believe, that has fallen since we came to Concord (not two months ago).
There never was a more sombre aspect of all external nature. I gaze from
the open window of my study somewhat disconsolately, and observe the
great willow-tree which shades the house, and which has caught and
retained a whole cataract of rain among its leaves and boughs; and all
the fruit-trees, too, are dripping continually, even in the brief
intervals when the clouds give us a respite. If shaken to bring down the
fruit, they will discharge a shower upon the head of him who stands
beneath. The rain is warm, coming from some southern region; but the
willow attests that it is an autumnal spell of weather, by scattering
down no infrequent multitude of yellow leaves, which rest upon the
sloping roof of the house, and strew the gravel-path and the grass. The
other trees do not yet shed their leaves, though in some of them a
lighter tint of verdure, tending towards yellow, is perceptible. All day
long we hear the water drip, drip, dripping, splash, splash, splashing,
from the eaves, and babbling and foaming into the tubs which have been
set out to receive it. The old unpainted shingles and boards of the
mansion and out-houses are black with the moisture which they have
imbibed. Looking at the river, we perceive that its usually smooth and
mirrored surface is blurred by the infinity of rain-drops; the whole
landscape--grass, trees, and houses--has a completely water-soaked
aspect, as if the earth were wet through. The wooded hill, about a mile
distant, whither we went to gather whortleberries, has a mist upon its
summit, as if the demon of the rain were enthroned there; and if we look
to the sky, it seems as if all the water that had been poured down upon
us were as nothing to what is to come. Once in a while, indeed, there is
a gleam of sky along the horizon, or a half-cheerful, half-sullen
lighting up of the atmosphere; the rain-drops cease to patter down,
except when the trees shake off a gentle shower; but soon we hear the
broad, quiet, slow, and sure recommencement of the rain. The river, if I
mistake not, has risen considerably during the day, and its current will
acquire some degree of energy.
In this sombre weather, when some mortals almost forget that there ever
was any golden sunshine, or ever will be any hereafter, others seem
absolutely to radiate it from their own hearts and minds. The gloom
cannot pervade them; they conquer it, and drive it quite out of their
sphere, and create a moral rainbow of hope upon the blackest cloud. As
for myself, I am little other than a cloud at such seasons, but such
persons contrive to make me a sunny one, shining all through me. And
thus, even without the support of a stated occupation, I survive these
sullen days and am happy.
This morning we read the Sermon on the Mount. In the course of the
forenoon, the rain abated for a season, and I went out and gathered some
corn and summer-squashes, and picked up the windfalls of apples and pears
and peaches. Wet, wet, wet,--everything was wet; the blades of the
corn-stalks moistened me; the wet grass soaked my boots quite through;
the trees threw their reserved showers upon my head; and soon the
remorseless rain began anew, and drove me into the house. When shall we
be able to walk again to the far hills, and plunge into the deep woods,
and gather more cardinals along the river's margin? The track along
which we trod is probably under water now. How inhospitable Nature is
during a rain! In the fervid heat of sunny days, she still retains some
degree of mercy for us; she has shady spots, whither the sun cannot come;
but she provides no shelter against her storms. It makes one shiver to
think how dripping with wet are those deep, umbrageous nooks, those
overshadowed banks, where we find such enjoyment during sultry
afternoons. And what becomes of the birds in such a soaking rain as
this? Is hope and an instinctive faith so mixed up with their nature
that they can be cheered by the thought that the sunshine will return?
or do they think, as I almost do, that there is to be no sunshine any
more? Very disconsolate must they be among the dripping leaves; and when
a single summer makes so important a portion of their lives, it seems
hard that so much of it should be dissolved in rain. I, likewise, am
greedy of the summer days for my own sake; the life of man does not
contain so many of them that one can be spared without regret.
Tuesday, August 30th.--I was promised, in the midst of Sunday's rain,
that Monday should be fair, and, behold! the sun came back to us, and
brought one of the most perfect days ever made since Adam was driven out
of Paradise. By the by, was there ever any rain in Paradise? If so, how
comfortless must Eve's bower have been! and what a wretched and rheumatic
time must they have had on their bed of wet roses! It makes me shiver to
think of it. Well, it seemed as if the world was newly created yesterday
morning, and I beheld its birth; for I had risen before the sun was over
the hill, and had gone forth to fish. How instantaneously did all
dreariness and heaviness of the earth's spirit flit away before one smile
of the beneficent sun! This proves that all gloom is but a dream and a
shadow, and that cheerfulness is the real truth. It requires many
clouds, long brooding over us, to make us sad, but one gleam of sunshine
always suffices to cheer up the landscape. The banks of the river
actually laughed when the sunshine fell upon them; and the river itself
was alive and cheerful, and, by way of fun and amusement, it had swept
away many wreaths of meadow-hay, and old, rotten branches of trees, and
all such trumpery. These matters came floating downwards, whirling round
and round in the eddies, or hastening onward in the main current; and
many of them, before this time, have probably been carried into the
Merrimack, and will be borne onward to the sea. The spots where I stood
to fish, on my preceding excursion, were now under water; and the tops of
many of the bushes, along the river's margin, barely emerged from the
stream. Large spaces of meadow are overflowed.
There was a northwest-wind throughout the day; and as many clouds, the
remnants of departed gloom, were scattered about the sky, the breeze was
continually blowing them across the sun. For the most part, they were
gone again in a moment; but sometimes the shadow remained long enough to
make me dread a return of sulky weather. Then would come the burst of
sunshine, making me feel as if a rainy day were henceforth an
impossibility. . . .
In the afternoon Mr. Emerson called, bringing Mr. ------. He is a good
sort of humdrum parson enough, and well fitted to increase the stock of
manuscript sermons, of which there must be a fearful quantity already in
the world. Mr. ------, however, is probably one of the best and most
useful of his class, because no suspicion of the necessity of his
profession, constituted as it now is, to mankind, and of his own
usefulness and success in it, has hitherto disturbed him; and therefore
he labors with faith and confidence, as ministers did a hundred years
ago.
After the visitors were gone, I sat at the gallery window, looking down
the avenue; and soon there appeared an elderly woman,--a homely, decent
old matron, dressed in a dark gown, and with what seemed a manuscript
book under her arm. The wind sported with her gown, and blew her veil
across her face, and seemed to make game of her, though on a nearer view
she looked like a sad old creature, with a pale, thin countenance, and
somewhat of a wild and wandering expression. She had a singular gait,
reeling, as it were, and yet not quite reeling, from one side of the path
to the other; going onward as if it were not much matter whether she went
straight or crooked. Such were my observations as she approached through
the scattered sunshine and shade of our long avenue, until, reaching the
door, she gave a knock, and inquired for the lady of the house. Her
manuscript contained a certificate, stating that the old woman was a
widow from a foreign land, who had recently lost her son, and was now
utterly destitute of friends and kindred, and without means of support.
Appended to the certificate there was a list of names of people who had
bestowed charity on her, with the amounts of their several donations,--
none, as I recollect, higher than twenty-five cents. Here is a strange
life, and a character fit for romance and poetry. All the early part of
her life, I suppose, and much of her widowhood, were spent in the quiet
of a home, with kinsfolk around her, and children, and the lifelong
gossiping acquaintances that some women always create about them. But in
her decline she has wandered away from all these, and from her native
country itself, and is a vagrant, yet with something of the homeliness
and decency of aspect belonging to one who has been a wife and mother,
and has had a roof of her own above her head,--and, with all this, a
wildness proper to her present life. I have a liking for vagrants of all
sorts, and never, that I know of, refused my mite to a wandering beggar,
when I had anything in my own pocket. There is so much wretchedness in
the world, that we may safely take the word of any mortal professing to
need our assistance; and, even should we be deceived, still the good to
ourselves resulting from a kind act is worth more than the trifle by
which we purchase it. It is desirable, I think, that such persons should
be permitted to roam through our land of plenty, scattering the seeds of
tenderness and charity, as birds of passage bear the seeds of precious
plants from land to land, without even dreaming of the office which they
perform.
Thursday, September 1st.--Mr. Thoreau dined with us yesterday. . . . He
is a keen and delicate observer of nature,--a genuine observer,--which, I
suspect, is almost as rare a character as even an original poet; and
Nature, in return for his love, seems to adopt him as her especial child,
and shows him secrets which few others are allowed to witness. He is
familiar with beast, fish, fowl, and reptile, and has strange stories to
tell of adventures and friendly passages with these lower brethren of
mortality. Herb and flower, likewise, wherever they grow, whether in
garden or wildwood, are his familiar friends. He is also on intimate
terms with the clouds, and can tell the portents of storms. It is a
characteristic trait, that he has a great regard for the memory of the
Indian tribes, whose wild life would have suited him so well; and,
strange to say, he seldom walks over a ploughed field without picking up
an arrow-point, spearhead, or other relic of the red man, as if their
spirits willed him to be the inheritor of their simple wealth.
With all this he has more than a tincture of literature,--a deep and true
taste for poetry, especially for the elder poets, and he is a good
writer,--at least he has written a good article, a rambling disquisition
on Natural History, in the last Dial, which, he says, was chiefly made up
from journals of his own observations. Methinks this article gives a
very fair image of his mind and character,--so true, innate, and literal
in observation, yet giving the spirit as well as letter of what he sees,
even as a lake reflects its wooded banks, showing every leaf, yet giving
the wild beauty of the whole scene. Then there are in the article
passages of cloudy and dreamy metaphysics, and also passages where his
thoughts seem to measure and attune themselves into spontaneous verse, as
they rightfully may, since there is real poetry in them. There is a
basis of good sense and of moral truth, too, throughout the article,
which also is a reflection of his character; for he is not unwise to
think and feel, and I find him a healthy and wholesome man to know.
After dinner (at which we cut the first watermelon and muskmelon that our
garden has grown), Mr. Thoreau and I walked up the bank of the river, and
at a certain point he shouted for his boat. Forthwith a young man
paddled it across, and Mr. Thoreau and I voyaged farther up the stream,
which soon became more beautiful than any picture, with its dark and
quiet sheet of water, half shaded, half sunny, between high and wooded
banks. The late rains have swollen the stream so much that many trees
are standing up to their knees, as it were, in the water, and boughs,
which lately swung high in air, now dip and drink deep of the passing
wave. As to the poor cardinals which glowed upon the bank a few days
since, I could see only a few of their scarlet hats, peeping above the
tide. Mr. Thoreau managed the boat so perfectly, either with two paddles
or with one, that it seemed instinct with his own will, and to require no
physical effort to guide it. He said that, when some Indians visited
Concord a few years ago, he found that he had acquired, without a
teacher, their precise method of propelling and steering a canoe.
Nevertheless he was desirous of selling the boat of which he was so fit a
pilot, and which was built by his own hands; so I agreed to take it, and
accordingly became possessor of the Musketaquid. I wish I could acquire
the aquatic skill of the original owner.
September 2d.--Yesterday afternoon Mr. Thoreau arrived with the boat.
The adjacent meadow being overflowed by the rise of the stream, he had
rowed directly to the foot of the orchard, and landed at the bars, after
floating over forty or fifty yards of water where people were lately
making hay. I entered the boat with him, in order to have the benefit of
a lesson in rowing and paddling. . . . I managed, indeed, to propel the
boat by rowing with two oars, but the use of the single paddle is quite
beyond my present skill. Mr. Thoreau had assured me that it was only
necessary to will the boat to go in any particular direction, and she
would immediately take that course, as if imbued with the spirit of the
steersman. It may be so with him, but it is certainly not so with me.
The boat seemed to be bewitched, and turned its head to every point of
the compass except the right one. He then took the paddle himself, and,
though I could observe nothing peculiar in his management of it, the
Musketaquid immediately became as docile as a trained steed. I suspect
that she has not yet transferred her affections from her old master to
her new one. By and by, when we are better acquainted, she will grow
more tractable. . . . We propose to change her name from Musketaquid
(the Indian name of the Concord River, meaning the river of meadows) to
the Pond-Lily, which will be very beautiful and appropriate, as, during
the summer season, she will bring home many a cargo of pond-lilies from
along the river's weedy shore. It is not very likely that I shall make
such long voyages in her as Mr. Thoreau has made. He once followed our
river down to the Merrimack, and thence, I believe, to Newburyport in
this little craft.
In the evening, ---- ------ called to see us, wishing to talk with me
about a Boston periodical, of which he had heard that I was to be editor,
and to which he desired to contribute. He is an odd and clever young
man, with nothing very peculiar about him,--some originality and
self-inspiration in his character, but none, or, very little, in his
intellect. Nevertheless, the lad himself seems to feel as if he were a
genius. I like him well enough, however; but, after all, these originals
in a small way, after one has seen a few of them, become more dull and
commonplace than even those who keep the ordinary pathway of life. They
have a rule and a routine, which they follow with as little variety as
other people do their rule and routine; and when once we have fathomed
their mystery, nothing can be more wearisome. An innate perception and
reflection of truth give the only sort of originality that does not
finally grow intolerable.
September 4th.--I made a voyage in the Pond-Lily all by myself yesterday
morning, and was much encouraged by my success in causing the boat to go
whither I would. I have always liked to be afloat, but I think I have
never adequately conceived of the enjoyment till now, when I begin to
feel a power over that which supports me. I suppose I must have felt
something like this sense of triumph when I first learned to swim; but I
have forgotten it. O that I could run wild!--that is, that I could put
myself into a true relation with Nature, and be on friendly terms with
all congenial elements.
We had a thunder-storm last evening; and to-day has been a cool, breezy
autumnal day, such as my soul and body love.
September 18th.--How the summer-time flits away, even while it seems to
be loitering onward, arm in arm with autumn! Of late I have walked but
little over the hills and through the woods, my leisure being chiefly
occupied with my boat, which I have now learned to manage with tolerable
skill. Yesterday afternoon I made a voyage alone up the North Branch of
Concord River. There was a strong west-wind blowing dead against me,
which, together with the current, increased by the height of the water,
made the first part of the passage pretty toilsome. The black river was
all dimpled over with little eddies and whirlpools; and the breeze,
moreover, caused the billows to beat against the bow of the boat, with a
sound like the flapping of a bird's wing. The water-weeds, where they
were discernible through the tawny water, were straight outstretched by
the force of the current, looking as if they were forced to hold on to
their roots with all their might. If for a moment I desisted from
paddling, the head of the boat was swept round by the combined might of
wind and tide. However, I toiled onward stoutly, and, entering the North
Branch, soon found myself floating quietly along a tranquil stream,
sheltered from the breeze by the woods and a lofty hill. The current,
likewise, lingered along so gently that it was merely a pleasure to
propel the boat against it. I never could have conceived that there was
so beautiful a river-scene in Concord as this of the North Branch. The
stream flows through the midmost privacy and deepest heart of a wood,
which, as if but half satisfied with its presence, calm, gentle, and
unobtrusive as it is, seems to crowd upon it, and barely to allow it
passage; for the trees are rooted on the very verge of the water, and dip
their pendent branches into it. On one side there is a high bank,
forming the side of a hill, the Indian name of which I have forgotten,
though Mr. Thoreau told it to me; and here, in some instances, the trees
stand leaning over the river, stretching out their arms as if about to
plunge in headlong. On the other side, the bank is almost on a level
with the water; and there the quiet congregation of trees stood with feet
in the flood, and fringed with foliage down to its very surface. Vines
here and there twine themselves about bushes or aspens or alder-trees,
and hang their clusters (though scanty and infrequent this season) so
that I can reach them from my boat. I scarcely remember a scene of more
complete and lovely seclusion than the passage of the river through this
wood. Even an Indian canoe, in olden times, could not have floated
onward in deeper solitude than my boat. I have never elsewhere had such
an opportunity to observe how much more beautiful reflection is than what
we call reality. The sky, and the clustering foliage on either hand, and
the effect of sunlight as it found its way through the shade, giving
lightsome hues in contrast with the quiet depth of the prevailing tints,
--all these seemed unsurpassably beautiful when beheld in upper air. But
on gazing downward, there they were, the same even to the minutest
particular, yet arrayed in ideal beauty, which satisfied the spirit
incomparably more than the actual scene. I am half convinced that the
reflection is indeed the reality, the real thing which Nature imperfectly
images to our grosser sense. At any rate, the disembodied shadow is
nearest to the soul.
There were many tokens of autumn in this beautiful picture. Two or three
of the trees were actually dressed in their coats of many colors,--the
real scarlet and gold which they wear before they put on mourning. These
stood on low, marshy spots, where a frost has probably touched them
already. Others were of a light, fresh green, resembling the hues of
spring, though this, likewise, is a token of decay. The great mass of
the foliage, however, appears unchanged; but ever and anon down came a
yellow leaf, half flitting upon the air, half falling through it, and
finally settling upon the water. A multitude of these were floating here
and there along the river, many of them curling upward, so as to form
little boats, fit for fairies to voyage in. They looked strangely
pretty, with yet a melancholy prettiness, as they floated along. The
general aspect of the river, however, differed but little from that of
summer,--at least the difference defies expression. It is more in the
character of the rich yellow sunlight than in aught else. The water of
the stream has now a thrill of autumnal coolness; yet whenever a broad
gleam fell across it, through an interstice of the foliage, multitudes of
insects were darting to and fro upon its surface. The sunshine, thus
falling across the dark river, has a most beautiful effect. It burnishes
it, as it were, and yet leaves it as dark as ever.
On my return, I suffered the boat to float almost of its own will down
the stream, and caught fish enough for this morning's breakfast. But,
partly from a qualm of conscience, I finally put them all into the water
again, and saw them swim away as if nothing had happened.
Monday, October 10th.--A long while, indeed, since my last date. But the
weather has been generally sunny and pleasant, though often very cold;
and I cannot endure to waste anything so precious as autumnal sunshine by
staying in the house. So I have spent almost all the daylight hours in
the open air. My chief amusement has been boating up and down the river.
A week or two ago (September 27 and 28) I went on a pedestrian excursion
with Mr. Emerson, and was gone two days and one night, it being the first
and only night that I have spent away from home. We were that night at
the village of Harvard, and the next morning walked three miles farther,
to the Shaker village, where we breakfasted. Mr. Emerson had a
theological discussion with two of the Shaker brethren; but the
particulars of it have faded from my memory; and all the other adventures
of the tour have now so lost their freshness that I cannot adequately
recall them. Wherefore let them rest untold. I recollect nothing so
well as the aspect of some fringed gentians, which we saw growing by the
roadside, and which were so beautiful that I longed to turn back and
pluck them. After an arduous journey, we arrived safe home in the
afternoon of the second day,--the first time that I ever came home in my
life; for I never had a home before. On Saturday of the same week, my
friend D. R------ came to see us, and stayed till Tuesday morning. On
Wednesday there was a cattleshow in the village, of which I would give a
description, if it had possessed any picturesque points. The foregoing
are the chief outward events of our life.
In the mean time autumn has been advancing, and is said to be a month
earlier than usual. We had frosts, sufficient to kill the bean and
squash vines, more than a fortnight ago; but there has since been some of
the most delicious Indian-summer weather that I ever experienced,--mild,
sweet, perfect days, in which the warm sunshine seemed to embrace the
earth and all earth's children with love and tenderness. Generally,
however, the bright days have been vexed with winds from the northwest,
somewhat too keen and high for comfort. These winds have strewn our
avenue with withered leaves, although the trees still retain some density
of foliage, which is now imbrowned or otherwise variegated by autumn.
Our apples, too, have been falling, falling, falling; and we have picked
the fairest of them from the dewy grass, and put them in our store-room
and elsewhere. On Thursday, John Flint began to gather those which
remained on the trees; and I suppose they will amount to nearly twenty
barrels, or perhaps more. As usual when I have anything to sell, apples
are very low indeed in price, and will not fetch me more than a dollar a
barrel. I have sold my share of the potato-field for twenty dollars and
ten bushels of potatoes for my own use. This may suffice for the
economical history of our recent life.
12 o'clock, M.--Just now I heard a sharp tapping at the window of my
study, and, looking up from my book (a volume of Rabelais), behold! the
head of a little bird, who seemed to demand admittance! He was probably
attempting to get a fly, which was on the pane of glass against which he
rapped; and on my first motion the feathered visitor took wing. This
incident had a curious effect on me. It impressed me as if the bird had
been a spiritual visitant, so strange was it that this little wild thing
should seem to ask our hospitality.