it certainly deserves an ample record in this chronicle, since my labors
in it are the only present labors of my life. Besides what I have
mentioned, we have cucumber-vines, which to-day yielded us the first
cucumber of the season, a bed of beets, and another of carrots, and
another of parsnips and turnips, none of which promise us a very abundant
harvest. In truth, the soil is worn out, and, moreover, received very
little manure this season. Also, we have cabbages in superfluous
abundance, inasmuch as we neither of us have the least affection for
them; and it would be unreasonable to expect Sarah, the cook, to eat
fifty head of cabbages. Tomatoes, too, we shall have by and by. At our
first arrival, we found green peas ready for gathering, and these,
instead of the string-beans, were the first offering of the garden to our
board.
Saturday, August 13th.--My life, at this time, is more like that of a
boy, externally, than it has been since I was really a boy. It is
usually supposed that the cares of life come with matrimony; but I seem
to have cast off all care, and live on with as much easy trust in
Providence as Adam could possibly have felt before he had learned that
there was a world beyond Paradise. My chief anxiety consists in watching
the prosperity of my vegetables, in observing how they are affected by
the rain or sunshine, in lamenting the blight of one squash and rejoicing
at the luxurious growth of another. It is as if the original relation
between man and Nature were restored in my case, and as if I were to look
exclusively to her for the support of my Eve and myself,--to trust to her
for food and clothing, and all things needful, with the full assurance
that she would not fail me. The fight with the world,--the struggle of a
man among men,--the agony of the universal effort to wrench the means of
living from a host of greedy competitors,--all this seems like a dream to
me. My business is merely to live and to enjoy; and whatever is
essential to life and enjoyment will come as naturally as the dew from
heaven. This is, practically at least, my faith. And so I awake in the
morning with a boyish thoughtlessness as to how the outgoings of the day
are to be provided for, and its incomings rendered certain. After
breakfast, I go forth into my garden, and gather whatever the bountiful
Mother has made fit for our present sustenance; and of late days she
generally gives me two squashes and a cucumber, and promises me green
corn and shell-beans very soon. Then I pass down through our orchard to
the river-side, and ramble along its margin in search of flowers.
Usually I discern a fragrant white lily, here and there along the shore,
growing, with sweet prudishness, beyond the grasp of mortal arm. But it
does not escape me so. I know what is its fitting destiny better than
the silly flower knows for itself; so I wade in, heedless of wet
trousers, and seize the shy lily by its slender stem. Thus I make prize
of five or six, which are as many as usually blossom within my reach in a
single morning;--some of them partially worm-eaten or blighted, like
virgins with an eating sorrow at the heart; others as fair and perfect as
Nature's own idea was, when she first imagined this lovely flower. A
perfect pond-lily is the most satisfactory of flowers. Besides these, I
gather whatever else of beautiful chances to be growing in the moist soil
by the river-side,--an amphibious tribe, yet with more richness and grace
than the wild-flowers of the deep and dry woodlands and hedge-rows,--
sometimes the white arrow-head, always the blue spires and broad green
leaves of the pickerel-flower, which contrast and harmonize so well with
the white lilies. For the last two or three days, I have found scattered
stalks of the cardinal-flower, the gorgeous scarlet of which it is a joy
even to remember. The world is made brighter and sunnier by flowers of
such a hue. Even perfume, which otherwise is the soul and spirit of a
flower, may be spared when it arrays itself in this scarlet glory. It is
a flower of thought and feeling, too; it seems to have its roots deep
down in the hearts of those who gaze at it. Other bright flowers
sometimes impress me as wanting sentiment; but it is not so with this.
Well, having made up my bunch of flowers, I return home with them.
. . . . Then I ascend to my study, and generally read, or perchance
scribble in this journal, and otherwise suffer Time to loiter onward at
his own pleasure, till the dinner-hour. In pleasant days, the chief
event of the afternoon, and the happiest one of the day, is our walk.
. . . . So comes the night; and I look back upon a day spent in what the
world would call idleness, and for which I myself can suggest no more
appropriate epithet, but which, nevertheless, I cannot feel to have been
spent amiss. True, it might be a sin and shame, in such a world as ours,
to spend a lifetime in this manner; but for a few summer weeks it is good
to live as if this world were heaven. And so it is, and so it shall be,
although, in a little while, a flitting shadow of earthly care and toil
will mingle itself with our realities.
Monday, August 15th.--George Hillard and his wife arrived from Boston in
the dusk of Saturday evening, to spend Sunday with us. It was a pleasant
sensation, when the coach rumbled up our avenue, and wheeled round at the
door; for I felt that I was regarded as a man with a household, a man
having a tangible existence and locality in the world,--when friends came
to avail themselves of our hospitality. It was a sort of acknowledgment
and reception of us into the corps of married people,--a sanction by no
means essential to our peace and well-being, but yet agreeable enough to
receive. So we welcomed them cordially at the door, and ushered them
into our parlor, and soon into the supper-room. . . . The night flitted
over us all, and passed away, and up rose a gray and sullen morning,
. . . . and we had a splendid breakfast of flapjacks, or slapjacks, and
whortleberries, which I gathered on a neighboring hill, and perch, bream,
and pout, which I hooked out of the river the evening before. About nine
o'clock, Hillard and I set out for a walk to Walden Pond, calling by the
way at Mr. Emerson's, to obtain his guidance or directions, and he
accompanied us in his own illustrious person. We turned aside a little
from our way, to visit Mr. ------, a yeoman, of whose homely and
self-acquired wisdom Mr. Emerson has a very high opinion. We found him
walking in his fields, a short and stalwart and sturdy personage of
middle age, with a face of shrewd and kind expression, and manners of
natural courtesy. He had a very free flow of talk; for, with a little
induction from Mr. Emerson, he began to discourse about the state of the
nation, agriculture, and business in general, uttering thoughts that had
come to him at the plough, and which had a sort of flavor of the fresh
earth about them. His views were sensible and characteristic, and had
grown in the soil where we found them; . . . . and he is certainly a man
of intellectual and moral substance, a sturdy fact, a reality, something
to be felt and touched, whose ideas seem to be dug out of his mind as he
digs potatoes, beets, carrots, and turnips out of the ground.
After leaving Mr. ------, we proceeded through wood-paths to Walden Pond,
picking blackberries of enormous size along the way. The pond itself was
beautiful and refreshing to my soul, after such long and exclusive
familiarity with our tawny and sluggish river. It lies embosomed among
wooded hills, it is not very extensive, but large enough for waves to
dance upon its surface, and to look like a piece of blue firmament,
earthen-circled. The shore has a narrow, pebbly strand, which it was
worth a day's journey to look at, for the sake of the contrast between it
and the weedy, oozy margin of the river. Farther within its depths, you
perceive a bottom of pure white sand, sparkling through the transparent
water, which, methought, was the very purest liquid in the world. After
Mr. Emerson left us, Hillard and I bathed in the pond, and it does really
seem as if my spirit, as well as corporeal person, were refreshed by that
bath. A good deal of mud and river slime had accumulated on my soul; but
these bright waters washed them all away.
We returned home in due season for dinner. . . . To my misfortune,
however, a box of Mediterranean wine proved to have undergone the acetous
fermentation; so that the splendor of the festival suffered some
diminution. Nevertheless, we ate our dinner with a good appetite, and
afterwards went universally to take our several siestas. Meantime there
came a shower, which so besprinkled the grass and shrubbery as to make it
rather wet for our after-tea ramble. The chief result of the walk was
the bringing home of an immense burden of the trailing clematis-vine, now
just in blossom, and with which all our flower-stands and vases are this
morning decorated. On our return we found Mr. and Mrs. S------, and E.
H------, who shortly took their leave, and we sat up late, telling
ghost-stories. This morning, at seven, our friends left us. We were
both pleased with the visit, and so, I think, were our guests.
* * * * * *
Monday, August 22d.--I took a walk through the woods yesterday afternoon,
to Mr. Emerson's, with a book which Margaret Fuller had left, after a
call on Saturday eve. I missed the nearest way, and wandered into a very
secluded portion of the forest; for forest it might justly be called, so
dense and sombre was the shade of oaks and pines. Once I wandered into a
tract so overgrown with bushes and underbrush that I could scarcely force
a passage through. Nothing is more annoying than a walk of this kind,
where one is tormented by an innumerable host of petty impediments. It
incenses and depresses me at the same time. Always when I flounder into
the midst of bushes, which cross and intertwine themselves about my legs,
and brush my face, and seize hold of my clothes, with their multitudinous
grip,--always, in such a difficulty, I feel as if it were almost as well
to lie down and die in rage and despair as to go one step farther. It is
laughable, after I have got out of the moil, to think how miserably it
affected me for the moment; but I had better learn patience betimes, for
there are many such bushy tracts in this vicinity, on the margins of
meadows, and my walks will often lead me into them. Escaping from the
bushes, I soon came to an open space among the woods,--a very lovely
spot, with the tall old trees standing around as quietly as if no one had
intruded there throughout the whole summer. A company of crows were
holding their Sabbath on their summits. Apparently they felt themselves
injured or insulted by my presence; for, with one consent, they began to
Caw! caw! caw! and, launching themselves sullenly on the air, took flight
to some securer solitude. Mine, probably, was the first human shape that
they had seen all day long,--at least, if they had been stationary in
that spot; but perhaps they had winged their way over miles and miles of
country, had breakfasted on the summit of Graylock, and dined at the base
of Wachusett, and were merely come to sup and sleep among the quiet woods
of Concord. But it was my impression at the time, that they had sat
still and silent on the tops of the trees all through the Sabbath day,
and I felt like one who should unawares disturb an assembly of
worshippers. A crow, however, has no real pretensions to religion, in
spite of his gravity of mien and black attire. Crows are certainly
thieves, and probably infidels. Nevertheless, their voices yesterday
were in admirable accordance with the influences of the quiet, sunny,
warm, yet autumnal afternoon. They were so far above my head that their
loud clamor added to the quiet of the scene, instead of disturbing it.
There was no other sound, except the song of the cricket, which is but an
audible stillness; for, though it be very loud and heard afar, yet the
mind does not take note of it as a sound, so entirely does it mingle and
lose its individuality among the other characteristics of coming autumn.
Alas for the summer! The grass is still verdant on the hills and in the
valleys; the foliage of the trees is as dense as ever, and as green;
the flowers are abundant along the margin of the river, and in the
hedge-rows, and deep among the woods; the days, too, are as fervid as
they were a month ago; and yet in every breath of wind and in every beam
of sunshine there is an autumnal influence. I know not how to describe
it. Methinks there is a sort of coolness amid all the heat, and a
mildness in the brightest of the sunshine. A breeze cannot stir without
thrilling me with the breath of autumn, and I behold its pensive glory in
the far, golden gleams among the long shadows of the trees. The flowers,
even the brightest of them,--the golden-rod and the gorgeous cardinals,--
the most glorious flowers of the year,--have this gentle sadness amid
their pomp. Pensive autumn is expressed in the glow of every one of
them. I have felt this influence earlier in some years than in others.
Sometimes autumn may be perceived even in the early days of July. There
is no other feeling like that caused by this faint, doubtful, yet real
perception, or rather prophecy, of the year's decay, so deliciously sweet
and sad at the same time.
After leaving the book at Mr. Emerson's I returned through the woods,
and, entering Sleepy Hollow, I perceived a lady reclining near the path
which bends along its verge. It was Margaret herself. She had been
there the whole afternoon, meditating or reading; for she had a book in
her hand, with some strange title, which I did not understand, and have
forgotten. She said that nobody had broken her solitude, and was just
giving utterance to a theory that no inhabitant of Concord ever visited
Sleepy Hollow, when we saw a group of people entering the sacred
precincts. Most of them followed a path which led them away from us; but
an old man passed near us, and smiled to see Margaret reclining on the
ground, and me sitting by her side. He made some remark about the beauty
of the afternoon, and withdrew himself into the shadow of the wood. Then
we talked about autumn, and about the pleasures of being lost in the
woods, and about the crows, whose voices Margaret had heard; and about
the experiences of early childhood, whose influence remains upon the
character after the recollection of them has passed away; and about the
sight of mountains from a distance, and the view from their summits; and
about other matters of high and low philosophy. In the midst of our
talk, we heard footsteps above us, on the high bank; and while the person
was still hidden among the trees, he called to Margaret, of whom he had
gotten a glimpse. Then he emerged from the green shade, and, behold! it
was Mr. Emerson. He appeared to have had a pleasant time; for he said
that there were Muses in the woods to-day, and whispers to be heard in
the breezes. It being now nearly six o'clock, we separated,--Margaret
and Mr. Emerson towards his home, and I towards mine. . . .
Last evening there was the most beautiful moonlight that ever hallowed
this earthly world; and when I went to bathe in the river, which was as
calm as death, it seemed like plunging down into the sky. But I had
rather be on earth than even in the seventh heaven, just now.
Wednesday, August 24th.--I left home at five o'clock this morning to
catch some fish for breakfast. I shook our summer apple-tree, and ate
the golden apple which fell from it. Methinks these early apples, which
come as a golden promise before the treasures of autumnal fruit, are
almost more delicious than anything that comes afterwards. We have but
one such tree in our orchard; but it supplies us with a daily abundance,
and probably will do so for at least a week to come. Meantime other
trees begin to cast their ripening windfalls upon the grass; and when I
taste them, and perceive their mellowed flavor and blackening seeds, I
feel somewhat overwhelmed with the impending bounties of Providence. I
suppose Adam, in Paradise, did not like to see his fruits decaying on the
ground, after he had watched them through the sunny days of the world's
first summer. However, insects, at the worst, will hold a festival upon
them, so that they will not be thrown away, in the great scheme of
Nature. Moreover, I have one advantage over the primeval Adam, inasmuch
as there is a chance of disposing of my superfluous fruits among people
who inhabit no Paradise of their own.
Passing a little way down along the river-side, I threw in my line, and
soon drew out one of the smallest possible of fishes. It seemed to be a
pretty good morning for the angler,--an autumnal coolness in the air, a
clear sky, but with a fog across the lowlands and on the surface of the
river, which a gentle breeze sometimes condensed into wreaths. At first
I could barely discern the opposite shore of the river; but, as the sun
arose, the vapors gradually dispersed, till only a warm, smoky tint was
left along the water's surface. The farm-houses across the river made
their appearance out of the dusky cloud; the voices of boys were heard,
shouting to the cattle as they drove them to the pastures; a man whetted
his scythe, and set to work in a neighboring meadow. Meantime, I
continued to stand on the oozy margin of the stream, beguiling the little
fish; and though the scaly inhabitants of our river partake somewhat of
the character of their native element, and are but sluggish biters, still
I contrived to pull out not far from two dozen. They were all bream, a
broad, flat, almost circular fish, shaped a good deal like a flounder,
but swimming on their edges, instead of on their sides. As far as mere
pleasure is concerned, it is hardly worth while to fish in our river, it
is so much like angling in a mud-puddle; and one does not attach the idea
of freshness and purity to the fishes, as we do to those which inhabit
swift, transparent streams, or haunt the shores of the great briny deep.
Standing on the weedy margin, and throwing the line over the elder-bushes
that dip into the water, it seems as if we could catch nothing but frogs
and mud-turtles, or reptiles akin to them. And even when a fish of
reputable aspect is drawn out, one feels a shyness about touching him.
As to our river, its character was admirably expressed last night by some
one who said "it was too lazy to keep itself clean." I might write pages
and pages, and only obscure the impression which this brief sentence
conveys. Nevertheless, we made bold to eat some of my fish for
breakfast, and found them very savory; and the rest shall meet with due
entertainment at dinner, together with some shell-beans, green corn, and
cucumbers from our garden; so this day's food comes directly and entirely
from beneficent Nature, without the intervention of any third person
between her and us.
Saturday, August 27th.--A peach-tree, which grows beside our house and
brushes against the window, is so burdened with fruit that I have had to
prop it up. I never saw more splendid peaches in appearance,--great,
round, crimson-cheeked beauties, clustering all over the tree. A
pear-tree, likewise, is maturing a generous burden of small, sweet fruit,
which will require to be eaten at about the same time as the peaches.
There is something pleasantly annoying in this superfluous abundance; it
is like standing under a tree of ripe apples, and giving it a shake, with
the intention of bringing down a single one, when, behold, a dozen come
thumping about our ears. But the idea of the infinite generosity and
exhaustless bounty of our Mother Nature is well worth attaining; and I
never had it so vividly as now, when I find myself, with the few mouths
which I am to feed, the sole inheritor of the old clergyman's wealth of
fruits. His children, his friends in the village, and the clerical
guests who came to preach in his pulpit, were all wont to eat and be
filled from these trees. Now, all these hearty old people have passed
away, and in their stead is a solitary pair, whose appetites are more
than satisfied with the windfalls which the trees throw down at their
feet. Howbeit, we shall have now and then a guest to keep our peaches
and pears from decaying.
G. B------, my old fellow-laborer at the community at Brook Farm, called
on me last evening, and dined here to-day. He has been cultivating
vegetables at Plymouth this summer, and selling them in the market. What
a singular mode of life for a man of education and refinement,--to spend
his days in hard and earnest bodily toil, and then to convey the products
of his labor, in a wheelbarrow, to the public market, and there retail
them out,--a peck of peas or beans, a bunch of turnips, a squash, a dozen
ears of green corn! Few men, without some eccentricity of character,
would have the moral strength to do this; and it is very striking to find
such strength combined with the utmost gentleness, and an uncommon
regularity of nature. Occasionally he returns for a day or two to resume
his place among scholars and idle people, as, for instance, the present
week, when he has thrown aside his spade and hoe to attend the
Commencement at Cambridge. He is a rare man,--a perfect original, yet
without any one salient point; a character to be felt and understood, but
almost impossible to describe: for, should you seize upon any
characteristic, it would inevitably be altered and distorted in the
process of writing it down.
Our few remaining days of summer have been latterly grievously darkened
with clouds. To-day there has been an hour or two of hot sunshine; but
the sun rose amid cloud and mist, and before he could dry up the moisture
of last night's shower upon the trees and grass, the clouds have gathered
between him and us again. This afternoon the thunder rumbles in the
distance, and I believe a few drops of rain have fallen; but the weight
of the shower has burst elsewhere, leaving us nothing but its sullen
gloom. There is a muggy warmth in the atmosphere, which takes all the
spring and vivacity out of the mind and body.