I cannot believe all these stories about ------, because such a rascal
never could be sustained and countenanced by respectable men. I take him
to be neither better nor worse than the average of his tribe. However, I
intend to have all my copyrights taken out in my own name; and, if he
cheat me once, I will have nothing more to do with him, but will
straightway be cheated by some other publisher,--that being, of course,
the only alternative.
Governor Shirley's young French wife might be the subject of one of the
cuts. She should sit in the great chair,--perhaps with a dressing-glass
before her,--and arrayed in all manner of fantastic finery, and with an
outre French air, while the old Governor is leaning fondly over her, and.
a puritanic councillor or two are manifesting their disgust in the
background. A negro footman and a French waiting-maid might be in
attendance.
In Liberty Tree might be a vignette, representing the chair in a very
shattered, battered, and forlorn condition, after it had been ejected
from Hutchinson's house. This would serve to impress the reader with the
woful vicissitudes of sublunary things. . . . .
Did you ever behold such a vile scribble as I write since I became a
farmer? My chirography always was abominable, but now it is outrageous.
Brook Farm, September 22d, 1841.--. . . . Here I am again, slowly
adapting myself to the life of this queer community, whence I seem to
have been absent half a lifetime, so utterly have I grown apart from the
spirit, and manners of the place. . . . . I was most kindly received; and
the fields and woods looked very pleasant in the bright sunshine of the
day before yesterday. I have a friendlier disposition towards the farm,
now that I am no longer obliged to toil in its stubborn furrows.
Yesterday and to-day, however, the weather has been intolerable,--cold,
chill, sullen, so that it is impossible to be on kindly terms with Mother
Nature. . . . .
I doubt whether I shall succeed in writing another volume of
Grandfather's Library while I remain here. I have not the sense of
perfect seclusion which has always been essential to my power of
producing anything. It is true, nobody intrudes into my room; but still
I cannot be quiet. Nothing here is settled; everything is but beginning
to arrange itself, and though I would seem to have little to do with
aught beside my own thoughts, still I cannot but partake of the ferment
around me. My mind will not be abstracted. I must observe, and think,
and feel, and content myself with catching glimpses of things which may
be wrought out hereafter. Perhaps it will be quite as well that I find
myself unable to set seriously about literary occupation for the present.
It will be good to have a longer interval between my labor of the body
and that of the mind. I shall work to the better purpose after the
beginning of November. Meantime I shall see these people and their
enterprise under a new point of view, and perhaps be able to determine
whether we have any call to cast in our lot among them.
* * * * * *
I do wish the weather would put off this sulky mood. Had it not been for
the warmth and brightness of Monday, when I arrived here, I should have
supposed that all sunshine had left Brook Farm forever. I have no
disposition to take long walks in such a state of the sky; nor have I any
buoyancy of spirit. I am a very dull person just at this time.
September 25th.--. . . . One thing is certain. I cannot and will not
spend the winter here. The time would be absolutely thrown away so far
as regards any literary labor to be performed. . . . .
The intrusion of an outward necessity into labors of the imagination and
intellect is, to me, very painful. . . . .
I had rather a pleasant walk to a distant meadow a day or two ago, and we
found white and purple grapes in great abundance, ripe, and gushing with
rich, pure juice when the hand pressed the clusters. Did you know what
treasures of wild grapes there are in this land? If we dwell here, we
will make our own wine. . . . .
September 27th.--. . . . Now, as to the affair with ------, I fully
confide in your opinion that he intends to make an unequal bargain with
poor, simple, innocent me,--never having doubted this myself. But how is
he to accomplish it? I am not, nor shall be, the least in his power,
whereas he is, to a certain extent, in mine. He might announce his
projected Library, with me for the editor, in all the newspapers in the
universe; but still I could not be bound to become the editor, unless by
my own act; nor should I have the slightest scruple in refusing to be so,
at the last moment, if he persisted in treating me with injustice. Then,
as for his printing Grandfather's Chair, I have the copyright in my own
hands, and could and would prevent the sale, or make him account to me
for the profits, in case of need. Meantime he is making arrangements for
publishing the Library, contracting with other booksellers, and with
printers and engravers, and, with every step, making it more difficult
for himself to draw back. I, on the other hand, do nothing which I
should not do if the affair with ------ were at an end; for, if I write a
book, it will be just as available for some other publisher as for him.
Instead of getting me into his power by this delay, he has trusted to my
ignorance and simplicity, and has put himself in my power.
He is not insensible of this. At our last interview, he himself
introduced the subject of the bargain, and appeared desirous to close it.
But I was not prepared,--among other reasons, because I do not yet see
what materials I shall have for the republications in the Library; the
works that he has shown me being ill adapted for that purpose; and I wish
first to see some French and German books which he has sent for to New
York. And, before concluding the bargain, I have promised George Hillard
to consult him, and let him do the business. Is not this consummate
discretion? and am I not perfectly safe? . . . . I look at the matter
with perfect composure, and see all round my own position, and know that
it is impregnable.
* * * * * *
I was elected to two high offices last night,--viz. to be a trustee of
the Brook Farm estate, and Chairman of the Committee of Finance! . . . .
From the nature of my office, I shall have the chief direction of all the
money affairs of the community, the making of bargains, the supervision
of receipts and expenditures, etc., etc., etc. . . . .
My accession to these august offices does not at all decide the question
of my remaining here permanently. I told Mr. Ripley that I could not
spend the winter at the farm, and that it was quite uncertain whether I
returned in the spring. . . . .
Take no part, I beseech you, in these magnetic miracles. I am unwilling
that a power should be exercised on you of which we know neither the
origin nor consequence, and the phenomena of which seem rather calculated
to bewilder us than to teach us any truths about the present or future
state of being. . . . . Supposing that the power arises from the
transfusion of one spirit into another, it seems to me that the
sacredness of an individual is violated by it; there would be an intruder
into the holy of holies. . . . . I have no faith whatever, that people
are raised to the seventh heaven, or to any heaven at all, or that they
gain any insight into the mysteries of life beyond death by means of this
strange science. Without distrusting that the phenomena have really
occurred, I think that they are to be accounted for as the result of a
material and physical, not of a spiritual, influence. Opium has produced
many a brighter vision of heaven, I fancy, and just as susceptible of
proof as these. They are dreams. . . . . And what delusion can be more
lamentable and mischievous, than to mistake the physical and material for
the spiritual? what so miserable as to lose the soul's true, though
hidden knowledge and consciousness of heaven in the mist of an earth-born
vision? If we would know what heaven is before we come thither, let us
retire into the depths of our own spirits, and we shall find it there
among holy thoughts and feelings; but let us not degrade high heaven
and its inhabitants into any such symbols and forms as Miss L------
describes; do not let an earthly effluence from Mrs. P------'s corporeal
system bewilder and perhaps contaminate something spiritual and sacred.
I should as soon think of seeking revelations of the future state in the
rottenness of the grave,--where so many do seek it. . . . .
The view which I take of this matter is caused by no want of faith in
mysteries; but from a deep reverence of the soul, and of the mysteries
which it knows within itself, but never transmits to the earthly eye and
ear. Keep the imagination sane,--that is one of the truest conditions of
communion with heaven.
Brook Farm, September 26th.--A walk this morning along the Needham road.
A clear, breezy morning, after nearly a week of cloudy and showery
weather. The grass is much more fresh and vivid than it was last month,
and trees still retain much of their verdure, though here and there is a
shrub or a bough arrayed in scarlet and gold. Along the road, in the
midst of a beaten track, I saw mushrooms or toadstools which had sprung
up probably during the night.
The houses in this vicinity are, many of them, quite antique, with long,
sloping roots, commencing at a few feet from the ground, and ending in a
lofty peak. Some of them have huge old elms overshadowing the yard. One
may see the family sleigh near the door, it having stood there all
through the summer sunshine, and perhaps with weeds sprouting through the
crevices of its bottom, the growth of the months since snow departed.
Old barns, patched and supported by timbers leaning against the sides,
and stained with the excrement of past ages.
In the forenoon I walked along the edge of the meadow towards Cow Island.
Large trees, almost a wood, principally of pine with the green
pasture-glades intermixed, and cattle feeding. They cease grazing when
an intruder appears, and look at him with long and wary observation, then
bend their heads to the pasture again. Where the firm ground of the
pasture ceases, the meadow begins, loose, spongy, yielding to the tread,
sometimes permitting the foot to sink into black mud, or perhaps over
ankles in water. Cattle-paths, somewhat firmer than the general surface,
traverse the dense shrubbery which has overgrown the meadow. This
shrubbery consists of small birch, elders, maples, and other trees, with
here and there white-pines of larger growth. The whole is tangled and
wild and thick-set, so that it is necessary to part the nestling stems
and branches, and go crashing through. There are creeping plants of
various sorts which clamber up the trees; and some of them have changed
color in the slight frosts which already have befallen these low grounds,
so that one sees a spiral wreath of scarlet leaves twining up to the top
of a green tree, intermingling its bright hues with their verdure, as if
all were of one piece. Sometimes, instead of scarlet, the spiral wreath
is of a golden yellow.
Within the verge of the meadow, mostly near the firm shore of pasture
ground, I found several grapevines, hung with an abundance of large
purple grapes. The vines had caught hold of maples and alders, and
climbed to the summit, curling round about and interwreathing their
twisted folds in so intimate a manner that it was not easy to tell the
parasite from the supporting tree or shrub. Sometimes the same vine had
enveloped several shrubs, and caused a strange, tangled confusion,
converting all these poor plants to the purpose of its own support, and
hindering their growing to their own benefit and convenience. The broad
vine-leaves, some of them yellow or yellowish-tinged, were seen
apparently growing on the same stems with the silver-mapled leaves, and
those of the other shrubs, thus married against their will by the
conjugal twine; and the purple clusters of grapes hung down from above
and in the midst so that one might "gather grapes," if not "of thorns,"
yet of as alien bushes.
One vine had ascended almost to the tip of a large white-pine, spreading
its leaves and hanging its purple clusters among all its boughs,--still
climbing and clambering, as if it would not be content till it had
crowned the very summit with a wreath of its own foliage and bunches of
grapes. I mounted high into the tree, and ate the fruit there, while the
vine wreathed still higher into the depths above my head. The grapes
were sour, being not yet fully ripe. Some of them, however, were sweet
and pleasant.
September 27th.--A ride to Brighton yesterday morning, it being the day
of the weekly cattle-fair. William Allen and myself went in a wagon,
carrying a calf to be sold at the fair. The calf had not had his
breakfast, as his mother had preceded him to Brighton, and he kept
expressing his hunger and discomfort by loud, sonorous baas, especially
when we passed any cattle in the fields or in the road. The cows,
grazing within hearing, expressed great interest, and some of them came
galloping to the roadside to behold the calf. Little children, also, on
their way to school, stopped to laugh and point at poor little Bessie.
He was a prettily behaved urchin, and kept thrusting his hairy muzzle
between William and myself, apparently wishing to be stroked and patted.
It was an ugly thought that his confidence in human nature, and nature in
general, was to be so ill rewarded as by cutting his throat, and selling
him in quarters. This, I suppose, has been his fate before now!
It was a beautiful morning, clear as crystal, with an invigorating, but
not disagreeable coolness. The general aspect of the country was as
green as summer,--greener indeed than mid or latter summer,--and there
were occasional interminglings of the brilliant hues of autumn, which
made the scenery more beautiful, both visibly and in sentiment. We saw
no absolutely mean nor poor-looking abodes along the road. There were
warm and comfortable farm-houses, ancient, with the porch, the sloping
roof, the antique peak, the clustered chimney, of old times; and modern
cottages, smart and tasteful; and villas, with terraces before them, and
dense shade, and wooden urns on pillars, and other such tokens of
gentility. Pleasant groves of oak and walnut, also, there were,
sometimes stretching along valleys, sometimes ascending a hill and
clothing it all round, so as to make it a great clump of verdure.
Frequently we passed people with cows, oxen, sheep, or pigs for Brighton
Fair.
On arriving at Brighton, we found the village thronged with people,
horses, and vehicles. Probably there is no place in New England where
the character of an agricultural population may be so well studied.
Almost all the farmers within a reasonable distance make it a point, I
suppose, to attend Brighton Fair pretty frequently, if not on business,
yet as amateurs. Then there are all the cattle-people and butchers who
supply the Boston market, and dealers from far and near; and every man
who has a cow or a yoke of oxen, whether to sell or buy, goes to Brighton
on Monday. There were a thousand or two of cattle in the extensive pens
belonging to the tavern-keeper, besides many that were standing about.
One could hardly stir a step without running upon the horns of one
dilemma or another, in the shape of ox, cow, bull, or ram. The yeomen
appeared to be more in their element than I have ever seen them anywhere
else, except, indeed, at labor,--more so than at musterings and such
gatherings of amusement. And yet this was a sort of festal day, as well
as a day of business. Most of the people were of a bulky make, with much
bone and muscle, and some good store of fat, as if they had lived on
flesh-diet; with mottled faces, too, hard and red, like those of persons
who adhered to the old fashion of spirit-drinking. Great, round-paunched
country squires were there too, sitting under the porch of the tavern, or
waddling about, whip in hand, discussing the points of the cattle. There
were also gentlemen-farmers, neatly, trimly, and fashionably dressed, in
handsome surtouts, and trousers strapped under their boots. Yeomen, too,
in their black or blue Sunday suits, cut by country tailors, and
awkwardly worn. Others (like myself) had on the blue stuff frocks which
they wear in the fields, the most comfortable garments that ever were
invented. Country loafers were among the throng,--men who looked
wistfully at the liquors in the bar, and waited for some friend to invite
them to drink,--poor, shabby, out-at-elbowed devils. Also, dandies from
the city, corseted and buckramed, who had come to see the humors of
Brighton Fair. All these, and other varieties of mankind, either
thronged the spacious bar-room of the hotel, drinking, smoking, talking,
bargaining, or walked about among the cattle-pens, looking with knowing
eyes at the horned people. The owners of the cattle stood near at hand,
waiting for offers. There was something indescribable in their aspect,
that showed them to be the owners, though they mixed among the crowd.
The cattle, brought from a hundred separate farms, or rather from a
thousand, seemed to agree very well together, not quarrelling in the
least. They almost all had a history, no doubt, if they could but have
told it. The cows had each given her milk to support families,--had
roamed the pastures, and come home to the barn-yard, had been looked upon
as a sort of member of the domestic circle, and was known by a name, as
Brindle or Cherry. The oxen, with their necks bent by the heavy yoke,
had toiled in the plough-field and in haying-time for many years, and
knew their master's stall as well as the master himself knew his own
table. Even the young steers and the little calves had something of
domestic sacredness about them; for children had watched their growth,
and petted them, and played with them. And here they all were, old and
young, gathered from their thousand homes to Brighton Fair; whence the
great chance was that they would go to the slaughter-house, and thence be
transmitted, in sirloins, joints, and such pieces, to the tables of the
Boston folk.
William Allen had come to buy four little pigs to take the places of four
who have now grown large at our farm, and are to be fatted and killed
within a few weeks. There were several hundreds, in pens appropriated to
their use, grunting discordantly, and apparently in no very good humor
with their companions or the world at large. Most or many of these pigs
had been imported from the State of New York. The drovers set out with a
large number, and peddle them along the road till they arrive at Brighton
with the remainder. William selected four, and bought them at five cents
per pound. These poor little porkers were forthwith seized by the tails,
their legs tied, and they thrown into our wagon, where they kept up a
continual grunt and squeal till we got home. Two of them were yellowish,
or light gold-color, the other two were black and white speckled; and all
four of very piggish aspect and deportment. One of them snapped at
William's finger most spitefully, and bit it to the bone.
All the scene of the Fair was very characteristic and peculiar,--cheerful
and lively, too, in the bright, warm sun. I must see it again; for it
ought to be studied.
September 28th.--A picnic party in the woods, yesterday, in honor of
little Frank Dana's birthday, he being six years old. I strolled out,
after dinner, with Mr. Bradford, and in a lonesome glade we met the
apparition of an Indian chief, dressed in appropriate costume of blanket,
feathers, and paint, and armed with a musket. Almost at the same time, a
young gypsy fortune-teller came from among the trees, and proposed to
tell my fortune. While she was doing this, the goddess Diana let fly an
arrow, and hit me smartly in the hand. The fortune-teller and goddess
were in fine contrast, Diana being a blonde, fair, quiet, with a moderate
composure; and the gypsy (O. G.) a bright, vivacious, dark-haired,
rich-complexioned damsel,--both of them very pretty, at least pretty
enough to make fifteen years enchanting. Accompanied by these denizens
of the wild wood, we went onward, and came to a company of fantastic
figures, arranged in a ring for a dance or a game. There was a Swiss
girl, an Indian squaw, a negro of the Jim Crow order, one or two
foresters, and several people in Christian attire, besides children of
all ages. Then followed childish games, in which the grown people took
part with mirth enough,--while I, whose nature it is to be a mere
spectator both of sport and serious business, lay under the trees and
looked on. Meanwhile, Mr. Emerson and Miss Fuller, who arrived an hour
or two before, came forth into the little glade where we were assembled.
Here followed much talk. The ceremonies of the day concluded with a cold
collation of cakes and fruit. All was pleasant enough,--an excellent
piece of work,--"would 't were done!" It has left a fantastic impression
on my memory, this intermingling of wild and fabulous characters with
real and homely ones, in the secluded nook of the woods. I remember
them, with the sunlight breaking through overshadowing branches, and they
appearing and disappearing confusedly,--perhaps starting out of the
earth; as if the every-day laws of nature were suspended for this
particular occasion. There were the children, too, laughing and sporting
about, as if they were at home among such strange shapes,--and anon
bursting into loud uproar of lamentation, when the rude gambols of the
merry archers chanced to overturn them. And apart, with a shrewd, Yankee
observation of the scene, stands our friend Orange, a thick-set, sturdy
figure, enjoying the fun well enough, yet rather laughing with a
perception of its nonsensicalness than at all entering into the spirit of
the thing.
This morning I have been helping to gather apples. The principal farm
labors at this time are ploughing for winter rye, and breaking up the
greensward for next year's crop of potatoes, gathering squashes, and not
much else, except such year-round employments as milking. The crop of
rye, to be sure, is in process of being thrashed, at odd intervals.
I ought to have mentioned among the diverse and incongruous growths of
the picnic party our two Spanish boys from Manilla;--Lucas, with his
heavy features and almost mulatto complexion; and Jose, slighter, with
rather a feminine face,--not a gay, girlish one, but grave, reserved,
eying you sometimes with an earnest but secret expression, and causing
you to question what sort of person he is.
Friday, October 1st.--I have been looking at our four swine,--not of the
last lot, but those in process of fattening. They lie among the clean
rye straw in the sty, nestling close together; for they seem to be beasts
sensitive to the cold, and this is a clear, bright, crystal morning, with
a cool northwest-wind. So there lie these four black swine, as deep
among the straw as they can burrow, the very symbols of slothful ease and
sensuous comfort. They seem to be actually oppressed and overburdened
with comfort. They are quick to notice any one's approach, and utter a
low grunt thereupon,--not drawing a breath for that particular purpose,
but grunting with their ordinary breath,--at the same time turning an
observant, though dull and sluggish eye upon the visitor. They seem to
be involved and buried in their own corporeal substance, and to look
dimly forth at the outer world. They breathe not easily, and yet not
with difficulty nor discomfort; for the very unreadiness and oppression
with which their breath cones appears to make them sensible of the deep
sensual satisfaction which they feel. Swill, the remnant of their last
meal, remains in the trough, denoting that their food is more abundant
than even a hog can demand. Anon they fall asleep, drawing short and
heavy breaths, which heave their huge sides up and down; but at the
slightest noise they sluggishly unclose their eyes, and give another
gentle grunt. They also grunt among themselves, without any external
cause; but merely to express their swinish sympathy. I suppose it is the
knowledge that these four grunters are doomed to die within two or three
weeks that gives them a sort of awfulness in my conception. It makes me
contrast their present gross substance of fleshly life with the
nothingness speedily to come. Meantime the four newly bought pigs are
running about the cow-yard, lean, active, shrewd, investigating
everything, as their nature is. When I throw an apple among them, they
scramble with one another for the prize, and the successful one scampers
away to eat it at leisure. They thrust their snouts into the mud, and
pick a grain of corn out of the rubbish. Nothing within their sphere do
they leave unexamined, grunting all the time with infinite variety of
expression. Their language is the most copious of that of any quadruped,
and, indeed, there is something deeply and indefinably interesting in the
swinish race. They appear the more a mystery the longer one gazes at
them. It seems as if there were an important meaning to them, if one
could but find it out. One interesting trait in them is their perfect
independence of character. They care not for man, and will not adapt
themselves to his notions, as other beasts do; but are true to
themselves, and act out their hoggish nature.
October 7th.--Since Saturday last (it being now Thursday), I have been in
Boston and Salem, and there has been a violent storm and rain during the
whole time. This morning shone as bright as if it meant to make up for
all the dismalness of the past days. Our brook, which in the summer was
no longer a running stream, but stood in pools along its pebbly course,
is now full from one grassy verge to the other, and hurries along with a
murmuring rush. It will continue to swell, I suppose, and in the winter
and spring it will flood all the broad meadows through which it flows.
I have taken a long walk this forenoon along the Needham road, and across
the bridge, thence pursuing a cross-road through the woods, parallel with
the river, which I crossed again at Dedham. Most of the road lay through
a growth of young oaks principally. They still retain their verdure,
though, looking closely in among them, one perceives the broken sunshine
falling on a few sere or bright-hued tufts of shrubbery. In low, marshy
spots, on the verge of the meadows or along the river-side, there is a
much more marked autumnal change. Whole ranges of bushes are there
painted with many variegated lines, not of the brightest tint, but of a
sober cheerfulness. I suppose this is owing more to the late rains than
to the frost; for a heavy rain changes the foliage somewhat at this
season. The first marked frost was seen last Saturday morning. Soon
after sunrise it lay, white as snow, over all the grass, and on the tops
of the fences, and in the yard, on the heap of firewood. On Sunday, I
think, there was a fall of snow, which, however, did not lie on the
ground a moment.
There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots may be lighted on,
and produce so pleasant an effect on the feelings, as now in October.
The sunshine is peculiarly genial; and in sheltered places, as on the
side of a bank, or of a barn or house, one becomes acquainted and
friendly with the sunshine. It seems to be of a kindly and homely
nature. And the green grass, strewn with a few withered leaves, looks
the more green and beautiful for them. In summer or spring, Nature is
farther from one's sympathies.
October 8th.--Another gloomy day, lowering with portents of rain close at
hand. I have walked up into the pastures this morning, and looked about
me a little. The woods present a very diversified appearance just now,
with perhaps more varieties of tint than they are destined to wear at a
somewhat later period. There are some strong yellow hues, and some deep
red; there are innumerable shades of green, some few having the depth of
summer; others, partially changed towards yellow, look freshly verdant
with the delicate tinge of early summer or of May. Then there is the
solemn and dark green of the pines. The effect is, that every tree in
the wood and every bush among the shrubbery has a separate existence,
since, confusedly intermingled, each wears its peculiar color, instead of
being lost in the universal emerald of summer. And yet there is a
oneness of effect likewise, when we choose to look at a whole sweep of
woodland instead of analyzing its component trees. Scattered over the
pasture, which the late rains have kept tolerably green, there are spots
or islands of dusky red,--a deep, substantial line, very well fit to be
close to the ground,--while the yellow, and light, fantastic shades of
green soar upward to the sky. These red spots are the blueberry and
whortleberry bushes. The sweetfern is changed mostly to russet, but
still retains its wild and delightful fragrance when pressed in the hand.
Wild China-asters are scattered about, but beginning to wither. A little
while ago, mushrooms or toadstools were very numerous along the
wood-paths and by the roadsides, especially after rain. Some were of
spotless white, some yellow, and some scarlet. They are always mysteries
and objects of interest to me, springing as they do so suddenly from no
root or seed, and growing one wonders why. I think, too, that some
varieties are pretty objects, little fairy tables, centre-tables,
standing on one leg. But their growth appears to be checked now, and
they are of a brown tint and decayed.
The farm business to-day is to dig potatoes. I worked a little at it.
The process is to grasp all the stems of a hill and pull them up. A
great many of the potatoes are thus pulled, clinging to the stems and to
one another in curious shapes,--long red things, and little round ones,
imbedded in the earth which clings to the roots. These being plucked
off, the rest of the potatoes are dug out of the hill with a hoe, the
tops being flung into a heap for the cow-yard. On my way home, I paused
to inspect the squash-field. Some of the squashes lay in heaps as they
were gathered, presenting much variety of shape and hue,--as golden
yellow, like great lumps of gold, dark green, striped and variegated; and
some were round, and some lay curling their long necks, nestling, as it
were, and seeming as if they had life.
In my walk yesterday forenoon I passed an old house which seemed
to be quite deserted. It was a two-story, wooden house, dark and
weather-beaten. The front windows, some of them, were shattered and
open, and others were boarded up. Trees and shrubbery were growing
neglected, so as quite to block up the lower part. There was an aged
barn near at hand, so ruinous that it had been necessary to prop it up.
There were two old carts, both of which had lost a wheel. Everything was
in keeping. At first I supposed that there would be no inhabitants in
such a dilapidated place; but, passing on, I looked back, and saw a
decrepit and infirm old man at the angle of the house, its fit occupant.
The grass, however, was very green and beautiful around this dwelling,
and, the sunshine falling brightly on it, the whole effect was cheerful
and pleasant. It seemed as if the world was so glad that this desolate
old place, where there was never to be any more hope and happiness, could
not at all lessen the general effect of joy.
I found a small turtle by the roadside, where he had crept to warm
himself in the genial sunshine. He had a sable back, and underneath his
shell was yellow, and at the edges bright scarlet. His head, tail, and
claws were striped yellow, black, and red. He withdrew himself as far as
he possibly could into his shell, and absolutely refused to peep out,
even when I put him into the water. Finally, I threw him into a deep
pool and left him. These mailed gentlemen, from the size of a foot or
more down to an inch, were very numerous in the spring; and now the
smaller kind appear again.
