August 9th.--Our orchard in its day has been a very productive and
profitable one; and we were told that in one year it returned Dr. Ripley
a hundred dollars, besides defraying the expense of repairing the house.
It is now long past its prime: many of the trees are moss-grown, and have
dead and rotten branches intermixed among the green and fruitful ones.
And it may well be so; for I suppose some of the trees may have been set
out by Mr. Emerson, who died in the first year of the Revolutionary War.
Neither will the fruit, probably, bear comparison with the delicate
productions of modern pomology. Most of the trees seem to have abundant
burdens upon them; but they are homely russet apples, fit only for baking
and cooking. (But we are yet to have practical experience of our fruit.)
Justice Shallow's orchard, with its choice pippins and leather-coats, was
doubtless much superior. Nevertheless, it pleases me to think of the
good minister, walking in the shadows of these old, fantastically shaped
apples-trees, here plucking some of the fruit to taste, there pruning
away a too luxuriant branch, and all the while computing how many barrels
may be filled, and how large a sum will be added to his stipend by their
sale. And the same trees offer their fruit to me as freely as they did
to him,--their old branches, like withered hands and arms, holding out
apples of the same flavor as they held out to Dr. Ripley in his lifetime.
Thus the trees, as living existences, form a peculiar link between the
dead and us. My fancy has always found something very interesting in an
orchard. Apple-trees, and all fruit-trees, have a domestic character
which brings them into relationship with man. They have lost, in a great
measure, the wild nature of the forest-tree, and have grown humanized by
receiving the care of man, and by contributing to his wants. They have
become a part of the family; and their individual characters are as well
understood and appreciated as those of the human members. One tree is
harsh and crabbed, another mild; one is churlish and illiberal, another
exhausts itself with its free-hearted bounties. Even the shapes of
apple-trees have great individuality, into such strange postures do they
put themselves, and thrust their contorted branches so grotesquely in all
directions. And when they have stood around a house for many years, and
held converse with successive dynasties of occupants, and gladdened their
hearts so often in the fruitful autumn, then it would seem almost
sacrilege to cut them down.
Besides the apple-trees, there are various other kinds of fruit in close
vicinity to the house. When we first arrived, there were several trees
of ripe cherries, but so sour that we allowed them to wither upon the
branches. Two long rows of currant-bushes supplied us abundantly for
nearly four weeks. There are a good many peach-trees, but all of an old
date,--their branches rotten, gummy, and mossy,--and their fruit, I fear,
will be of very inferior quality. They produce most abundantly,
however,--the peaches being almost as numerous as the leaves; and even
the sprouts and suckers from the roots of the old trees have fruit upon
them. Then three are pear-trees of various kinds, and one or two
quince-trees. On the whole, these fruit-trees, and the other items and
adjuncts of the place, convey a very agreeable idea of the outward
comfort in which the good old Doctor must have spent his life.
Everything seems to have fallen to his lot that could possibly be
supposed to render the life of a country clergyman easy and prosperous.
There is a barn, which probably used to be filled annually with his hay
and other agricultural products. There are sheds, and a hen-house, and a
pigeon-house, and an old stone pigsty, the open portion of which is
overgrown with tall weeds, indicating that no grunter has recently
occupied it. . . . . I have serious thoughts of inducting a new incumbent
in this part of the parsonage. It is our duty to support a pig, even if
we have no design of feasting upon him; and, for my own part, I have a
great sympathy and interest for the whole race of porkers, and should
have much amusement in studying the character of a pig. Perhaps I might
try to bring out his moral and intellectual nature, and cultivate his
affections. A cat, too, and perhaps a dog, would be desirable additions
to our household.
August 10th.--The natural taste of man for the original Adam's occupation
is fast developing itself in me. I find that I am a good deal interested
in our garden, although, as it was planted before we came here, I do not
feel the same affection for the plants that I should if the seed had been
sown by my own hands. It is something like nursing and educating another
person's children. Still, it was a very pleasant moment when I gathered
the first string-beans, which were the earliest esculent that the garden
contributed to our table. And I love to watch the successive development
of each new vegetable, and mark its daily growth, which always affects me
with surprise. It is as if something were being created under my own
inspection, and partly by my own aid. One day, perchance, I look at my
bean-vines, and see only the green leaves clambering up the poles; again,
to-morrow, I give a second glance, and there are the delicate blossoms;
and a third day, on a somewhat closer observation, I discover the tender
young beans, hiding among the foliage. Then, each morning, I watch the
swelling of the pods and calculate how soon they will be ready to yield
their treasures. All this gives a pleasure and an ideality, hitherto
unthought of, to the business of providing sustenance for my family. I
suppose Adam felt it in Paradise; and, of merely and exclusively earthly
enjoyments, there are few purer and more harmless to be experienced.
Speaking of beans, by the way, they are a classical food, and their
culture must have been the occupation of many ancient sages and heroes.
Summer-squashes are a very pleasant vegetable to be acquainted with.
They grow in the forms of urns and vases,--some shallow, others deeper,
and all with a beautifully scalloped edge. Almost any squash in our
garden might be copied by a sculptor, and would look lovely in marble, or
in china; and, if I could afford it, I would have exact imitations of the
real vegetable as portions of my dining-service. They would be very
appropriate dishes for holding garden-vegetables. Besides the
summer-squashes, we have the crook-necked winter-squash, which I always
delight to look at, when it turns up its big rotundity to ripen in the
autumn sun. Except a pumpkin, there is no vegetable production that
imparts such an idea of warmth and comfort to the beholder. Our own
crop, however, does not promise to be very abundant; for the leaves
formed such a superfluous shade over the young blossoms, that most of
them dropped off without producing the germ of fruit. Yesterday and
to-day I have cut off an immense number of leaves, and have thus given
the remaining blossoms a chance to profit by the air and sunshine; but
the season is too far advanced, I am afraid, for the squashes to attain
any great bulk, and grow yellow in the sun. We have muskmelons and
watermelons, which promise to supply us with as many as we can eat.
After all, the greatest interest of these vegetables does not seem to
consist in their being articles of food. It is rather that we love to
see something born into the world; and when a great squash or melon is
produced, it is a large and tangible existence, which the imagination can
seize hold of and rejoice in. I love, also, to see my own works
contributing to the life and well-being of animate nature. It is
pleasant to have the bees come and suck honey out of my squash-blossoms,
though, when they have laden themselves, they fly away to some unknown
hive, which will give me back nothing in return for what my garden has
given them. But there is much more honey in the world, and so I am
content. Indian corn, in the prime and glory of its verdure, is a very
beautiful vegetable, both considered in the separate plant, and in a mass
in a broad field, rustling and waving, and surging up and down in the
breeze and sunshine of a summer afternoon. We have as many as fifty
hills, I should think, which will give us an abundant supply. Pray
Heaven that we may be able to eat it all! for it is not pleasant to think
that anything which Nature has been at the pains to produce should be
thrown away. But the hens will be glad of our superfluity, and so will
the pigs, though we have neither hens nor pigs of our own. But hens we
must certainly keep. There is something very sociable and quiet, and
soothing, too, in their soliloquies and converse among themselves; and,
in an idle and half-meditative mood, it is very pleasant to watch a party
of hens picking up their daily subsistence, with a gallant chanticleer in
the midst of them. Milton had evidently contemplated such a picture with
delight.
I find that I have not given a very complete idea of our garden, although
it certainly deserves an ample record in this chronicle, since my labors
in it are the only present labors of my life. Besides what I have
mentioned, we have cucumber-vines, which to-day yielded us the first
cucumber of the season, a bed of beets, and another of carrots, and
another of parsnips and turnips, none of which promise us a very abundant
harvest. In truth, the soil is worn out, and, moreover, received very
little manure this season. Also, we have cabbages in superfluous
abundance, inasmuch as we neither of us have the least affection for
them; and it would be unreasonable to expect Sarah, the cook, to eat
fifty head of cabbages. Tomatoes, too, we shall have by and by. At our
first arrival, we found green peas ready for gathering, and these,
instead of the string-beans, were the first offering of the garden to our
board.
Saturday, August 13th.--My life, at this time, is more like that of a
boy, externally, than it has been since I was really a boy. It is
usually supposed that the cares of life come with matrimony; but I seem
to have cast off all care, and live on with as much easy trust in
Providence as Adam could possibly have felt before he had learned that
there was a world beyond Paradise. My chief anxiety consists in watching
the prosperity of my vegetables, in observing how they are affected by
the rain or sunshine, in lamenting the blight of one squash and rejoicing
at the luxurious growth of another. It is as if the original relation
between man and Nature were restored in my case, and as if I were to look
exclusively to her for the support of my Eve and myself,--to trust to her
for food and clothing, and all things needful, with the full assurance
that she would not fail me. The fight with the world,--the struggle of a
man among men,--the agony of the universal effort to wrench the means of
living from a host of greedy competitors,--all this seems like a dream to
me. My business is merely to live and to enjoy; and whatever is
essential to life and enjoyment will come as naturally as the dew from
heaven. This is, practically at least, my faith. And so I awake in the
morning with a boyish thoughtlessness as to how the outgoings of the day
are to be provided for, and its incomings rendered certain. After
breakfast, I go forth into my garden, and gather whatever the bountiful
Mother has made fit for our present sustenance; and of late days she
generally gives me two squashes and a cucumber, and promises me green
corn and shell-beans very soon. Then I pass down through our orchard to
the river-side, and ramble along its margin in search of flowers.
Usually I discern a fragrant white lily, here and there along the shore,
growing, with sweet prudishness, beyond the grasp of mortal arm. But it
does not escape me so. I know what is its fitting destiny better than
the silly flower knows for itself; so I wade in, heedless of wet
trousers, and seize the shy lily by its slender stem. Thus I make prize
of five or six, which are as many as usually blossom within my reach in a
single morning;--some of them partially worm-eaten or blighted, like
virgins with an eating sorrow at the heart; others as fair and perfect as
Nature's own idea was, when she first imagined this lovely flower. A
perfect pond-lily is the most satisfactory of flowers. Besides these, I
gather whatever else of beautiful chances to be growing in the moist soil
by the river-side,--an amphibious tribe, yet with more richness and grace
than the wild-flowers of the deep and dry woodlands and hedge-rows,--
sometimes the white arrow-head, always the blue spires and broad green
leaves of the pickerel-flower, which contrast and harmonize so well with
the white lilies. For the last two or three days, I have found scattered
stalks of the cardinal-flower, the gorgeous scarlet of which it is a joy
even to remember. The world is made brighter and sunnier by flowers of
such a hue. Even perfume, which otherwise is the soul and spirit of a
flower, may be spared when it arrays itself in this scarlet glory. It is
a flower of thought and feeling, too; it seems to have its roots deep
down in the hearts of those who gaze at it. Other bright flowers
sometimes impress me as wanting sentiment; but it is not so with this.
Well, having made up my bunch of flowers, I return home with them.
. . . . Then I ascend to my study, and generally read, or perchance
scribble in this journal, and otherwise suffer Time to loiter onward at
his own pleasure, till the dinner-hour. In pleasant days, the chief
event of the afternoon, and the happiest one of the day, is our walk.
. . . . So comes the night; and I look back upon a day spent in what the
world would call idleness, and for which I myself can suggest no more
appropriate epithet, but which, nevertheless, I cannot feel to have been
spent amiss. True, it might be a sin and shame, in such a world as ours,
to spend a lifetime in this manner; but for a few summer weeks it is good
to live as if this world were heaven. And so it is, and so it shall be,
although, in a little while, a flitting shadow of earthly care and toil
will mingle itself with our realities.
Monday, August 15th.--George Hillard and his wife arrived from Boston in
the dusk of Saturday evening, to spend Sunday with us. It was a pleasant
sensation, when the coach rumbled up our avenue, and wheeled round at the
door; for I felt that I was regarded as a man with a household, a man
having a tangible existence and locality in the world,--when friends came
to avail themselves of our hospitality. It was a sort of acknowledgment
and reception of us into the corps of married people,--a sanction by no
means essential to our peace and well-being, but yet agreeable enough to
receive. So we welcomed them cordially at the door, and ushered them
into our parlor, and soon into the supper-room. . . . . The night flitted
over us all, and passed away, and up rose a gray and sullen morning,
. . . . and we had a splendid breakfast of flapjacks, or sapjacks, and
whortleberries, which I gathered on a neighboring hill, and perch, bream,
and pout, which I hooked out of the river the evening before. About nine
o'clock, Hillard and I set out for a walk to Walden Pond, calling by the
way at Mr. Emerson's, to obtain his guidance or directions, and he
accompanied us in his own illustrious person. We turned aside a little
from our way, to visit Mr. ------, a yeoman, of whose homely and
self-acquired wisdom Mr. Emerson has a very high opinion. We found him
walking in his fields, a short and stalwart and sturdy personage of
middle age, with a face of shrewd and kind expression, and manners of
natural courtesy. He had a very free flow of talk; for, with a little
induction from Mr. Emerson, he began to discourse about the state of the
nation, agriculture, and business in general, uttering thoughts that had
come to him at the plough, and which had a sort of flavor of the fresh
earth about them. His views were sensible and characteristic, and had
grown in the soil where we found them; . . . . and he is certainly a man
of intellectual and moral substance, a sturdy fact, a reality, something
to be felt and touched, whose ideas seem to be dug out of his mind as he
digs potatoes, beets, carrots, and turnips out of the ground.
After leaving Mr. ------, we proceeded through wood-paths to Walden Pond,
picking blackberries of enormous size along the way. The pond itself was
beautiful and refreshing to my soul, after such long and exclusive
familiarity with our tawny and sluggish river. It lies embosomed among
wooded hills, it is not very extensive, but large enough for waves to
dance upon its surface, and to look like a piece of blue firmament,
earthen-circled. The shore has a narrow, pebbly strand, which it was
worth a day's journey to look at, for the sake of the contrast between it
and the weedy, oozy margin of the river. Farther within its depths, you
perceive a bottom of pure white sand, sparkling through the transparent
water, which, methought, was the very purest liquid in the world. After
Mr. Emerson left us, Hillard and I bathed in the pond, and it does really
seem as if my spirit, as well as corporeal person, were refreshed by that
bath. A good deal of mud and river slime had accumulated on my soul; but
these bright waters washed them all away.
We returned home in due season for dinner. . . . . To my misfortune,
however, a box of Mediterranean wine proved to have undergone the acetous
fermentation; so that the splendor of the festival suffered some
diminution. Nevertheless, we ate our dinner with a good appetite, and
afterwards went universally to take our several siestas. Meantime there
came a shower, which so besprinkled the grass and shrubbery as to make it
rather wet for our after-tea ramble. The chief result of the walk was
the bringing home of an immense burden of the trailing clematis-vine, now
just in blossom, and with which all our flower-stands and vases are this
morning decorated. On our return we found Mr. and Mrs. S------, and E.
H------, who shortly took their leave, and we sat up late, telling
ghost-stories. This morning, at seven, our friends left us. We were
both pleased with the visit, and so, I think, were our guests.
* * * * * *
Monday, August 22d.--I took a walk through the woods yesterday afternoon,
to Mr. Emerson's, with a book which Margaret Fuller had left, after a
call on Saturday eve. I missed the nearest way, and wandered into a very
secluded portion of the forest; for forest it might justly be called, so
dense and sombre was the shade of oaks and pines. Once I wandered into a
tract so overgrown with bushes and underbrush that I could scarcely force
a passage through. Nothing is more annoying than a walk of this kind,
where one is tormented by an innumerable host of petty impediments. It
incenses and depresses me at the same time. Always when I flounder into
the midst of bushes, which cross and intertwine themselves about my legs,
and brush my face, and seize hold of my clothes, with their multitudinous
grip,--always, in such a difficulty, I feel as if it were almost as well
to lie down and die in rage and despair as to go one step farther. It is
laughable, after I have got out of the moil, to think how miserably it
affected me for the moment; but I had better learn patience betimes, for
there are many such bushy tracts in this vicinity, on the margins of
meadows, and my walks will often lead me into them. Escaping from the
bushes, I soon came to an open space among the woods,--a very lovely
spot, with the tall old trees standing around as quietly as if no one had
intruded there throughout the whole summer. A company of crows were
holding their Sabbath on their summits. Apparently they felt themselves
injured or insulted by my presence; for, with one consent, they began to
Caw! caw! caw! and, launching themselves sullenly on the air, took flight
to some securer solitude. Mine, probably, was the first human shape that
they had seen all day long,--at least, if they had been stationary in
that spot; but perhaps they had winged their way over miles and miles of
country, had breakfasted on the summit of Graylock, and dined at the base
of Wachusett, and were merely come to sup and sleep among the quiet woods
of Concord. But it was my impression at the time, that they had sat
still and silent on the tops of the trees all through the Sabbath day,
and I felt like one who should unawares disturb an assembly of
worshippers. A crow, however, has no real pretensions to religion, in
spite of his gravity of mien and black attire. Crows are certainly
thieves, and probably infidels. Nevertheless, their voices yesterday
were in admirable accordance with the influences of the quiet, sunny,
warm, yet autumnal afternoon. They were so far above my head that their
loud clamor added to the quiet of the scene, instead of disturbing it.
There was no other sound, except the song of the cricket, which is but an
audible stillness; for, though it be very loud and heard afar, yet the
mind does not take note of it as a sound, so entirely does it mingle and
lose its individuality among the other characteristics of coming autumn.
Alas for the summer! The grass is still verdant on the hills and in the
valleys; the foliage of the trees is as dense as ever, and as green;
the flowers are abundant along the margin of the river, and in the
hedge-rows, and deep among the woods; the days, too, are as fervid as
they were a month ago; and yet in every breath of wind and in every beam
of sunshine there is an autumnal influence. I know not how to describe
it. Methinks there is a sort of coolness amid all the heat, and a
mildness in the brightest of the sunshine. A breeze cannot stir without
thrilling me with the breath of autumn, and I behold its pensive glory in
the far, golden gleams among the long shadows of the trees. The flowers,
even the brightest of them,--the golden-rod and the gorgeous cardinals,--
the most glorious flowers of the year,--have this gentle sadness amid
their pomp. Pensive autumn is expressed in the glow of every one of
them. I have felt this influence earlier in some years than in others.
Sometimes autumn may be perceived even in the early days of July. There
is no other feeling like that caused by this faint, doubtful, yet real
perception, or rather prophecy, of the year's decay, so deliciously sweet
and sad at the same time.
After leaving the book at Mr. Emerson's I returned through the woods,
and, entering Sleepy Hollow, I perceived a lady reclining near the path
which bends along its verge. It was Margaret herself. She had been
there the whole afternoon, meditating or reading; for she had a book in
her hand, with some strange title, which I did not understand, and have
forgotten. She said that nobody had broken her solitude, and was just
giving utterance to a theory that no inhabitant of Concord ever visited
Sleepy Hollow, when we saw a group of people entering the sacred
precincts. Most of them followed a path which led them away from us; but
an old man passed near us, and smiled to see Margaret reclining on the
ground, and me sitting by her side. He made some remark about the beauty
of the afternoon, and withdrew himself into the shadow of the wood. Then
we talked about autumn, and about the pleasures of being lost in the
woods, and about the crows, whose voices Margaret had heard; and about
the experiences of early childhood, whose influence remains upon the
character after the recollection of them has passed away; and about the
sight of mountains from a distance, and the view from their summits; and
about other matters of high and low philosophy. In the midst of our
talk, we heard footsteps above us, on the high bank; and while the person
was still hidden among the trees, he called to Margaret, of whom he had
gotten a glimpse. Then he emerged from the green shade, and, behold! it
was Mr. Emerson. He appeared to have had a pleasant time; for he said
that there were Muses in the woods to-day, and whispers to be heard in
the breezes. It being now nearly six o'clock, we separated,--Margaret
and Mr. Emerson towards his home, and I towards mine. . . . .
Last evening there was the most beautiful moonlight that ever hallowed
this earthly world; and when I went to bathe in the river, which was as
calm as death, it seemed like plunging down into the sky. But I had
rather be on earth than even in the seventh heaven, just now.
Wednesday, August 24th.--I left home at five o'clock this morning to
catch some fish for breakfast. I shook our summer apple-tree, and ate
the golden apple which fell from it. Methinks these early apples, which
come as a golden promise before the treasures of autumnal fruit, are
almost more delicious than anything that comes afterwards. We have but
one such tree in our orchard; but it supplies us with a daily abundance,
and probably will do so for at least a week to come. Meantime other
trees begin to cast their ripening windfalls upon the grass; and when I
taste them, and perceive their mellowed flavor and blackening seeds, I
feel somewhat overwhelmed with the impending bounties of Providence. I
suppose Adam, in Paradise, did not like to see his fruits decaying on the
ground, after he had watched them through the sunny days of the world's
first summer. However, insects, at the worst, will hold a festival upon
them, so that they will not be thrown away, in the great scheme of
Nature. Moreover, I have one advantage over the primeval Adam, inasmuch
as there is a chance of disposing of my superfluous fruits among people
who inhabit no Paradise of their own.
Passing a little way down along the river-side, I threw in my line, and
soon drew out one of the smallest possible of fishes. It seemed to be a
pretty good morning for the angler,--an autumnal coolness in the air, a
clear sky, but with a fog across the lowlands and on the surface of the
river, which a gentle breeze sometimes condensed into wreaths. At first
I could barely discern the opposite shore of the river; but, as the sun
arose, the vapors gradually dispersed, till only a warm, smoky tint was
left along the water's surface. The farm-houses across the river made
their appearance out of the dusky cloud; the voices of boys were heard,
shouting to the cattle as they drove them to the pastures; a man whetted
his scythe, and set to work in a neighboring meadow. Meantime, I
continued to stand on the oozy margin of the stream, beguiling the little
fish; and though the scaly inhabitants of our river partake somewhat of
the character of their native element, and are but sluggish biters, still
I contrived to pull out not far from two dozen. They were all bream, a
broad, flat, almost circular fish, shaped a good deal like a flounder,
but swimming on their edges, instead of on their sides. As far as mere
pleasure is concerned, it is hardly worth while to fish in our river, it
is so much like angling in a mud-puddle; and one does not attach the idea
of freshness and purity to the fishes, as we do to those which inhabit
swift, transparent streams, or haunt the shores of the great briny deep.
Standing on the weedy margin, and throwing the line over the elder-bushes
that dip into the water, it seems as if we could catch nothing but frogs
and mud-turtles, or reptiles akin to them. And even when a fish of
reputable aspect is drawn out, one feels a shyness about touching him.
As to our river, its character was admirably expressed last night by some
one who said "it was too lazy to keep itself clean." I might write pages
and pages, and only obscure the impression which this brief sentence
conveys. Nevertheless, we made bold to eat some of my fish for
breakfast, and found them very savory; and the rest shall meet with due
entertainment at dinner, together with some shell-beans, green corn, and
cucumbers from our garden; so this day's food comes directly and entirely
from beneficent Nature, without the intervention of any third person
between her and us.
Saturday, August 27th.--A peach-tree, which grows beside our house and
brushes against the window, is so burdened with fruit that I have had to
prop it up. I never saw more splendid peaches in appearance,--great,
round, crimson-cheeked beauties, clustering all over the tree. A
pear-tree, likewise, is maturing a generous burden of small, sweet fruit,
which will require to be eaten at about the same time as the peaches.
There is something pleasantly annoying in this superfluous abundance; it
is like standing under a tree of ripe apples, and giving it a shake, with
the intention of bringing down a single one, when, behold, a dozen come
thumping about our ears. But the idea of the infinite generosity and
exhaustless bounty of our Mother Nature is well worth attaining; and I
never had it so vividly as now, when I find myself, with the few mouths
which I am to feed, the sole inheritor of the old clergyman's wealth of
fruits. His children, his friends in the village, and the clerical
guests who came to preach in his pulpit, were all wont to eat and be
filled from these trees. Now, all these hearty old people have passed
away, and in their stead is a solitary pair, whose appetites are more
than satisfied with the windfalls which the trees throw down at their
feet. Howbeit, we shall have now and then a guest to keep our peaches
and pears from decaying.
G. B------, my old fellow-laborer at the community at Brook Farm, called
on me last evening, and dined here to-day. He has been cultivating
vegetables at Plymouth this summer, and selling them in the market. What
a singular mode of life for a man of education and refinement,--to spend
his days in hard and earnest bodily toil, and then to convey the products
of his labor, in a wheelbarrow, to the public market, and there retail
them out,--a peck of peas or beans, a bunch of turnips, a squash, a dozen
ears of green corn! Few men, without some eccentricity of character,
would have the moral strength to do this; and it is very striking to find
such strength combined with the utmost gentleness, and an uncommon
regularity of nature. Occasionally he returns for a day or two to resume
his place among scholars and idle people, as, for instance, the present
week, when he has thrown aside his spade and hoe to attend the
Commencement at Cambridge. He is a rare man,--a perfect original, yet
without any one salient point; a character to be felt and understood, but
almost impossible to describe: for, should you seize upon any
characteristic, it would inevitably be altered and distorted in the
process of writing it down.
Our few remaining days of summer have been latterly grievously darkened
with clouds. To-day there has been an hour or two of hot sunshine; but
the sun rose amid cloud and mist, and before he could dry up the moisture
of last night's shower upon the trees and grass, the clouds have gathered
between him and us again. This afternoon the thunder rumbles in the
distance, and I believe a few drops of rain have fallen; but the weight
of the shower has burst elsewhere, leaving us nothing but its sullen
gloom. There is a muggy warmth in the atmosphere, which takes all the
spring and vivacity out of the mind and body.
Sunday, August 28th.--Still another rainy day,--the heaviest rain, I
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.
