Complete Prose Works
recluse in the woods near by is singing deliciously--not many notes,
but full of music of almost human sympathy--continuing for a long, long
while.
HORSE-MINT
_Aug. 22_.--Not a human being, and hardly the evidence of one, in
sight. After my brief semi-daily bath, I sit here for a bit, the
brook musically brawling, to the chromatic tones of a fretful cat-bird
somewhere off in the bushes. On my walk hither two hours since, through
fields and the old lane, I stopt to view, now the sky, now the mile-off
woods on the hill, and now the apple orchards. What a contrast from
New York's or Philadelphia's streets! Everywhere great patches of
dingy-blossom'd horse-mint wafting a spicy odor through the air,
(especially evenings.) Everywhere the flowering boneset, and the
rose-bloom of the wild bean.
THREE OF US
_July 14_.--My two kingfishers still haunt the pond. In the bright sun
and breeze and perfect temperature of to-day, noon, I am sitting here
by one of the gurgling brooks, dipping a French water-pen in the limpid
crystal, and using it to write these lines, again watching the feather'd
twain, as they fly and sport athwart the water, so close, almost
touching into its surface. Indeed there seem to be three of us. For
nearly an hour I indolently look and join them while they dart and turn
and take their airy gambols, sometimes far up the creek disappearing for
a few moments, and then surely returning again, and performing most
of their flight within sight of me, as if they knew I appreciated and
absorb'd their vitality, spirituality, faithfulness, and the rapid,
vanishing, delicate lines of moving yet quiet electricity they draw for
me across the spread of the grass, the trees, and the blue sky. While
the brook babbles, babbles, and the shadows of the boughs dapple in the
sunshine around me, and the cool west-by-nor'-west wind faintly soughs
in the thick bushes and tree tops.
Among the objects of beauty and interest now beginning to appear quite
plentifully in this secluded spot, I notice the humming-bird, the
dragon-fly with its wings of slate-color'd guaze, and many varieties of
beautiful and plain butterflies, idly flapping among the plants and wild
posies. The mullein has shot up out of its nest of broad leaves, to a
tall stalk towering sometimes five or six feet high, now studded
with knobs of golden blossoms. The milk-weed, (I see a great gorgeous
creature of gamboge and black lighting on one as I write,) is in flower,
with its delicate red fringe; and there are profuse clusters of a
feathery blossom waving in the wind on taper stems. I see lots of these
and much else in every direction, as I saunter or sit. For the last half
hour a bird has persistently kept up a simple, sweet, melodious song,
from the bushes. (I have a positive conviction that some of these birds
sing, and others fly and flirt about here for my special benefit.)
DEATH OF WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
_New York City_.--Came on from West Philadelphia, June 13, in the 2 P.
M. train to Jersey City, and so across and to my friends, Mr. and Mrs.
J. H. J., and their large house, large family (and large hearts,)
amid which I feel at home, at peace--away up on Fifth avenue, near
Eighty-sixth street, quiet, breezy, overlooking the dense woody
fringe of the park--plenty of space and sky, birds chirping, and air
comparatively fresh and odorless. Two hours before starting, saw the
announcement of William Cullen Bryant's funeral, and felt a strong
desire to attend. I had known Mr. Bryant over thirty years ago, and he
had been markedly kind to me. Off and on, along that time for years as
they pass'd, we met and chatted together. I thought him very sociable in
his way, and a man to become attach'd to. We were both walkers, and when
I work'd in Brooklyn he several times came over, middle of afternoons,
and we took rambles miles long, till dark, out towards Bedford or
Flatbush, in company. On these occasions he gave me clear accounts
of scenes in Europe--the cities, looks, architecture, art, especially
Italy--where he had travel'd a good deal.
_June 14.--The Funeral_.--And so the good, stainless, noble old citizen
and poet lies in the closed coffin there--and this is his funeral. A
solemn, impressive, simple scene, to spirit and senses. The remarkable
gathering of gray heads, celebrities--the finely render'd anthem, and
other music--the church, dim even now at approaching noon, in its light
from the mellow-stain'd windows-the pronounc'd eulogy on the bard who
loved Nature so fondly, and sung so well her shows and seasons--ending
with these appropriate well-known lines:
I gazed upon the glorious sky,
And the green mountains round,
And thought that when I came to lie
At rest within the ground,
'Twere pleasant that in flowery June,
When brooks send up a joyous tune,
And groves a cheerful sound,
The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
The rich green mountain turf should break.
JAUNT UP THE HUDSON
_June 20th_.--On the "Mary Powell," enjoy'd everything beyond precedent.
The delicious tender summer day, just warm enough--the constantly
changing but ever beautiful panorama on both sides of the river--(went
up near a hundred miles)--the high straight walls of the stony
Palisades--beautiful Yonkers, and beautiful Irvington--the never-ending
hills, mostly in rounded lines, swathed with verdure,--the distant
turns, like great shoulders in blue veils--the frequent gray and
brown of the tall-rising rocks--the river itself, now narrowing, now
expanding--the white sails of the many sloops, yachts, &c., some near,
some in the distance--the rapid succession of handsome villages and
cities, (our boat is a swift traveler, and makes few stops)--the
Race--picturesque West Point, and indeed all along--the costly and often
turreted mansions forever showing in some cheery light color, through
the woods--make up the scene.
HAPPINESS AND RASPBERRIES
_June 21_.--Here I am, on the west bank of the Hudson, 80 miles
north of New York, near Esopus, at the handsome, roomy,
honeysuckle-and-rose-enbower'd cottage of John Burroughs. The place,
the perfect June days and nights, (leaning toward crisp and cool,)
the hospitality of J. and Mrs. B., the air, the fruit, (especially my
favorite dish, currants and raspberries, mixed, sugar'd, fresh and ripe
from the bushes--I pick 'em myself)--the room I occupy at night, the
perfect bed, the window giving an ample view of the Hudson and the
opposite shores, so wonderful toward sunset, and the rolling music
of the RR. trains, far over there--the peaceful rest--the early
Venus-heralded dawn--the noiseless splash of sunrise, the light and
warmth indescribably glorious, in which, (soon as the sun is well up,)
I have a capital rubbing and rasping with the flesh-brush--with an extra
scour on the back by Al. J., who is here with us--all inspiriting my
invalid frame with new life, for the day. Then, after some whiffs
of morning air, the delicious coffee of Mrs. B., with the cream,
strawberries, and many substantials, for breakfast.
A SPECIMEN TRAMP FAMILY
_June 22_.--This afternoon we went out (J. B., Al. and I) on quite a
drive around the country. The scenery, the perpetual stone fences,
(some venerable old fellows, dark-spotted with lichens)--the many
fine locust-trees--the runs of brawling water, often over descents of
rock--these, and lots else. It is lucky the roads are first-rate here,
(as they are,) for it is up or down hill everywhere, and sometimes steep
enough. B. has a tip-top horse, strong, young, and both gentle and
fast. There is a great deal of waste land and hills on the river edge
of Ulster county, with a wonderful luxuriance of wild flowers and
bushes--and it seems to me I never saw more vitality of trees--eloquent
hemlocks, plenty of locusts and fine maples, and the balm of Gilead,
giving out aroma. In the fields and along the road-sides unusual crops
of the tall-stemm'd wild daisy, white as milk and yellow as gold.
We pass'd quite a number of tramps, singly or in couples--one squad, a
family in a rickety one-horse wagon, with some baskets evidently their
work and trade--the man seated on a low board, in front, driving--the
gauntish woman by his side, with a baby well bundled in her arms, its
little red feet and lower legs sticking out right towards us as we
pass'd--and in the wagon behind, we saw two (or three) crouching little
children. It was a queer, taking, rather sad picture. If I had been
alone and on foot, I should have stopp'd and held confab. But on our
return nearly two hours afterward, we found them a ways further along
the same road, in a lonesome open spot, haul'd aside, unhitch'd, and
evidently going to camp for the night. The freed horse was not far off,
quietly cropping the grass. The man was busy at the wagon, the boy had
gather'd some dry wood, and was making a fire--and as we went a little
further we met the woman afoot. I could not see her face, in its
great sun-bonnet, but somehow her figure and gait told misery, terror,
destitution. She had the rag-bundled, half-starv'd infant still in
her arms, and in her hands held two or three baskets, which she had
evidently taken to the next house for sale. A little barefoot five-year
old girl-child, with fine eyes, trotted behind her, clutching her gown.
We stopp'd, asking about the baskets, which we bought. As we paid the
money, she kept her face hidden in the recesses of her bonnet. Then as
we started, and stopp'd again, Al., (whose sympathies were evidently
arous'd,) went back to the camping group to get another basket. He
caught a look of her face, and talk'd with her a little. Eyes, voice and
manner were those of a corpse, animated by electricity. She was quite
young--the man she was traveling with, middle-aged. Poor woman--what
story was it, out of her fortunes, to account for that inexpressibly
scared way, those glassy eyes, and that hollow voice?
MANHATTAN FROM THE BAY
_June 25_.--Returned to New York last night. Out to-day on the waters
for a sail in the wide bay, southeast of Staten island--a rough, tossing
ride, and a free sight--the long stretch of Sandy Hook, the highlands
of Navesink, and the many vessels outward and inward bound. We came up
through the midst of all, in the full sun. I especially enjoy'd the last
hour or two. A moderate sea-breeze had set in; yet over the city, and
the waters adjacent, was a thin haze, concealing nothing, only adding to
the beauty. From my point of view, as I write amid the soft breeze, with
a sea-temperature, surely nothing on earth of its kind can go beyond
this show. To the left the North river with its far vista--nearer, three
or four war-ships, anchor'd peacefully--the Jersey side, the banks of
Weehawken, the Palisades, and the gradually receding blue, lost in the
distance--to the right the East river--the mast-hemm'd shores--the grand
obelisk-like towers of the bridge, one on either side, in haze,
yet plainly defin'd, giant brothers twain, throwing free graceful
interlinking loops high across the tumbled tumultuous current
below--(the tide is just changing to its ebb)--the broad water-spread
everywhere crowded--no, not crowded, but thick as stars in the sky--with
all sorts and sizes of sail and steam vessels, plying ferry-boats,
arriving and departing coasters, great ocean Dons, iron-black, modern,
magnificent in size and power, fill'd with their incalculable value of
human life and precious merchandise--with here and there, above all,
those daring, careening things of grace and wonder, those white and
shaded swift-darting fish-birds, (I wonder if shore or sea elsewhere
can outvie them,) ever with their slanting spars, and fierce, pure,
hawk-like beauty and motion--first-class New York sloop or schooner