ADDRESS

TO THE INHABITANTS OF CONCORD AT THE CONSECRATION OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

SEPTEMBER 29, 1855

CITIZENS AND FRIENDS: The committee to whom was confided the charge of

carrying out the wishes of the town in opening the cemetery, having

proceeded so far as to enclose the ground, and cut the necessary roads,

and having laid off as many lots as are likely to be wanted at present,

have thought it fit to call the inhabitants together, to show you the

ground, now that the new avenues make its advantages appear; and to put

it at your disposition.

They have thought that the taking possession of this field ought to be

marked by a public meeting and religious rites: and they have requested

me to say a few words which the serious and tender occasion inspires.

And this concourse of friendly company assures me that they have rightly

interpreted your wishes. [Here followed, in the address, about three

pages of matter which Mr. Emerson used later in his essay on Immortality,

which may be found in the volume _Letters and Social Aims_, beginning on

page 324, “The credence of men,” etc., and ending on pages 326-27 with

the sentence, “Meantime the true disciples saw, through the letters, the

doctrine of eternity which dissolved the poor corpse and nature also, and

gave grandeur to the passing hour.”]

In these times we see the defects of our old theology; its inferiority

to our habit of thoughts. Men go up and down; Science is popularized;

the irresistible democracy—shall I call it?—of chemistry, of vegetation,

which recomposes for new life every decomposing particle,—the race never

dying, the individual never spared,—have impressed on the mind of the age

the futility of these old arts of preserving. We give our earth to earth.

We will not jealously guard a few atoms under immense marbles, selfishly

and impossibly sequestering it from the vast circulations of Nature, but,

at the same time, fully admitting the divine hope and love which belong

to our nature, wishing to make one spot tender to our children, who shall

come hither in the next century to read the dates of these lives.

Our people accepting this lesson from science, yet touched by the

tenderness which Christianity breathes, have found a mean in the

consecration of gardens. A simultaneous movement has, in a hundred

cities and towns in this country, selected some convenient piece of

undulating ground with pleasant woods and waters; every family chooses

its own clump of trees; and we lay the corpse in these leafy colonnades.

A grove of trees,—what benefit or ornament is so fair and great? they

make the landscape; they keep the earth habitable; their roots run

down, like cattle, to the water-courses; their heads expand to feed the

atmosphere. The life of a tree is a hundred and a thousand years; its

decays ornamental; its repairs self-made: they grow when we sleep, they

grew when we were unborn. Man is a moth among these longevities. He

plants for the next millennium. Shadows haunt them; all that ever lived

about them cling to them. You can almost see behind these pines the

Indian with bow and arrow lurking yet exploring the traces of the old

trail.

Modern taste has shown that there is no ornament, no architecture

alone, so sumptuous as well disposed woods and waters, where art has

been employed only to remove superfluities, and bring out the natural

advantages. In cultivated grounds one sees the picturesque and opulent

effect of the familiar shrubs, barberry, lilac, privet and thorns, when

they are disposed in masses, and in large spaces. What work of man will

compare with the plantation of a park? It dignifies life. It is a seat

for friendship, counsel, taste and religion. I do not wonder that they

are the chosen badge and point of pride of European nobility. But how

much more are they needed by us, anxious, overdriven Americans, to stanch

and appease that fury of temperament which our climate bestows!

This tract fortunately lies adjoining to the Agricultural Society’s

ground, to the New Burial Ground, to the Court House and the Town House,

making together a large block of public ground, permanent property of the

town and county,—all the ornaments of either adding so much value to all.

I suppose all of us will readily admit the value of parks and cultivated

grounds to the pleasure and education of the people, but I have heard

it said here that we would gladly spend for a park for the living, but

not for a cemetery; a garden for the living, a home of thought and

friendship. Certainly the living need it more than the dead; indeed, to

speak precisely, it is given to the dead for the reaction of benefit on

the living. But if the direct regard to the living be thought expedient,

that is also in your power. This ground is happily so divided by Nature

as to admit of this relation between the Past and the Present. In the

valley where we stand will be the Monuments. On the other side of the

ridge, towards the town, a portion of the land is in full view of the

cheer of the village and is out of sight of the Monuments; it admits of

being reserved for secular purposes; for games,—not such as the Greeks

honored the dead with, but for games of education; the distribution

of school prizes; the meeting of teachers; patriotic eloquence, the

utterance of the principles of national liberty to private, social,

literary or religious fraternities. Here we may establish that most

agreeable of all museums, and agreeable to the temper of our times,—an

_Arboretum_,—wherein may be planted, by the taste of every citizen,

one tree, with its name recorded in a book; every tree that is native

to Massachusetts, or will grow in it; so that every child may be shown

growing, side by side, the eleven oaks of Massachusetts; and the twenty

willows; the beech, which we have allowed to die out of the eastern

counties; and here the vast firs of California and Oregon.

This spot for twenty years has borne the name of _Sleepy Hollow_. Its

seclusion from the village in its immediate neighborhood had made it

to all the inhabitants an easy retreat on a Sabbath day, or a summer

twilight, and it was inevitably chosen by them when the design of a new

cemetery was broached, if it did not suggest the design, as the fit place

for their final repose. In all the multitudes of woodlands and hillsides,

which within a few years have been laid out with a similar design, I have

not known one so fitly named. _Sleepy Hollow._ In this quiet valley, as

in the palm of Nature’s hand, we shall sleep well when we have finished

our day. What is the Earth itself but a surface scooped into nooks and

caves of slumber—according to the Eastern fable, a bridge full of holes,

into one or other of which all the passengers sink to silence? Nay, when

I think of the mystery of life, its round of illusions, our ignorance of

its beginning or its end, the speed of the changes of that glittering

dream we call existence,—I think sometimes that the vault of the sky

arching there upward, under which our busy being is whirled, is only a

Sleepy Hollow, with path of Suns, instead of foot-paths; and Milky Ways,

for truck-roads.

The ground has the peaceful character that belongs to this town;—no lofty

crags, no glittering cataracts;—but I hold that every part of Nature is

handsome when not deformed by bad Art. Bleak sea-rocks and sea-downs

and blasted heaths have their own beauty; and though we make much ado in

our praises of Italy or Andes, Nature makes not so much difference. The

morning, the moonlight, the spring day, are magical painters, and can

glorify a meadow or a rock.

But we must look forward also, and make ourselves a thousand years

old; and when these acorns, that are falling at our feet, are oaks

overshadowing our children in a remote century, this mute green bank will

be full of history: the good, the wise and great will have left their

names and virtues on the trees; heroes, poets, beauties, sanctities,

benefactors, will have made the air timeable and articulate.

And hither shall repair, to this modest spot of God’s earth, every sweet

and friendly influence; the beautiful night and beautiful day will come

in turn to sit upon the grass. Our use will not displace the old tenants.

The well-beloved birds will not sing one song the less, the high-holding

woodpecker, the meadow-lark, the oriole, robin, purple finch, bluebird,

thrush and red-eyed warbler, the heron, the bittern will find out the

hospitality and protection from the gun of this asylum, and will seek the

waters of the meadow; and in the grass, and by the pond, the locust, the

cricket and the hyla, shall shrilly play.

We shall bring hither the body of the dead, but how shall we catch the

escaped soul? Here will burn for us, as the oath of God, the sublime

belief. I have heard that death takes us away from ill things, not from

good. I have heard that when we pronounce the name of man, we pronounce

the belief of immortality. All great natures delight in stability; all

great men find eternity affirmed in the promise of their faculties.

Why is the fable of the Wandering Jew agreeable to men, but because

they want more time and land to execute their thoughts in? Life is not

long enough for art, nor long enough for friendship. The evidence from

intellect is as valid as the evidence from love. The being that can share

a thought and feeling so sublime as confidence in truth is no mushroom.

Our dissatisfaction with any other solution is the blazing evidence of

immortality.