May is near its close, and I am still at work in the valley of the
Hudson. Spring is indeed come again, and this, for the present year, has
been its day of triumph. The moment I awoke, at dawn, this morning, I
knew by intuition that it would be so, and I bounded from my couch like
a startled deer, impatient for the cool delicious air. Spring is upon
the earth once more, and a new life is given me of enjoyment and hope.
The year is in its childhood, and my heart clings to it with a sympathy,
that I feel must be immortal and divine. What I have done to-day, I
cannot tell: I only know that my body has been tremulous with feeling,
and my eyes almost blinded with seeing. Every hour has been fraught with
a new emotion of delight, and presented to my vision numberless pictures
of surpassing beauty. I have held communion with the sky, the mountains,
the streams, the woods, and the fields: and these, if you please, shall
be themes of my present letter.
The sky! It has been of as deep an azure, and as serene, as ever
canopied the world. It seemed as if you could look _through_ it, into
the illimitable home of the angels—could almost behold the glory which
surrounds the Invisible. Three clouds alone have attracted my attention.
One was the offspring of the dawn, and encircled by a rim of gold; the
next was the daughter of noon, and white as a pearl; and the last, of
evening, and robed in deepest crimson. Wayward and coquettish creatures
were these clouds! Their chief ambition seemed to be to display their
charms to the best advantage, as if conscious of their loveliness; and,
at sunset, when the light lay pillowed on the mountains, it was a joyous
sight to see them, side by side, like three sweet sisters, as they were,
_going home_. Each one was anxious to favor the world with its own last
smile, so that, by their changing places so often, you would have
thought they were all unwilling to depart. But they were the ministers
of the Sun, and he would not tarry for them; and, while he beckoned them
to follow on, the Evening Star took his station in the sky, and bade
them depart: and when I looked again, they were gone. Never more,
thought I, will those clouds be a source of joy to a human heart. And in
this respect, also, they seemed to me to be the emblems of those
beautiful but thoughtless maidens, who spend the flower of youth
trifling with the affections of all whom they have the power to
fascinate.
The mountains! In honor of the season which has just clothed them in the
richest green, they have displayed every one of their varied and
interesting charms. At noon, as I lay under the shadow of a tree,
watching them “with a look made of all sweet accord,” my face was
freshened by a breeze. It seemed to come from the summit of South Peak,
and to be the voice of the Catskills. I listened, and these were the
words which echoed through my ear.
“Of all the seasons, oh, Spring! thou art the most beloved, and to us,
always the most welcome. Joy and gladness ever attend thy coming, for we
know that the ‘winter is past, the rains are over and gone, the time of
the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in
our land.’ And we know, too, that from thy hands flow unnumbered
blessings. Thou softenest the earth, that the husbandman may sow his
seed, which shall yield him a thousand fold at the harvest. Thou
releasest the rivers from their icy fetters, that the wings of commerce
may be unfurled once more. Thou givest food to the cattle upon a
thousand hills, that they, in their turn, may furnish man with necessary
food, and also assist him in his domestic labors. Thou coverest the
earth with a garniture of freshest loveliness, that the senses of man
may be gratified, and his thoughts directed to Him who hath created all
things, and pronounced them good. And, finally, thou art the hope of the
year, and thine admonitions, which are of the future, have a tendency to
emancipate the thoughts of man from this world, and the troubles which
may surround him here, and fix them upon that clime where an everlasting
spring abides.” “The voice in my dreaming ear melted away,” and I heard
the roaring of the streams as they fretted their way down the rocky
steeps.
The streams! Such “trumpets” as they have, blown to-day, would, I am
afraid, have caused Mr. Wordsworth to exclaim:
“The cataracts—_make a devilish noise up yonder_.”
The fact is, “all the earth is gay,” and all the springs among the
mountains “giving themselves up to jollity,” the streams are full to
overflowing, and rush along with a “vindictive looseness,” because of
the burden they have to bear. The falls and cascades, which make such
exquisite pictures in the summer months, are now fearful to behold, for,
in their anger, every now and then they toss some giant tree into an
abyss of foam, which makes one fear the effects of an earthquake. But,
after the streams have left the mountains, and are running through the
bottom lands, they still seem to be displeased at something, and at
_every turn_ they take, _delve_ into the “bowels of the harmless earth,”
making it dangerous for the angler to approach too near, but rendering
the haunt of the trout more spacious and commodious than before. The
streams are about the only things I cannot praise to-day, and I hope it
will not _rain_ for a month to come, if this is the way they intend to
act whenever we have a number of delightful showers.
The woods! A goodly portion of the day have I spent in one of their most
secret recesses. I went with Shakspeare under my arm, but could not
read, any more than fly, so I stretched myself at full length on a huge
log, and kept a sharp look-out for anything that might send me a waking
dream. The brotherhood of trees clustered around me, laden with leaves
just bursting into full maturity, and possessing that delicate and
peculiar green, which lasts but a single day, and never returns. A
fitful breeze swept through them, so that ever and anon I fancied a
gushing fountain to be near, or that a company of ladies fair were come
to visit me, and that I heard the rustle of their silken kirtles. And
now my eyes rested on a tree, that was entirely leafless, and almost
without a limb. Instead of grass at its foot, was a heap of dry leaves,
and not a bush or vine grew anywhere near it, but around its neighbors
they grew in great abundance. It seemed branded with a curse, alone,
forsaken of its own, and despised by all. Can this, thought I, be an
emblem of any human being? Strange that it should be, but it is
nevertheless too true. Only one week ago, I saw a poor miserable maniac,
bound hand and foot, driven from “home and all its treasures,” and
carried to a dark, damp prison-house in a neighboring town. We can be
reconciled to the mystery of a poisonous reptile’s existence, but it is
very hard to understand for what good purpose a maniac is created. But
to return. Another object I noticed, was a little tree about five feet
high, completely covered with blossoms of a gaudy hue. At first, I tried
to gather something poetical out of this thing, but could not to save my
life. It caused me a real hearty laugh as the idea expanded, for it
reminded me of a certain maiden lady of my acquaintance, who is _old_,
_stunted_, very fond of _tall men_, and always strutting round under a
weight of _jewelry_. But oh, what beautiful flowers did I notice in that
shady grove, whose whispering thrilled me with delight! Their names? I
cannot tell them to you—they _ought_ to have no names, any more than a
cloud or a foam-bell on the river. Some were blue, some white, some
purple, and some scarlet. There were little parties of them on every
side, and as the wind swayed their delicate stems, I could not but fancy
they were living creatures, the personified thoughts perhaps of happy
and innocent children. Occasionally, too, I noticed a sort of straggler
peeping at me from beside a hillock of moss, or from under the branches
of a fallen tree, as if surprised at my temerity in entering its
secluded haunt. Birds also were around me in that greenwood sanctuary,
singing their hymns of praise to the Father of mercies for the return of
spring. The nests of the females being already built, they had nothing
to do but be happy, anticipating the time when they themselves should be
the “dealers-out of some small blessings” to their own dear helpless
broods. As to their mates, they were about as independent, restless and
noisy as might be expected, very much as any rational man would be who
was the husband of a young and beautiful wife.
But the open fields to-day have superabounded with pictures to please
and instruct the mind. I know not where to begin to describe them. Shall
it be at the very threshold of our farm-house? Well, then, only look at
those lilac trees in the garden, actually top-heavy with purple and
white flowering pyramids. The old farmer has just cut a number of large
branches, and given them to his little daughter to carry to her mother,
who will distribute them between the mantel-piece, the table, and the
fire-place of the family sitting-room. But what ambrosial odor is that
which now salutes the senses? It comes not from the variegated corner of
the garden, where the tulip, the violet, the hyacinth, the blue bell,
and the lily of the valley are vieing to outstrip each other in their
attire; nor, from that clover-covered lawn, besprinkled with buttercups,
dandelions, strawberry blossoms, and honeysuckles; but from the orchard,
every one of whose trees are completely covered with snow-white
blossoms. And from their numberless petals, emanates the murmur of bees,
as they are busy extracting stores of honey. Oh, what an abundance of
fruit—of apples, cherries, peaches, and pears, do these sweet blossoms
promise! But, next week there _may_ be a bitter _frost_; and this is the
lesson which my heart learns. Now that I am in the spring-time of life,
my hopes, in number and beauty, are like the blossoms of trees, and I
know not but they may even on the morrow be withered by the chilly
breath of the grave. But let us loiter farther on. The western slope of
this gentle hill is equally divided, and of two different shades of
green; one is planted with rye, and the other with wheat. The eastern
slope of the hill has lately been loosened by the plough, and is of a
sombre color, but to my eye not less pleasing than the green. And this
view is enlivened with figures besides—for a farmer and two boys are
planting corn, the latter opening the bed with their hoes, and the
farmer dropping in the seed (which he carries in a bag slung at his
side), and pushing it with his foot. And now, fluttering over their
heads is a roguish bob-o-link, _scolding_ about something in their
_wake_, at a _respectful_ distance, and hopping along the ground are a
number of robins, and on the nearest fence a meadow-lark and bluebird
are “holding on for a bite.” But there is no end to these rural
pictures, so I will just take you into this neighboring meadow-pasture,
then into the poultry yard at home, and conclude my present epistle.
Here we are, then, in the midst of various domestic animals. Yonder, a
couple of black colts are chasing each other in play, while their
venerable mother (for they are brothers, though not twins) is standing a
little way off, watching their antics, and twisting about her ears, as
she remembers the happy days of her own colthood. Here are some half
dozen hearty cows, lying down and grazing, each one with a “pledge of
affection” sporting about her. There are six or eight oxen, eating away
as fast as they can, while one, who seems to be a sentinel, occasionally
rolls up his eye to see if the farmer is coming to renew his song of
“haw! gee! gee! haw!” Under the shadow of that old oak, whose _portrait_
I mean to take to-morrow, is a flock of sheep, with their lambs bounding
beside them, as to the “tabor’s sound;” but to me there comes no
“thought of grief” at the sight, wherein I must be suffered to disagree
with Wordsworth, to whom I have already alluded once or twice, and whose
celebrated and most wonderful ode has been echoing in my heart all the
day long. Some of the lines in it are appropriate to the day, the charms
of which I am attempting to make you _feel_, and you will oblige me by
reading and inwardly digesting, for the hundredth time, as I know it
will be, the following fragments of a whole, and yet really complete
poems:—
“The sunshine is a glorious birth.”
“The winds come to me from the fields of sleep.”
“And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm.”
“Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own.”
“Full soon thy soul shalt have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as fate, and deep almost as life.”
“O joy, that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive.”
“To me, the meanest flower that blows, can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”
Strange, that an immortal man, after dwelling upon such poetry, should
be willing to go into a _poultry_ yard. But why not? I should rather do
this _willingly_, than be compelled, as I have been, and may be again,
to hear a man say, after reading to him Wordsworth’s great Ode—“Why! of
what _use_ is such _stuff_ as that? what does it _prove_? will it
furnish a man with _bread and butter_? will it make the _pot boil_?” The
people of the poultry yard have been in such glee to-day, and
contributed so much to the gladness of the day, that I must pay them a
passing tribute. In the first place, our old gobbler, with his retinue
of turkey wives, has been on the point of bursting with pride ever since
sunrise. If the Grand Sultan of Turkey (who must be the father of all
turkeys) cuts the same kind of capers in the presence of his hundred
ladies, that must be a great country for lean people to “laugh and grow
fat.” Our _ring-tailed_ gobbler is a feathered personification of Jack
Falstaff, possessing his prominent trait of cowardice to perfection. I
flourished a red handkerchief in his face this morning, and, by the way
he strutted round and gobbled, you would have thought he was going to
devour you. About ten minutes after this, I threw down a handful of
corn, which was intended for him. While he was busy picking it up, a
certain rooster stept along side and commenced picking too: the
intruder, having got in the way of the gobbler, was suddenly pushed
aside; whereupon the gentleman with spurs chuckled and “showed fight,”
but the gobbler for a moment heeded him not. This the rooster could not
bear, so he pounced upon his enemy, and whipt him without mercy, until
the coward and fool ran away, with his long train of affectionate wives
following behind.
The roosters, hens and chickens, which have figured in the yard to-day,
would more than number a hundred, and such cackling, crowing, chuckling,
and crying as they have made, was anything but a “_concord_ of sweet
sounds.” But the creatures have been happy, and it was therefore a
pleasure to look at them. A young hen this morning made her first
appearance with a large brood of chickens, yellow as gold, and this
caused quite a sensation among the feathered husbands generally. The
mother, as she rambled about, seemed to say by her pompous air, to her
daughterless friends—“ar’nt they beautiful? don’t you wish you had a
few?” It was also very funny to see with what looks of astonishment the
youthful roosters surveyed these “infant phenomenons.” As to our ducks,
and geese, and guinea hens, they have minded their business pretty
well—the two former paddling about the creek and mud-puddles, and the
latter “between meals” roaming at large through the orchard and garden,
altogether the most beautiful and rational of the feathered tribes.
A mountaineer, who is to take this letter to the post-office, is waiting
for me below, and I must close,—hoping that the country figures I have
endeavored to sketch may have a tendency to make you feel a portion of
that joy, which has characterized this delightful Spring Day.