Though the evening at Mr. and Mrs. Sanborn's, and the memorable family
dinner at Mr. and Mrs. Emerson's, have most pleasantly and permanently
fill'd my memory, I must not slight other notations of Concord. I went
to the old Manse, walk'd through the ancient garden, enter'd the rooms,
noted the quaintness, the unkempt grass and bushes, the little panes in
the windows, the low ceilings, the spicy smell, the creepers embowering
the light. Went to the Concord battle ground, which is close by, scann'd
French's statue, "the Minute Man," read Emerson's poetic inscription on
the base, linger'd a long while on the bridge, and stopp'd by the grave
of the unnamed British soldiers buried there the day after the fight
in April, '75. Then riding on, (thanks to my friend Miss M. and her
spirited white ponies, she driving them,) a half hour at Hawthorne's and
Thoreau's graves. I got out and went up of course on foot, and stood a
long while and ponder'd. They lie close together in a pleasant wooded
spot well up the cemetery hill, "Sleepy Hollow." The flat surface of the
first was densely cover'd by myrtle, with a border of arbor-vitae,
and the other had a brown headstone, moderately elaborate, with
inscriptions. By Henry's side lies his brother John, of whom much
was expected, but he died young. Then to Walden pond, that beautiful
embower'd sheet of water, and spent over an hour there. On the spot in
the woods where Thoreau had his solitary house is now quite a cairn of
stones, to mark the place; I too carried one and deposited on the heap.
As we drove back, saw the "School of Philosophy," but it was shut up,
and I would not have it open'd for me. Near by stopp'd at the house
of W.T. Harris, the Hegelian, who came out, and we had a pleasant chat
while I sat in the wagon. I shall not soon forget those Concord drives,
and especially that charming Sunday forenoon one with my friend Miss M.,
and the white ponies.