energy of character enough to rain outright. However, yesterday there
were showers enough to supply us well with their beneficent outpouring.
As to the new cistern, it seems to be bewitched; for, while the spout
pours into it like a cataract, it still remains almost empty. I wonder
where Mr. Hosmer got it; perhaps from Tantalus, under the eaves of whose
palace it must formerly have stood; for, like his drinking-cup in Hades,
it has the property of filling itself forever, and never being full.
After breakfast I took my fishing-rod, and went down through our orchard
to the river-side; but as three or four boys were already in possession
of the best spots along the shore, I did not fish. This river of ours is
the most sluggish stream that I ever was acquainted with. I had spent
three weeks by its side, and swam across it every day, before I could
determine which way its current ran; and then I was compelled to decide
the question by the testimony of others, and not by my own observation.
Owing to this torpor of the stream, it has nowhere a bright, pebbly
shore, nor is there so much as a narrow strip of glistening sand in any
part of its course; but it slumbers along between broad meadows, or
kisses the tangled grass of mowing-fields and pastures, or bathes the
overhanging boughs of elder-bushes and other waterloving plants. Flags
and rushes grow along its shallow margin. The yellow water-lily spreads
its broad flat leaves upon its surface; and the fragrant white pond-lily
occurs in many favored spots,--generally selecting a situation just so
far from the river's brink that it cannot be grasped except at the hazard
of plunging in. But thanks be to the beautiful flower for growing at any
rate. It is a marvel whence it derives its loveliness and perfume,
sprouting as it does from the black mud over which the river sleeps, and
from which the yellow lily likewise draws its unclean life and noisome
odor. So it is with many people in this world; the same soil and
circumstances may produce the good and beautiful, and the wicked and
ugly. Some have the faculty of assimilating to themselves only what is
evil, and so they become as noisome as the yellow water-lily. Some
assimilate none but good influences, and their emblem is the fragrant and
spotless pond-lily, whose very breath is a blessing to all the region
round about. . . . Among the productions of the river's margin, I must
not forget the pickerel-weed, which grows just on the edge of the water,
and shoots up a long stalk crowned with a blue spire, from among large
green leaves. Both the flower and the leaves look well in a vase with
pond-lilies, and relieve the unvaried whiteness of the latter; and, being
all alike children of the waters, they are perfectly in keeping with one
another. . . .
I bathe once, and often twice, a day in our river; but one dip into the
salt sea would be worth more than a whole week's soaking in such a
lifeless tide. I have read of a river somewhere (whether it be in
classic regions or among our Western Indians I know not) which seemed to
dissolve and steal away the vigor of those who bathed in it. Perhaps our
stream will be found to have this property. Its water, however, is
pleasant in its immediate effect, being as soft as milk, and always
warmer than the air. Its hue has a slight tinge of gold, and my limbs,
when I behold them through its medium, look tawny. I am not aware that
the inhabitants of Concord resemble their native river in any of their
moral characteristics. Their forefathers, certainly, seem to have had
the energy and impetus of a mountain torrent, rather than the torpor of
this listless stream,--as it was proved by the blood with which they
stained their river of Peace. It is said there are plenty of fish in it;
but my most important captures hitherto have been a mud-turtle and an
enormous eel. The former made his escape to his native element,--the
latter we ate; and truly he had the taste of the whole river in his
flesh, with a very prominent flavor of mud. On the whole, Concord River
is no great favorite of mine; but I am glad to have any river at all so
near at hand, it being just at the bottom of our orchard. Neither is it
without a degree and kind of picturesqueness, both in its nearness and in
the distance, when a blue gleam from its surface, among the green meadows
and woods, seems like an open eye in Earth's countenance. Pleasant it
is, too, to behold a little flat-bottomed skiff gliding over its bosom,
which yields lazily to the stroke of the paddle, and allows the boat to
go against its current almost as freely as with it. Pleasant, too, to
watch an angler, as he strays along the brink, sometimes sheltering
himself behind a tuft of bushes, and trailing his line along the water,
in hopes to catch a pickerel. But, taking the river for all in all, I
can find nothing more fit to compare it with than one of the half-torpid
earthworms which I dig up for bait. The worm is sluggish, and so is the
river,--the river is muddy, and so is the worm. You hardly know whether
either of them be alive or dead; but still, in the course of time, they
both manage to creep away. The best aspect of the Concord is when there
is a northwestern breeze curling its surface, in a bright, sunshiny day.
It then assumes a vivacity not its own. Moonlight, also, gives it
beauty, as it does to all scenery of earth or water.
Sunday, August 7th.--At sunset last evening I ascended the hill-top
opposite our house; and, looking downward at the long extent of the
river, it struck me that I had done it some injustice in my remarks.
Perhaps, like other gentle and quiet characters, it will be better
appreciated the longer I am acquainted with it. Certainly, as I beheld
it then, it was one of the loveliest features in a scene of great rural
beauty. It was visible through a course of two or three miles, sweeping
in a semicircle round the hill on which I stood, and being the central
line of a broad vale on either side. At a distance, it looked like a
strip of sky set into the earth, which it so etherealized and idealized
that it seemed akin to the upper regions. Nearer the base of the hill, I
could discern the shadows of every tree and rock, imaged with a
distinctness that made them even more charming than the reality; because,
knowing them to be unsubstantial, they assumed the ideality which the
soul always craves in the contemplation of earthly beauty. All the sky,
too, and the rich clouds of sunset, were reflected in the peaceful bosom
of the river; and surely, if its bosom can give back such an adequate
reflection of heaven, it cannot be so gross and impure as I described it
yesterday. Or, if so, it shall be a symbol to me that even a human
breast, which may appear least spiritual in some aspects, may still have
the capability of reflecting an infinite heaven in its depths, and
therefore of enjoying it. It is a comfortable thought, that the smallest
and most turbid mud-puddle can contain its own picture of heaven. Let us
remember this, when we feel inclined to deny all spiritual life to some
people, in whom, nevertheless, our Father may perhaps see the image of
His face. This dull river has a deep religion of its own: so, let us
trust, has the dullest human soul, though, perhaps, unconsciously.
The scenery of Concord, as I beheld it from the summit of the hill, has
no very marked characteristics, but has a great deal of quiet beauty, in
keeping with the river. There are broad and peaceful meadows, which, I
think, are among the most satisfying objects in natural scenery. The
heart reposes on them with a feeling that few things else can give,
because almost all other objects are abrupt and clearly defined; but a
meadow stretches out like a small infinity, yet with a secure homeliness
which we do not find either in an expanse of water or of air. The hills
which border these meadows are wide swells of land, or long and gradual
ridges, some of them densely covered with wood. The white village, at a
distance on the left, appears to be embosomed among wooded hills. The
verdure of the country is much more perfect than is usual at this season
of the year, when the autumnal hue has generally made considerable
progress over trees and grass. Last evening, after the copious showers
of the preceding two days, it was worthy of early June, or, indeed, of a
world just created. Had I not then been alone, I should have had a far
deeper sense of beauty, for I should have looked through the medium of
another spirit. Along the horizon there were masses of those deep clouds
in which the fancy may see images of all things that ever existed or were
dreamed of. Over our old manse, of which I could catch but a glimpse
among its embowering trees, appeared the immensely gigantic figure of a
hound, crouching down with head erect, as if keeping watchful guard while
the master of the mansion was away. . . . How sweet it was to draw near
my own home, after having lived homeless in the world so long! . . . .
With thoughts like these, I descended the hill, and clambered over the
stone-wall, and crossed the road, and passed up our avenue, while the
quaint old house put on an aspect of welcome.
Monday, August 8th.--I wish I could give a description of our house, for
it really has a character of its own, which is more than can be said of
most edifices in these days. It is two stories high, with a third story
of attic chambers in the gable-roof. When I first visited it, early in
June, it looked pretty much as it did during the old clergyman's
lifetime, showing all the dust and disarray that might be supposed to
have gathered about him in the course of sixty years of occupancy. The
rooms seemed never to have been painted; at all events, the walls and
panels, as well as the huge cross-beams, had a venerable and most dismal
tinge of brown. The furniture consisted of high-backed, short-legged,
rheumatic chairs, small, old tables, bedsteads with lofty posts, stately
chests of drawers, looking-glasses in antique black frames, all of which
were probably fashionable in the days of Dr. Ripley's predecessor. It
required some energy of imagination to conceive the idea of transforming
this ancient edifice into a comfortable modern residence. However, it
has been successfully accomplished. The old Doctor's sleeping-apartment,
which was the front room on the ground-floor, we have converted into a
parlor; and by the aid of cheerful paint and paper, a gladsome carpet,
pictures and engravings, new furniture, bijouterie, and a daily supply of
flowers, it has become one of the prettiest and pleasantest rooms in the
whole world. The shade of our departed host will never haunt it; for its
aspect has been changed as completely as the scenery of a theatre.
Probably the ghost gave one peep into it, uttered a groan, and vanished
forever. The opposite room has been metamorphosed into a store-room.
Through the house, both in the first and second story, runs a spacious
hall or entry, occupying more space than is usually devoted to such a
purpose in modern times. This feature contributes to give the whole
house an airy, roomy, and convenient appearance; we can breathe the freer
by the aid of the broad passageway. The front door of the hall looks up
the stately avenue, which I have already mentioned; and the opposite door
opens into the orchard, through which a path descends to the river. In
the second story we have at present fitted up three rooms,--one being our
own chamber, and the opposite one a guest-chamber, which contains the
most presentable of the old Doctor's ante-Revolutionary furniture. After
all, the moderns have invented nothing better, as chamber furniture, than
these chests of drawers, which stand on four slender legs, and rear an
absolute tower of mahogany to the ceiling, the whole terminating in a
fantastically carved summit. Such a venerable structure adorns our
guest-chamber. In the rear of the house is the little room which I call
my study, and which, in its day, has witnessed the intellectual labors of
better students than myself. It contains, with some additions and
alterations, the furniture of my bachelor-room in Boston; but there is a
happier disposal of things now. There is a little vase of flowers on one
of the bookcases, and a larger bronze vase of graceful ferns that
surmounts the bureau. In size the room is just what it ought to be; for
I never could compress my thoughts sufficiently to write in a very
spacious room. It has three windows, two of which are shaded by a large
and beautiful willow-tree, which sweeps against the overhanging eaves.
On this side we have a view into the orchard, and, beyond, a glimpse of
the river. The other window is the one from which Mr. Emerson, the
predecessor of Dr. Ripley, beheld the first fight of the Revolution,--
which he might well do, as the British troops were drawn up within a
hundred yards of the house; and on looking forth just now, I could still
perceive the western abutments of the old bridge, the passage of which
was contested. The new monument is visible from base to summit.
Notwithstanding all we have done to modernize the old place, we seem
scarcely to have disturbed its air of antiquity. It is evident that
other wedded pairs have spent their honeymoons here, that children have
been born here, and people have grown old and died in these rooms,
although for our behoof the same apartments have consented to look
cheerful once again. Then there are dark closets, and strange nooks and
corners, where the ghosts of former occupants might hide themselves in
the daytime, and stalk forth when night conceals all our sacrilegious
improvements. We have seen no apparitions as yet; but we hear strange
noises, especially in the kitchen, and last night, while sitting in the
parlor, we heard a thumping and pounding as of somebody at work in my
study. Nay, if I mistake not (for I was half asleep), there was a sound
as of some person crumpling paper in his hand in our very bedchamber.
This must have been old Dr. Ripley with one of his sermons. There is a
whole chest of them in the garret; but he need have no apprehensions of
our disturbing them. I never saw the old patriarch myself, which I
regret, as I should have been glad to associate his venerable figure at
ninety years of age with the house in which he dwelt.
Externally the house presents the same appearance as in the Doctor's day.
It had once a coat of white paint; but the storms and sunshine of many
years have almost obliterated it, and produced a sober, grayish hue,
which entirely suits the antique form of the structure. To repaint its
reverend face would be a real sacrilege. It would look like old Dr.
Ripley in a brown wig. I hardly know why it is that our cheerful and
lightsome repairs and improvements in the interior of the house seem to
be in perfectly good taste, though the heavy old beams and high
wainscoting of the walls speak of ages gone by. But so it is. The
cheerful paper-hangings have the air of belonging to the old walls; and
such modernisms as astral lamps, card-tables, gilded Cologne-bottles,
silver taper-stands, and bronze and alabaster flower-vases do not seem at
all impertinent. It is thus that an aged man may keep his heart warm for
new things and new friends, and often furnish himself anew with ideas;
though it would not be graceful for him to attempt to suit his exterior
to the passing fashions of the day.
August 9th.--Our orchard in its day has been a very productive and
profitable one; and we were told that in one year it returned Dr. Ripley
a hundred dollars, besides defraying the expense of repairing the house.
It is now long past its prime: many of the trees are moss-grown, and have
dead and rotten branches intermixed among the green and fruitful ones.
And it may well be so; for I suppose some of the trees may have been set
out by Mr. Emerson, who died in the first year of the Revolutionary War.
Neither will the fruit, probably, bear comparison with the delicate
productions of modern pomology. Most of the trees seem to have abundant
burdens upon them; but they are homely russet apples, fit only for baking
and cooking. (But we are yet to have practical experience of our fruit.)
Justice Shallow's orchard, with its choice pippins and leather-coats, was
doubtless much superior. Nevertheless, it pleases me to think of the
good minister, walking in the shadows of these old, fantastically shaped
apples-trees, here plucking some of the fruit to taste, there pruning
away a too luxuriant branch, and all the while computing how many barrels
may be filled, and how large a sum will be added to his stipend by their
sale. And the same trees offer their fruit to me as freely as they did
to him,--their old branches, like withered hands and arms, holding out
apples of the same flavor as they held out to Dr. Ripley in his lifetime.
Thus the trees, as living existences, form a peculiar link between the
dead and us. My fancy has always found something very interesting in an
orchard. Apple-trees, and all fruit-trees, have a domestic character
which brings them into relationship with man. They have lost, in a great
measure, the wild nature of the forest-tree, and have grown humanized by
receiving the care of man, and by contributing to his wants. They have
become a part of the family; and their individual characters are as well
understood and appreciated as those of the human members. One tree is
harsh and crabbed, another mild; one is churlish and illiberal, another
exhausts itself with its free-hearted bounties. Even the shapes of
apple-trees have great individuality, into such strange postures do they
put themselves, and thrust their contorted branches so grotesquely in all
directions. And when they have stood around a house for many years, and
held converse with successive dynasties of occupants, and gladdened their
hearts so often in the fruitful autumn, then it would seem almost
sacrilege to cut them down.
Besides the apple-trees, there are various other kinds of fruit in close
vicinity to the house. When we first arrived, there were several trees
of ripe cherries, but so sour that we allowed them to wither upon the
branches. Two long rows of currant-bushes supplied us abundantly for
nearly four weeks. There are a good many peach-trees, but all of an old
date,--their branches rotten, gummy, and mossy,--and their fruit, I fear,
will be of very inferior quality. They produce most abundantly,
however,--the peaches being almost as numerous as the leaves; and even
the sprouts and suckers from the roots of the old trees have fruit upon
them. Then three are pear-trees of various kinds, and one or two
quince-trees. On the whole, these fruit-trees, and the other items and
adjuncts of the place, convey a very agreeable idea of the outward
comfort in which the good old Doctor must have spent his life.
Everything seems to have fallen to his lot that could possibly be
supposed to render the life of a country clergyman easy and prosperous.
There is a barn, which probably used to be filled annually with his hay
and other agricultural products. There are sheds, and a hen-house, and a
pigeon-house, and an old stone pigsty, the open portion of which is
overgrown with tall weeds, indicating that no grunter has recently
occupied it. . . . I have serious thoughts of inducting a new incumbent
in this part of the parsonage. It is our duty to support a pig, even if
we have no design of feasting upon him; and, for my own part, I have a
great sympathy and interest for the whole race of porkers, and should
have much amusement in studying the character of a pig. Perhaps I might
try to bring out his moral and intellectual nature, and cultivate his
affections. A cat, too, and perhaps a dog, would be desirable additions
to our household.
August 10th.--The natural taste of man for the original Adam's occupation
is fast developing itself in me. I find that I am a good deal interested
in our garden, although, as it was planted before we came here, I do not
feel the same affection for the plants that I should if the seed had been
sown by my own hands. It is something like nursing and educating another
person's children. Still, it was a very pleasant moment when I gathered
the first string-beans, which were the earliest esculent that the garden
contributed to our table. And I love to watch the successive development
of each new vegetable, and mark its daily growth, which always affects me
with surprise. It is as if something were being created under my own
inspection, and partly by my own aid. One day, perchance, I look at my
bean-vines, and see only the green leaves clambering up the poles; again,
to-morrow, I give a second glance, and there are the delicate blossoms;
and a third day, on a somewhat closer observation, I discover the tender
young beans, hiding among the foliage. Then, each morning, I watch the
swelling of the pods and calculate how soon they will be ready to yield
their treasures. All this gives a pleasure and an ideality, hitherto
unthought of, to the business of providing sustenance for my family. I
suppose Adam felt it in Paradise; and, of merely and exclusively earthly
enjoyments, there are few purer and more harmless to be experienced.
Speaking of beans, by the way, they are a classical food, and their
culture must have been the occupation of many ancient sages and heroes.
Summer-squashes are a very pleasant vegetable to be acquainted with.
They grow in the forms of urns and vases,--some shallow, others deeper,
and all with a beautifully scalloped edge. Almost any squash in our
garden might be copied by a sculptor, and would look lovely in marble, or
in china; and, if I could afford it, I would have exact imitations of the
real vegetable as portions of my dining-service. They would be very
appropriate dishes for holding garden-vegetables. Besides the
summer-squashes, we have the crook-necked winter-squash, which I always
delight to look at, when it turns up its big rotundity to ripen in the
autumn sun. Except a pumpkin, there is no vegetable production that
imparts such an idea of warmth and comfort to the beholder. Our own
crop, however, does not promise to be very abundant; for the leaves
formed such a superfluous shade over the young blossoms, that most of
them dropped off without producing the germ of fruit. Yesterday and
to-day I have cut off an immense number of leaves, and have thus given
the remaining blossoms a chance to profit by the air and sunshine; but
the season is too far advanced, I am afraid, for the squashes to attain
any great bulk, and grow yellow in the sun. We have muskmelons and
watermelons, which promise to supply us with as many as we can eat.
After all, the greatest interest of these vegetables does not seem to
consist in their being articles of food. It is rather that we love to
see something born into the world; and when a great squash or melon is
produced, it is a large and tangible existence, which the imagination can
seize hold of and rejoice in. I love, also, to see my own works
contributing to the life and well-being of animate nature. It is
pleasant to have the bees come and suck honey out of my squash-blossoms,
though, when they have laden themselves, they fly away to some unknown
hive, which will give me back nothing in return for what my garden has
given them. But there is much more honey in the world, and so I am
content. Indian corn, in the prime and glory of its verdure, is a very
beautiful vegetable, both considered in the separate plant, and in a mass
in a broad field, rustling and waving, and surging up and down in the
breeze and sunshine of a summer afternoon. We have as many as fifty
hills, I should think, which will give us an abundant supply. Pray
Heaven that we may be able to eat it all! for it is not pleasant to think
that anything which Nature has been at the pains to produce should be
thrown away. But the hens will be glad of our superfluity, and so will
the pigs, though we have neither hens nor pigs of our own. But hens we
must certainly keep. There is something very sociable and quiet, and
soothing, too, in their soliloquies and converse among themselves; and,
in an idle and half-meditative mood, it is very pleasant to watch a party
of hens picking up their daily subsistence, with a gallant chanticleer in
the midst of them. Milton had evidently contemplated such a picture with
delight.