diff options
Diffstat (limited to '9846-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 9846-h/9846-h.htm | 8278 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 9846-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 0 -> 183960 bytes |
2 files changed, 8278 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/9846-h/9846-h.htm b/9846-h/9846-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bd5b686 --- /dev/null +++ b/9846-h/9846-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8278 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Excursions, by Henry David Thoreau</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +sup { vertical-align: top; font-size: 0.6em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Excursions, by Henry David Thoreau</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Excursions</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Henry David Thoreau</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: 23, 2003 [eBook #9846]<br /> +[Most recently updated: January 21, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Charles Bidwell and PG Distributed Proofreaders</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EXCURSIONS ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="cover " /><br/><br/> +</div> + +<h1>Excursions</h1> + +<h2>by Henry David Thoreau</h2> + +<h4>1863</h4> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto"> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">NATURAL HISTORY OF MASSACHUSETTS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">A WALK TO WACHUSETT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">THE LANDLORD</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">A WINTER WALK</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">THE SUCCESSION OF FOREST TREES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">WALKING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">AUTUMNAL TINTS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">WILD APPLES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">NIGHT AND MOONLIGHT</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.<br/> +<small>BY R.W. EMERSON.</small></h2> + +<p> +H<small>ENRY</small> D<small>AVID</small> T<small>HOREAU</small> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>à l’outrance</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>bon +mots</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Arnica mollis</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>you</i> ride, then?”—and what +accusing silences, and what searching and irresistible speeches, battering down +all defences, his companions can remember! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Victoria regia</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +“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] +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“I hearing get, who had but ears,<br/> +And sight, who had but eyes before;<br/> +I moments live, who lived but years,<br/> +And truth discern, who knew but learning’s lore.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +And still more in these religious lines:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Now chiefly is my natal hour,<br/> +And only now my prime of life;<br/> +I will not doubt the love untold,<br/> +Which not my worth or want hath bought,<br/> +Which wooed me young, and wooes me old,<br/> +And to this evening hath me brought.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>savans</i> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Mikania +scandens</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in +the milk.” +</p> + +<p> +“The chub is a soft fish, and tastes like boiled brown paper +salted.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The locust z-ing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Devil’s-needles zigzagging along the Nut-Meadow brook.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sugar is not so sweet to the palate as sound to the healthy ear.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The bluebird carries the sky on his back.” +</p> + +<p> +“The tanager flies through the green foliage as if it would ignite the +leaves.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Immortal water, alive even to the superficies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fire is the most tolerable third party.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nature made ferns for pure leaves, to show what she could do in that +line.” +</p> + +<p> +“No tree has so fair a bole and so handsome an instep as the +beech.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hard are the times when the infant’s shoes are second-foot.” +</p> + +<p> +“We are strictly confined to our men to whom we give liberty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing is so much to be feared as fear. Atheism may comparatively be +popular with God himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of what significance the things you can forget? A little thought is +sexton to all the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can we expect a harvest of thought who have not had a seed-time of +character?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only he can be trusted with gifts who can present a face of bronze to +expectations.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +There is a flower known to botanists, one of the same genus with our summer +plant called “Life-Everlasting,” a <i>Gnaphalium</i> 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 <i>Gnaphalium leontopodium</i>, but by +the Swiss <i>Edelweisse</i>, which signifies <i>Noble Purity</i>. 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>EXCURSIONS</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>NATURAL HISTORY OF MASSACHUSETTS.<a href="#linknote-1" +name="linknoteref-1" id="linknoteref-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a></h2> + +<p class="center"> +[1842.] +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Within the circuit of this plodding life,<br/> +There enter moments of an azure hue,<br/> +Untarnished fair as is the violet<br/> +Or anemone, when the spring strews them<br/> +By some meandering rivulet, which make<br/> +The best philosophy untrue that aims<br/> +But to console man for his grievances.<br/> +I have remembered when the winter came,<br/> +High in my chamber in the frosty nights,<br/> +When in the still light of the cheerful moon,<br/> +On every twig and rail and jutting spout,<br/> +The icy spears were adding to their length<br/> +Against the arrows of the coming sun,<br/> +How in the shimmering noon of summer past<br/> +Some unrecorded beam slanted across<br/> +The upland pastures where the Johnswort grew;<br/> +Or heard, amid the verdure of my mind,<br/> +The bee’s long smothered hum, on the blue flag<br/> +Loitering amidst the mead; or busy rill,<br/> +Which now through all its course stands still and dumb<br/> +Its own memorial,—purling at its play<br/> +Along the slopes, and through the meadows next,<br/> +Until its youthful sound was hushed at last<br/> +In the staid current of the lowland stream;<br/> +Or seen the furrows shine but late upturned,<br/> +And where the fieldfare followed in the rear,<br/> +When all the fields around lay bound and hoar<br/> +Beneath a thick integument of snow.<br/> +So by God’s cheap economy made rich<br/> +To go upon my winter’s task again.<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“We pronounce thee happy, Cicada,<br/> +For on the tops of the trees,<br/> +Drinking a little dew,<br/> +Like any king thou singest,<br/> +For thine are they all,<br/> +Whatever thou seest in the fields,<br/> +And whatever the woods bear.<br/> +Thou art the friend of the husbandmen,<br/> +In no respect injuring any one;<br/> +And thou art honored among men,<br/> +Sweet prophet of summer.<br/> +The Muses love thee,<br/> +And Phoebus himself loves thee,<br/> +And has given thee a shrill song;<br/> +Age does not wrack thee,<br/> +Thou skilful, earthborn, song-loving,<br/> +Unsuffering, bloodless one;<br/> +Almost thou art like the gods.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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<a href="#linknote-2" +name="linknoteref-2"><sup>[2]</sup></a> 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;— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +His steady sails he never furls<br/> +At any time o’ year,<br/> +And perching now on Winter’s curls,<br/> +He whistles in his ear.<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<h5>RETURN OF SPRING.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +“Behold, how Spring appearing,<br/> +The Graces send forth roses;<br/> +Behold, how the wave of the sea<br/> +Is made smooth by the calm;<br/> +Behold, how the duck dives;<br/> +Behold, how the crane travels;<br/> +And Titan shines constantly bright.<br/> +The shadows of the clouds are moving;<br/> +The works of man shine;<br/> +The earth puts forth fruits;<br/> +The fruit of the olive puts forth.<br/> +The cup of Bacchus is crowned,<br/> +Along the leaves, along the branches,<br/> +The fruit, bending them down, flourishes.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Each summer sound<br/> +Is a summer round.<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Sometimes-I hear the veery’s<a href="#linknote-3" name="linknoteref-3"><sup>[3]</sup></a> clarion,<br/> +Or brazen trump of the impatient jay,<br/> +And in secluded woods the chicadee<br/> +Doles out her scanty notes, which sing the praise<br/> +Of heroes, and set forth the loveliness<br/> +Of virtue evermore.<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Upon the lofty elm-tree sprays<br/> +The vireo rings the changes sweet,<br/> +During the trivial summer days,<br/> +Striving to lift our thoughts above the street.<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Thou dusky spirit of the wood,<br/> +Bird of an ancient brood,<br/> +Flitting thy lonely way,<br/> +A meteor in the summer’s day,<br/> +From wood to wood, from hill to hill,<br/> +Low over forest, field, and rill,<br/> +What wouldst thou say?<br/> +Why shouldst thou haunt the day?<br/> +What makes thy melancholy float?<br/> +What bravery inspires thy throat,<br/> +And bears thee up above the clouds,<br/> +Over desponding human crowds,<br/> +Which far below<br/> +Lay thy haunts low?<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I have experienced such simple delight in the trivial matters of fishing<br/> +and sporting, formerly, as might have inspired the muse of Homer or<br/> +Shakspeare; and now, when I turn the pages and ponder the plates of the<br/> +Angler’s Souvenir, I am fain to exclaim,—<br/> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “Can these things be,<br/> +And overcome us like a summer’s cloud?”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +I see the civil sun drying earth’s tears,<br/> +Her tears of joy, which only faster flow.<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +The river swelleth more and more,<br/> +Like some sweet influence stealing o’er<br/> +The passive town; and for a while<br/> +Each tussuck makes a tiny isle,<br/> +Where, on some friendly Ararat,<br/> +Resteth the weary water-rat.<br/> +<br/> +No ripple shows Musketaquid,<br/> +Her very current e’en is hid,<br/> +As deepest souls do calmest rest,<br/> +When thoughts are swelling in the breast,<br/> +And she that in the summer’s drought<br/> +Doth make a rippling and a rout,<br/> +Sleeps from Nabshawtuck to the Cliff,<br/> +Unruffled by a single skiff.<br/> +But by a thousand distant hills<br/> +The louder roar a thousand rills,<br/> +And many a spring which now is dumb,<br/> +And many a stream with smothered hum,<br/> +Doth swifter well and faster glide,<br/> +Though buried deep beneath the tide.<br/> +<br/> +Our village shows a rural Venice,<br/> +Its broad lagoons where yonder fen is;<br/> +As lovely as the Bay of Naples<br/> +Yon placid cove amid the maples;<br/> +And in my neighbor’s field of corn<br/> +I recognize the Golden Horn.<br/> +<br/> +Here Nature taught from year to year,<br/> +When only red men came to hear,<br/> +Methinks ’twas in this school of art<br/> +Venice and Naples learned their part;<br/> +But still their mistress, to my mind,<br/> +Her young disciples leaves behind.<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In May, the snapping turtle, <i>Emysaurus serpentina,</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>their</i> 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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +That common muscle, the <i>Unio complanalus</i>, or more properly +<i>fluviatilis</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The Quadrupeds deserved a more final and instructive report than they have +obtained. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="linknote-2" id="linknote-2"></a> <a href="#linknoteref-2">[2]</a> +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. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="linknote-3" id="linknote-3"></a> <a href="#linknoteref-3">[3]</a> +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 “<i>yorrick</i>,” 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. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="linknote-1" id="linknote-1"></a> <a href="#linknoteref-1">[1]</a> +<i>Reports—on the Fishes, Reptiles, and Birds; the Herbaceous Plants and +Quadrupeds; the Insects Injurious to Vegetation; and the Invertebrate Animals +of Massachusetts</i>. Published agreeably to an Order of the Legislature, by +the Commissioners on the Zoölogical and Botanical Survey of the State. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>A WALK TO WACHUSETT.</h2> + +<p class="center"> +[1843.] +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +The needles of the pine<br/> +All to the west incline.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="right"> +C<small>ONCORD</small>, <i>July</i> 19, 1842. +</p> + +<p> +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.— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +With frontier strength ye stand your ground,<br/> +With grand content ye circle round,<br/> +Tumultuous silence for all sound,<br/> +Ye distant nursery of rills,<br/> +Monadnock, and the Peterboro’ hills;<br/> +Like some vast fleet,<br/> +Sailing through rain and sleet,<br/> +Through winter’s cold and summer’s heat;<br/> +Still holding on, upon your high emprise,<br/> +Until ye find a shore amid the skies;<br/> +Not skulking close to land,<br/> +With cargo contraband.<br/> +For they who sent a venture out by ye<br/> +Have set the sun to see<br/> +Their honesty.<br/> +Ships of the line, each one,<br/> +Ye to the westward run,<br/> +Always before the gale,<br/> +Under a press of sail,<br/> +With weight of metal all untold.<br/> +I seem to feel ye, in my firm seat here,<br/> +Immeasurable depth of hold,<br/> +And breadth of beam, and length of running gear.<br/> +<br/> +Methinks ye take luxurious pleasure<br/> +In your novel western leisure;<br/> +So cool your brows, and freshly blue,<br/> +As Time had nought for ye to do;<br/> +For ye lie at your length,<br/> +An unappropriated strength,<br/> +Unhewn primeval timber,<br/> +For knees so stiff, for masts so limber;<br/> +The stock of which new earths are made,<br/> +One day to be our western trade,<br/> +Fit for the stanchions of a world<br/> +Which through the seas of space is hurled.<br/> +<br/> +While we enjoy a lingering ray,<br/> +Ye still o’ertop the western day,<br/> +Reposing yonder, on God’s croft,<br/> +Like solid stacks of hay.<br/> +Edged with silver, and with gold,<br/> +The clouds hang o’er in damask fold,<br/> +And with such depth of amber light<br/> +The west is dight,<br/> +Where still a few rays slant,<br/> +That even heaven seems extravagant.<br/> +On the earth’s edge mountains and trees<br/> +Stand as they were on air graven,<br/> +Or as the vessels in a haven<br/> +Await the morning breeze.<br/> +I fancy even<br/> +Through your defiles windeth the way to heaven;<br/> +And yonder still, in spite of history’s page,<br/> +Linger the golden and the silver age;<br/> +Upon the laboring gale<br/> +The news of future centuries is brought,<br/> +And of new dynasties of thought,<br/> +From your remotest vale.<br/> +<br/> +But special I remember thee,<br/> +Wachusett, who like me<br/> +Standest alone without society.<br/> +Thy far blue eye,<br/> +A remnant of the sky,<br/> +Seen through the clearing or the gorge,<br/> +Or from the windows on the forge,<br/> +Doth leaven all it passes by.<br/> +Nothing is true,<br/> +But stands ’tween me and you,<br/> +Thou western pioneer,<br/> +Who know’st not shame nor fear,<br/> +By venturous spirit driven,<br/> +Under the eaves of heaven,<br/> +And can’st expand thee there,<br/> +And breathe enough of air?<br/> +Upholding heaven, holding down earth,<br/> +Thy pastime from thy birth,<br/> +Not steadied by the one, nor leaning on the other;<br/> +May I approve myself thy worthy brother!<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Way</i>-tatic, +<i>Way</i>-chusett, but <i>Wor</i>-tatic, <i>Wor</i>-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. +</p> + +<p> +We could get no further into the Aeneid than +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +—atque altae moenia Romae,<br/> +—and the wall of high Rome, +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“He shook honey from the leaves, and removed fire,<br/> +And stayed the wine, everywhere flowing in rivers;<br/> +That experience, by meditating, might invent various arts<br/> +By degrees, and seek the blade of corn in furrows,<br/> +And strike out hidden fire from the veins of the flint.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>gelidae valles</i> 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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The sultry sun had gained the middle sky,<br/> +And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh.”<br/> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and with melancholy pleasure we echoed the melodious plaint of our +fellow-traveller, Hassan, in the desert,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,<br/> +When first from Schiraz’ walls I bent my way.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>debut</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And he had lain beside his asses,<br/> +On lofty Cheviot hills.”<br/> +<br/> +“And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales,<br/> +Among the rocks and winding <i>scars</i>,<br/> +Where deep and low the hamlets lie<br/> +Beneath their little patch of sky,<br/> +And little lot of stars.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Not unconcerned Wachusett rears his head<br/> + Above the field, so late from nature won,<br/> +With patient brow reserved, as one who read<br/> + New annals in the history of man.<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Et jam summa procul villarum culmina fumant,<br/> +Majoresque cadunt altis de montibus umbrae.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +And now the tops of the villas smoke afar off,<br/> +And the shadows fall longer from the high mountains.<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Swearers are swift, sayd lyttle John,<br/> + As the wind blows over the hill;<br/> +For if it be never so loud this night,<br/> + To-morrow it may be still.”<br/> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +And so it went up hill and down till a stone interrupted the line, when a new +verse was chosen. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“His shoote it was but loosely shot,<br/> + Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,<br/> +For it met one of the sheriffe’s men,<br/> + And William-a-Trent was slaine.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>THE LANDLORD.</h2> + +<p class="center"> +[1843.] +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Who has not imagined to himself a country inn, where the traveller shall really +feel <i>in</i>, and at home, and at his public-house, who was before at his +private house; whose host is indeed a <i>host</i>, and a <i>lord</i> of the +<i>land</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>entertaining</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>pro</i>-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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“A semely man our Hoste was, with alle,<br/> +For to han been an marshal in an halle.<br/> +A large man he was, with eyen stepe;<br/> +A fairer burgeis is ther nou in Chepe:<br/> +Bold of his speche, and wise, and well ytaught,<br/> +And of manhood him lacked righte naught.<br/> +Eke thereto, was he right a mery man,<br/> +And after souper plaien he began,<br/> +And spake of mirthe amonges other thinges,<br/> +Whan that we hadden made our reckoninges.”<br/> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Now, by my fader’s soule that is ded,<br/> +But ye be mery, smiteth of my hed:<br/> +Hold up your hondes withouten more speche.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>A WINTER WALK.</h2> + +<p class="center"> +[1843.] +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +The sluggish smoke curls up from some deep dell,<br/> +The stiffened air exploring in the dawn,<br/> +And making slow acquaintance with the day;<br/> +Delaying now upon its heavenward course,<br/> +In wreathed loiterings dallying with itself,<br/> +With as uncertain purpose and slow deed,<br/> +As its half-wakened master by the hearth,<br/> +Whose mind still slumbering and sluggish thoughts<br/> +Have not yet swept into the onward current<br/> +Of the new day;—and now it streams afar,<br/> +The while the chopper goes with step direct,<br/> +And mind intent to swing the early axe.<br/> + First in the dusky dawn he sends abroad<br/> +His early scout, his emissary, smoke,<br/> +The earliest, latest pilgrim from the roof,<br/> +To feel the frosty air, inform the day;<br/> +And while he crouches still beside the hearth,<br/> +Nor musters courage to unbar the door,<br/> +It has gone down the glen with the light wind,<br/> +And o’er the plain unfurled its venturous wreath,<br/> +Draped the tree-tops, loitered upon the hill,<br/> +And warmed the pinions of the early bird;<br/> +And now, perchance, high in the crispy air,<br/> +Has caught sight of the day o’er the earth’s edge,<br/> +And greets its master’s eye at his low door,<br/> +As some refulgent cloud in the upper sky.<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “The foodless wilds<br/> +Pour forth their brown inhabitants.”.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +When Winter fringes every bough<br/> + With his fantastic wreath,<br/> +And puts the seal of silence now<br/> + Upon the leaves beneath;<br/> +<br/> +When every stream in its pent-house<br/> + Goes gurgling on its way,<br/> +And in his gallery the mouse<br/> + Nibbleth the meadow hay;<br/> +<br/> +Methinks the summer still is nigh,<br/> + And lurketh underneath,<br/> +As that same meadow-mouse doth lie<br/> + Snug in that last year’s heath.<br/> +<br/> +And if perchance the chicadee<br/> + Lisp a faint note anon,<br/> +The snow is summer’s canopy,<br/> + Which she herself put on.<br/> +<br/> +Fair blossoms deck the cheerful trees,<br/> + And dazzling fruits depend,<br/> +The north wind sighs a summer breeze,<br/> + The nipping frosts to fend,<br/> +<br/> +Bringing glad tidings unto me,<br/> + The while I stand all ear,<br/> +Of a serene eternity,<br/> + Which need not winter fear.<br/> +<br/> +Out on the silent pond straightway<br/> + The restless ice doth crack,<br/> +And pond sprites merry gambols play<br/> + Amid the deafening rack.<br/> +<br/> +Eager I hasten to the vale,<br/> + As if I heard brave news,<br/> +How nature held high festival,<br/> + Which it were hard to lose.<br/> +<br/> +I gambol with my neighbor ice,<br/> + And sympathizing quake,<br/> +As each new crack darts in a trice<br/> + Across the gladsome lake.<br/> +<br/> +One with the cricket in the ground,<br/> + And fagot on the hearth,<br/> +Resounds the rare domestic sound<br/> + Along the forest path.<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In winter, nature is a cabinet of curiosities, full of dried specimens, in +their natural order and position. The meadows and forests are a <i>hortus +siccus</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “Drooping the lab’rer ox<br/> +Stands covered o’er with snow, and <i>now</i> demands<br/> +The fruit of all his toil.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “The full ethereal round,<br/> +Infinite worlds disclosing to the view,<br/> +Shines out intensely keen; and all one cope<br/> +Of starry glitter glows from pole to pole.”<br/> +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>THE SUCCESSION OF FOREST TREES.<a href="#linknote-4" +name="linknoteref-4" id="linknoteref-4"><sup>[4]</sup></a></h2> + +<p class="center"> +[1860.] +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>bizarre</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>you</i> were not lost, since I had never seen +<i>you</i> there before. I have several times shown the proprietor the shortest +way out of his wood-lot. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>vice versa</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>known</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>by nature</i> has been +but little attended to. They are very extensively raised from the seed in +Europe, and are beginning to be here. +</p> + +<p> +When you cut down an oak wood, a pine wood will not <i>at once</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>at once</i>, when a pine wood +is cut down. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 (<i>mus leucopus</i>). +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>in</i> the wood in order to seed it, but if a few stand within twenty +or thirty rods of it, it is sufficient. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Tamias</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It chances that similar objections lie against all the more notorious instances +of the kind on record. +</p> + +<p> +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 (<i>Urtica urens</i>), which I had not found before; dill, +which I had not seen growing spontaneously; the Jerusalem oak (<i>Chenopodium +botrys</i>), which I had seen wild in but one place; black nightshade +(<i>Solanum nigrum</i>), 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +In the spring of 1857, I planted six seeds sent to me from the Patent Office, +and labelled, I think, “<i>Poitrine jaune grosse,</i>” 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 <i>poitrine jaune grosse</i> 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 <i>abra cadabra presto-change,</i> that I used, +and lo! true to the label, they found for me 310 pounds of <i>poitrine jaune +grosse</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="linknote-4" id="linknote-4"></a> <a href="#linknoteref-4">[4]</a> +An Address read to the Middlesex Agricultural Society, in Concord, September, +1860. + +</p> +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>WALKING.</h2> + +<p class="center"> +[1862.] +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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 <i>sauntering</i>: which word is beautifully derived “from +idle people who roved about the country, in the Middle Ages, and asked charity, +under pretence of going <i>à la Sainte Terre</i>” to the Holy Land, till +the children exclaimed, “There goes a <i>Sainte-Terrer</i>,” 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 <i>sans terre</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>Ambulator nascitur, non fit.</i> 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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“When he came to grene wode,<br/> + In a mery mornynge,<br/> +There he herde the notes small<br/> + Of byrdes mery syngynge.<br/> +<br/> +“It is ferre gone, sayd Robyn,<br/> + That I was last here;<br/> +Me lyste a lytell for to shote<br/> + At the donne dere.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>stand</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>subdiales ambulationes</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>villa</i>, which, together with +<i>via</i>, a way, or more anciently <i>ved</i> and <i>vella</i>, Varro derives +from <i>veho</i>, to carry, because the villa is the place to and from which +things are carried. They who got their living by teaming were said +<i>vellaturam facere</i>. Hence, too, apparently, the Latin word <i>vilis</i> +and our vile; also <i>villain</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h5>THE OLD MARLBOROUGH ROAD.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> + Where they once dug for money,<br/> + But never found any;<br/> + Where sometimes Martial Miles<br/> + Singly files,<br/> + And Elijah Wood,<br/> + I fear for no good:<br/> + No other man,<br/> + Save Elisha Dugan,—<br/> + O man of wild habits,<br/> + Partridges and rabbits,<br/> + Who hast no cares<br/> + Only to set snares,<br/> + Who liv’st all alone,<br/> + Close to the bone,<br/> + And where life is sweetest<br/> + Constantly eatest.<br/> +When the spring stirs my blood<br/> + With the instinct to travel,<br/> + I can get enough gravel<br/> +On the Old Marlborough Road.<br/> + Nobody repairs it,<br/> + For nobody wears it;<br/> + It is a living way,<br/> + As the Christians say.<br/> +Not many there be<br/> + Who enter therein,<br/> +Only the guests of the<br/> + Irishman Quin.<br/> +What is it, what is it,<br/> + But a direction out there,<br/> +And the bare possibility<br/> + Of going somewhere?<br/> + Great guide-boards of stone,<br/> + But travellers none;<br/> + Cenotaphs of the towns<br/> + Named on their crowns.<br/> + It is worth going to see<br/> + Where you <i>might</i> be.<br/> + What king<br/> + Did the thing,<br/> + I am still wondering;<br/> + Set up how or when,<br/> + By what selectmen,<br/> + Gourgas or Lee,<br/> + Clark or Darby?<br/> + They’re a great endeavor<br/> + To be something forever;<br/> + Blank tablets of stone,<br/> + Where a traveller might groan,<br/> + And in one sentence<br/> + Grave all that is known;<br/> + Which another might read,<br/> + In his extreme need.<br/> + I know one or two<br/> + Lines that would do,<br/> + Literature that might stand<br/> + All over the land,<br/> + Which a man could remember<br/> + Till next December,<br/> + And read again in the spring,<br/> + After the thawing.<br/> +If with fancy unfurled<br/> + You leave your abode,<br/> +You may go round the world<br/> + By the Old Marlborough Road.<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>public</i> 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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>furor</i> 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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages,<br/> +And palmeres for to seken strange strondes.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,<br/> +And now was dropped into the western bay;<br/> +At last <i>he</i> rose, and twitched his mantle blue;<br/> +To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +To use an obsolete Latin word, I might say, <i>Ex Oriente lux; ex Occidente</i> +<small>FRUX</small>. From the East light; from the West fruit. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Linnaeus said long ago, “Nescio quae facies <i>laeta, glabra</i> 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, <i>Africanae bestiae</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>laeta</i> and <i>glabra</i>, of joyous and +serene, in our very faces. Else to what end does the world go on, and why was +America discovered? +</p> + +<p> +To Americans I hardly need to say,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Westward the star of empire takes its way.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>this was the heroic age +itself</i>, though we know it not, for the hero is commonly the simplest and +obscurest of men. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Ben Jonson exclaims,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“How near to good is what is fair!” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +So I would say,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +How near to good is what is <i>wild</i>! +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>(Cassandra calyculata</i>) 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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>morale</i> 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 +<i>sanctum sanctorum</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>survey</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>culture</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>sensible</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Whoa</i>! 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 <i>side</i> of any of the supple cat tribe, as we speak of a <i>side</i> +of beef? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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,—<i>Iery wiery ichery van, tittle-tol-tan.</i> 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 <i>Bose</i> and <i>Tray</i>, the names of dogs. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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,—<i>Gramática parda</i>, tawny grammar,—a kind of +mother-wit derived from that same leopard to which I have referred. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>know</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Gentle breeze, that wanderest unseen,<br/> +And bendest the thistles round Loira of storms,<br/> +Traveller of the windy glens,<br/> +Why hast thou left my ear so soon?”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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 <i>wings</i> 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 <i>gra-a-ate thoughts</i>, those <i>gra-a-ate +men</i> you hear of! +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>AUTUMNAL TINTS.</h2> + +<p class="center"> +[1862.] +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“But see the fading many-colored woods,<br/> +Shade deepening over shade, the country round<br/> +Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun,<br/> +Of every hue, from wan declining green to sooty dark”:—<br/> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and in the line in which he speaks of +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Autumn beaming o’er the yellow woods.” +</p> + +<p> +The autumnal change of our woods has not made a deep impression on our own +literature yet. October has hardly tinged our poetry. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, “<i>October, or Autumnal +Tints</i>”;—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. +</p> + +<h5>THE PURPLE GRASSES.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The Purple Grass (<i>Eragròstis pectinàcea</i>) 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The last is especially the case with the Poke or Garget (<i>Phytolacca +decandra</i>). 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 <i>lacca</i>, from <i>lac</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>Andropogon +furcatus</i>, Forked Beard-Grass, or call it Purple-Fingered Grass; +<i>Andropogon scoparius,</i> Purple Wood Grass; and <i>Andropogon</i> (now +called <i>Sorghum</i>) <i>nutans</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h5>THE RED MAPLE.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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,—<i>Acer +rubrum</i>. We may now read its title, or <i>rubric</i>, clear. Its +<i>virtues</i>, not its sins, are as scarlet. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h5>THE ELM.</h5> + +<p> +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 <i>flavor</i> +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 <i>ulmarium</i>, 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 <i>his</i> 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. +</p> + +<h5>FALLEN LEAVES.</h5> + +<p> +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 +<i>Fall</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Lycopodium lucidulum</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h5>THE SUGAR-MAPLE.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Red</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>earth</i> under our +feet,—ay, and a sky over our heads? Or is the last <i>all</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>never +sere</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +What meant the fathers by establishing this <i>perfectly living</i> institution +before the church,—this institution which needs no repairing nor +repainting, which is continually enlarged and repaired by its growth? Surely +they +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Wrought in a sad sincerity;<br/> +Themselves from God they could not free;<br/> +They <i>planted</i> better than they knew;—<br/> +The conscious <i>trees</i> to beauty grew.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h5>THE SCARLET OAK.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>terra +firma</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>our</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +These are <i>my</i> China-asters, <i>my</i> 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? +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>will</i> see, and much +more, if you are prepared to see it,—if you <i>look</i> 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 <i>Juncaceoe</i> and <i>Gramineoe</i>: +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>spy</i>?—what will he +<i>select</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>anticipate</i> 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 <i>therefore</i> 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 <i>with the feathers +on</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>WILD APPLES.</h2> + +<p class="center"> +(1862.) +</p> + +<h4>THE HISTORY OF THE APPLE-TREE.</h4> + +<p> +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 <i>Rosaceae</i>, +which includes the Apple, also the true Grasses, and the <i>Labiatae</i> or +Mints, were introduced only a short time previous to the appearance of man on +the globe. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Tacitus says of the ancient Germans, that they satisfied their hunger with wild +apples (<i>agrestia poma</i>) among other things. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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). +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The apple-tree (<i>Pyrus malus</i>) 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. +</p> + +<p> +Pliny, adopting the distinction of Theophrastus, says,—“Of trees +there are some which are altogether wild (<i>sylvestres</i>), some more +civilized (<i>urbaniores</i>).” 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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“At Michaelmas time, or a little before,<br/> +Half an apple goes to the core.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + ‘Here’s to thee, old apple-tree,<br/> +Whence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow,<br/> +And whence thou mayst bear apples enow!<br/> + Hats-full! caps-full!<br/> + Bushel, bushel, sacks-full!<br/> + And my pockets full, too! Hurra!’”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Stand fast, root! bear well, top!<br/> +Pray God send us a good howling crop:<br/> +Every twig, apples big;<br/> +Every bow, apples enow!”<br/> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Herrick sings,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Wassaile the trees that they may beare<br/> +You many a plum and many a peare;<br/> +For more or less fruits they will bring<br/> +As you so give them wassailing.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h5>THE WILD APPLE.</h5> + +<p> +So much for the more civilized apple-trees (<i>urbaniores</i>, 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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>such</i> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Even the sourest and crabbedest apple, growing in the most unfavorable +position, suggests such thoughts as these, it is so noble a fruit. +</p> + +<h5>THE CRAB.</h5> + +<p> +Nevertheless, <i>our</i> 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, <i>Malus coronaria</i>, +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h5>HOW THE WILD APPLE GROWS.</h5> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +In two years’ time ’t had thus<br/> + Reached the level of the rocks,<br/> +Admired the stretching world,<br/> + Nor feared the wandering flocks.<br/> +<br/> +But at this tender age<br/> + Its sufferings began:<br/> +There came a browsing ox<br/> + And cut it down a span.<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Thus the cows create their own shade and food; and the tree, its hour-glass +being inverted, lives a second life, as it were. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, “<i>Et injussu consternitur ubere mali</i>”: And +the ground is strewn with the fruit of an unbidden apple-tree. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “highest plot<br/> +To plant the Bergamot.” +</p> + +<h5>THE FRUIT, AND ITS FLAVOR.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>tang</i> nor <i>smack</i> to them. +</p> + +<p> +What if some of these wildings are acrid and puckery, genuine <i>verjuice</i>, +do they not still belong to the <i>Pomaceae</i>, which are uniformly innocent +and kind to our race? I still begrudge them to the cider-mill. Perhaps they are +not fairly ripe yet. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>mild</i> apples and soft +chestnuts,—<i>mitia poma, castaneae molles</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>seasoned,</i> +and they <i>pierce</i> and <i>sting</i> and <i>permeate</i> us with their +spirit. They must be eaten in <i>season</i>, accordingly,—that is, +out-of-doors. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I hear that the fruit of a kind of plum-tree in Provence is “called +<i>Prunes sibarelles</i>, 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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Let your condiments be in the condition of your senses. To appreciate the +flavor of these wild apples requires vigorous and healthy senses, +<i>papillae</i> firm and erect on the tongue and palate, not easily flattened +and tamed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +What a healthy out-of-door appetite it takes to relish the apple of life, the +apple of the world, then! +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Nor is it every apple I desire,<br/> + Nor that which pleases every palate best;<br/> +’T is not the lasting Deuxan I require,<br/> + Nor yet the red-cheeked Greening I request,<br/> +Nor that which first beshrewed the name of wife,<br/> +Nor that whose beauty caused the golden strife:<br/> +No, no I bring me an apple from the tree of life.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +So there is one <i>thought</i> 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. +</p> + +<h5>THEIR BEAUTY.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h5>THE NAMING OF THEM.</h5> + +<p> +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 <i>lingua +vernacula</i>? 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 +<i>lingua vernacula</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There is, first of all, the Wood-Apple (<i>Malus sylvatica</i>); the Blue-Jay +Apple; the Apple which grows in Dells in the Woods, (<i>sylvestrivallis</i>,) +also in Hollows in Pastures (<i>campestrivallis</i>); the Apple that grows in +an old Cellar-Hole (<i>Malus cellaris</i>); the Meadow-Apple; the +Partridge-Apple; the Truant’s Apple, (<i>Cessatoris</i>,) which no boy +will ever go by without knocking off some, however <i>late</i> it may be; the +Saunterer’s Apple,—you must lose yourself before you can find the +way to that; the Beauty of the Air (<i>Decus Aeris</i>); December-Eating; the +Frozen-Thawed <i>(gelato-soluta),</i> good only in that state; the Concord +Apple, possibly the same with the <i>Musketaquidensis</i>; the Assabet Apple; +the Brindled Apple; Wine of New England; the Chickaree Apple; the Green Apple +<i>(Malus viridis);</i>—this has many synonymes; in an imperfect state, +it is the <i>Cholera morbifera aut dysenterifera, puerulis +dilectissima</i>;—the Apple which Atalanta stopped to pick up; the +Hedge-Apple <i>(Malus Sepium</i>); the Slug-Apple <i>(limacea)</i>; 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,—<i>Pedestrium Solatium</i>; 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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Not if I had a hundred tongues, a hundred mouths,<br/> +An iron voice, could I describe all the forms<br/> +And reckon up all the names of these <i>wild apples</i>.”<br/> +</p> + +<h5>THE LAST GLEANING.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<h5>THE “FROZEN-THAWED” APPLE.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +This is “The word of the Lord that came to Joel the son of Pethuel. +</p> + +<p> +“Hear this, ye old men, and give ear, all ye inhabitants of the +land!<br/> +Hath this been in your days, or even in the days of your fathers?…<br/> +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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…. +</p> + +<p> +“Be ye ashamed, O ye husbandmen! howl, O ye vine-dressers!… +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>NIGHT AND MOONLIGHT.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>selenitic</i> in this sense. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>them</i>,—though he was +considerably reduced in his circumstances,—that they were a kind of bread +and cheese that never failed. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“not believe that the great architect<br/> +With all these fires the heavenly arches decked<br/> +Only for show, and with these glistering shields,<br/> +T’ awake poor shepherds, watching in the fields.”<br/> +He’ll “not believe that the least flower which pranks<br/> +Our garden borders, or our common banks,<br/> +And the least stone, that in her warming lap<br/> +Our mother earth doth covetously wrap,<br/> +Hath some peculiar virtue of its own,<br/> +And that the glorious stars of heav’n have none.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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, +“<i>Deus regit inferiora corpora per superiora</i>:” God rules the +bodies below by those above. But best of all is this which another writer has +expressed: “<i>Sapiens adjuvabit opus astrorum quemadmodum agricola +terrae naturam</i>:” a wise man assisteth the work of the stars as the +husbandman helpeth the nature of the soil. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>her</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “gives us his blaze again,<br/> +Void of its flame, and sheds a softer day.<br/> +Now through the passing cloud she seems to stoop,<br/> +Now up the pure cerulean rides sublime.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +Diana still hunts in the New England sky. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“In Heaven queen she is among the spheres.<br/> + She, mistress-like, makes all things to be pure.<br/> +Eternity in her oft change she bears;<br/> + She Beauty is; by her the fair endure.<br/> +<br/> +Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide;<br/> + Mortality below her orb is placed;<br/> +By her lie virtues of the stars down slide;<br/> + By her is Virtue’s perfect image cast.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +The Hindoos compare the moon to a saintly being who has reached the last stage +of bodily existence. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“In such a night let me abroad remain<br/> +Till morning breaks, and all’s confused again.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When Ossian in his address to the sun exclaims, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Where has darkness its dwelling?<br/> +Where is the cavernous home of the stars,<br/> +When thou quickly followest their steps,<br/> +Pursuing them like a hunter in the sky,—<br/> +Thou climbing the lofty hills,<br/> +They descending on barren mountains?”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +who does not in his thought accompany the stars to their “cavernous +home,” “descending” with them “on barren +mountains?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h5>THE END.</h5> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EXCURSIONS ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. +</div> + +<div style='margin:0.83em 0; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br /> +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</span> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person +or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the +Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when +you share it without charge with others. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work +on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: +</div> + +<blockquote> + <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most + other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions + whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms + of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online + at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you + are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws + of the country where you are located before using this eBook. + </div> +</blockquote> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg™ License. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format +other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain +Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +provided that: +</div> + +<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation.” + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ + works. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. + </div> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread +public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state +visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. +</div> + +</div> + +</body> + +</html> + + diff --git a/9846-h/images/cover.jpg b/9846-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4ba1534 --- /dev/null +++ b/9846-h/images/cover.jpg |
