gentleness both in its warmth and brightness. On such days it is
impossible not to love Nature, for she evidently loves us. At other
seasons she does not give me this impression, or only at very rare
intervals; but in these happy, autumnal days, when she has perfected the
harvests, and accomplished every necessary thing that she had to do, she
overflows with a blessed superfluity of love. It is good to be alive
now. Thank God for breath,--yes, for mere breath! when it is made up of
such a heavenly breeze as this. It comes to the cheek with a real kiss;
it would linger fondly around us, if it might; but, since it must be
gone, it caresses us with its whole kindly heart, and passes onward, to
caress likewise the next thing that it meets. There is a pervading
blessing diffused over all the world. I look out of the window and
think, "O perfect day! O beautiful world! O good God!" And such a day
is the promise of a blissful eternity. Our Creator would never have made
such weather; and given us the deep heart to enjoy it, above and beyond
all thought, if he had not meant us to be immortal. It opens the gates
of heaven, and gives us glimpses far inward.
Bless me! this flight has carried me a great way; so now let me come back
to our old abbey. Our orchard is fast ripening; and the apples and great
thumping pears strew the grass in such abundance that it becomes almost a
trouble--though a pleasant one--to gather them. This happy breeze, too,
shakes them down, as if it flung fruit to us out of the sky; and often,
when the air is perfectly still, I hear the quiet fall of a great apple.
Well, we are rich in blessings, though poor in money. . . .
Friday, October 6th.--Yesterday afternoon I took a solitary walk to
Walden Pond. It was a cool, windy day, with heavy clouds rolling and
tumbling about the sky, but still a prevalence of genial autumn sunshine.
The fields are still green, and the great masses of the woods have not
yet assumed their many-colored garments; but here and there are solitary
oaks of deep, substantial red, or maples of a more brilliant hue, or
chestnuts either yellow or of a tenderer green than in summer. Some
trees seem to return to their hue of May or early June before they put on
the brighter autumnal tints. In some places, along the borders of low
and moist land, a whole range of trees were clothed in the perfect
gorgeousness of autumn, of all shades of brilliant color, looking like
the palette on which Nature was arranging the tints wherewith to paint a
picture. These hues appeared to be thrown together without design; and
yet there was perfect harmony among them, and a softness and a delicacy
made up of a thousand different brightnesses. There is not, I think, so
much contrast among these colors as might at first appear. The more you
consider them, the more they seem to have one element among them all,
which is the reason that the most brilliant display of them soothes the
observer, instead of exciting him. And I know not whether it be more a
moral effect or a physical one, operating merely on the eye; but it is a
pensive gayety, which causes a sigh often, and never a smile. We never
fancy, for instance, that these gayly clad trees might be changed into
young damsels in holiday attire, and betake themselves to dancing on the
plain. If they were to undergo such a transformation, they would surely
arrange themselves in funeral procession, and go sadly along, with their
purple and scarlet and golden garments trailing over the withering grass.
When the sunshine falls upon them, they seem to smile; but it is as if
they were heart-broken. But it is in vain for me to attempt to describe
these autumnal brilliancies, or to convey the impression which they make
on me. I have tried a thousand times, and always without the slightest
self-satisfaction. Fortunately there is no need of such a record, for
Nature renews the picture year after year; and even when we shall have
passed away from the world, we can spiritually create these scenes, so
that we may dispense with all efforts to put them into words.
Walden Pond was clear and beautiful as usual. It tempted me to bathe;
and, though the water was thrillingly cold, it was like the thrill of a
happy death. Never was there such transparent water as this. I threw
sticks into it, and saw them float suspended on an almost invisible
medium. It seemed as if the pure air were beneath them, as well as
above. It is fit for baptisms; but one would not wish it to be polluted
by having sins washed into it. None but angels should bathe in it; but
blessed babies might be dipped into its bosom.
In a small and secluded dell that opens upon the most beautiful cove of
the whole lake, there is a little hamlet of huts or shanties, inhabited
by the Irish people who are at work upon the railroad. There are three
or four of these habitations, the very rudest, I should imagine, that
civilized men ever made for themselves,--constructed of rough boards,
with the protruding ends. Against some of them the earth is heaped up to
the roof, or nearly so; and when the grass has had time to sprout upon
them, they will look like small natural hillocks, or a species of
ant-hills,--something in which Nature has a larger share than man. These
huts are placed beneath the trees, oaks, walnuts, and white-pines,
wherever the trunks give them space to stand; and by thus adapting
themselves to natural interstices, instead of making new ones, they do
not break or disturb the solitude and seclusion of the place. Voices are
heard, and the shouts and laughter of children, who play about like the
sunbeams that come down through the branches. Women are washing in open
spaces, and long lines of whitened clothes are extended from tree to
tree, fluttering and gambolling in the breeze. A pig, in a sty even more
extemporary than the shanties, is grunting and poking his snout through
the clefts of his habitation. The household pots and kettles are seen at
the doors; and a glance within shows the rough benches that serve for
chairs, and the bed upon the floor. The visitor's nose takes note of the
fragrance of a pipe. And yet, with all these homely items, the repose
and sanctity of the old wood do not seem to be destroyed or profaned. It
overshadows these poor people, and assimilates them somehow or other to
the character of its natural inhabitants. Their presence did not shock
me any more than if I had merely discovered a squirrel's nest in a tree.
To be sure, it is a torment to see the great, high, ugly embankment of
the railroad, which is here thrusting itself into the lake, or along its
margin, in close vicinity to this picturesque little hamlet. I have
seldom seen anything more beautiful than the cove on the border of which
the huts are situated; and the more I looked, the lovelier it grew. The
trees overshadowed it deeply; but on one side there was some brilliant
shrubbery which seemed to light up the whole picture with the effect of a
sweet and melancholy smile. I felt as if spirits were there,--or as if
these shrubs had a spiritual life. In short, the impression was
indefinable; and, after gazing and musing a good while, I retraced my
steps through the Irish hamlet, and plodded on along a wood-path.
According to my invariable custom, I mistook my way, and, emerging upon
the road, I turned my back instead of my face towards Concord, and walked
on very diligently till a guide-board informed me of my mistake. I then
turned about, and was shortly overtaken by an old yeoman in a chaise, who
kindly offered me a drive, and soon set me down in the village.
[EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS.]
Salem, April 14th, 1844.--. . . . I went to George Hillard's office, and
he spoke with immitigable resolution of the necessity of my going to dine
with Longfellow before returning to Concord; but I have an almost
miraculous power of escaping from necessities of this kind. Destiny
itself has often been worsted in the attempt to get me out to dinner.
Possibly, however, I may go. Afterwards I called on Colonel Hall, who
held me long in talk about politics and other sweetmeats. Then I
stepped into a book auction, not to buy, but merely to observe, and,
after a few moments, who should come in, with a smile as sweet as sugar
(though savoring rather of molasses), but, to my horror and petrifaction,
---- ------! I anticipated a great deal of bore and botheration; but,
through Heaven's mercy, he merely spoke a few words, and left me. This
is so unlike his deportment in times past, that I suspect "The Celestial
Railroad" must have given him a pique; and, if so, I shall feel as if
Providence had sufficiently rewarded me for that pious labor.
In the course of the forenoon I encountered Mr. Howes in the street. He
looked most exceedingly depressed, and, pressing my hand with peculiar
emphasis, said that he was in great affliction, having just heard of his
son George's death in Cuba. He seemed encompassed and overwhelmed by
this misfortune, and walks the street as in a heavy cloud of his own
grief, forth from which he extended his hand to meet my grasp. I
expressed my sympathy, which I told him I was now the more capable of
feeling in a father's suffering, as being myself the father of a little
girl,--and, indeed, the being a parent does give one the freedom of a
wider range of sorrow as well as of happiness. He again pressed my hand,
and left me. . . .
When I got to Salem, there was great joy, as you may suppose. . . .
Mother hinted an apprehension that poor baby would be spoilt, whereupon I
irreverently observed that, having spoiled her own three children, it was
natural for her to suppose that all other parents would do the same; when
she averred that it was impossible to spoil such children as E---- and I,
because she had never been able to do anything with us. . . . I could
hardly convince them that Una had begun to smile so soon. It surprised
my mother, though her own children appear to have been bright specimens
of babyhood.
E---- could walk and talk at nine months old. I do not understand that I
was quite such a miracle of precocity, but should think it not
impossible, inasmuch as precocious boys are said to make stupid men.
May 27th, 1844.--. . . . My cook fills his office admirably. He prepared
what I must acknowledge to be the best dish of fried fish and potatoes
for dinner to-day that I ever tasted in this house. I scarcely
recognized the fish of our own river. I make him get all the dinners,
while I confine myself to the much lighter task of breakfast and tea. He
also takes his turn in washing the dishes.
We had a very pleasant dinner at Longfellow's, and I liked Mrs.
Longfellow very much. The dinner was late and we sat long; so that
C---- and I did not get to Concord till half past nine o'clock, and truly
the old Manse seemed somewhat dark and desolate. The next morning George
Prescott came with Una's Lion, who greeted me very affectionately, but
whined and moaned as if he missed somebody who should have been here. I
am not quite so strict as I should be in keeping him out of the house;
but I commiserate him and myself, for are we not both of us bereaved?
C----, whom I can no more keep from smoking than I could the kitchen
chimney, has just come into the study with a cigar, which might perfume
this letter and make you think it came from my own enormity, so I may as
well stop here.
May 29th.--C---- is leaving me, to my unspeakable relief; for he has had
a bad cold, which caused him to be much more troublesome and less amusing
than might otherwise have been the case.
May 31st.--. . . . I get along admirably, and am at this moment
superintending the corned beef, which has been on the fire, as it appears
to me, ever since the beginning of time, and shows no symptom of being
done before the crack of doom. Mrs. Hale says it must boil till it
becomes tender; and so it shall, if I can find wood to keep the fire
a-going.
Meantime, I keep my station in the dining-room, and read or write as
composedly as in my own study. Just now, there came a very important rap
at the front door, and I threw down a smoked herring which I had begun to
eat, as there is no hope of the corned beef to-day, and went to admit the
visitor. Who should it be but Ben B------, with a very peculiar and
mysterious grin upon his face! He put into my hand a missive directed to
"Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne." It contained a little bit of card, signifying
that Dr. L. F------ and Miss C. B------ receive their friends Thursday
eve, June 6. I am afraid I shall be too busy washing my dishes to pay
many visits. The washing of dishes does seem to me the most absurd and
unsatisfactory business that I ever undertook. If, when once washed,
they would remain clean for ever and ever (which they ought in all reason
to do, considering how much trouble it is), there would be less occasion
to grumble; but no sooner is it done, than it requires to be done again.
On the whole, I have come to the resolution not to use more than one dish
at each meal. However, I moralize deeply on this and other matters, and
have discovered that all the trouble and affliction in the world come
from the necessity of cleansing away our earthly stains.
I ate the last morsel of bread yesterday, and congratulate myself on
being now reduced to the fag-end of necessity. Nothing worse can happen,
according to ordinary modes of thinking, than to want bread; but, like
most afflictions, it is more in prospect than reality. I found one
cracker in the tureen, and exulted over it as if it had been so much
gold. However, I have sent a petition to Mrs. P------ stating my
destitute condition, and imploring her succor; and, till it arrive, I
shall keep myself alive on herrings and apples, together with part of a
pint of milk, which I share with Leo. He is my great trouble now, though
an excellent companion too. But it is not easy to find food for him,
unless I give him what is fit for Christians,--though, for that matter,
he appears to be as good a Christian as most laymen, or even as some of
the clergy. I fried some pouts and eels, yesterday, on purpose for him,
for he does not like raw fish. They were very good, but I should hardly
have taken the trouble on my own account.
George P------ has just come to say that Mrs. P------ has no bread at
present, and is gone away this afternoon, but that she will send me some
to-morrow. I mean to have a regular supply from the same source. . . .
You cannot imagine how much the presence of Leo relieves the feeling of
perfect loneliness. He insists upon being in the room with me all the
time, except at night, when he sleeps in the shed, and I do not find
myself severe enough to drive him out. He accompanies me likewise in all
my walks to the village and elsewhere; and, in short, keeps at my heels
all the time, except when I go down cellar. Then he stands at the head
of the stairs and howls, as if he never expected to see me again. He is
evidently impressed with the present solitude of our old abbey, both on
his own account and mine, and feels that he may assume a greater degree
of intimacy than would be otherwise allowable. He will be easily brought
within the old regulations after your return.
P. S. 3 o'clock.--The beef is done!!!
Concord. The old Manse. June 2d.--. . . . Everything goes on well with
me. At the time of writing my last letter, I was without bread. Well,
just at supper-time came Mrs. B------ with a large covered dish, which
proved to contain a quantity of specially good flapjacks, piping hot,
prepared, I suppose, by the fair hands of Miss Martha or Miss Abby, for
Mrs. P------ was not at home. They served me both for supper and
breakfast; and I thanked Providence and the young ladies, and compared
myself to the prophet fed by ravens,--though the simile does rather more
than justice to myself, and not enough to the generous donors of the
flapjacks. The next morning, Mrs. P------ herself brought two big loaves
of bread, which will last me a week, unless I have some guests to provide
for. I have likewise found a hoard of crackers in one of the covered
dishes; so that the old castle is sufficiently provisioned to stand a
long siege. The corned beef is exquisitely done, and as tender as a
young lady's heart, all owing to my skilful cookery; for I consulted Mrs.
Hale at every step, and precisely followed her directions. To say the
truth, I look upon it as such a masterpiece in its way, that it seems
irreverential to eat it. Things on which so much thought and labor are
bestowed should surely be immortal. . . . Leo and I attended divine
services this morning in a temple not made with hands. We went to the
farthest extremity of Peter's path, and there lay together under an oak,
on the verge of the broad meadow.
Concord, June 6th.--. . . . Mr. F------ arrived yesterday, and appeared
to be in most excellent health, and as happy as the sunshine. About the
first thing he did was to wash the dishes; and he is really indefatigable
in the kitchen, so that I am quite a gentleman of leisure. Previous to
his arrival, I had kindled no fire for four entire days, and had lived
all that time on the corned beef, except one day, when Ellery and I went
down the river on a fishing excursion. Yesterday, we boiled some lamb,
which we shall have cold for dinner to-day. This morning, Mr. F------
fried a sumptuous dish of eels for breakfast. Mrs. P------ continues to
be the instrument of Providence, and yesterday sent us a very nice plum.
pudding,
I have told Mr. F------ that I shall be engaged in the forenoons, and he
is to manage his own occupations and amusements during that time. . . .
Leo, I regret to say, has fallen under suspicion of a very great crime,--
nothing less than murder,--a fowl crime it may well be called, for it is
the slaughter of one of Mr. Hayward's hens. He has been seen to chase
the hens, several times, and the other day one of them was found dead.
Possibly he may be innocent, and, as there is nothing but circumstantial
evidence, it must be left with his own conscience.
Meantime, Mr. Hayward, or somebody else, seems to have given him such a
whipping that he is absolutely stiff, and walks about like a rheumatic
old gentleman. I am afraid, too, that he is an incorrigible thief.
Ellery says he has seen him coming up the avenue with a calf's whole head
in his mouth. How he came by it is best known to Leo himself. If he
were a dog of fair character, it would be no more than charity to
conclude that he had either bought it, or had it given to him; but with
the other charges against him, it inclines me to great distrust of his
moral principles. Be that as it may, he managed his stock of provisions
very thriftily,--burying it in the earth, and eating a portion of it
whenever he felt an appetite. If he insists upon living by highway
robbery, it would be well to make him share his booty with us. . . .
June 10th.--. . . . Mr. F------ is in perfect health, and absolutely in
the seventh heaven, and he talks and talks and talks and talks; and I
listen and listen and listen with a patience for which, in spite of all
my sins, I firmly expect to be admitted to the mansions of the blessed.
And there is really a contentment in being able to make this poor,
world-worn, hopeless, half-crazy man so entirely comfortable as he seems
to be here. He is an admirable cook. We had some roast veal and a baked
rice-pudding on Sunday, really a fine dinner, and cooked in better style
than Mary can equal; and George Curtis came to dine with us. Like all
male cooks, he is rather expensive, and has a tendency to the consumption
of eggs in his various concoctions. . . . I have had my dreams of
splendor; but never expected to arrive at the dignity of keeping a
man-cook. At first we had three meals a day, but now only two. . . .
* * * * * *
We dined at Mr. Emerson's the other day, in company with Mr. Hedge. Mr.
Bradford has been to see us two or three times. . . . He looks thinner
than ever.
[PASSAGES FROM NOTE-BOOKS.]
May 5th, 1850.--I left Portsmouth last Wednesday, at the quarter past
twelve, by the Concord Railroad, which at New Market unites with the
Boston and Maine Railroad about ten miles from Portsmouth. The station
at New Market is a small wooden building, with one railroad passing on
one side, and another on another, and the two crossing each other at
right angles. At a little distance stands a black, large, old, wooden
church, with a square tower, and broken windows, and a great rift through
the middle of the roof, all in a stage of dismal ruin and decay. A
farm-house of the old style, with a long sloping roof, and as black as
the church, stands on the opposite side of the road, with its barns; and
these are all the buildings in sight of the railroad station. On the
Concord rail, in the train of cars, with the locomotive puffing, and
blowing off its steam, and making a great bluster in that lonely place,
while along the other railroad stretches the desolate track, with the
withered weeds growing up betwixt the two lines of iron, all so desolate.
And anon you hear a low thunder running along these iron rails; it grows
louder; an object is seen afar off; it approaches rapidly, and comes down
upon you like fate, swift and inevitable. In a moment, it dashes along
in front of the station-house, and comes to a pause, the locomotive
hissing and fuming in its eagerness to go on. How much life has come at
once into this lonely place! Four or five long cars, each, perhaps, with
fifty people in it, reading newspapers, reading pamphlet novels,
chattering, sleeping; all this vision of passing life! A moment passes,
while the luggage-men are putting on the trunks and packages; then the
bell strikes a few times, and away goes the train again, quickly out of
sight of those who remain behind, while a solitude of hours again broods
over the station-house, which, for an instant, has thus been put in
communication with far-off cities, and then remains by itself, with the
old, black, ruinous church, and the black old farm-house, both built
years and years ago, before railroads were ever dreamed of. Meantime,
the passenger, stepping from the solitary station into the train, finds
himself in the midst of a new world all in a moment. He rushes out of
the solitude into a village; thence, through woods and hills, into a
large inland town; beside the Merrimack, which has overflowed its banks,
and eddies along, turbid as a vast mud-puddle, sometimes almost laving
the doorstep of a house, and with trees standing in the flood half-way up
their trunks. Boys, with newspapers to sell, or apples and lozenges;
many passengers departing and entering, at each new station; the more
permanent passenger, with his check or ticket stuck in his hat-band,
where the conductor may see it. A party of girls, playing at ball with a
young man. Altogether it is a scene of stirring life, with which a
person who had been waiting long for the train to come might find it
difficult at once to amalgamate himself.
It is a sombre, brooding day, and begins to rain as the cars pass onward.
In a little more than two hours we find ourselves in Boston surrounded by
eager hackmen.
Yesterday I went to the Athenaeum, and, being received with great
courtesy by Mr. Folsom, was shown all over the edifice from the very
bottom to the very top, whence I looked out over Boston. It is an
admirable point of view; but, it being an overcast and misty day, I did
not get the full advantage of it. The library is in a noble hall, and
looks splendidly with its vista of alcoves. The most remarkable sight,
however, was Mr. Hildreth, writing his history of the United States. He
sits at a table, at the entrance of one of the alcoves, with his books
and papers before him, as quiet and absorbed as he would be in the
loneliest study; now consulting an authority; now penning a sentence or a
paragraph, without seeming conscious of anything but his subject. It is
very curious thus to have a glimpse of a book in process of creation
under one's eye. I know not how many hours he sits there; but while I
saw him he was a pattern of diligence and unwandering thought. He had
taken himself out of the age, and put himself, I suppose, into that about
which he was writing. Being deaf, he finds it much the easier to
abstract himself. Nevertheless, it is a miracle. He is a thin,
middle-aged man, in black, with an intelligent face, rather sensible than
scholarlike.