There are days which occur in this climate, at almost any season of
the year, wherein the world reaches its perfection; when the air, the
heavenly bodies, and the earth, make a harmony, as if nature would
indulge her offspring; when, in these bleak upper sides of the planet,
nothing is to desire that we have heard of the happiest latitudes, and
we bask in the shining hours of Florida and Cuba; when everything that
has life gives sign of satisfaction, and the cattle that lie on the
ground seem to have great and tranquil thoughts. These halcyons may be
looked for with a little more assurance in that pure October weather
which we distinguish by the name of the Indian Summer. The day,
immeasurably long, sleeps over the broad hills and warm wide fields.
To have lived through all its sunny hours seems longevity enough. The
solitary places do not seem quite lonely. At the gates of the forest,
the surprised man of the world is forced to leave his city estimates
of great and small, wise and foolish. The knapsack of custom falls off
his back with the first step he takes into these precincts. Here is
sanctity which shames our religions, and reality which discredits our
heroes. Here we find nature to be the circumstance which dwarfs every
other circumstance, and judges like a god all men that come to her. We
have crept out of our close and crowded houses into the night and
morning, and we see what majestic beauties daily wrap us in their
bosom. How willingly we would escape the barriers which render them
comparatively impotent, escape the sophistication and second thought,
and suffer nature to intrance us. The tempered light of the woods is
like a perpetual morning, and is stimulating and heroic. The anciently
reported spells of these places creep on us. The stems of pines,
hemlocks, and oaks almost gleam like iron on the excited eye. The
incommunicable trees begin to persuade us to live with them, and quit
our life of solemn trifles. Here no history, or church, or state, is
interpolated on the divine sky and the immortal year. How easily we
might walk onward into the opening landscape, absorbed by new pictures
and by thoughts fast succeeding each other, until by degrees the
recollection of home was crowded out of the mind, all memory
obliterated by the tyranny of the present, and we were led in triumph
by nature.
These enchantments are medicinal; they sober and heal us. These are
plain pleasures, kindly and native to us. We come to our own, and make
friends with matter which the ambitious chatter of the schools would
persuade us to despise. We never can part with it; the mind loves its
old home: as water to our thirst, so is the rock, the ground, to our
eyes and hands and feet. It is firm water; it is cold flame: what
health, what affinity! Ever an old friend, ever like a dear friend and
brother when we chat affectedly with strangers, comes in this honest
face, and takes a grave liberty with us, and shames us out of our
nonsense. Cities give not the human senses room enough. We go out
daily and nightly to feed the eyes on the horizon, and require so much
scope, just as we need water for our bath. There are all degrees of
natural influence, from these quarantine powers of nature, up to her
dearest and gravest ministrations to the imagination and the soul.
There is the bucket of cold water from the spring, the wood fire to
which the chilled traveler rushes for safety,--and there is the
sublime moral of autumn and of noon. We nestle in nature, and draw our
living as parasites from her roots and grains; and we receive glances
from the heavenly bodies, which call us to solitude, and foretell the
remotest future. The blue zenith is the point in which romance and
reality meet. I think if we should be rapt away into all that we dream
of heaven, and should converse with Gabriel and Uriel, the upper sky
would be all that would remain of our furniture.
It seems as if the day was not wholly profane, in which we have given
heed to some natural object. The fall of snowflakes in a still air,
preserving to each crystal its perfect form; the blowing of sleet over
a wide sheet of water, and over plains; the waving rye field; the
mimic waving of acres of houstonia, whose innummerable florets whiten
and ripple before the eye; the reflections of trees and flowers in
glassy lakes; the musical steaming odorous south wind, which converts
all trees to wind-harps; the crackling and spurting of hemlock in the
flames, or of pine logs, which yield glory to the walls and faces in
the sitting-room,--these are the music and pictures of the most
ancient religion. My house stands in low land, with limited outlook,
and on the skirt of the village. But I go with my friend to the shore
of our little river, and with one stroke of the paddle I leave the
village politics and personalities,--yes, and the world of villages
and personalities,--behind, and pass into a delicate realm of sunset
and moonlight, too bright almost for spotted man to enter without
novitiate and probation. We penetrate bodily this incredible beauty;
we dip our hands in this painted element; our eyes are bathed in these
lights and forms. A holiday, a villeggiatura, a royal revel, the
proudest, most heart-rejoicing festival that valor and beauty, power
and taste, ever decked and enjoyed, establishes itself on the instant.
These sunset clouds, these delicately emerging stars, with their
private and ineffable glances, signify it and proffer it. I am taught
the poorness of our invention, the ugliness of towns and palaces. Art
and luxury have early learned that they must work as enchantment and
sequel to this original beauty. I am over-instructed for my return.
Henceforth I shall be hard to please. I cannot go back to toys. I am
grown expensive and sophisticated. I can no longer live without
elegance; but a countryman shall be my master of revels. He who knows
the most, he who knows what sweets and virtues are in the ground, the
waters, the plants, the heavens, and how to come at these
enchantments, is the rich and royal man. Only as far as the masters of
the world have called in nature to their aid, can they reach the
height of magnificence.