but I see no chance of amendment. All my scribbling propensities will be
far more than gratified in writing nonsense for the press; so that any
gratuitous labor of the pen becomes peculiarly distasteful. Since the
last date, we have paid a visit of nine days to Boston and Salem, whence
we returned a week ago yesterday. Thus we lost above a week of delicious
autumnal weather, which should have been spent in the woods or upon the
river. Ever since our return, however, until to-day, there has been a
succession of genuine Indian-summer days, with gentle winds or none at
all, and a misty atmosphere, which idealizes all nature, and a mild,
beneficent sunshine, inviting one to lie down in a nook and forget all
earthly care. To-day the sky is dark and lowering, and occasionally lets
fall a few sullen tears. I suppose we must bid farewell to Indian summer
now, and expect no more love and tenderness from Mother Nature till next
spring be well advanced. She has already made herself as unlovely in
outward aspect as can well be. We took a walk to Sleepy Hollow
yesterday, and beheld scarcely a green thing, except the everlasting
verdure of the family of pines, which, indeed, are trees to thank God for
at this season. A range of young birches had retained a pretty liberal
coloring of yellow or tawny leaves, which became very cheerful in the
sunshine. There were one or two oak-trees whose foliage still retained a
deep, dusky red, which looked rich and warm; but most of the oaks had
reached the last stage of autumnal decay,--the dusky brown hue. Millions
of their leaves strew the woods and rustle underneath the foot; but
enough remain upon the boughs to make a melancholy harping when the wind
sweeps over them. We found some fringed gentians in the meadow, most of
them blighted and withered; but a few were quite perfect. The other day,
since our return from Salem, I found a violet; yet it was so cold that
day, that a large pool of water, under the shadow of some trees, had
remained frozen from morning till afternoon. The ice was so thick as not
to be broken by some sticks and small stones which I threw upon it. But
ice and snow too will soon be no extraordinary matters with us.
During the last week we have had three stoves put up, and henceforth no
light of a cheerful fire will gladden us at eventide. Stoves are
detestable in every respect, except that they keep us perfectly
comfortable.
Thursday, November 24th.--This is Thanksgiving Day, a good old festival,
and we have kept it with our hearts, and, besides, have made good cheer
upon our turkey and pudding, and pies and custards, although none sat at
our board but our two selves. There was a new and livelier sense, I
think, that we have at last found a home, and that a new family has been
gathered since the last Thanksgiving Day. There have been many bright
cold days latterly,--so cold that it has required a pretty rapid pace to
keep one's self warm a-walking. Day before yesterday I saw a party of
boys skating on a pond of water that has overflowed a neighboring meadow.
Running water has not yet frozen. Vegetation has quite come to a stand,
except in a few sheltered spots. In a deep ditch we found a tall plant
of the freshest and healthiest green, which looked as if it must have
grown within the last few weeks. We wander among the wood-paths, which
are very pleasant in the sunshine of the afternoons, the trees looking
rich and warm,--such of them, I mean, as have retained their russet
leaves; and where the leaves are strewn along the paths, or heaped
plentifully in some hollow of the hills, the effect is not without a
charm. To-day the morning rose with rain, which has since changed to
snow and sleet; and now the landscape is as dreary as can well be
imagined,--white, with the brownness of the soil and withered grass
everywhere peeping out. The swollen river, of a leaden hue, drags itself
sullenly along; and this may be termed the first winter's day.
Friday, March 31st, 1843.--The first month of spring is already gone; and
still the snow lies deep on hill and valley, and the river is still
frozen from bank to bank, although a late rain has caused pools of water
to stand on the surface of the ice, and the meadows are overflowed into
broad lakes. Such a protracted winter has not been known for twenty
years, at least. I have almost forgotten the wood-paths and shady places
which I used to know so well last summer; and my views are so much
confined to the interior of our mansion, that sometimes, looking out of
the window, I am surprised to catch a glimpse of houses, at no great
distance, which had quite passed out of my recollection. From present
appearances, another month may scarcely suffice to wash away all the snow
from the open country; and in the woods and hollows it may linger yet
longer. The winter will not have been a day less than five months long;
and it would not be unfair to call it seven. A great space, indeed, to
miss the smile of Nature, in a single year of human life. Even out of
the midst of happiness I have sometimes sighed and groaned; for I love
the sunshine and the green woods, and the sparkling blue water; and it
seems as if the picture of our inward bliss should be set in a beautiful
frame of outward nature. . . . As to the daily course of our life, I
have written with pretty commendable diligence, averaging from two to
four hours a day; and the result is seen in various magazines. I might
have written more, if it had seemed worth while; but I was content to
earn only so much gold as might suffice for our immediate wants, having
prospect of official station and emolument which would do away with the
necessity of writing for bread. Those prospects have not yet had their
fulfilment; and we are well content to wait, because an office would
inevitably remove us from our present happy home,--at least from an
outward home; for there is an inner one that will accompany us wherever
we go. Meantime, the magazine people do not pay their debts; so that we
taste some of the inconveniences of poverty. It is an annoyance, not a
trouble.
Every day, I trudge through snow and slosh to the village, look into the
post-office, and spend an hour at the reading-room; and then return home,
generally without having spoken a word to a human being. . . . In the
way of exercise I saw and split wood, and, physically, I never was in a
better condition than now. This is chiefly owing, doubtless, to a
satisfied heart, in aid of which comes the exercise above mentioned, and
about a fair proportion of intellectual labor.
On the 9th of this mouth, we left home again on a visit to Boston and
Salem. I alone went to Salem, where I resumed all my bachelor habits for
nearly a fortnight, leading the same life in which ten years of my youth
flitted away like a dream. But how much changed was I! At last I had
caught hold of a reality which never could be taken from me. It was good
thus to get apart from my happiness, for the sake of contemplating it.
On the 21st, I returned to Boston, and went out to Cambridge to dine with
Longfellow, whom I had not seen since his return from Europe. The next
day we came back to our old house, which had been deserted all this time;
for our servant had gone with us to Boston.
Friday, April 7th.--My wife has gone to Boston to see her sister M------,
who is to be married in two or three weeks, and then immediately to visit
Europe for six months. . . . I betook myself to sawing and splitting
wood; there being an inward unquietness which demanded active exercise,
and I sawed, I think, more briskly than ever before. When I re-entered
the house, it was with somewhat of a desolate feeling; yet not without an
intermingled pleasure, as being the more conscious that all separation
was temporary, and scarcely real, even for the little time that it may
last. After my solitary dinner, I lay down, with the Dial in my hand,
and attempted to sleep; but sleep would not come. . . . So I arose, and
began this record in the journal, almost at the commencement of which I
was interrupted by a visit from Mr. Thoreau, who came to return a book,
and to announce his purpose of going to reside at Staten Island, as
private tutor in the family of Mr. Emerson's brother. We had some
conversation upon this subject, and upon the spiritual advantages of
change of place, and upon the Dial, and upon Mr. Alcott, and other
kindred or concatenated subjects. I am glad, on Mr. Thoreau's own
account, that he is going away, as he is out of health, and may be
benefited by his removal; but, on my account, I should like to have him
remain here, he being one of the few persons, I think, with whom to hold
intercourse is like hearing the wind among the boughs of a forest-tree;
and, with all this wild freedom, there is high and classic cultivation in
him too. . . .
I had a purpose, if circumstances would permit, of passing the whole term
of my wife's absence without speaking a word to any human being; but now
my Pythagorean vow has been broken, within three or four hours after her
departure.
Saturday, April 8th.--After journalizing yesterday afternoon, I went out
and sawed and split wood till teatime, then studied German (translating
Lenore), with an occasional glance at a beautiful sunset, which I could
not enjoy sufficiently by myself to induce me to lay aside the book.
After lamplight, finished Lenore, and drowsed over Voltaire's Candide,
occasionally refreshing myself with a tune from Mr. Thoreau's
musical-box, which he had left in my keeping. The evening was but a dull
one.
I retired soon after nine, and felt some apprehension that the old
Doctor's ghost would take this opportunity to visit me; but I rather
think his former visitations have not been intended for me, and that I am
not sufficiently spiritual for ghostly communication. At all events, I
met with no disturbance of the kind, and slept soundly enough till six
o'clock or thereabouts. The forenoon was spent with the pen in my hand,
and sometimes I had the glimmering of an idea, and endeavored to
materialize it in words; but on the whole my mind was idly vagrant, and
refused to work to any systematic purpose. Between eleven and twelve I
went to the post-office, but found no letter; then spent above an hour
reading at the Athenaeum. On my way home, I encountered Mr. Flint, for
the first time these many weeks, although he is our next neighbor in one
direction. I inquired if he could sell us some potatoes, and he promised
to send half a bushel for trial. Also, he encouraged me to hope that he
might buy a barrel of our apples. After my encounter with Mr. Flint, I
returned to our lonely old abbey, opened the door without the usual
heart-spring, ascended to my study, and began to read a tale of Tieck.
Slow work, and dull work too! Anon, Molly, the cook, rang the bell for
dinner,--a sumptuous banquet of stewed veal and macaroni, to which I sat
down in solitary state. My appetite served me sufficiently to eat with,
but not for enjoyment. Nothing has a zest in my present widowed state.
[Thus far I had written, when Mr. Emerson called.] After dinner, I lay
down on the couch, with the Dial in my hand as a soporific, and had a
short nap; then began to journalize.
Mr. Emerson came, with a sunbeam in his face; and we had as good a talk
as I ever remember to have had with him. He spoke of Margaret Fuller,
who, he says, has risen perceptibly into a higher state since their last
meeting. [There rings the tea-bell.] Then we discoursed of Ellery
Channing, a volume of whose poems is to be immediately published, with
revisions by Mr. Emerson himself and Mr. Sam G. Ward. . . . He calls
them "poetry for poets." Next Mr. Thoreau was discussed, and his
approaching departure; in respect to which we agreed pretty well. . . .
We talked of Brook Farm, and the singular moral aspects which it
presents, and the great desirability that its progress and developments
should be observed and its history written; also of C. N------, who, it
appears, is passing through a new moral phasis. He is silent,
inexpressive, talks little or none, and listens without response, except
a sardonic laugh; and some of his friends think that he is passing into
permanent eclipse. Various other matters were considered or glanced at,
and finally, between five and six o'clock, Mr. Emerson took his leave. I
then went out to chop wood, my allotted space for which had been very
much abridged by his visit; but I was not sorry. I went on with the
journal for a few minutes before tea, and have finished the present
record in the setting sunshine and gathering dusk. . . .
Salem.--. . . . Here I am, in my old chamber, where I produced those
stupendous works of fiction which have since impressed the universe with
wonderment and awe! To this chamber, doubtless, in all succeeding ages,
pilgrims will come to pay their tribute of reverence;--they will put off
their shoes at the threshold for fear of desecrating the tattered old
carpets! "There," they will exclaim, "is the very bed in which he
slumbered, and where he was visited by those ethereal visions which he
afterwards fixed forever in glowing words! There is the wash-stand at
which this exalted personage cleansed himself from the stains of earth,
and rendered his outward man a fitting exponent of the pure soul within.
There, in its mahogany frame, is the dressing-glass, which often
reflected that noble brow, those hyacinthine locks, that mouth bright
with smiles or tremulous with feeling, that flashing or melting eye,
that--in short, every item of the magnanimous face of this unexampled
man. There is the pine table,--there the old flag-bottomed chair on
which he sat, and at which he scribbled, during his agonies of
inspiration! There is the old chest of drawers in which he kept what
shirts a poor author may be supposed to have possessed! There is the
closet in which was reposited his threadbare suit of black! There is the
worn-out shoe-brush with which this polished writer polished his boots.
There is--" but I believe, this will be pretty much all, so here I close
the catalogue. . . .
A cloudy veil stretches over the abyss of my nature. I have, however, no
love of secrecy and darkness. I am glad to think that God sees through
my heart, and, if any angel has power to penetrate into it, he is welcome
to know everything that is there. Yes, and so may any mortal who is
capable of full sympathy, and therefore worthy to come into my depths.
But he must find his own way there. I can neither guide nor enlighten
him. It is this involuntary reserve, I suppose, that has given the
objectivity to my writings; and when people think that I am pouring
myself out in a tale or an essay, I am merely telling what is common to
human nature, not what is peculiar to myself. I sympathize with them,
not they with me. . . .
I have recently been both lectured about and preached about here in my
native city; the preacher was Rev. Mr. Fox of Newburyport; but how he
contrived to put me into a sermon I know not. I trust he took for his
text, "Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom there is no guile."
Salem, March 12th.--. . . . That poor home! how desolate it is now! Last
night, being awake, . . . . my thoughts travelled back to the lonely old
Manse; and it seemed as if I were wandering up stairs and down stairs all
by myself. My fancy was almost afraid to be there alone. I could see
every object in a dim, gray light,--our chamber, the study, all in
confusion; the parlor, with the fragments of that abortive breakfast on
the table, and the precious silver forks, and the old bronze image,
keeping its solitary stand upon the mantelpiece. Then, methought, the
wretched Vigwiggie came, and jumped upon the window-sill, and clung there
with her fore paws, mewing dismally for admittance, which I could not
grant her, being there myself only in the spirit. And then came the
ghost of the old Doctor, stalking through the gallery, and down the
staircase, and peeping into the parlor; and though I was wide awake, and
conscious of being so many miles from the spot, still it was quite awful
to think of the ghost having sole possession of our home; for I could not
quite separate myself from it, after all. Somehow the Doctor and I
seemed to be there tete-a-tete. . . . I believe I did not have any
fantasies about the ghostly kitchen-maid; but I trust Mary left the
flat-irons within her reach, so that she may do all her ironing while we
are away, and never disturb us more at midnight. I suppose she comes
thither to iron her shroud, and perhaps, likewise, to smooth the Doctor's
band. Probably, during her lifetime, she allowed him to go to some
ordination or other grand clerical celebration with rumpled linen, and
ever since, and throughout all earthly futurity (at least, as long as the
house shall stand), she is doomed to exercise a nightly toil with a
spiritual flat-iron. Poor sinner!--and doubtless Satan heats the irons
for her. What nonsense is all this! but, really, it does make me shiver
to think of that poor home of ours.
March 16th.--. . . . As for this Mr. ------, I wish he would not be so
troublesome. His scheme is well enough, and might possibly become
popular; but it has no peculiar advantages with reference to myself, nor
do the subjects of his proposed books particularly suit my fancy as
themes to write upon. Somebody else will answer his purpose just as
well; and I would rather write books of my own imagining than be hired to
develop the ideas of an engraver; especially as the pecuniary prospect is
not better, nor so good, as it might be elsewhere. I intend to adhere to
my former plan of writing one or two mythological story-books, to be
published under O'Sullivan's auspices in New York,---which is the only
place where books can be published with a chance of profit. As a matter
of courtesy, I may call on Mr. ------, if I have time; but I do not
intend to be connected with this affair.
Sunday, April 9th.--. . . . After finishing my record in the journal, I
sat a long time in grandmother's chair, thinking of many things. . . .
My spirits were at a lower ebb than they ever descend to when I am not
alone; nevertheless, neither was I absolutely sad. Many times I wound
and rewound Mr. Thoreau's little musical-box; but certainly its peculiar
sweetness had evaporated, and I am pretty sure that I should throw it out
of the window were I doomed to hear it long and often. It has not an
infinite soul. When it was almost as dark as the moonlight would let it
be, I lighted the lamp, and went on with Tieck's tale, slowly and
painfully, often wishing for help in my difficulties. At last I
determined to learn a little about pronouns and verbs before proceeding
further, and so took up the phrase-book, with which I was commendably
busy, when, at about a quarter to nine, came a knock at my study door,
and, behold, there was Molly with a letter! How she came by it I did not
ask, being content to suppose it was brought by a heavenly messenger. I
had not expected a letter; and what a comfort it was to me in my
loneliness and sombreness! I called Molly to take her note (enclosed),
which she received with a face of delight as broad and bright as the
kitchen fire. Then I read, and re-read, and re-re-read, and quadruply,
quintuply, and sextuply re-read my epistle, until I had it all by heart,
and then continued to re-read it for the sake of the penmanship. Then I
took up the phrase-book again; but could not study, and so bathed and
retired, it being now not far from ten o'clock. I lay awake a good deal
in the night, but saw no ghost.
I arose about seven, and found that the upper part of my nose, and the
region round about, was grievously discolored; and at the angle of the
left eye there is a great spot of almost black purple, and a broad streak
of the same hue semicircling beneath either eye, while green, yellow, and
orange overspread the circumjacent country. It looks not unlike a
gorgeous sunset, throwing its splendor over the heaven of my countenance.
It will behoove me to show myself as little as possible, else people will
think I have fought a pitched battle. . . . The Devil take the stick of
wood! What had I done, that it should bemaul me so? However, there is
no pain, though, I think, a very slight affection of the eyes.
This forenoon I began to write, and caught an idea by the skirts, which I
intend to hold fast, though it struggles to get free. As it was not
ready to be put upon paper, however, I took up the Dial, and finished
reading the article on Mr. Alcott. It is not very satisfactory, and it
has not taught me much. Then I read Margaret's article on Canova, which
is good. About this time the dinner-bell rang, and I went down without
much alacrity, though with a good appetite enough. . . . It was in the
angle of my right eye, not my left, that the blackest purple was
collected. But they both look like the very Devil.
Half past five o'clock.--After writing the above, . . . . I again set to
work on Tieck's tale, and worried through several pages; and then, at
half past four, threw open one of the western windows of my study, and
sallied forth to take the sunshine. I went down through the orchard to
the river-side. The orchard-path is still deeply covered with snow; and
so is the whole visible universe, except streaks upon the hillsides, and
spots in the sunny hollows, where the brown earth peeps through. The
river, which a few days ago was entirely imprisoned, has now broken its
fetters; but a tract of ice extended across from near the foot of the
monument to the abutment of the old bridge, and looked so solid that I
supposed it would yet remain for a day or two. Large cakes and masses of
ice came floating down the current, which, though not very violent,
hurried along at a much swifter pace than the ordinary one of our
sluggish river-god. These ice-masses, when they struck the barrier of
ice above mentioned, acted upon it like a battering-ram, and were
themselves forced high out of the water, or sometimes carried beneath the
main sheet of ice. At last, down the stream came an immense mass of ice,
and, striking the barrier about at its centre, it gave way, and the whole
was swept onward together, leaving the river entirely free, with only
here and there a cake of ice floating quietly along. The great
accumulation, in its downward course, hit against a tree that stood in
mid-current, and caused it to quiver like a reed; and it swept quite over
the shrubbery that bordered what, in summer-time, is the river's bank,
but which is now nearly the centre of the stream. Our river in its
present state has quite a noble breadth. The little hillock which formed
the abutment of the old bridge is now an island with its tuft of trees.
Along the hither shore a row of trees stand up to their knees, and the
smaller ones to their middles, in the water; and afar off, on the surface
of the stream, we see tufts of bushes emerging, thrusting up their heads,
as it were, to breathe. The water comes over the stone-wall, and
encroaches several yards on the boundaries of our orchard. [Here the
supper-bell rang.] If our boat were in good order, I should now set
forth on voyages of discovery, and visit nooks on the borders of the
meadows, which by and by will be a mile or two from the water's edge.
But she is in very bad condition, full of water, and, doubtless, as leaky
as a sieve.
On coming from supper, I found that little Puss had established herself
in the study, probably with intent to pass the night here. She now lies
on the footstool between my feet, purring most obstreperously. The day
of my wife's departure, she came to me, talking with the greatest
earnestness; but whether it was to condole with me on my loss, or to
demand my redoubled care for herself, I could not well make out. As Puss
now constitutes a third part of the family, this mention of her will not
appear amiss. How Molly employs herself, I know not. Once in a while, I
hear a door slam like a thunder-clap; but she never shows her face, nor
speaks a word, unless to announce a visitor or deliver a letter. This
day, on my part, will have been spent without exchanging a syllable with
any human being, unless something unforeseen should yet call for the
exercise of speech before bedtime.
Monday, April 10th.--I sat till eight o'clock, meditating upon this world
and the next, . . . . and sometimes dimly shaping out scenes of a tale.
Then betook myself to the German phrase-book. Ah! these are but dreary
evenings. The lamp would not brighten my spirits, though it was duly
filled. . . . This forenoon was spent in scribbling, by no means to my
satisfaction, until past eleven, when I went to the village. Nothing in
our box at the post-office. I read during the customary hour, or more,
at the Athenaeum, and returned without saying a word to mortal. I
gathered, from some conversation that I heard, that a son of Adam is to
be buried this afternoon from the meeting-house; but the name of the
deceased escaped me. It is no great matter, so it be but written in the
Book of Life.