_Concord, Mass._--Out here on a visit--elastic, mellow, Indian-summery
weather. Came to-day from Boston, (a pleasant ride of 40 minutes by
steam, through Somerville, Belmont, Waltham, Stony Brook, and other
lively towns,) convoy'd by my friend F. B. Sanborn, and to his ample
house, and the kindness and hospitality of Mrs. S. and their fine
family. Am writing this under the shade of some old hickories and elms,
just after 4 P.M., on the porch, within a stone's throw of the Concord
river. Off against me, across stream, on a meadow and side-hill,
haymakers are gathering and wagoning-in probably their second or third
crop. The spread of emerald-green and brown, the knolls, the score or
two of little haycocks dotting the meadow, the loaded-up wagons, the
patient horses, the slow-strong action of the men and pitchforks--all in
the just-waning afternoon, with patches of yellow sun-sheen, mottled
by long shadows--a cricket shrilly chirping, herald of the dusk--a boat
with two figures noiselessly gliding along the little river, passing
under the stone bridge-arch--the slight settling haze of aerial
moisture, the sky and the peacefulness expanding in all directions and
overhead--fill and soothe me.
_Same Evening._--Never had I a better piece of luck befall me: a long
and blessed evening with Emerson, in a way I couldn't have wish'd better
or different. For nearly two hours he has been placidly sitting where
I could see his face in the best light, near me. Mrs. S.'s back-parlor
well fill'd with people, neighbors, many fresh and charming faces,
women, mostly young, but some old. My friend A. B. Alcott and his
daughter Louisa were there early. A good deal of talk, the subject Henry
Thoreau--some new glints of his life and fortunes, with letters to and
from him--one of the best by Margaret Fuller, others by Horace Greeley,
Channing, &c.--one from Thoreau himself, most quaint and interesting.
(No doubt I seem'd very stupid to the roomful of company, taking hardly
any part in the conversation; but I had "my own pail to milk in," as the
Swiss proverb puts it.) My seat and the relative arrangement were such
that, without being rude, or anything of the kind, I could just look
squarely at E., which I did a good part of the two hours. On entering,
he had spoken very briefly and politely to several of the company,
then settled himself in his chair, a trifle push'd back, and, though a
listener and apparently an alert one, remain'd silent through the whole
talk and discussion. A lady friend quietly took a seat next him, to
give special attention. A good color in his face, eyes clear, with the
well-known expression of sweetness, and the old clear-peering aspect
quite the same.
_Next Day_.--Several hours at E.'s house, and dinner there. An
old familiar house, (he has been in it thirty-five years,) with
surroundings, furnishment, roominess, and plain elegance and fullness,
signifying democratic ease, sufficient opulence, and an admirable
old-fashioned simplicity--modern luxury, with its mere sumptuousness and
affectation, either touch'd lightly upon or ignored altogether. Dinner
the same. Of course the best of the occasion (Sunday, September 18,
'81) was the sight of E. himself. As just said, a healthy color in the
cheeks, and good light in the eyes, cheery expression, and just the
amount of talking that best suited, namely, a word or short phrase only
where needed, and almost always with a smile. Besides Emerson himself,
Mrs. E., with their daughter Ellen, the son Edward and his wife, with
my friend F. S. and Mrs. S., and others, relatives and intimates. Mrs.
Emerson, resuming the subject of the evening before, (I sat next to
her,) gave me further and fuller information about Thoreau, who, years
ago, during Mr. E.'s absence in Europe, had lived for some time in the
family, by invitation.