The spells of witches have the power of producing meats and viands that
have the appearance of a sumptuous feast, which the Devil furnishes. But
a Divine Providence seldom permits the meat to be good, but it has
generally some bad taste or smell,--mostly wants salt,--and the feast is
often without bread.
An article on cemeteries, with fantastic ideas of monuments; for
instance, a sun-dial;--a large, wide carved stone chair, with some such
motto as "Rest and Think," and others, facetious or serious.
"Mamma, I see a part of your smile,"--a child to her mother, whose mouth
was partly covered by her hand.
"The syrup of my bosom,"--an improvisation of a little girl, addressed to
an imaginary child.
"The wind-turn," "the lightning-catch," a child's phrases for weathercock
and lightning-rod.
"Where's the man-mountain of these Liliputs?" cried a little boy, as he
looked at a small engraving of the Greeks getting into the wooden horse.
When the sun shines brightly on the new snow, we discover ranges of
hills, miles away towards the south, which we have never seen before.
To have the North Pole for a fishing-pole, and the Equinoctial Line for a
fishing-line.
If we consider the lives of the lower animals, we shall see in them a
close parallelism to those of mortals;--toil, struggle, danger,
privation, mingled with glimpses of peace and ease; enmity, affection, a
continual hope of bettering themselves, although their objects lie at
less distance before them than ours can do. Thus, no argument for the
imperfect character of our existence and its delusory promises, and its
apparent injustice, can be drawn in reference to our immortality,
without, in a degree, being applicable to our brute brethren.
Lenox, February 12th, 1851.--A walk across the lake with Una. A heavy
rain, some days ago, has melted a good deal of the snow on the
intervening descent between our house and the lake; but many drifts,
depths, and levels yet remain; and there is a frozen crust, sufficient to
bear a man's weight, and very slippery. Adown the slopes there are tiny
rivulets, which exist only for the winter. Bare, brown spaces of grass
here and there, but still so infrequent as only to diversify the scene a
little. In the woods, rocks emerging, and, where there is a slope
immediately towards the lake, the snow is pretty much gone, and
we see partridge-berries frozen, and outer shells of walnuts, and
chestnut-burrs, heaped or scattered among the roots of the trees. The
walnut-husks mark the place where the boys, after nutting, sat down to
clear the walnuts of their outer shell. The various species of pine look
exceedingly brown just now,--less beautiful than those trees which shed
their leaves. An oak-tree, with almost all its brown foliage still
rustling on it. We clamber down the bank, and step upon the frozen lake,
It was snow-covered for a considerable time; but the rain overspread it
with a surface of water, or imperfectly melted snow, which is now hard
frozen again; and the thermometer having been frequently below zero, I
suppose the ice may be four or five feet thick. Frequently there are
great cracks across it, caused, I suppose, by the air beneath, and giving
an idea of greater firmness than if there were no cracks; round holes,
which have been hewn in the marble pavement by fishermen, and are now
frozen over again, looking darker than the rest of the surface; spaces
where the snow was more imperfectly dissolved than elsewhere little
crackling spots, where a thin surface of ice, over the real mass,
crumples beneath one's foot; the track of a line of footsteps, most of
them vaguely formed, but some quite perfectly, where a person passed
across the lake while its surface was in a state of slush, but which are
now as hard as adamant, and remind one of the traces discovered by
geologists in rocks that hardened thousands of ages ago. It seems as if
the person passed when the lake was in an intermediate state between ice
and water. In one spot some pine boughs, which somebody had cut and
heaped there for an unknown purpose. In the centre of the lake, we see
the surrounding hills in a new attitude, this being a basin in the midst
of them. Where they are covered with wood, the aspect is gray or black;
then there are bare slopes of unbroken snow, the outlines and
indentations being much more hardly and firmly defined than in summer.
We went southward across the lake, directly towards Monument Mountain,
which reposes, as I said, like a headless sphinx. Its prominences,
projections, and roughnesses are very evident; and it does not present a
smooth and placid front, as when the grass is green and the trees in
leaf. At one end, too, we are sensible of precipitous descents, black
and shaggy with the forest that is likely always to grow there; and, in
one streak, a headlong sweep downward of snow. We just set our feet
on the farther shore, and then immediately returned, facing the
northwest-wind, which blew very sharply against us.
After landing, we came homeward, tracing up the little brook so far as it
lay in our course. It was considerably swollen, and rushed fleetly on
its course between overhanging banks of snow and ice, from which depended
adamantine icicles. The little waterfalls with which we had impeded it
in the summer and autumn could do no more than form a large ripple, so
much greater was the volume of water. In some places the crust of frozen
snow made a bridge quite over the brook; so that you only knew it was
there by its brawling sound beneath.
The sunsets of winter are incomparably splendid, and when the ground is
covered with snow, no brilliancy of tint expressible by words can come
within an infinite distance of the effect. Our southern view at that
time, with the clouds and atmospherical hues, is quite indescribable and
unimaginable; and the various distances of the hills which lie between us
and the remote dome of Taconic are brought out with an accuracy
unattainable in summer. The transparency of the air at this season has
the effect of a telescope in bringing objects apparently near, while it
leaves the scene all its breadth. The sunset sky, amidst its splendor,
has a softness and delicacy that impart themselves to a white marble
world.
February 18th.--A walk, yesterday afternoon, with the children; a bright,
and rather cold day, breezy from the north and westward. There has been
a good deal of soaking rain lately, and it has, in great measure, cleared
hills and plains of snow, only it may be seen lying in spots, and on each
side of stone-walls, in a pretty broad streak. The grass is brown and
withered, and yet, scattered all amongst it, on close inspection, one
finds a greenness,--little shrubs that have kept green under all the
severity of winter, and seem to need no change to fit them for midsummer.
In the woods we see stones covered with moss that retains likewise a most
lively green. Where the trees are dense, the snow still lies under them.
On the sides of the mountains, some miles off, the black pines and the
white snow among them together produce a gray effect. The little streams
are the most interesting objects at this time; some that have an
existence only at this season,--Mississippis of the moment;--yet glide
and tumble along as if they were perennial. The familiar ones seem
strange by their breadth and volume; their little waterfalls set off by
glaciers on a small scale. The sun has by this time force enough to make
sheltered nooks in the angles of woods, or on banks, warm and
comfortable. The lake is still of adamantine substance, but all round
the borders there is a watery margin, altogether strewed or covered with
thin and broken ice, so that I could not venture on it with the children.
A chickadee was calling in the woods yesterday,--the only small bird I
have taken note of yet; but, crows have been cawing in the woods for a
week past, though not in very great numbers.
February 22d.--For the last two or three days there has been a warm,
soaking, southeasterly rain, with a spongy moisture diffused through the
atmosphere. The snow has disappeared, except in spots which are the
ruins of high drifts, and patches far up on the hillsides. The mists
rest all day long on the brows of the hills that shut in our valley. The
road over which I walk every day to and from the village is in the worst
state of mud and mire, soft, slippery, nasty to tread upon; while the
grass beside it is scarcely better, being so oozy and so overflowed with
little streams, and sometimes an absolute bog. The rivulets race along
the road, adown the hills; and wherever there is a permanent brooklet,
however generally insignificant, it is now swollen into importance, and
the rumble and tumble of its waterfalls may be heard a long way off. The
general effect of the day and scenery is black, black, black. The
streams are all as turbid as mud-puddles.
Imitators of original authors might be compared to plaster casts of
marble statues, or the imitative book to a cast of the original marble.
March 11th.--After the ground had been completely freed of snow, there
has been a snow-storm for the two days preceding yesterday, which made
the earth all white again. This morning, at sunrise, the thermometer
stood at about 18 degrees above zero. Monument Mountain stands out in
great prominence, with its dark forest-covered sides, and here and there
a large, white patch, indicating tillage or pasture land; but making a
generally dark contrast with the white expanse of the frozen and
snow-covered lake at its base, and the more undulating white of the
surrounding country. Yesterday, under the sunshine of midday, and with
many voluminous clouds hanging over it, and a mist of wintry warmth in
the air, it had a kind of visionary aspect, although still it was brought
out in striking relief. But though one could see all its bulgings, round
swells, and precipitous abruptnesses, it looked as much akin to the
clouds as to solid earth and rock substance. In the early sunshine of
the morning, the atmosphere being very clear, I saw the dome of Taconic
with more distinctness than ever before, the snow-patches and brown,
uncovered soil on its round head being fully visible. Generally it is
but a dark blue uuvaried mountain-top. All the ruggedness of the
intervening hill-country was likewise effectively brought out. There
seems to be a sort of illuminating quality in new snow, which it loses
after being exposed for a day or two to the suit and atmosphere.
For a child's story,--the voyage of a little boat, made of a chip, with a
birch-bark sail, down a river.
March 31st.--A walk with the children yesterday forenoon. We went
through the wood, where we found partridge-berries, half hidden among the
dry, fallen leaves; thence down to the brook. This little brook has not
cleansed itself from the disarray of the past autumn and winter, and is
much embarrassed and choked up with brown leaves, twigs, and bits of
branches. It rushes along merrily and rapidly, gurgling cheerfully, and
tumbling over the impediments of stones with which the children and I
made little waterfalls last year. At many spots, there are small basins
or pools of calmer and smoother depth,--three feet, perhaps, in diameter,
and a foot or two deep,--in which little fish are already sporting about;
all elsewhere is tumble and gurgle and mimic turbulence. I sat on the
withered leaves at the foot of a tree, while the children played, a
little brook being the most fascinating plaything that a child can have.
Una jumped to and fro across it; Julian stood beside a pool, fishing with
a stick, without hook or line, and wondering that he caught nothing.
Then he made new waterfalls with mighty labor, pulling big stones out of
the earth, and flinging them into the current. Then they sent branches
of trees, or the outer shells of walnuts, sailing down the stream, and
watched their passages through the intricacies of the way,--how they were
hurried over in a cascade, hurried dizzily round in a whirlpool, or
brought quite to a stand-still amongst the collected rubbish. At last
Julian tumbled into the brook, and was wetted through and through so that
we were obliged to come home; he squelching along all the way, with his
india-rubber shoes full of water.
There are still patches of snow on the hills; also in the woods,
especially on the northern margins. The lake is not yet what we may call
thawed out, although there is a large space of blue water, and the ice is
separated from the shore everywhere, and is soft, water-soaked, and
crumbly. On favorable slopes and exposures, the earth begins to look
green; and almost anywhere, if one looks closely, one sees the greenness
of the grass, or of little herbage, amidst the brown. Under the
nut-trees are scattered some of the nuts of last year; the walnuts have
lost their virtue, the chestnuts do not seem to have much taste, but the
butternuts are in no manner deteriorated. The warmth of these days has a
mistiness, and in many respects resembles the Indian summer, and is not
at all provocative of physical exertion. Nevertheless, the general
impression is of life, not death. One feels that a new season has begun.
Wednesday, April 9th.--There was a great rain yesterday,--wind from the
southeast, and the last visible vestige of snow disappeared. It was a
small patch near the summit of Bald Mountain, just on the upper verge of
a grove of trees. I saw a slight remnant of it yesterday afternoon, but
to-day it is quite gone. The grass comes up along the roadside and on
favorable exposures, with a sort of green blush. Frogs have been
melodious for a fortnight, and the birds sing pleasantly.
April 20th.--The children found Houstonias more than a week ago. There
have been easterly wind, continual cloudiness, and occasional rain for a
week. This morning opened with a great snow-storm from the northeast,
one of the most earnest snow-storms of the year, though rather more moist
than in midwinter. The earth is entirely covered. Now, as the day
advances towards noon, it shows some symptoms of turning to rain.
April 28th.--For a week we have found the trailing arbutus pretty
abundant in the woods. A day or two since, Una found a few purple
violets, and yesterday a dandelion in bloom. The fragrance of the
arbutus is spicy and exquisite.
May 16th.--In our walks now, the children and I find blue, white, and
golden violets, the former, especially, of great size and richness.
Houstonias are very abundant, blue-whitening some of the pastures. They
are a very sociable little flower, and dwell close together in
communities,--sometimes covering a space no larger than the palm of the
hand, but keeping one another in cheerful heart and life,--sometimes they
occupy a much larger space. Lobelia, a pink flower, growing in the
woods. Columbines, of a pale red, because they have lacked sun, growing
in rough and rocky places on banks in the copses, precipitating towards
the lake. The leaves of the trees are not yet out, but are so apparent
that the woods are getting a very decided shadow. Water-weeds on the
edge of the lake, of a deep green, with roots that seem to have nothing
to do with earth, but with water only.
May 23d.--I think the face of nature can never look more beautiful than
now, with this so fresh and youthful green,--the trees not being fully in
leaf, yet enough so to give airy shade to the woods. The sunshine fills
them with green light. Monument Mountain and its brethren are green, and
the lightness of the tint takes away something from their massiveness and
ponderosity, and they respond with livelier effect to the shine and shade
of the sky. Each tree now within sight stands out in its own
individuality of line. This is a very windy day, and the light shifts
with magical alternation. In a walk to the lake just now with the
children, we found abundance of flowers,--wild geranium, violets of all
families, red columbines, and many others known and unknown, besides
innumerable blossoms of the wild strawberry, which has been in bloom for
the past fortnight. The Houstonias seem quite to overspread some
pastures, when viewed from a distance. Not merely the flowers, but the
various shrubs which one sees,--seated, for instance, on the decayed
trunk of a tree,--are well worth looking at, such a variety and such
enjoyment they have of their new growth. Amid these fresh creations, we
see others that have already run their course, and have done with warmth
and sunshine,--the hoary periwigs, I mean, of dandelions gone to seed.
August 7th.--Fourier states that, in the progress of the world, the ocean
is to lose its saltness, and acquire the taste of a peculiarly flavored
lemonade.
October 13th.--How pleasant it is to see a human countenance which cannot
be insincere,--in reference to baby's smile.
The best of us being unfit to die, what an inexpressible absurdity to put
the worst to death!
"Is that a burden of sunshine on Apollo's back?" asked one of the
children,--of the chlamys on our Apollo Belvedere.
October 21st.--Going to the village yesterday afternoon, I saw the face
of a beautiful woman, gazing at me from a cloud. It was the full face,
not the bust. It had a sort of mantle on the head, and a pleasant
expression of countenance. The vision lasted while I took a few
steps, and then vanished. I never before saw nearly so distinct a
cloud-picture, or rather sculpture; for it came out in alto-rilievo on
the body of the cloud.
October 27th.--The ground this morning is white with a thin covering of
snow. The foliage has still some variety of hue. The dome of Taconic
looks dark, and seems to have no snow on it, though I don't understand
how that can be. I saw, a moment ago, on the lake, a very singular
spectacle. There is a high northwest-wind ruffling the lake's surface,
and making it blue, lead-colored, or bright, in stripes or at intervals;
but what I saw was a boiling up of foam, which began at the right bank of
the lake, and passed quite across it; and the mist flew before it, like
the cloud out of a steam-engine. A fierce and narrow blast of wind must
have ploughed the water in a straight line, from side to side of the
lake. As fast as it went on, the foam subsided behind it, so that it
looked somewhat like a sea-serpent, or other monster, swimming very
rapidly.
October 29th.--On a walk to Scott's pond, with Ellery Channing, we found
a wild strawberry in the woods, not quite ripe, but beginning to redden.
For a week or two, the cider-mills have been grinding apples. Immense
heaps of apples lie piled near them, and the creaking of the press is
heard as the horse treads on. Farmers are repairing cider-barrels; and
the wayside brook is made to pour itself into the bunghole of a barrel,
in order to cleanse it for the new cider.
November 3d.--The face of the country is dreary now in a cloudy day like
the present. The woods on the hillsides look almost black, and the
cleared spaces a kind of gray brown.
Taconic, this morning (4th), was a black purple, as dense and distinct as
Monument Mountain itself. I hear the creaking of the cider-press; the
patient horse going round and round, perhaps thirsty, to make the liquor
which he never can enjoy.
We left Lenox Friday morning, November 21, 1851, in a storm of snow and
sleet, and took the cars at Pittsfield, and arrived at West Newton that
evening.
Happiness in this world, when it comes, comes incidentally. Make it the
object of pursuit, and it leads us a wild-goose chase, and is never
attained. Follow some other object, and very possibly we may find that
we have caught happiness, without dreaming of it; but likely enough it is
gone the moment we say to ourselves, "Here it is!" like the chest of gold
that treasure-seekers find.
West Newton, April 13th, 1852.--One of the severest snow-storms of the
winter.
April 30th.--Wrote the last page (199th MS.) of the Blithedale Romance.
May 1st.--Wrote Preface. Afterwards modified the conclusion, and
lengthened it to 201 pages. First proof-sheets, May 14.
Concord, Mass., August 20th.--A piece of land contiguous to and connected
with a handsome estate, to the adornment and good appearance of which it
was essential.--But the owner of the strip of land was at variance with
the owner of the estate, so he always refused to sell it at any price,
but let it lie there, wild and ragged, in front of and near the
mansion-house. When he dies, the owner of the estate, who has rejoiced
at the approach of the event all through his enemy's illness, hopes at
last to buy it; but, to his infinite discomfiture, the enemy enjoined in
his will that his body should be buried in the centre of this strip of
land. All sorts of ugly weeds grow most luxuriantly out of the grave in
poisonous rankness.
The Isles of Shoals, Monday, August 30th.--Left Concord at a quarter of
nine A. M. Friday, September 3, set sail at about half past ten to the
Isles of Shoals. The passengers were an old master of a vessel; a young,
rather genteel man from Greenland, N. H.; two Yankees from Hamilton and
Danvers; and a country trader (I should judge) from some inland town of
New Hampshire. The old sea-captain, preparatory to sailing, bought a
bunch of cigars (they cost ten cents), and occasionally puffed one. The
two Yankees had brought guns on board, and asked questions about the
fishing of the Shoals. They were young men, brothers, the youngest a
shopkeeper in Danvers, the other a farmer, I imagine, at Hamilton, and
both specimens of the least polished kind of Yankee, and therefore proper
to those localities. They were at first full of questions, and greatly
interested in whatever was going forward; but anon the shopkeeper began
to grow, first a little, then very sick, till he lay along the boat,
longing, as he afterwards said, for a little fresh water to be drowned
in. His brother attended him in a very kindly way, but became sick
himself before he reached the end of the voyage.
The young Greenlander talked politics, or rather discussed the personal
character of Pierce. The New Hampshire trader said not a word, or hardly
one, all the way. A Portsmouth youth (whom I forgot to mention) sat in
the stern of the boat, looking very white. The skipper of the boat is a
Norwegian, a good-natured fellow, not particularly intelligent, and
speaking in a dialect somewhat like Irish. He had a man with him, a
silent and rather sulky fellow, who, at the captain's bidding, grimly
made himself useful.
The wind not being favorable, we had to make several tacks before
reaching the islands, where we arrived at about two o'clock. We landed
at Appledore, on which is Laighton's Hotel,--a large building with a
piazza or promenade before it, about an hundred and twenty feet in
length, or more,--yes, it must be more. It is an edifice with a centre
and two wings, the central part upwards of seventy feet. At one end of
the promenade is a covered veranda, thirty or forty feet square, so
situated that the breeze draws across it from the sea on one side of the
island to the sea on the other, and it is the breeziest and comfortablest
place in the world on a hot day. There are two swings beneath it, and
here one may sit or walk, and enjoy life, while all other mortals are
suffering.
As I entered the door of the hotel, there met me a short, corpulent,
round, and full-faced man, rather elderly, if not old. He was a little
lame. He addressed me in a hearty, hospitable tone, and, judging that it
must be my landlord, I delivered a letter of introduction from Pierce.
Of course it was fully efficient in obtaining the best accommodations
that were to be had. I found that we were expected, a man having brought
the news of our intention the day before. Here ensued great inquiries
after the General, and wherefore he had not come. I was looked at with
considerable curiosity on my own account, especially by the ladies, of
whom there were several, agreeable and pretty enough. There were four or
five gentlemen, most of whom had not much that was noteworthy.
After dinner, which was good and abundant, though somewhat rude in its
style, I was introduced by Mr. Laighton to Mr. Thaxter, his son-in-law,
and Mr. Weiss, a clergyman of New Bedford, who is staying here for his
health. They showed me some of the remarkable features of the island,
such as a deep chasm in the cliffs of the shore, towards the southwest;
also a monument of rude stones, on the highest point of the island, said
to have been erected by Captain John Smith before the settlement at
Plymouth. The tradition is just as good as truth. Also, some ancient
cellars, with thistles and other weeds growing in them, and old
fragmentary bricks scattered about. The date of these habitations is not
known; but they may well be the remains of the settlement that Cotton
Mather speaks about; or perhaps one of them was the house where Sir
William Pepperell was born, and where he went when he and somebody else
set up a stick, and travelled to seek their fortunes in the direction in
which it fell.
In the evening, the company at the hotel made up two whist parties, at
one of which I sat down,--my partner being an agreeable young lady from
Portsmouth. We played till I, at least, was quite weary. It had been
the beautifullest of weather all day, very hot on the mainland, but a
delicious climate under our veranda.
Saturday, September 4th.--Another beautiful day, rather cooler than the
preceding, but not too cool. I can bear this coolness better than that
of the interior. In the forenoon, I took passage for Star Island, in a
boat that crosses daily whenever there are passengers. My companions
were the two Yankees, who had quite recovered from yesterday's sickness,
and were in the best of spirits and the utmost activity of mind of which
they were capable. Never was there such a string of questions as they
directed to the boatman,--questions that seemed to have no gist, so far
as related to any use that could be made of the answers. They appear to
be very good young men, however, well-meaning, and with manners not
disagreeable, because their hearts are not amiss. Star Island is less
than a mile from Appledore. It is the most populous island of the
group,--has been, for three or four years, an incorporated township, and
sends a representative to the New Hampshire legislature. The number of
voters is variously represented as from eighteen to twenty-eight. The
inhabitants are all, I presume, fishermen. Their houses stand in pretty
close neighborhood to one another, scattered about without the slightest
regularity or pretence of a street, there being no wheel-carriages on the
island. Some of the houses are very comfortable two-story dwellings. I
saw two or three, I think, with flowers. There are also one or two trees
on the island. There is a strong odor of fishiness, and the little cove
is full of mackerel-boats, and other small craft for fishing, in some of
which little boys of no growth at all were paddling about. Nearly in the
centre of this insular metropolis is a two-story house, with a flag-staff
in the yard. This is the hotel.
