granary or barn-yard. I am tempted to go thither as to a husking +of thoughts, now dry and ripe, and ready to be separated from their +integuments; but, alas! I foresee that it will be chiefly husks and +little thought, blasted pig-corn, fit only for cob-meal,—for, as you +sow, so shall you reap. + +FALLEN LEAVES. + + +By the sixth of October the leaves generally begin to fall, in +successive showers, after frost or rain; but the principal +leaf-harvest, the acme of the _Fall_, is commonly about the sixteenth. +Some morning at that date there is perhaps a harder frost than we have +seen, and ice formed under the pump, and now, when the morning wind +rises, the leaves come down in denser showers than ever. They suddenly +form thick beds or carpets on the ground, in this gentle air, or even +without wind, just the size and form of the tree above. Some trees, as +small Hickories, appear to have dropped their leaves instantaneously, +as a soldier grounds arms at a signal; and those of the Hickory, being +bright yellow still, though withered, reflect a blaze of light from the +ground where they lie. Down they have come on all sides, at the first +earnest touch of autumn’s wand, making a sound like rain. + +Or else it is after moist and rainy weather that we notice how great a +fall of leaves there has been in the night, though it may not yet be +the touch that loosens the Rock-Maple leaf. The streets are thickly +strewn with the trophies, and fallen Elm-leaves make a dark brown +pavement under our feet. After some remarkably warm Indian-summer day +or days, I perceive that it is the unusual heat which, more than +anything, causes the leaves to fall, there having been, perhaps, no +frost nor rain for some time. The intense heat suddenly ripens and +wilts them, just as it softens and ripens peaches and other fruits, and +causes them to drop. + +The leaves of late Red Maples, still bright, strew the earth, often +crimson-spotted on a yellow ground, like some wild apples,—though they +preserve these bright colors on the ground but a day or two, especially +if it rains. On causeways I go by trees here and there all bare and +smoke-like, having lost their brilliant clothing; but there it lies, +nearly as bright as ever, on the ground on one side, and making nearly +as regular a figure as lately on the tree, I would rather say that I +first observe the trees thus flat on the ground like a permanent +colored shadow, and they suggest to look for the boughs that bore them. +A queen might be proud to walk where these gallant trees have spread +their bright cloaks in the mud. I see wagons roll over them as a shadow +or a reflection, and the drivers heed them just as little as they did +their shadows before. + +Birds’-nests, in the Huckleberry and other shrubs, and in trees, are +already being filled with the withered leaves. So many have fallen in +the woods, that a squirrel cannot run after a falling nut without being +heard. Boys are raking them in the streets, if only for the pleasure of +dealing with such clean crisp substances. Some sweep the paths +scrupulously neat, and then stand to see the next breath strew them +with new trophies. The swamp-floor is thickly covered, and the +_Lycopodium lucidulum_ looks suddenly greener amid them. In dense woods +they half-cover pools that are three or four rods long. The other day I +could hardly find a well-known spring, and even suspected that it had +dried up, for it was completely concealed by freshly fallen leaves; and +when I swept them aside and revealed it, it was like striking the +earth, with Aaron’s rod, for a new spring. Wet grounds about the edges +of swamps look dry with them. At one swamp, where I was surveying, +thinking to step on a leafy shore from a rail, I got into the water +more than a foot deep. When I go to the river the day after the +principal fall of leaves, the sixteenth, I find my boat all covered, +bottom and seats, with the leaves of the Golden Willow under which it +is moored, and I set sail with a cargo of them rustling under my feet. +If I empty it, it will be full again to-morrow. I do not regard them as +litter, to be swept out, but accept them as suitable straw or matting +for the bottom of my carriage. When I turn up into the mouth of the +Assabet, which is wooded, large fleets of leaves are floating on its +surface, as it were getting out to sea, with room to tack; but next the +shore, a little farther up, they are thicker than foam, quite +concealing the water for a rod in width, under and amid the Alders, +Button-Bushes, and Maples, still perfectly light and dry, with fibre +unrelaxed; and at a rocky bend where they are met and stopped by the +morning wind, they sometimes form a broad and dense crescent quite +across the river. When I turn my prow that way, and the wave which it +makes strikes them, list what a pleasant rustling from these dry +substances grating on one another! Often it is their undulation only +which reveals the water beneath them. Also every motion of the +wood-turtle on the shore is betrayed by their rustling there. Or even +in mid-channel, when the wind rises, I hear them blown with a rustling +sound. Higher up they are slowly moving round and round in some great +eddy which the river makes, as that at the “Leaning Hemlocks,” where +the water is deep, and the current is wearing into the bank. + +Perchance, in the afternoon of such a day, when the water is perfectly +calm and full of reflections, I paddle gently down the main stream, +and, turning up the Assabet, reach a quiet cove, where I unexpectedly +find myself surrounded by myriads of leaves, like fellow-voyagers, +which seem to have the same purpose, or want of purpose, with myself. +See this great fleet of scattered leaf-boats which we paddle amid, in +this smooth river-bay, each one curled up on every side by the sun’s +skill, each nerve a stiff spruce-knee,—like boats of hide, and of all +patterns, Charon’s boat probably among the rest, and some with lofty +prows and poops, like the stately vessels of the ancients, scarcely +moving in the sluggish current,—like the great fleets, the dense +Chinese cities of boats, with which you mingle on entering some great +mart, some New York or Canton, which we are all steadily approaching +together. How gently each has been deposited on the water! No violence +has been used towards them yet, though, perchance, palpitating hearts +were present at the launching. And painted ducks, too, the splendid +wood-duck among the rest, often come to sail and float amid the painted +leaves,—barks of a nobler model still! + +What wholesome herb-drinks are to be had in the swamps now! What strong +medicinal, but rich, scents from the decaying leaves! The rain falling +on the freshly dried herbs and leaves, and filling the pools and +ditches into which they have dropped thus clean and rigid, will soon +convert them into tea,—green, black, brown, and yellow teas, of all +degrees of strength, enough to set all Nature a gossiping. Whether we +drink them or not, as yet, before their strength is drawn, these +leaves, dried on great Nature’s coppers, are of such various pure and +delicate tints as might make the fame of Oriental teas. + +How they are mixed up, of all species, Oak and Maple and Chestnut and +Birch! But Nature is not cluttered with them; she is a perfect +husbandman; she stores them all. Consider what a vast crop is thus +annually shed on the earth! This, more than any mere grain or seed, is +the great harvest of the year. The trees are now repaying the earth +with interest what they have taken from it. They are discounting. They +are about to add a leaf’s thickness to the depth of the soil. This is +the beautiful way in which Nature gets her muck, while I chaffer with +this man and that, who talks to me about sulphur and the cost of +carting. We are all the richer for their decay. I am more interested in +this crop than in the English grass alone or in the corn. It prepares +the virgin mould for future cornfields and forests, on which the earth +fattens. It keeps our homestead in good heart. + +For beautiful variety no crop can be compared with this. Here is not +merely the plain yellow of the grains, but nearly all the colors that +we know, the brightest blue not excepted: the early blushing Maple, the +Poison-Sumach blazing its sins as scarlet, the mulberry Ash, the rich +chrome-yellow of the Poplars, the brilliant red Huckleberry, with which +the hills’ backs are painted, like those of sheep. The frost touches +them, and, with the slightest breath of returning day or jarring of +earth’s axle, see in what showers they come floating down! The ground +is all party-colored with them. But they still live in the soil, whose +fertility and bulk they increase, and in the forests that spring from +it. They stoop to rise, to mount higher in coming years, by subtle +chemistry, climbing by the sap in the trees, and the sapling’s first +fruits thus shed, transmuted at last, may adorn its crown, when, in +after-years, it has become the monarch of the forest. + +It is pleasant to walk over the beds of these fresh, crisp, and +rustling leaves. How beautifully they go to their graves! how gently +lay themselves down and turn to mould!—painted of a thousand hues, and +fit to make the beds of us living. So they troop to their last +resting-place, light and frisky. They put on no weeds, but merrily they +go scampering over the earth, selecting the spot, choosing a lot, +ordering no iron fence, whispering all through the woods about it,—some +choosing the spot where the bodies of men are mouldering beneath, and +meeting them half-way. How many flutterings before they rest quietly in +their graves! They that soared so loftily, how contentedly they return +to dust again, and are laid low, resigned to lie and decay at the foot +of the tree, and afford nourishment to new generations of their kind, +as well as to flutter on high! They teach us how to die. One wonders if +the time will ever come when men, with their boasted faith in +immortality, will lie down as gracefully and as ripe,—with such an +Indian-summer serenity will shed their bodies, as they do their hair +and nails. + +When the leaves fall, the whole earth is a cemetery pleasant to walk +in. I love to wander and muse over them in their graves. Here are no +lying nor vain epitaphs. What though you own no lot at Mount Auburn? +Your lot is surely cast somewhere in this vast cemetery, which has been +consecrated from of old. You need attend no auction to secure a place. +There is room enough here. The Loose-strife shall bloom and the +Huckleberry-bird sing over your bones. The woodman and hunter shall be +your sextons, and the children shall tread upon the borders as much as +they will. Let us walk in the cemetery of the leaves,—this is your true +Greenwood Cemetery. + +THE SUGAR-MAPLE. + + +But think not that the splendor of the year is over; for as one leaf +does not make a summer, neither does one falling leaf make an autumn. +The smallest Sugar-Maples in our streets make a great show as early as +the fifth of October, more than any other trees there. As I look up the +Main Street, they appear like painted screens standing before the +houses; yet many are green. But now, or generally by the seventeenth of +October, when almost all Red Maples, and some White Maples, are bare, +the large Sugar-Maples also are in their glory, glowing with yellow and +red, and show unexpectedly bright and delicate tints. They are +remarkable for the contrast they often afford of deep blushing red on +one half and green on the other. They become at length dense masses of +rich yellow with a deep scarlet blush, or more than blush, on the +exposed surfaces. They are the brightest trees now in the street. + +The large ones on our Common are particularly beautiful. A delicate, +but warmer than golden yellow is now the prevailing color, with scarlet +cheeks. Yet, standing on the east side of the Common just before +sundown, when the western light is transmitted through them, I see that +their yellow even, compared with the pale lemon yellow of an Elm close +by, amounts to a scarlet, without noticing the bright scarlet portions. +Generally, they are great regular oval masses of yellow and scarlet. +All the sunny warmth of the season, the Indian-summer, seems to be +absorbed in their leaves. The lowest and inmost leaves next the bole +are, as usual, of the most delicate yellow and green, like the +complexion of young men brought up in the house. There is an auction on +the Common to-day, but its red flag is hard to be discerned amid this +blaze of color. + +Little did the fathers of the town anticipate this brilliant success, +when they caused to be imported from farther in the country some +straight poles with their tops cut off, which they called Sugar-Maples; +and, as I remember, after they were set out, a neighboring merchant’s +clerk, by way of jest, planted beans about them. Those which were then +jestingly called bean-poles are to-day far the most beautiful objects +noticeable in our streets. They are worth all and more than they have +cost,—though one of the selectmen, while setting them out, took the +cold which occasioned his death,—if only because they have filled the +open eyes of children with their rich color unstintedly so many +Octobers. We will not ask them to yield us sugar in the spring, while +they afford us so fair a prospect in the autumn. Wealth in-doors may be +the inheritance of few, but it is equally distributed on the Common. +All children alike can revel in this golden harvest. + +Surely trees should be set in our streets with a view to their October +splendor; though I doubt whether this is ever considered by the “Tree +Society.” Do you not think it will make some odds to these children +that they were brought up under the Maples? Hundreds of eyes are +steadily drinking in this color, and by these teachers even the truants +are caught and educated the moment they step abroad. Indeed, neither +the truant nor the studious is at present taught color in the schools. +These are instead of the bright colors in apothecaries’ shops and city +windows. It is a pity that we have no more _Red_ Maples, and some +Hickories, in our streets as well. Our paint-box is very imperfectly +filled. Instead of, or beside, supplying such paint-boxes as we do, we +might supply these natural colors to the young. Where else will they +study color under greater advantages? What School of Design can vie +with this? Think how much the eyes of painters of all kinds, and of +manufacturers of cloth and paper, and paper-stainers, and countless +others, are to be educated by these autumnal colors. The stationer’s +envelopes may be of very various tints, yet, not so various as those of +the leaves of a single tree. If you want a different shade or tint of a +particular color, you have only to look farther within or without the +tree or the wood. These leaves are not many dipped in one dye, as at +the dye-house, but they are dyed in light of infinitely various degrees +of strength, and left to set and dry there. + +Shall the names of so many of our colors continue to be derived from +those of obscure foreign localities, as Naples yellow, Prussian blue, +raw Sienna, burnt Umber, Gamboge?—(surely the Tyrian purple must have +faded by this time),—or from comparatively trivial articles of +commerce,— chocolate, lemon, coffee, cinnamon, claret?—(shall we +compare our Hickory to a lemon, or a lemon to a Hickory?)—or from ores +and oxides which few ever see? Shall we so often, when describing to +our neighbors the color of something we have seen, refer them, not to +some natural object in our neighborhood, but perchance to a bit of +earth fetched from the other side of the planet, which possibly they +may find at the apothecary’s, but which probably neither they nor we +ever saw? Have we not an _earth_ under our feet,—ay, and a sky over our +heads? Or is the last _all_ ultramarine? What do we know of sapphire, +amethyst, emerald, ruby, amber, and the like,—most of us who take these +names in vain? Leave these precious words to cabinet-keepers, +virtuosos, and maids-of-honor,— to the Nabobs, Begums, and Chobdars of +Hindostan, or wherever else. I do not see why, since America and her +autumn woods have been discovered, our leaves should not compete with +the precious stones in giving names to colors; and, indeed, I believe +that in course of time the names of some of our trees and shrubs, as +well as flowers, will get into our popular chromatic nomenclature. + +But of much more importance than a knowledge of the names and +distinctions of color is the joy and exhilaration which these colored +leaves excite. Already these brilliant trees throughout the street, +without any more variety, are at least equal to an annual festival and +holiday, or a week of such. These are cheap and innocent gala-days, +celebrated by one and all without the aid of committees or marshals, +such a show as may safely be licensed, not attracting gamblers or +rum-sellers, not requiring any special police to keep the peace. And +poor indeed must be that New-England village’s October which has not +the Maple in its streets. This October festival costs no powder, nor +ringing of bells, but every tree is a living liberty-pole on which a +thousand bright flags are waving. + +No wonder that we must have our annual Cattle-Show, and Fall Training, +and perhaps Cornwallis, our September Courts, and the like. Nature +herself holds her annual fair in October, not only in the streets, but +in every hollow and on every hill-side. When lately we looked into that +Red-Maple swamp all ablaze, where the trees were clothed in their +vestures of most dazzling tints, did it not suggest a thousand gypsies +beneath,—a race capable of wild delight,—or even the fabled fawns, +satyrs, and wood-nymphs come back to earth? Or was it only a +congregation of wearied wood-choppers, or of proprietors come to +inspect their lots, that we thought of? Or, earlier still, when we +paddled on the river through that fine-grained September air, did there +not appear to be something new going on under the sparkling surface of +the stream, a shaking of props, at least, so that we made haste in +order to be up in time? Did not the rows of yellowing Willows and +Button-Bushes on each side seem like rows of booths, under which, +perhaps, some fluviatile egg-pop equally yellow was effervescing? Did +not all these suggest that man’s spirits should rise as high as +Nature’s,—should hang out their flag, and the routine of his life be +interrupted by an analogous expression of joy and hilarity? + +No annual training or muster of soldiery, no celebration with its +scarfs and banners, could import into the town a hundredth part of the +annual splendor of our October. We have only to set the trees, or let +them stand, and Nature will find the colored drapery,—flags of all her +nations, some of whose private signals hardly the botanist can +read,—while we walk under the triumphal arches of the Elms. Leave it to +Nature to appoint the days, whether the same as in neighboring States +or not, and let the clergy read her proclamations, if they can +understand them. Behold what a brilliant drapery is her Woodbine flag! +What public-spirited merchant, think you, has contributed this part of +the show? There is no handsomer shingling and paint than this vine, at +present covering a whole side of some houses. I do not believe that the +Ivy _never sere_ is comparable to it. No wonder it has been extensively +introduced into London. Let us have a good many Maples and Hickories +and Scarlet Oaks, then, I say. Blaze away! Shall that dirty roll of +bunting in the gun-house be all the colors a village can display? A +village is not complete unless it have these trees to mark the season +in it. They are important, like the town-clock. A village that has them +not will not be found to work well. It has a screw loose, an essential +part is wanting. Let us have Willows for spring, Elms for summer, +Maples and Walnuts and Tupeloes for autumn, Evergreens for winter, and +Oaks for all seasons. What is a gallery in a house to a gallery in the +streets, which every market-man rides through, whether he will or not? +Of course, there is not a picture-gallery in the country which would be +worth so much to us as is the western view at sunset under the Elms of +our main street. They are the frame to a picture which is daily painted +behind them. An avenue of Elms as large as our largest and three miles +long would seem to lead to some admirable place, though only C—— were +at the end of it. + +A village needs these innocent stimulants of bright and cheering +prospects to keep off melancholy and superstition. Show me two +villages, one embowered in trees and blazing with all the glories of +October, the other a merely trivial and treeless waste, or with only a +single tree or two for suicides, and I shall be sure that in the latter +will be found the most starved and bigoted religionists and the most +desperate drinkers. Every washtub and milkcan and gravestone will be +exposed. The inhabitants will disappear abruptly behind their barns and +houses, like desert Arabs amid their rocks, and I shall look to see +spears in their hands. They will be ready to accept the most barren and +forlorn doctrine,—as that the world is speedily coming to an end, or +has already got to it, or that they themselves are turned wrong side +outward. They will perchance crack their dry joints at one another and +call it a spiritual communication. + +But to confine ourselves to the Maples. What if we were to take half as +much pains in protecting them as we do in setting them out,—not +stupidly tie our horses to our dahlia-stems? + +What meant the fathers by establishing this _perfectly living_ +institution before the church,—this institution which needs no +repairing nor repainting, which is continually enlarged and repaired by +its growth? Surely they + +“Wrought in a sad sincerity; +Themselves from God they could not free; +They _planted_ better than they knew;— +The conscious _trees_ to beauty grew.” + + +Verily these Maples are cheap preachers, permanently settled, which +preach their half-century, and century, ay, and century-and-a-half +sermons, with constantly increasing unction and influence, ministering +to many generations of men; and the least we can do is to supply them +with suitable colleagues as they grow infirm. + +THE SCARLET OAK. + + +Belonging to a genus which is remarkable for the beautiful form of its +leaves, I suspect that some Scarlet-Oak leaves surpass those of all +other Oaks in the rich and wild beauty of their outlines. I judge from +an acquaintance with twelve species, and from drawings which I have +seen of many others. + +Stand under this tree and see how finely its leaves are cut against the +sky,—as it were, only a few sharp points extending from a midrib. They +look like double, treble, or quadruple crosses. They are far more +ethereal than the less deeply scolloped Oak-leaves. They have so little +leafy _terra firma_ that they appear melting away in the light, and +scarcely obstruct our view. The leaves of very young plants are, like +those of full-grown Oaks of other species, more entire, simple, and +lumpish in their outlines; but these, raised high on old trees, have +solved the leafy problem. Lifted higher and higher, and sublimated more +and more, putting off some earthiness and cultivating more intimacy +with the light each year, they have at length the least possible amount +of earthy matter, and the greatest spread and grasp of skyey +influences. There they dance, arm in arm with the light,—tripping it on +fantastic points, fit partners in those aerial halls. So intimately +mingled are they with it, that, what with their slenderness and their +glossy surfaces, you can hardly tell at last what in the dance is leaf +and what is light. And when no zephyr stirs, they are at most but a +rich tracery to the forest-windows. + +I am again struck with their beauty, when, a month later, they thickly +strew the ground in the woods, piled one upon another under my feet. +They are then brown above, but purple beneath. With their narrow lobes +and their bold deep scollops reaching almost to the middle, they +suggest that the material must be cheap, or else there has been a +lavish expense in their creation, as if so much had been cut out. Or +else they seem to us the remnants of the stuff out of which leaves have +been cut with a die. Indeed, when they lie thus one upon another, they +remind me of a pile of scrap-tin. + +Or bring one home, and study it closely at your leisure, by the +fireside. It is a type, not from any Oxford font, not in the Basque nor +the arrow-headed character, not found on the Rosetta Stone, but +destined to be copied in sculpture one day, if they ever get to +whittling stone here. What a wild and pleasing outline, a combination +of graceful curves and angles! The eye rests with equal delight on what +is not leaf and on what is leaf,—on the broad, free, open sinuses, and +on the long, sharp, bristle-pointed lobes. A simple oval outline would +include it all, if you connected the points of the leaf; but how much +richer is it than that, with its half-dozen deep scollops, in which the +eye and thought of the beholder are embayed! If I were a +drawing-master, I would set my pupils to copying these leaves, that +they might learn to draw firmly and gracefully. + +Regarded as water, it is like a pond with half a dozen broad rounded +promontories extending nearly to its middle, half from each side, while +its watery bays extend far inland, like sharp friths, at each of whose +heads several fine streams empty in,—almost a leafy archipelago. + +But it oftener suggests land, and, as Dionysius and Pliny compared the +form of the Morea to that of the leaf of the Oriental Plane-tree, so +this leaf reminds me of some fair wild island in the ocean, whose +extensive coast, alternate rounded bays with smooth strands, and +sharp-pointed rocky capes, mark it as fitted for the habitation of man, +and destined to become a centre of civilization at last. To the +sailor’s eye, it is a much-indented shore. Is it not, in fact, a shore +to the aerial ocean, on which the windy surf beats? At sight of this +leaf we are all mariners,—if not vikings, buccaneers, and filibusters. +Both our love of repose and our spirit of adventure are addressed. In +our most casual glance, perchance, we think, that, if we succeed in +doubling those sharp capes, we shall find deep, smooth, and secure +havens in the ample bays. How different from the White-Oak leaf, with +its rounded headlands, on which no lighthouse need be placed! That is +an England, with its long civil history, that may be read. This is some +still unsettled New-found Island or Celebes. Shall we go and be rajahs +there? + +By the twenty-sixth of October the large Scarlet Oaks are in their +prime, when other Oaks are usually withered. They have been kindling +their fires for a week past, and now generally burst into a blaze. This +alone of _our_ indigenous deciduous trees (excepting the Dogwood, of +which I do not know half a dozen, and they are but large bushes) is now +in its glory. The two Aspens and the Sugar-Maple come nearest to it in +date, but they have lost the greater part of their leaves. Of +evergreens, only the Pitch-Pine is still commonly bright. + +But it requires a particular alertness, if not devotion to these +phenomena, to appreciate the wide-spread, but late and unexpected glory +of the Scarlet Oaks. I do not speak here of the small trees and shrubs, +which are commonly observed, and which are now withered, but of the +large trees. Most go in and shut their doors, thinking that bleak and +colorless November has already come, when some of the most brilliant +and memorable colors are not yet lit. + +This very perfect and vigorous one, about forty feet high, standing in +an open pasture, which was quite glossy green on the twelfth, is now, +the twenty-sixth, completely changed to bright dark scarlet,—every +leaf, between you and the sun, as if it had been dipped into a scarlet +dye. The whole tree is much like a heart in form, as well as color. Was +not this worth waiting for? Little did you think, ten days ago, that +that cold green tree would assume such color as this. Its leaves are +still firmly attached, while those of other trees are falling around +it. It seems to say,—“I am the last to blush, but I blush deeper than +any of ye. I bring up the rear in my red coat. We Scarlet ones, alone +of Oaks, have not given up the fight.” + +The sap is now, and even far into November, frequently flowing fast in +these trees, as in Maples in the spring; and apparently their bright +tints, now that most other Oaks are withered, are connected with this +phenomenon. They are full of life. It has a pleasantly astringent, +acorn-like taste, this strong Oak-wine, as I find on tapping them with +my knife. + +Looking across this woodland valley, a quarter of a mile wide, how rich +those Scarlet Oaks, embosomed in Pines, their bright red branches +intimately intermingled with them! They have their full effect there. +The Pine-boughs are the green calyx to their red petals. Or, as we go +along a road in the woods, the sun striking endwise through it, and +lighting up the red tents of the Oaks, which on each side are mingled +with the liquid green of the Pines, makes a very gorgeous scene. +Indeed, without the evergreens for contrast, the autumnal tints would +lose much of their effect. + +The Scarlet Oak asks a clear sky and the brightness of late October +days. These bring out its colors. If the sun goes into a cloud, they +become comparatively indistinct. As I sit on a cliff in the southwest +part of our town, the sun is now getting low, and the woods in Lincoln, +south and east of me, are lit up by its more level rays; and in the +Scarlet Oaks, scattered so equally over the forest, there is brought +out a more brilliant redness than I had believed was in them. Every +tree of this species which is visible in those directions, even to the +horizon, now stands out distinctly red. Some great ones lift their red +backs high above the woods, in the next town, like huge roses with a +myriad of fine petals; and some more slender ones, in a small grove of +White Pines on Pine Hill in the east, on the very verge of the horizon, +alternating with the Pines on the edge of the grove, and shouldering +them with their red coats, look like soldiers in red amid hunters in +green. This time it is Lincoln green, too. Till the sun got low, I did +not believe that there were so many red coats in the forest army. +Theirs is an intense burning red, which would lose some of its +strength, methinks, with every step you might take toward them; for the +shade that lurks amid their foliage does not report itself at this +distance, and they are unanimously red. The focus of their reflected +color is in the atmosphere far on this side. Every such tree becomes a +nucleus of red, as it were, where, with the declining sun, that color +grows and glows. It is partly borrowed fire, gathering strength from +the sun on its way to your eye. It has only some comparatively dull red +leaves for a rallying-point, or kindling-stuff, to start it, and it +becomes an intense scarlet or red mist, or fire, which finds fuel for +itself in the very atmosphere. So vivacious is redness. The very rails +reflect a rosy light at this hour and season. You see a redder tree +than exists. + +If you wish to count the Scarlet Oaks, do it now. In a clear day stand +thus on a hill-top in the woods, when the sun is an hour high, and +every one within range of your vision, excepting in the west, will be +revealed. You might live to the age of Methuselah and never find a +tithe of them, otherwise. Yet sometimes even in a dark day I have +thought them as bright as I ever saw them. Looking westward, their +colors are lost in a blaze of light; but in other directions the whole +forest is a flower-garden, in which these late roses burn, alternating +with green, while the so-called “gardeners,” walking here and there, +perchance, beneath, with spade and water-pot, see only a few little +asters amid withered leaves. + +These are _my_ China-asters, _my_ late garden-flowers. It costs me +nothing for a gardener. The falling leaves, all over the forest, are +protecting the roots of my plants. Only look at what is to be seen, and +you will have garden enough, without deepening the soil in your yard. +We have only to elevate our view a little, to see the whole forest as a +garden. The blossoming of the Scarlet Oak,—the forest-flower, +surpassing all in splendor, (at least since the Maple)! I do not know +but they interest me more than the Maples, they are so widely and +equally dispersed throughout the forest; they are so hardy, a nobler +tree on the whole;—our chief November flower, abiding the approach of +winter with us, imparting warmth to early November prospects. It is +remarkable that the latest bright color that is general should be this +deep, dark scarlet and red, the intensest of colors. The ripest fruit +of the year; like the cheek of a hard, glossy, red apple, from the cold +Isle of Orleans, which will not be mellow for eating till next spring! +When I rise to a hilltop, a thousand of these great Oak roses, +distributed on every side, as far as the horizon! I admire them four or +five miles off! This my unfailing prospect for a fortnight past! This +late forest-flower surpasses all that spring or summer could do. Their +colors were but rare and dainty specks comparatively, (created for the +near-sighted, who walk amid the humblest herbs and underwoods,) and +made no impression on a distant eye. Now it is an extended forest or a +mountain-side, through or along which we journey from day to day, that +bursts into bloom. Comparatively, our gardening is on a petty +scale,—the gardener still nursing a few asters amid dead weeds, +ignorant of the gigantic asters and roses, which, as it were, +overshadow him, and ask for none of his care. It is like a little red +paint ground on a saucer, and held up against the sunset sky. Why not +take more elevated and broader views, walk in the great garden, not +skulk in a little “debauched” nook of it? consider the beauty of the +forest, and not merely of a few impounded herbs? + +Let your walks now be a little more adventurous; ascend the hills. If, +about the last of October, you ascend any hill in the outskirts of our +town, and probably of yours, and look over the forest, you may +see—well, what I have endeavored to describe. All this you surely +_will_ see, and much more, if you are prepared to see it,—if you _look_ +for it. Otherwise, regular and universal as this phenomenon is, whether +you stand on the hill-top or in the hollow, you will think for +threescore years and ten that all the wood is, at this season, sere and +brown. Objects are concealed from our view, not so much because they +are out of the course of our visual ray as because we do not bring our +minds and eyes to bear on them; for there is no power to see in the eye +itself, any more than in any other jelly. We do not realize how far and +widely, or how near and narrowly, we are to look. The greater part of +the phenomena of Nature are for this reason concealed from us all our +lives. The gardener sees only the gardener’s garden. Here, too, as in +political economy, the supply answers to the demand. Nature does not +cast pearls before swine. There is just as much beauty visible to us in +the landscape as we are prepared to appreciate,—not a grain more. The +actual objects which one man will see from a particular hill-top are +just as different from those which another will see as the beholders +are different. The Scarlet Oak must, in a sense, be in your eye when +you go forth. We cannot see anything until we are possessed with the +idea of it, take it into our heads,—and then we can hardly see anything +else. In my botanical rambles, I find, that, first, the idea, or image, +of a plant occupies my thoughts, though it may seem very foreign to +this locality,—no nearer than Hudson’s Bay,—and for some weeks or +months I go thinking of it, and expecting it, unconsciously, and at +length I surely see it. This is the history of my finding a score or +more of rare plants, which I could name. A man sees only what concerns +him. A botanist absorbed in the study of grasses does not distinguish +the grandest Pasture Oaks. He, as it were, tramples down Oaks +unwittingly in his walk, or at most sees only their shadows. I have +found that it required a different intention of the eye, in the same +locality, to see different plants, even when they were closely allied, +as _Juncaceoe_ and _Gramineoe_: when I was looking for the former, I +did not see the latter in the midst of them. How much more, then, it +requires different intentions of the eye and of the mind to attend to +different departments of knowledge! How differently the poet and the +naturalist look at objects! + +Take a New-England selectman, and set him on the highest of our hills, +and tell him to look,—sharpening his sight to the utmost, and putting +on the glasses that suit him best, (ay, using a spy-glass, if he +likes,)—and make a full report. What, probably, will he _spy_?—what +will he _select_ to look at? Of course, he will see a Brocken spectre +of himself. He will see several meeting-houses, at least, and, perhaps, +that somebody ought to be assessed higher than he is, since he has so +handsome a wood-lot. Now take Julius Caesar, or Immanuel Swedenborg, or +a Fegee-Islander, and set him up there. Or suppose all together, and +let them compare notes afterward. Will it appear that they have enjoyed +the same prospect? What they will see will be as different as Rome was +from Heaven or Hell, or the last from the Fegee Islands. For aught we +know, as strange a man as any of these is always at our elbow. + +Why, it takes a sharp-shooter to bring down even such trivial game as +snipes and woodcocks; he must take very particular aim, and know what +he is aiming at. He would stand a very small chance, if he fired at +random into the sky, being told that snipes were flying there. And so +is it with him that shoots at beauty; though he wait till the sky +falls, he will not bag any, if he does not already know its seasons and +haunts, and the color of its wing,—if he has not dreamed of it, so that +he can _anticipate_ it; then, indeed, he flushes it at every step, +shoots double and on the wing, with both barrels, even in cornfields. +The sportsman trains himself, dresses and watches unweariedly, and +loads and primes for his particular game. He prays for it, and offers +sacrifices, and so he gets it. After due and long preparation, +schooling his eye and hand, dreaming awake and asleep, with gun and +paddle and boat he goes out after meadow-hens, which most of his +townsmen never saw nor dreamed of, and paddles for miles against a +head-wind, and wades in water up to his knees, being out all day +without his dinner, and _therefore_ he gets them. He had them half-way +into his bag when he started, and has only to shove them down. The true +sportsman can shoot you almost any of his game from his windows: what +else has he windows or eyes for? It comes and perches at last on the +barrel of his gun; but the rest of the world never see it _with the +feathers on_. The geese fly exactly under his zenith, and honk when +they get there, and he will keep himself supplied by firing up his +chimney; twenty musquash have the refusal of each one of his traps +before it is empty. If he lives, and his game-spirit increases, heaven +and earth shall fail him sooner than game; and when he dies, he will go +to more extensive, and, perchance, happier hunting-grounds. The +fisherman, too, dreams of fish, sees a bobbing cork in his dreams, till +he can almost catch them in his sink-spout. I knew a girl who, being +sent to pick huckleberries, picked wild gooseberries by the quart, +where no one else knew that there were any, because she was accustomed +to pick them up country where she came from. The astronomer knows where +to go star-gathering, and sees one clearly in his mind before any have +seen it with a glass. The hen scratches and finds her food right under +where she stands; but such is not the way with the hawk. + +These bright leaves which I have mentioned are not the exception, but +the rule; for I believe that all leaves, even grasses and mosses, +acquire brighter colors just before their fall. When you come to +observe faithfully the changes of each humblest plant, you find that +each has, sooner or later, its peculiar autumnal tint; and if you +undertake to make a complete list of the bright tints, it will be +nearly as long as a catalogue of the plants in your vicinity. + + + + +WILD APPLES. + + +(1862.) + +THE HISTORY OF THE APPLE-TREE. + +It is remarkable how closely the history of the Apple-tree is connected +with that of man. The geologist tells us that the order of the +_Rosaceae_, which includes the Apple, also the true Grasses, and the +_Labiatae_ or Mints, were introduced only a short time previous to the +appearance of man on the globe. + +It appears that apples made a part of the food of that unknown +primitive people whose traces have lately been found at the bottom of +the Swiss lakes, supposed to be older than the foundation of Rome, so +old that they had no metallic implements. An entire black and +shrivelled Crab-Apple has been recovered from their stores. + +Tacitus says of the ancient Germans, that they satisfied their hunger +with wild apples (_agrestia poma_) among other things. + +Niebuhr observes that “the words for a house, a field, a plough, +ploughing, wine, oil, milk, sheep, apples, and others relating to +agriculture and the gentler way of life, agree in Latin and Greek, +while the Latin words for all objects pertaining to war or the chase +are utterly alien from the Greek.” Thus the apple-tree may be +considered a symbol of peace no less than the olive. + +The apple was early so important, and generally distributed, that its +name traced to its root in many languages signifies fruit in general. +Μῆλον, in Greek, means an apple, also the fruit of other trees, also a +sheep and any cattle, and finally riches in general. + +The apple-tree has been celebrated by the Hebrews, Greeks, Romans, and +Scandinavians. Some have thought that the first human pair were tempted +by its fruit. Goddesses are fabled to have contended for it, dragons +were set to watch it, and heroes were employed to pluck it. + +The tree is mentioned in at least three places in the Old Testament, +and its fruit in two or three more. Solomon sings,—“As the apple-tree +among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons.” And +again,—“Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples.” The noblest part +of man’s noblest feature is named from this fruit, “the apple of the +eye.” + +The apple-tree is also mentioned by Homer and Herodotus. Ulysses saw in +the glorious garden of Alcinous “pears and pomegranates, and +apple-trees bearing beautiful fruit” (καὶ μηλέαι ἀγλαόκαρποι). And +according to Homer, apples were among the fruits which Tantalus could +not pluck, the wind ever blowing their boughs away from him. +Theophrastus knew and described the apple-tree as a botanist. + +According to the Prose Edda, “Iduna keeps in a box the apples which the +gods, when they feel old age approaching, have only to taste of to +become young again. It is in this manner that they will be kept in +renovated youth until Ragnarök” (or the destruction of the gods). + +I learn from Loudon that “the ancient Welsh bards were rewarded for +excelling in song by the token of the apple-spray;” and “in the +Highlands of Scotland the apple-tree is the badge of the-clan Lamont.” + +The apple-tree (_Pyrus malus_) belongs chiefly to the northern +temperate zone. Loudon says, that “it grows spontaneously in every part +of Europe except the frigid zone, and throughout Western Asia, China, +and Japan.” We have also two or three varieties of the apple indigenous +in North America. The cultivated apple-tree was first introduced into +this country by the earliest settlers, and is thought to do as well or +better here than anywhere else. Probably some of the varieties which +are now cultivated were first introduced into Britain by the Romans. + +Pliny, adopting the distinction of Theophrastus, says,—“Of trees there +are some which are altogether wild (_sylvestres_), some more civilized +(_urbaniores_).” Theophrastus includes the apple among the last; and, +indeed, it is in this sense the most civilized of all trees. It is as +harmless as a dove, as beautiful as a rose, and as valuable as flocks +and herds. It has been longer cultivated than any other, and so is more +humanized; and who knows but, like the dog, it will at length be no +longer traceable to its wild original? It migrates with man, like the +dog and horse and cow: first, perchance, from Greece to Italy, thence +to England, thence to America; and our Western emigrant is still +marching steadily toward the setting sun with the seeds of the apple in +his pocket, or perhaps a few young trees strapped to his load. At least +a million apple-trees are thus set farther westward this year than any +cultivated ones grew last year. Consider how the Blossom-Week, like the +Sabbath, is thus annually spreading over the prairies; for when man +migrates, he carries with him not only his birds, quadrupeds, insects, +vegetables, and his very sward, but his orchard also. + +The leaves and tender twigs are an agreeable food to many domestic +animals, as the cow, horse, sheep, and goat; and the fruit is sought +after by the first, as well as by the hog. Thus there appears to have +existed a natural alliance between these animals and this tree from the +first. “The fruit of the Crab in the forests of France” is said to be +“a great resource for the wild-boar.” + +Not only the Indian, but many indigenous insects, birds, and +quadrupeds, welcomed the apple-tree to these shores. The +tent-caterpillar saddled her eggs on the very first twig that was +formed, and it has since shared her affections with the wild cherry; +and the canker-worm also in a measure abandoned the elm to feed on it. +As it grew apace, the bluebird, robin, cherry-bird, king-bird, and many +more, came with haste and built their nests and warbled in its boughs, +and so became orchard-birds, and multiplied more than ever. It was an +era in the history of their race. The downy woodpecker found such a +savory morsel under its bark, that he perforated it in a ring quite +round the tree, before he left it,—a thing which he had never done +before, to my knowledge. It did not take the partridge long to find out +how sweet its buds were, and every winter eve she flew, and still +flies, from the wood, to pluck them, much to the farmer’s sorrow. The +rabbit, too, was not slow to learn the taste of its twigs and bark; and +when the fruit was ripe, the squirrel half-rolled, half-carried it to +his hole; and even the musquash crept up the bank from the brook at +evening, and greedily devoured it, until he had worn a path in the +grass there; and when it was frozen and thawed, the crow and the jay +were glad to taste it occasionally. The owl crept into the first +apple-tree that became hollow, and fairly hooted with delight, finding +it just the place for him; so, settling down into it, he has remained +there ever since. + +My theme being the Wild Apple, I will merely glance at some of the +seasons in the annual growth of the cultivated apple, and pass on to my +special province. + +The flowers of the apple are perhaps the most beautiful of any tree’s, +so copious and so delicious to both sight and scent. The walker is +frequently tempted to turn and linger near some more than usually +handsome one, whose blossoms are two thirds expanded. How superior it +is in these respects to the pear, whose blossoms are neither colored +nor fragrant! + +By the middle of July, green apples are so large as to remind us of +coddling, and of the autumn. The sward is commonly strewed with little +ones which fall still-born, as it were,—Nature thus thinning them for +us. The Roman writer Palladius said,—“If apples are inclined to fall +before their time, a stone placed in a split root will retain them.” +Some such notion, still surviving, may account for some of the stones +which we see placed to be overgrown in the forks of trees. They have a +saying in Suffolk, England,— + +“At Michaelmas time, or a little before, +Half an apple goes to the core.” + + +Early apples begin to be ripe about the first of August; but I think +that none of them are so good to eat as some to smell. One is worth +more to scent your handkerchief with than any perfume which they sell +in the shops. The fragrance of some fruits is not to be forgotten, +along with that of flowers. Some gnarly apple which I pick up in the +road reminds me by its fragrance of all the wealth of Pomona,—carrying +me forward to those days when they will be collected in golden and +ruddy heaps in the orchards and about the cider-mills. + +A week or two later, as you are going by orchards or gardens, +especially in the evenings, you pass through a little region possessed +by the fragrance of ripe apples, and thus enjoy them without price, and +without robbing anybody. + +There is thus about all natural products a certain volatile and +ethereal quality which represents their highest value, and which cannot +be vulgarized, or bought and sold. No mortal has ever enjoyed the +perfect flavor of any fruit, and only the godlike among men begin to +taste its ambrosial qualities. For nectar and ambrosia are only those +fine flavors of every earthly fruit which our coarse palates fail to +perceive,—just as we occupy the heaven of the gods without knowing it. +When I see a particularly mean man carrying a load of fair and fragrant +early apples to market, I seem to see a contest going on between him +and his horse, on the one side, and the apples on the other, and, to my +mind, the apples always gain it. Pliny says that apples are the +heaviest of all things, and that the oxen begin to sweat at the mere +sight of a load of them. Our driver begins to lose his load the moment +he tries to transport them to where they do not belong, that is, to any +but the most beautiful. Though he gets out from time to time, and feels +of them, and thinks they are all there, I see the stream of their +evanescent and celestial qualities going to heaven from his cart, while +the pulp and skin and core only are going to market. They are not +apples, but pomace. Are not these still Iduna’s apples, the taste of +which keeps the gods forever young? and think you that they will let +Loki or Thjassi carry them off to Jötunheim, while they grow wrinkled +and gray? No, for Ragnarök, or the destruction of the gods, is not yet. + +There is another thinning of the fruit, commonly near the end of August +or in September, when the ground is strewn with windfalls; and this +happens especially when high winds occur after rain. In some orchards +you may see fully three quarters of the whole crop on the ground, lying +in a circular form beneath the trees, yet hard and green,—or, if it is +a hill-side, rolled far down the hill. However, it is an ill wind that +blows nobody any good. All the country over, people are busy picking up +the windfalls, and this will make them cheap for early apple-pies. + +In October, the leaves falling, the apples are more distinct on the +trees. I saw one year in a neighboring town some trees fuller of fruit +than I remember to have ever seen before, small yellow apples hanging +over the road. The branches were gracefully drooping with their weight, +like a barberry-bush, so that the whole tree acquired a new character. +Even the topmost branches, instead of standing erect, spread and +drooped in all directions; and there were so many poles supporting the +lower ones, that they looked like pictures of banian-trees. As an old +English manuscript says, “The mo appelen the tree bereth, the more sche +boweth to the folk.” + +Surely the apple is the noblest of fruits. Let the most beautiful or +the swiftest have it. That should be the “going” price of apples. + +Between the fifth and twentieth of October I see the barrels lie under +the trees. And perhaps I talk with one who is selecting some choice +barrels to fulfil an order. He turns a specked one over many times +before he leaves it out. If I were to tell what is passing in my mind, +I should say that every one was specked which he had handled; for he +rubs off all the bloom, and those fugacious ethereal qualities leave +it. Cool eveings prompt the farmers to make haste, and at length I see +only the ladders here and there left leaning against the trees. + +It would be well, if we accepted these gifts with more joy and +gratitude, and did not think it enough simply to put a fresh load of +compost about the tree. Some old English customs are suggestive at +least. I find them described chiefly in Brand’s “Popular Antiquities.” +It appears that “on Christmas eve the farmers and their men in +Devonshire take a large bowl of cider, with a toast in it, and carrying +it in state to the orchard, they salute the apple-trees with much +ceremony, in order to make them bear well the next season.” This +salutation consists in “throwing some of the cider about the roots of +the tree, placing bits of the toast on the branches,” and then, +“encircling one of the best bearing trees in the orchard, they drink +the following toast three several times:— + + ‘Here’s to thee, old apple-tree, +Whence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow, +And whence thou mayst bear apples enow! + Hats-full! caps-full! + Bushel, bushel, sacks-full! + And my pockets full, too! Hurra!’” + + +Also what was called “apple-howling” used to be practised in various +counties of England on New-Year’s eve. A troop of boys visited the +different orchards, and, encircling the apple-trees, repeated the +following words:— + +“Stand fast, root! bear well, top! +Pray God send us a good howling crop: +Every twig, apples big; +Every bow, apples enow!” + + +“They then shout in chorus, one of the boys accompanying them on a +cow’s horn. During this ceremony they rap the trees with their sticks.” +This is called “wassailing” the trees, and is thought by some to be “a +relic of the heathen sacrifice to Pomona.” + +Herrick sings,— + +“Wassaile the trees that they may beare +You many a plum and many a peare; +For more or less fruits they will bring +As you so give them wassailing.” + + +Our poets have as yet a better right to sing of cider than of wine; but +it behooves them to sing better than English Phillips did, else they +will do no credit to their Muse. + +THE WILD APPLE. + + +So much for the more civilized apple-trees (_urbaniores_, as Pliny +calls them). I love better to go through the old orchards of ungrafted +apple-trees, at whatever season of the year,—so irregularly planted: +sometimes two trees standing close together; and the rows so devious +that you would think that they not only had grown while the owner was +sleeping, but had been set out by him in a somnambulic state. The rows +of grafted fruit will never tempt me to wander amid them like these. +But I now, alas, speak rather from memory than from any recent +experience, such ravages have been made! + +Some soils, like a rocky tract called the Easterbrooks Country in my +neighborhood, are so suited to the apple, that it will grow faster in +them without any care, or if only the ground is broken up once a year, +than it will in many places with any amount of care. The owners of this +tract allow that the soil is excellent for fruit, but they say that it +is so rocky that they have not patience to plough it, and that, +together with the distance, is the reason why it is not cultivated. +There are, or were recently, extensive orchards there standing without +order. Nay, they spring up wild and bear well there in the midst of +pines, birches, maples, and oaks. I am often surprised to see rising +amid these trees the rounded tops of apple-trees glowing with red or +yellow fruit; in harmony with the autumnal tints of the forest. + +Going up the side of a cliff about the first of November, I saw a +vigorous young apple-tree, which, planted by birds or cows, had shot up +amid the rocks and open woods there, and had now much fruit on it, +uninjured by the frosts, when all cultivated apples were gathered. It +was a rank wild growth, with many green leaves on it still, and made an +impression of thorniness. The fruit was hard and green, but looked as +if it would be palatable in the winter. Some was dangling on the twigs, +but more half-buried in the wet leaves under the tree, or rolled far +down the hill amid the rocks. The owner knows nothing of it. The day +was not observed when it first blossomed, nor when it first bore fruit, +unless by the chickadee. There was no dancing on the green beneath it +in its honor, and now there is no hand to pluck its fruit,—which is +only gnawed by squirrels, as I perceive. It has done double duty,—not +only borne this crop, but each twig has grown a foot into the air. And +this is _such_ fruit! bigger than many berries, we must admit, and +carried home will be sound and palatable next spring. What care I for +Iduna’s apples so long as I can get these? + +When I go by this shrub thus late and hardy, and see its dangling +fruit, I respect the tree, and I am grateful for Nature’s bounty, even +though I cannot eat it. Here on this rugged and woody hill-side has +grown an apple-tree, not planted by man, no relic of a former orchard, +but a natural growth, like the pines and oaks. Most fruits which we +prize and use depend entirely on our care. Corn and grain, potatoes, +peaches, melons, etc., depend altogether on our planting; but the apple +emulates man’s independence and enterprise. It is not simply carried, +as I have said, but, like him, to some extent, it has migrated to this +New World, and is even, here and there, making its way amid the +aboriginal trees; just as the ox and dog and horse sometimes run wild +and maintain themselves. + +Even the sourest and crabbedest apple, growing in the most unfavorable +position, suggests such thoughts as these, it is so noble a fruit. + +THE CRAB. + + +Nevertheless, _our_ wild apple is wild only like myself, perchance, who +belong not to the aboriginal race here, but have strayed into the woods +from the cultivated stock. Wilder still, as I have said, there grows +elsewhere in this country a native and aboriginal Crab-Apple, _Malus +coronaria_, “whose nature has not yet been modified by cultivation.” It +is found from Western New-York to Minnesota, and southward. Michaux +says that its ordinary height “is fifteen or eighteen feet, but it is +sometimes found twenty-five or thirty feet high,” and that the large +ones “exactly resemble the common apple-tree.” “The flowers are white +mingled with rose-color, and are collected in corymbs.” They are +remarkable for their delicious odor. The fruit, according to him, is +about an inch and a half in diameter, and is intensely acid. Yet they +make fine sweetmeats, and also cider of them. He concludes, that “if, +on being cultivated, it does not yield new and palatable varieties, it +will at least be celebrated for the beauty of its flowers, and for the +sweetness of its perfume.” + +I never saw the Crab-Apple till May, 1861. I had heard of it through +Michaux, but more modern botanists, so far as I know, have not treated +it as of any peculiar importance. Thus it was a half-fabulous tree to +me. I contemplated a pilgrimage to the “Glades,” a portion of +Pennsylvania where it was said to grow to perfection. I thought of +sending to a nursery for it, but doubted if they had it, or would +distinguish it from European varieties. At last I had occasion to go to +Minnesota, and on entering Michigan I began to notice from the cars a +tree with handsome rose-colored flowers. At first I thought it some +variety of thorn; but it was not long before the truth flashed on me, +that this was my long-sought Crab-Apple. It was the prevailing +flowering shrub or tree to be seen from the cars at that season of the +year,—about the middle of May. But the cars never stopped before one, +and so I was launched on the bosom of the Mississippi without having +touched one, experiencing the fate of Tantalus. On arriving at St. +Anthony’s Falls, I was sorry to be told that I was too far north for +the Crab-Apple. Nevertheless I succeeded in finding it about eight +miles west of the Falls; touched it and smelled it, and secured a +lingering corymb of flowers for my herbarium. This must have been near +its northern limit. + +HOW THE WILD APPLE GROWS. + + +But though these are indigenous, like the Indians, I doubt whether they +are any hardier than those backwoodsmen among the apple-trees, which, +though descended from cultivated stocks, plant themselves in distant +fields and forests, where the soil is favorable to them. I know of no +trees which have more difficulties to contend with, and which more +sturdily resist their foes. These are the ones whose story we have to +tell. It oftentimes reads thus:— + +Near the beginning of May, we notice little thickets of apple-trees +just springing up in the pastures where cattle have been,—as the rocky +ones of our Easterbrooks Country, or the top of Nobscot Hill, in +Sudbury. One or two of these perhaps survive the drought and other +accidents,—their very birthplace defending them against the encroaching +grass and some other dangers, at first. + +In two years’ time ’t had thus + Reached the level of the rocks, +Admired the stretching world, + Nor feared the wandering flocks. + +But at this tender age + Its sufferings began: +There came a browsing ox + And cut it down a span. + + +This time, perhaps, the ox does not notice it amid the grass; but the +next year, when it has grown more stout, he recognizes it for a +fellow-emigrant from the old country, the flavor of whose leaves and +twigs he well knows; and though at first he pauses to welcome it, and +express his surprise, and gets for answer, “The same cause that brought +you here brought me,” he nevertheless browses it again, reflecting, it +may be, that he has some title to it. + +Thus cut down annually, it does not despair; but, putting forth two +short twigs for every one cut off, it spreads out low along the ground +in the hollows or between the rocks, growing more stout and scrubby, +until it forms, not a tree as yet, but a little pyramidal, stiff, +twiggy mass, almost as solid and impenetrable as a rock. Some of the +densest and most impenetrable clumps of bushes that I have ever seen, +as well on account of the closeness and stubbornness of their branches +as of their thorns, have been these wild-apple scrubs. They are more +like the scrubby fir and black spruce on which you stand, and sometimes +walk, on the tops of mountains, where cold is the demon they contend +with, than anything else. No wonder they are prompted to grow thorns at +last, to defend themselves against such foes. In their thorniness, +however, there is no malice, only some malic acid. + +The rocky pastures of the tract I have referred to,—for they maintain +their ground best in a rocky field,—are thickly sprinkled with these +little tufts, reminding you often of some rigid gray mosses or lichens, +and you see thousands of little trees just springing up between them, +with the seed still attached to them. + +Being regularly clipped all around each year by the cows, as a hedge +with shears, they are often of a perfect conical or pyramidal form, +from one to four feet high, and more or less sharp, as if trimmed by +the gardener’s art. In the pastures on Nobscot Hill and its spurs, they +make fine dark shadows when the sun is low. They are also an excellent +covert from hawks for many small birds that roost and build in them. +Whole flocks perch in them at night, and I have seen three robins’ +nests in one which was six feet in diameter. + +No doubt many of these are already old trees, if you reckon from the +day they were planted, but infants still when you consider their +development and the long life before them. I counted the annual rings +of some which were just one foot high, and as wide as high, and found +that they were about twelve years old, but quite sound and thrifty! +They were so low that they were unnoticed by the walker, while many of +their contemporaries from the nurseries were already bearing +considerable crops. But what you gain in time is perhaps in this case, +too, lost in power,—that is, in the vigor of the tree. This is their +pyramidal state. + +The cows continue to browse them thus for twenty years or more, keeping +them down and compelling them to spread, until at last they are so +broad that they become their own fence, when some interior shoot, which +their foes cannot reach, darts upward with joy: for it has not +forgotten its high calling, and bears its own peculiar fruit in +triumph. + +Such are the tactics by which it finally defeats its bovine foes. Now, +if you have watched the progress of a particular shrub, you will see +that it is no longer a simple pyramid or cone, but that out of its apex +there rises a sprig or two, growing more lustily perchance than an +orchard-tree, since the plant now devotes the whole of its repressed +energy to these upright parts. In a short time these become a small +tree, an inverted pyramid resting on the apex of the other, so that the +whole has now the form of a vast hour-glass. The spreading bottom, +having served its purpose, finally disappears, and the generous tree +permits the now harmless cows to come in and stand in its shade, and +rub against and redden its trunk, which has grown in spite of them, and +even to taste a part of its fruit, and so disperse the seed. + +Thus the cows create their own shade and food; and the tree, its +hour-glass being inverted, lives a second life, as it were. + +It is an important question with some nowadays, whether you should trim +young apple-trees as high as your nose or as high as your eyes. The ox +trims them up as high as he can reach, and that is about the right +height, I think. + +In spite of wandering kine, and other adverse circumstances, that +despised shrub, valued only by small birds as a covert and shelter from +hawks, has its blossom-week at last, and in coarse of time its harvest, +sincere, though small. + +By the end of some October, when its leaves have fallen, I frequently +see such a central sprig, whose progress I have watched, when I thought +it had forgotten its destiny, as I had, bearing its first crop of small +green or yellow or rosy fruit, which the cows cannot get at over the +bushy and thorny hedge which surrounds it, and I make haste to taste +the new and undescribed variety. We have all heard of the numerous +varieties of fruit invented by Van Mons and Knight. This is the system +of Van Cow, and she has invented far more and more memorable varieties +than both of them. + +Through what hardships it may attain to bear a sweet fruit! Though +somewhat small, it may prove equal, if not superior, in flavor to that +which has grown in a garden,—will perchance be all the sweeter and more +palatable for the very difficulties it has had to contend with. Who +knows but this chance wild fruit, planted by a cow or a bird on some +remote and rocky hillside, where it is as yet unobserved by man, may be +the choicest of all its kind, and foreign potentates shall hear of it, +and royal societies seek to propagate it, though the virtues of the +perhaps truly crabbed owner of the soil may never be heard of,—at +least, beyond the limits of his village? It was thus the Porter and the +Baldwin grew. + +Every wild-apple shrub excites our expectation thus, somewhat as every +wild child. It is, perhaps, a prince in disguise. What a lesson to man! +So are human beings, referred to the highest standard, the celestial +fruit which they suggest and aspire to bear, browsed on by fate; and +only the most persistent and strongest genius defends itself and +prevails, sends a tender scion upward at last, and drops its perfect +fruit on the ungrateful earth. Poets and philosophers and statesmen +thus spring up in the country pastures, and outlast the hosts of +unoriginal men. + +Such is always the pursuit of knowledge. The celestial fruits, the +golden apples of the Hesperides, are ever guarded by a hundred-headed +dragon which never sleeps, so that it is an Herculean labor to pluck +them. + +This is one, and the most remarkable way, in which the wild apple is +propagated; but commonly it springs up at wide intervals in woods and +swamps, and by the sides of roads, as the soil may suit it, and grows +with comparative rapidity. Those which grow in dense woods are very +tall and slender. I frequently pluck from these trees a perfectly mild +and tamed fruit. As Palladius says, “_Et injussu consternitur ubere +mali_”: And the ground is strewn with the fruit of an unbidden +apple-tree. + +It is an old notion, that, if these wild trees do not bear a valuable +fruit of their own, they are the best stocks by which to transmit to +posterity the most highly prized qualities of others. However, I am not +in search of stocks, but the wild fruit itself, whose fierce gust has +suffered no “inteneration.” It is not my + + “highest plot +To plant the Bergamot.” + +THE FRUIT, AND ITS FLAVOR. + + +The time for wild apples is the last of October and the first of +November. They then get to be palatable, for they ripen late, and they +are still perhaps as beautiful as ever. I make a great account of these +fruits, which the farmers do not think it worth the while to +gather,—wild flavors of the Muse, vivacious and inspiriting. The farmer +thinks that he has better in his barrels, but he is mistaken, unless he +has a walker’s appetite and imagination, neither of which can he have. + +Such as grow quite wild, and are left out till the first of November, I +presume that the owner does not mean to gather. They belong to children +as wild as themselves,—to certain active boys that I know,—to the +wild-eyed woman of the fields, to whom nothing comes amiss, who gleans +after all the world,—and, moreover, to us walkers. We have met with +them, and they are ours. These rights, long enough insisted upon, have +come to be an institution in some old countries, where they have +learned how to live. I hear that “the custom of grippling, which may be +called apple-gleaning, is, or was formerly, practised in Herefordshire. +It consists in leaving a few apples, which are called the gripples, on +every tree, after the general gathering, for the boys, who go with +climbing-poles and bags to collect them.” + +As for those I speak of, I pluck them as a wild fruit, native to this +quarter of the earth,—fruit of old trees that have been dying ever +since I was a boy and are not yet dead, frequented only by the +woodpecker and the squirrel, deserted now by the owner, who has not +faith enough to look under their boughs. From the appearance of the +tree-top, at a little distance, you would expect nothing but lichens to +drop from it, but your faith is rewarded by finding the ground strewn +with spirited fruit,—some of it, perhaps, collected at squirrel-holes, +with the marks of their teeth by which they carried them,—some +containing a cricket or two silently feeding within, and some, +especially in damp days, a shelless snail. The very sticks and stones +lodged in the tree-top might have convinced you of the savoriness of +the fruit which has been so eagerly sought after in past years. + +I have seen no account of these among the “Fruits and Fruit-Trees of +America,” though they are more memorable to my taste than the grafted +kinds; more racy and wild American flavors do they possess, when +October and November, when December and January, and perhaps February +and March even, have assuaged them somewhat. An old farmer in my +neighborhood, who always selects the right word, says that “they have a +kind of bow-arrow tang.” + +Apples for grafting appear to have been selected commonly, not so much +for their spirited flavor, as for their mildness, their size, and +bearing qualities,—not so much for their beauty, as for their fairness +and soundness. Indeed, I have no faith in the selected lists of +pomological gentlemen. Their “Favorites” and “None-suches” and +“Seek-no-farthers,” when I have fruited them, commonly turn out very +tame and forgetable. They are eaten with comparatively little zest, and +have no real _tang_ nor _smack_ to them. + +What if some of these wildings are acrid and puckery, genuine +_verjuice_, do they not still belong to the _Pomaceae_, which are +uniformly innocent and kind to our race? I still begrudge them to the +cider-mill. Perhaps they are not fairly ripe yet. + +No wonder that these small and high-colored apples are thought to make +the best cider. Loudon quotes from the “Herefordshire Report,” that +“apples of a small size are always, if equal in quality, to be +preferred to those of a larger size, in order that the rind and kernel +may bear the greatest proportion to the pulp, which affords the weakest +and most watery juice.” And he says, that, “to prove this, Dr. Symonds, +of Hereford, about the year 1800, made one hogshead of cider entirely +from the rinds and cores of apples, and another from the pulp only, +when the first was found of extraordinary strength and flavor, while +the latter was sweet and insipid.” + +Evelyn says that the “Red-strake” was the favorite cider-apple in his +day; and he quotes one Dr. Newburg as saying, “In Jersey ’t is a +general observation, as I hear, that the more of red any apple has in +its rind, the more proper it is for this use. Pale-faced apples they +exclude as much as may be from their cider-vat.” This opinion still +prevails. + +All apples are good in November. Those which the farmer leaves out as +unsalable, and unpalatable to those who frequent the markets, are +choicest fruit to the walker. But it is remarkable that the wild apple, +which I praise as so spirited and racy when eaten in the fields or +woods, being brought into the house, has frequently a harsh and crabbed +taste. The Saunterer’s Apple not even the saunterer can eat in the +house. The palate rejects it there, as it does haws and acorns, and +demands a tamed one; for there you miss the November air, which is the +sauce it is to be eaten with. Accordingly, when Tityrus, seeing the +lengthening shadows, invites Meliboeus to go home and pass the night +with him, he promises him _mild_ apples and soft chestnuts,—_mitia +poma, castaneae molles_. I frequently pluck wild apples of so rich and +spicy a flavor that I wonder all orchardists do not get a scion from +that tree, and I fail not to bring home my pockets full. But perchance, +when I take one out of my desk and taste it in my chamber, I find it +unexpectedly crude,—sour enough to set a squirrel’s teeth on edge and +make a jay scream. + +These apples have hung in the wind and frost and rain till they have +absorbed the qualities of the weather or season, and thus are highly +_seasoned,_ and they _pierce_ and _sting_ and _permeate_ us with their +spirit. They must be eaten in _season_, accordingly,—that is, +out-of-doors. + +To appreciate the wild and sharp flavors of these October fruits, it is +necessary that you be breathing the sharp October or November air. The +out-door air and exercise which the walker gets give a different tone +to his palate, and he craves a fruit which the sedentary would call +harsh and crabbed. They must be eaten in the fields, when your system +is all aglow with exercise, when the frosty weather nips your fingers, +the wind rattles the bare boughs or rustles the few remaining leaves, +and the jay is heard screaming around. What is sour in the house a +bracing walk makes sweet. Some of these apples might be labelled, “To +be eaten in the wind.” + +Of course no flavors are thrown away; they are intended for the taste +that is up to them. Some apples have two distinct flavors, and perhaps +one-half of them must be eaten in the house, the other out-doors. One +Peter Whitney wrote from Northborough in 1782, for the Proceedings of +the Boston Academy, describing an apple-tree in that town “producing +fruit of opposite qualities, part of the same apple being frequently +sour and the other sweet;” also some all sour, and others all sweet, +and this diversity on all parts of the tree. + +There is a wild apple on Nawshawtuck Hill in my town which has to me a +peculiarly pleasant bitter tang, not perceived till it is +three-quarters tasted. It remains on the tongue. As you eat it, it +smells exactly like a squash-bug. It is a sort of triumph to eat and +relish it. + +I hear that the fruit of a kind of plum-tree in Provence is “called +_Prunes sibarelles_, because it is impossible to whistle after having +eaten them, from their sourness.” But perhaps they were only eaten in +the house and in summer, and if tried out-of-doors in a stinging +atmosphere, who knows but you could whistle an octave higher and +clearer? + +In the fields only are the sours and bitters of Nature appreciated; +just as the wood-chopper eats his meal in a sunny glade, in the middle +of a winter day, with content, basks in a sunny ray there and dreams of +summer in a degree of cold which, experienced in a chamber, would make +a student miserable. They who are at work abroad are not cold, but +rather it is they who sit shivering in houses. As with temperatures, so +with flavors; as, with cold and heat, so with sour and sweet. This +natural raciness, the sours and bitters which the diseased palate +refuses, are the true condiments. + +Let your condiments be in the condition of your senses. To appreciate +the flavor of these wild apples requires vigorous and healthy senses, +_papillae_ firm and erect on the tongue and palate, not easily +flattened and tamed. + +From my experience with wild apples, I can understand that there may be +reason for a savage’s preferring many kinds of food which the civilized +man rejects. The former has the palate of an out-door man. It takes a +savage or wild taste to appreciate a wild fruit. + +What a healthy out-of-door appetite it takes to relish the apple of +life, the apple of the world, then! + +“Nor is it every apple I desire, + Nor that which pleases every palate best; +’T is not the lasting Deuxan I require, + Nor yet the red-cheeked Greening I request, +Nor that which first beshrewed the name of wife, +Nor that whose beauty caused the golden strife: +No, no I bring me an apple from the tree of life.” + + +So there is one _thought_ for the field, another for the house. I would +have my thoughts, like wild apples, to be food for walkers, and will +not warrant them to be palatable, if tasted in the house. + +THEIR BEAUTY. + + +Almost all wild apples are handsome. They cannot be too gnarly and +crabbed and rusty to look at. The gnarliest will have some redeeming +traits even to the eye. You will discover some evening redness dashed +or sprinkled on some protuberance or in some cavity. It is rare that +the summer lets an apple go without streaking or spotting it on some +part of its sphere. It will have some red stains, commemorating the +mornings and evenings it has witnessed; some dark and rusty blotches, +in memory of the clouds and foggy, mildewy days that have passed over +it; and a spacious field of green reflecting the general face of +Nature,—green even as the fields; or a yellow ground, which implies a +milder flavor,—yellow as the harvest, or russet as the hills. + +Apples, these I mean, unspeakably fair,—apples not of Discord, but of +Concord! Yet not so rare but that the homeliest may have a share. +Painted by the frosts, some a uniform clear bright yellow, or red, or +crimson, as if their spheres had regularly revolved, and enjoyed the +influence of the sun on all sides alike,—some with the faintest pink +blush imaginable,— some brindled with deep red streaks like a cow, or +with hundreds of fine blood-red rays running regularly from the +stem-dimple to the blossom-end, like meridional lines, on a +straw-colored ground,—some touched with a greenish rust, like a fine +lichen, here and there, with crimson blotches or eyes more or less +confluent and fiery when wet,—and others gnarly, and freckled or +peppered all over on the stem side with fine crimson spots on a white +ground, as if accidentally sprinkled from the brush of Him who paints +the autumn leaves. Others, again, are sometimes red inside, perfused +with a beautiful blush, fairy food, too beautiful to eat,—apple of the +Hesperides, apple of the evening sky! But like shells and pebbles on +the sea-shore, they must be seen as they sparkle amid the withering +leaves in some dell in the woods, in the autumnal air, or as they lie +in the wet grass, and not when they have wilted and faded in the house. + +THE NAMING OF THEM. + + +It would be a pleasant pastime to find suitable names for the hundred +varieties which go to a single heap at the cider-mill. Would it not tax +a man’s invention,—no one to be named after a man, and all in the +_lingua vernacula_? Who shall stand godfather at the christening of the +wild apples? It would exhaust the Latin and Greek languages, if they +were used, and make the _lingua vernacula_ flag. We should have to call +in the sunrise and the sunset, the rainbow and the autumn woods and the +wild flowers, and the woodpecker and the purple finch and the squirrel +and the jay and the butterfly, the November traveller and the truant +boy, to our aid. + +In 1836 there were in the garden of the London Horticultural Society +more than fourteen hundred distinct sorts. But here are species which +they have not in their catalogue, not to mention the varieties which +our Crab might yield to cultivation. + +Let us enumerate a few of these. I find myself compelled, after all, to +give the Latin names of some for the benefit of those who live where +English is not spoken,—for they are likely to have a world-wide +reputation. + +There is, first of all, the Wood-Apple (_Malus sylvatica_); the +Blue-Jay Apple; the Apple which grows in Dells in the Woods, +(_sylvestrivallis_,) also in Hollows in Pastures (_campestrivallis_); +the Apple that grows in an old Cellar-Hole (_Malus cellaris_); the +Meadow-Apple; the Partridge-Apple; the Truant’s Apple, (_Cessatoris_,) +which no boy will ever go by without knocking off some, however _late_ +it may be; the Saunterer’s Apple,—you must lose yourself before you can +find the way to that; the Beauty of the Air (_Decus Aeris_); +December-Eating; the Frozen-Thawed _(gelato-soluta),_ good only in that +state; the Concord Apple, possibly the same with the +_Musketaquidensis_; the Assabet Apple; the Brindled Apple; Wine of New +England; the Chickaree Apple; the Green Apple _(Malus viridis);_—this +has many synonymes; in an imperfect state, it is the _Cholera morbifera +aut dysenterifera, puerulis dilectissima_;—the Apple which Atalanta +stopped to pick up; the Hedge-Apple _(Malus Sepium_); the Slug-Apple +_(limacea)_; the Railroad-Apple, which perhaps came from a core thrown +out of the cars; the Apple whose Fruit we tasted in our Youth; our +Particular Apple, not to be found in any catalogue,—_Pedestrium +Solatium_; also the Apple where hangs the Forgotten Scythe; Iduna’s +Apples, and the Apples which Loki found in the Wood; and a great many +more I have on my list, too numerous to mention,—all of them good. As +Bodaeus exclaims, referring to the cultivated kinds, and adapting +Virgil to his case, so I, adapting Bodaeus,— + +“Not if I had a hundred tongues, a hundred mouths, +An iron voice, could I describe all the forms +And reckon up all the names of these _wild apples_.” + + +THE LAST GLEANING. + + +By the middle of November the wild apples have lost some of their +brilliancy, and have chiefly fallen. A great part are decayed on the +ground, and the sound ones are more palatable than before. The note of +the chickadee sounds now more distinct, as you wander amid the old +trees, and the autumnal dandelion is half-closed and tearful. But +still, if you are a skilful gleaner, you may get many a pocket-full +even of grafted fruit, long after apples are supposed to be gone +out-of-doors. I know a Blue-Pearmain tree, growing within the edge of a +swamp, almost as good as wild. You would not suppose that there was any +fruit left there, on the first survey, but you must look according to +system. Those which lie exposed are quite brown and rotten now, or +perchance a few still show one blooming cheek here and there amid the +wet leaves. Nevertheless, with experienced eyes, I explore amid the +bare alders and the huckleberry-bushes and the withered sedge, and in +the crevices of the rocks, which are full of leaves, and pry under the +fallen and decaying ferns, which, with apple and alder leaves, thickly +strew the ground. For I know that they lie concealed, fallen into +hollows long since and covered up by the leaves of the tree itself,—a +proper kind of packing. From these lurking-places, anywhere within the +circumference of the tree, I draw forth the fruit, all wet and glossy, +maybe nibbled by rabbits and hollowed out by crickets and perhaps with +a leaf or two cemented to it (as Curzon an old manuscript from a +monastery’s mouldy cellar), but still with a rich bloom on it, and at +least as ripe and well kept, if not better than those in barrels, more +crisp and lively than they. If these resources fail to yield anything, +I have learned to look between the bases of the suckers which spring +thickly from some horizontal limb, for now and then one lodges there, +or in the very midst of an alder-clump, where they are covered by +leaves, safe from cows which may have smelled them out. If I am +sharp-set, for I do not refuse the Blue-Pearmain, I fill my pockets on +each side; and as I retrace my steps in the frosty eve, being perhaps +four or five miles from home, I eat one first from this side, and then +from that, to keep my balance. + +I learn from Topsell’s Gesner, whose authority appears to be Albertus, +that the following is the way in which the hedgehog collects and +carries home his apples. He says,—“His meat is apples, worms, or +grapes: when he findeth apples or grapes on the earth, he rolleth +himself upon them, until he have filled all his prickles, and then +carrieth them home to his den, never bearing above one in his mouth; +and if it fortune that one of them fall off by the way, he likewise +shaketh off all the residue, and walloweth upon them afresh, until they +be all settled upon his back again. So, forth he goeth, making a noise +like a cart-wheel; and if he have any young ones in his nest, they pull +off his load wherewithal he is loaded, eating thereof what they please, +and laying up the residue for the time to come.” + +THE “FROZEN-THAWED” APPLE. + + +Toward the end of November, though some of the sound ones are yet more +mellow and perhaps more edible, they have generally, like the leaves, +lost their beauty, and are beginning to freeze. It is finger-cold, and +prudent farmers get in their barrelled apples, and bring you the apples +and cider which they have engaged; for it is time to put them into the +cellar. Perhaps a few on the ground show their red cheeks above the +early snow, and occasionally some even preserve their color and +soundness under the snow throughout the winter. But generally at the +beginning of the winter they freeze hard, and soon, though undecayed, +acquire the color of a baked apple. + +Before the end of December, generally, they experience their first +thawing. Those which a month ago were sour, crabbed, and quite +unpalatable to the civilized taste, such at least as were frozen while +sound, let a warmer sun come to thaw them, for they are extremely +sensitive to its rays, are found to be filled with a rich, sweet cider, +better than any bottled cider that I know of, and with which I am +better acquainted than with wine. All apples are good in this state, +and your jaws are the cider-press. Others, which have more substance, +are a sweet and luscious food,—in my opinion of more worth than the +pine-apples which are imported from the West Indies. Those which lately +even I tasted only to repent of it,—for I am semi-civilized,—which the +farmer willingly left on the tree, I am now glad to find have the +property of hanging on like the leaves of the young oaks. It is a way +to keep cider sweet without boiling. Let the frost come to freeze them +first, solid as stones, and then the rain or a warm winter day to thaw +them, and they will seem to have borrowed a flavor from heaven through +the medium of the air in which they hang. Or perchance you find, when +you get home, that those which rattled in your pocket have thawed, and +the ice is turned to cider. But after the third or fourth freezing and +thawing they will not be found so good. + +What are the imported half-ripe fruits of the torrid South, to this +fruit matured by the cold of the frigid North? These are those crabbed +apples with which I cheated my companion, and kept a smooth face that I +might tempt him to eat. Now we both greedily fill our pockets with +them,—bending to drink the cup and save our lappets from the +overflowing juice,—and grow more social with their wine. Was there one +that hung so high and sheltered by the tangled branches that our sticks +could not dislodge it? + +It is a fruit never carried to market, that I am aware of,—quite +distinct from the apple of the markets, as from dried apple and +cider,—and it is not every winter that produces it in perfection. + +The era of the Wild Apple will soon be past. It is a fruit which will +probably become extinct in New England. You may still wander through +old orchards of native fruit of great extent, which for the most part +went to the cider-mill, now all gone to decay. I have heard of an +orchard in a distant town, on the side of a hill, where the apples +rolled down and lay four feet deep against a wall on the lower side, +and this the owner cut down for fear they should be made into cider. +Since the temperance reform and the general introduction of grafted +fruit, no native apple-trees, such as I see everywhere in deserted +pastures, and where the woods have grown up around them, are set out. I +fear that he who walks over these fields a century hence will not know +the pleasure of knocking off wild apples. Ah, poor man, there are many +pleasures which he will not know! Notwithstanding the prevalence of the +Baldwin and the Porter, I doubt if so extensive orchards are set out +to-day in my town as there were a century ago, when those vast +straggling cider-orchards were planted, when men both ate and drank +apples, when the pomace-heap was the only nursery, and trees cost +nothing but the trouble of setting them out. Men could afford then to +stick a tree by every wall-side and let it take its chance. I see +nobody planting trees to-day in such out-of-the-way places, along the +lonely roads and lanes, and at the bottom of dells in the wood. Now +that they have grafted trees, and pay a price for them, they collect +them into a plat by their houses, and fence them in,—and the end of it +all will be that we shall be compelled to look for our apples in a +barrel. + +This is “The word of the Lord that came to Joel the son of Pethuel. + +“Hear this, ye old men, and give ear, all ye inhabitants of the land! +Hath this been in your days, or even in the days of your fathers?… + + +“That which the palmer-worm hath left hath the locust eaten; and that +which the locust hath left hath the canker-worm eaten; and that which +the canker-worm hath left hath the caterpillar eaten. + +“Awake, ye drunkards, and weep! and howl, all ye drinkers of wine, +because of the new wine! for it is cut off from your mouth. + +“For a nation is come up upon my land, strong, and without number, +whose teeth are the teeth of a lion, and he hath the cheek-teeth of a +great lion. + +“He hath laid my vine waste, and barked my fig-tree; he hath made it +clean bare, and cast it away; the branches thereof are made white…. + +“Be ye ashamed, O ye husbandmen! howl, O ye vine-dressers!… + +“The vine is dried up, and the fig-tree languisheth; the +pomegranate-tree, the palm-tree also, and the apple-tree, even all the +trees of the field, are withered: because joy is withered away from the +sons of men.” + + + + +NIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. + + +Chancing to take a memorable walk by moonlight some years ago, I +resolved to take more such walks, and make acquaintance with another +side of nature: I have done so. + +According to Pliny, there is a stone in Arabia called Selenites, +“wherein is a white, which increases and decreases with the moon.” My +journal for the last year or two, has been _selenitic_ in this sense. + +Is not the midnight like Central Africa to most of us? Are we not +tempted to explore it,—to penetrate to the shores of its lake Tchad, +and discover the source of its Nile, perchance the Mountains of the +Moon? Who knows what fertility and beauty, moral and natural, are there +to be found? In the Mountains of the Moon, in the Central Africa of the +night, there is where all Niles have their hidden heads. The +expeditions up the Nile as yet extend but to the Cataracts, or +perchance to the mouth of the White Nile; but it is the Black Nile that +concerns us. + +I shall be a benefactor if I conquer some realms from the night, if I +report to the gazettes anything transpiring about us at that season +worthy of their attention,—if I can show men that there is some beauty +awake while they are asleep,—if I add to the domains of poetry. + +Night is certainly more novel and less profane than day. I soon +discovered that I was acquainted only with its complexion, and as for +the moon, I had seen her only as it were through a crevice in a +shutter, occasionally. Why not walk a little way in her light? + +Suppose you attend to the suggestions which the moon makes for one +month, commonly in vain, will it not be very different from anything in +literature or religion? But why not study this Sanscrit? What if one +moon has come and gone with its world of poetry, its weird teachings, +its oracular suggestions,—so divine a creature freighted with hints for +me, and I have not used her? One moon gone by unnoticed? + +I think it was Dr. Chalmers who said, criticising Coleridge, that for +his part he wanted ideas which he could see all round, and not such as +he must look at away up in the heavens. Such a man, one would say, +would never look at the moon, because she never turns her other side to +us. The light which comes from ideas which have their orbit as distant +from the earth, and which is no less cheering and enlightening to the +benighted traveller than that of the moon and stars, is naturally +reproached or nicknamed as moonshine by such. They are moonshine, are +they? Well, then do your night-travelling when there is no moon to +light you; but I will be thankful for the light that reaches me from +the star of least magnitude. Stars are lesser or greater only as they +appear to us so. I will be thankful that I see so much as one side of a +celestial idea,—one side of the rainbow,—and the sunset sky. + +Men talk glibly enough about moonshine, as if they knew its qualities +very well, and despised them; as owls might talk of sunshine. None of +your sunshine,—but this word commonly means merely something which they +do not understand,—which they are abed and asleep to, however much it +may be worth their while to be up and awake to it. + +It must be allowed that the light of the moon, sufficient though it is +for the pensive walker, and not disproportionate to the inner light we +have, is very inferior in quality and intensity to that of the sun. But +the moon is not to be judged alone by the quantity of light she sends +to us, but also by her influence on the earth and its inhabitants. “The +moon gravitates toward the earth, and the earth reciprocally toward the +moon.” The poet who walks by moonlight is conscious of a tide in his +thought which is to be referred to lunar influence. I will endeavor to +separate the tide in my thoughts from the current distractions of the +day. I would warn my hearers that they must not try my thoughts by a +daylight standard, but endeavor to realize that I speak out of the +night. All depends on your point of view. In Drake’s “Collection of +Voyages,” Wafer says of some Albinoes among the Indians of Darien, +“They are quite white, but their whiteness is like that of a horse, +quite different from the fair or pale European, as they have not the +least tincture of a blush or sanguine complexion. * * * Their eyebrows +are milk-white, as is likewise the hair of their heads, which is very +fine. * * * They seldom go abroad in the daytime, the sun being +disagreeable to them, and causing their eyes, which are weak and +poring, to water, especially if it shines towards them, yet they see +very well by moonlight, from which we call them moon-eyed.” + +Neither in our thoughts in these moonlight walks, methinks, is there +“the least tincture of a blush or sanguine complexion,” but we are +intellectually and morally Albinoes,—children of Endymion,—such is the +effect of conversing much with the moon. + +I complain of Arctic voyagers that, they do not enough remind us of the +constant peculiar dreariness of the scenery, and the perpetual twilight +of the Arctic night. So he whose theme is moonlight, though he may find +it difficult, must, as it were, illustrate it with the light of the +moon alone. + +Many men walk by day; few walk by night. It is a very different season. +Take a July night, for instance. About ten o’clock,—when man is asleep, +and day fairly forgotten,—the beauty of moonlight is seen over lonely +pastures where cattle are silently feeding. On all sides novelties +present themselves. Instead of the sun there are the moon and stars, +instead of the wood-thrush there is the whip-poor-will,—instead of +butterflies in the meadows, fire-flies, winged sparks of fire! who +would have believed it? What kind of cool deliberate life dwells in +those dewy abodes associated with a spark of fire? So man has fire in +his eyes, or blood, or brain. Instead of singing birds, the +half-throttled note of a cuckoo flying over, the croaking of frogs, and +the intenser dream of crickets. But above all, the wonderful trump of +the bull-frog, ringing from Maine to Georgia. The potato-vines stand +upright, the corn grows apace, the bushes loom, the grain-fields are +boundless. On our open river terraces once cultivated by the Indian, +they appear to occupy the ground like an army,— their heads nodding in +the breeze. + +Small trees and shrubs are seen in the midst, overwhelmed as by an +inundation. The shadows of rocks and trees, and shrubs and hills, are +more conspicuous than the objects themselves. The slightest +irregularities in the ground are revealed by the shadows, and what the +feet find comparatively smooth, appears rough and diversified in +consequence. For the same reason the whole landscape is more variegated +and picturesque than by day. The smallest recesses in the rocks are dim +and cavernous; the ferns in the wood appear of tropical size. The sweet +fern and indigo in overgrown wood-paths wet you with dew up to your +middle. The leaves of the shrub-oak are shining as if a liquid were +flowing over them. The pools seen through the trees are as full of +light as the sky. “The light of the day takes refuge in their bosoms,” +as the Purana says of the ocean. All white objects are more remarkable +than by day. A distant cliff looks like a phosphorescent space on a +hillside. The woods are heavy and dark. Nature slumbers. You see the +moonlight reflected from particular stumps in the recesses of the +forest, as if she selected what to shine on. These small fractions of +her light remind one of the plant called moon-seed,—as if the moon were +sowing it in such places. + +In the night the eyes are partly closed or retire into the head. Other +senses take the lead. The walker is guided as well by the sense of +smell. Every plant and field and forest emits its odor now, swamp-pink +in the meadow and tansy in the road; and there is the peculiar dry +scent of corn which has begun to show its tassels. The senses both of +hearing and smelling are more alert. We hear the tinkling of rills +which we never detected before. From time to time, high up on the sides +of hills, you pass through a stratum of warm air. A blast which has +come up from the sultry plains of noon. It tells of the day, of sunny +noon-tide hours and banks, of the laborer wiping his brow and the bee +humming amid flowers. It is an air in which work has been done,—which +men have breathed. It circulates about from wood-side to hill-side like +a dog that has lost its master, now that the sun is gone. The rocks +retain all night the warmth of the sun which they have absorbed. And so +does the sand. If you dig a few inches into it you find a warm bed. You +lie on your back on a rock in a pasture on the top of some bare hill at +midnight, and speculate on the height of the starry canopy. The stars +are the jewels of the night, and perchance surpass anything which day +has to show. A companion with whom I was sailing one very windy but +bright moonlight night, when the stars were few and faint, thought that +a man could get along with _them_,—though he was considerably reduced +in his circumstances,—that they were a kind of bread and cheese that +never failed. + +No wonder that there have been astrologers, that some have conceived +that they were personally related to particular stars. Dubartas, as +translated by Sylvester, says he’ll + +“not believe that the great architect +With all these fires the heavenly arches decked +Only for show, and with these glistering shields, +T’ awake poor shepherds, watching in the fields.” +He’ll “not believe that the least flower which pranks +Our garden borders, or our common banks, +And the least stone, that in her warming lap +Our mother earth doth covetously wrap, +Hath some peculiar virtue of its own, +And that the glorious stars of heav’n have none.” + + +And Sir Walter Raleigh well says, “the stars are instruments of far +greater use, than to give an obscure light, and for men to gaze on +after sunset;” and he quotes Plotinus as affirming that they “are +significant, but not efficient;” and also Augustine as saying, “_Deus +regit inferiora corpora per superiora_:” God rules the bodies below by +those above. But best of all is this which another writer has +expressed: “_Sapiens adjuvabit opus astrorum quemadmodum agricola +terrae naturam_:” a wise man assisteth the work of the stars as the +husbandman helpeth the nature of the soil. + +It does not concern men who are asleep in their beds, but it is very +important to the traveller, whether the moon shines brightly or is +obscured. It is not easy to realize the serene joy of all the earth, +when she commences to shine unobstructedly, unless you have often been +abroad alone in moonlight nights. She seems to be waging continual war +with the clouds in your behalf. Yet we fancy the clouds to be _her_ +foes also. She comes on magnifying her dangers by her light, revealing, +displaying them in all their hugeness and blackness, then suddenly +casts them behind into the light concealed, and goes her way triumphant +through a small space of clear sky. + +In short, the moon traversing, or appearing to traverse, the small +clouds which lie in her way, now obscured by them, now easily +dissipating and shining through them, makes the drama of the moonlight +night to all watchers and night-travellers. Sailors speak of it as the +moon eating up the clouds. The traveller all alone, the moon all alone, +except for his sympathy, overcoming with incessant victory whole +squadrons of clouds above the forests and lakes and hills. When she is +obscured he so sympathizes with her that he could whip a dog for her +relief, as Indians do. When she enters on a clear field of great extent +in the heavens, and shines unobstructedly, he is glad. And when she has +fought her way through all the squadron of her foes, and rides majestic +in a clear sky unscathed, and there are no more any obstructions in her +path, he cheerfully and confidently pursues his way, and rejoices in +his heart, and the cricket also seems to express joy in its song. + +How insupportable would be the days, if the night with its dews and +darkness did not come to restore the drooping world. As the shades +begin to gather around us, our primeval instincts are aroused, and we +steal forth from our lairs, like the inhabitants of the jungle, in +search of those silent and brooding thoughts which are the natural prey +of the intellect. + +Richter says that “The earth is every day overspread with the veil of +night for the same reason as the cages of birds are darkened, viz: that +we may the more readily apprehend the higher harmonies of thought in +the hush and quiet of darkness. Thoughts which day turns into smoke and +mist, stand about us in the night as light and flames; even as the +column which fluctuates above the crater of Vesuvius, in the daytime +appears a pillar of cloud, but by night a pillar of fire.” + +There are nights in this climate of such serene and majestic beauty, so +medicinal and fertilizing to the spirit, that methinks a sensitive +nature would not devote them to oblivion, and perhaps there is no man +but would be better and wiser for spending them out of doors, though he +should sleep all the next day to pay for it; should sleep an Endymion +sleep, as the ancients expressed it,—nights which warrant the Grecian +epithet ambrosial, when, as in the land of Beulah, the atmosphere is +charged with dewy fragrance, and with music, and we take our repose and +have our dreams awake,—when the moon, not secondary to the sun, + + “gives us his blaze again, +Void of its flame, and sheds a softer day. +Now through the passing cloud she seems to stoop, +Now up the pure cerulean rides sublime.” + + +Diana still hunts in the New England sky. + +“In Heaven queen she is among the spheres. + She, mistress-like, makes all things to be pure. +Eternity in her oft change she bears; + She Beauty is; by her the fair endure. + +Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide; + Mortality below her orb is placed; +By her lie virtues of the stars down slide; + By her is Virtue’s perfect image cast.” + + +The Hindoos compare the moon to a saintly being who has reached the +last stage of bodily existence. + +Great restorer of antiquity, great enchanter. In a mild night, when the +harvest or hunter’s moon shines unobstructedly, the houses in our +village, whatever architect they may have had by day, acknowledge only +a master. The village street is then as wild as the forest. New and old +things are confounded. I know not whether I am sitting on the ruins of +a wall, or on the material which is to compose a new one. Nature is an +instructed and impartial teacher, spreading no crude opinions, and +flattering none; she will be neither radical nor conservative. Consider +the moonlight, so civil, yet so savage! + +The light is more proportionate to our knowledge than that of day. It +is no more dusky in ordinary nights, than our mind’s habitual +atmosphere, and the moonlight is as bright as our most illuminated +moments are. + +“In such a night let me abroad remain +Till morning breaks, and all’s confused again.” + + +Of what significance the light of day, if it is not the reflection of +an inward dawn?—to what purpose is the veil of night withdrawn, if the +morning reveals nothing to the soul? It is merely garish and glaring. + +When Ossian in his address to the sun exclaims, + +“Where has darkness its dwelling? +Where is the cavernous home of the stars, +When thou quickly followest their steps, +Pursuing them like a hunter in the sky,— +Thou climbing the lofty hills, +They descending on barren mountains?” + + +who does not in his thought accompany the stars to their “cavernous +home,” “descending” with them “on barren mountains?” + +Nevertheless, even by night the sky is blue and not black, for we see +through the shadow of the earth into the distant atmosphere of day, +where the sunbeams are revelling. + +THE END. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EXCURSIONS *** + +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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