Complete Prose Works
distances, shadows. _Aug. 10._--As I haltingly ramble an hour or two
this forenoon by the more secluded parts of the shore, or sit under
an old cedar half way up the hill, the city near in view, many young
parties gather to bathe or swim, squads of boys, generally twos or
threes, some larger ones, along the sand-bottom, or off an old pier
close by. A peculiar and pretty carnival--at its height a hundred lads
or young men, very democratic, but all decent behaving. The laughter,
voices, calls, re-responses--the springing and diving of the bathers
from the great string-piece of the decay'd pier, where climb or stand
long ranks of them, naked, rose-color'd, with movements, postures ahead
of any sculpture. To all this, the sun, so bright, the dark-green shadow
of the hills the other side, the amber-rolling waves, changing as the
tide comes in to a trans-parent tea-color--the frequent splash of the
playful boys, sousing--the glittering drops sparkling, and the good
western breeze blowing.
CUSTER'S LAST RALLY
Went to-day to see this just-finish'd painting by John Mulvany, who
has been out in far Dakota, on the spot, at the forts, and among the
frontiersmen, soldiers and Indians, for the last two years, on purpose
to sketch it in from reality, or the best that could be got of it. Sat
for over an hour before the picture, completely absorb'd in the first
view. A vast canvas, I should say twenty or twenty-two feet by twelve,
all crowded, and yet not crowded, conveying such a vivid play of color,
it takes a little time to get used to it. There are no tricks; there
is no throwing of shades in masses; it is all at first painfully real,
overwhelming, needs good nerves to look at it. Forty or fifty figures,
perhaps more, in full finish and detail in the mid-ground, with three
times that number, or more, through the rest--swarms upon swarms of
savage Sioux, in their war-bonnets, frantic, mostly on ponies, driving
through the background, through the smoke, like a hurricane of demons.
A dozen of the figures are wonderful. Altogether a western, autochthonic
phase of America, the frontiers, culminating, typical, deadly, heroic to
the uttermost--nothing in the books like it, nothing in Homer, nothing
in Shakspere; more grim and sublime than either, all native, all our
own, and all a fact. A great lot of muscular, tan-faced men, brought
to bay under terrible circumstances--death ahold of them, yet every man
undaunted, not one losing his head, wringing out every cent of the pay
before they sell their lives. Custer (his hair cut short stands in
the middle), with dilated eye and extended arm, aiming a huge cavalry
pistol. Captain Cook is there, partially wounded, blood on the
white handkerchief around his head, aiming his carbine coolly, half
kneeling--(his body was afterwards found close by Custer's.) The
slaughter'd or half-slaughter'd horses, for breastworks, make a peculiar
feature. Two dead Indians, herculean, lie in the foreground, clutching
their Winchester rifles, very characteristic. The many soldiers, their
faces and attitudes, the carbines, the broad-brimm'd western hats, the
powder-smoke in puffs, the dying horses with their rolling eyes
almost human in their agony, the clouds of war-bonneted Sioux in the
background, the figures of Custer and Cook--with indeed the whole scene,
dreadful, yet with an attraction and beauty that will remain in my
memory. With all its color and fierce action, a certain Greek continence
pervades it. A sunny sky and clear light envelop all. There is an
almost entire absence of the stock traits of European war pictures. The
physiognomy of the work is realistic and Western. I only saw it for an
hour or so; but it needs to be seen many times--needs to be studied over
and over again. I could look on such a work at brief intervals all
my life without tiring; it is very tonic to me; then it has an ethic
purpose below all, as all great art must have. The artist said the
sending of the picture abroad, probably to London, had been talk'd of.
I advised him if it went abroad to take it to Paris. I think they might
appreciate it there--nay, they certainly would. Then I would like to
show Messieur Crapeau that some things can be done in America as well as
others.
SOME OLD ACQUAINTANCES--MEMORIES
_Aug. 16._--"Chalk a big mark for today," was one of the sayings of an
old sportsman-friend of mine, when he had had unusually good luck--come
home thoroughly tired, but with satisfactory results of fish or birds.
Well, to-day might warrant such a mark for me. Everything propitious
from the start. An hour's fresh stimulation, coming down ten miles of
Manhattan island by railroad and 8 o'clock stage. Then an excellent
breakfast at Pfaff's restaurant, 24th street. Our host himself, an old
friend of mine, quickly appear'd on the scene to welcome me and bring
up the news, and, first opening a big fat bottle of the best wine in
the cellar, talk about ante-bellum times, '59 and '60, and the jovial
suppers at his then Broadway place, near Bleecker street. Ah, the
friends and names and frequenters, those times, that place. Most are
dead--Ada Clare, Wilkins, Daisy Sheppard, O'Brien, Henry Clapp, Stanley,
Mullin, Wood, Brougham, Arnold--all gone. And there Pfaff and I, sitting
opposite each other at the little table, gave a remembrance to them in a
style they would have themselves fully confirm'd, namely, big, brimming,
fill'd-up champagne-glasses, drain'd in abstracted silence, very
leisurely, to the last drop. (Pfaff is a generous German _restaurateur_,
silent, stout, jolly, and I should say the best selecter of champagne in
America.)
A DISCOVERY OF OLD AGE
Perhaps the best is always cumulative. One's eating and drinking one
wants fresh, and for the nonce, right off, and have done with it--but I
would not give a straw for that person or poem, or friend, or city,
or work of art, that was not more grateful the second time than the
first--and more still the third. Nay, I do not believe any grandest
eligibility ever comes forth at first. In my own experience, (persons,
poems, places, characters,) I discover the best hardly ever at first,
(no absolute rule about it, however,) sometimes suddenly bursting
forth, or stealthily opening to me, perhaps after years of unwitting
familiarity, unappreciation, usage.
A VISIT, AT THE LAST, TO R. W. EMERSON
_Concord, Mass._--Out here on a visit--elastic, mellow, Indian-summery
weather. Came to-day from Boston, (a pleasant ride of 40 minutes by
steam, through Somerville, Belmont, Waltham, Stony Brook, and other
lively towns,) convoy'd by my friend F. B. Sanborn, and to his ample
house, and the kindness and hospitality of Mrs. S. and their fine
family. Am writing this under the shade of some old hickories and elms,
just after 4 P.M., on the porch, within a stone's throw of the Concord
river. Off against me, across stream, on a meadow and side-hill,
haymakers are gathering and wagoning-in probably their second or third
crop. The spread of emerald-green and brown, the knolls, the score or
two of little haycocks dotting the meadow, the loaded-up wagons, the
patient horses, the slow-strong action of the men and pitchforks--all in
the just-waning afternoon, with patches of yellow sun-sheen, mottled
by long shadows--a cricket shrilly chirping, herald of the dusk--a boat
with two figures noiselessly gliding along the little river, passing
under the stone bridge-arch--the slight settling haze of aerial
moisture, the sky and the peacefulness expanding in all directions and
overhead--fill and soothe me.
_Same Evening._--Never had I a better piece of luck befall me: a long
and blessed evening with Emerson, in a way I couldn't have wish'd better
or different. For nearly two hours he has been placidly sitting where
I could see his face in the best light, near me. Mrs. S.'s back-parlor
well fill'd with people, neighbors, many fresh and charming faces,
women, mostly young, but some old. My friend A. B. Alcott and his
daughter Louisa were there early. A good deal of talk, the subject Henry
Thoreau--some new glints of his life and fortunes, with letters to and
from him--one of the best by Margaret Fuller, others by Horace Greeley,
Channing, &c.--one from Thoreau himself, most quaint and interesting.
(No doubt I seem'd very stupid to the roomful of company, taking hardly
any part in the conversation; but I had "my own pail to milk in," as the
Swiss proverb puts it.) My seat and the relative arrangement were such
that, without being rude, or anything of the kind, I could just look
squarely at E., which I did a good part of the two hours. On entering,
he had spoken very briefly and politely to several of the company,
then settled himself in his chair, a trifle push'd back, and, though a
listener and apparently an alert one, remain'd silent through the whole
talk and discussion. A lady friend quietly took a seat next him, to
give special attention. A good color in his face, eyes clear, with the
well-known expression of sweetness, and the old clear-peering aspect
quite the same.
_Next Day_.--Several hours at E.'s house, and dinner there. An
old familiar house, (he has been in it thirty-five years,) with
surroundings, furnishment, roominess, and plain elegance and fullness,
signifying democratic ease, sufficient opulence, and an admirable
old-fashioned simplicity--modern luxury, with its mere sumptuousness and
affectation, either touch'd lightly upon or ignored altogether. Dinner
the same. Of course the best of the occasion (Sunday, September 18,
'81) was the sight of E. himself. As just said, a healthy color in the
cheeks, and good light in the eyes, cheery expression, and just the
amount of talking that best suited, namely, a word or short phrase only
where needed, and almost always with a smile. Besides Emerson himself,
Mrs. E., with their daughter Ellen, the son Edward and his wife, with
my friend F. S. and Mrs. S., and others, relatives and intimates. Mrs.
Emerson, resuming the subject of the evening before, (I sat next to
her,) gave me further and fuller information about Thoreau, who, years
ago, during Mr. E.'s absence in Europe, had lived for some time in the
family, by invitation.
OTHER CONCORD NOTATIONS
Though the evening at Mr. and Mrs. Sanborn's, and the memorable family
dinner at Mr. and Mrs. Emerson's, have most pleasantly and permanently
fill'd my memory, I must not slight other notations of Concord. I went
to the old Manse, walk'd through the ancient garden, enter'd the rooms,
noted the quaintness, the unkempt grass and bushes, the little panes in
the windows, the low ceilings, the spicy smell, the creepers embowering
the light. Went to the Concord battle ground, which is close by, scann'd
French's statue, "the Minute Man," read Emerson's poetic inscription on
the base, linger'd a long while on the bridge, and stopp'd by the grave
of the unnamed British soldiers buried there the day after the fight
in April, '75. Then riding on, (thanks to my friend Miss M. and her
spirited white ponies, she driving them,) a half hour at Hawthorne's and
Thoreau's graves. I got out and went up of course on foot, and stood a
long while and ponder'd. They lie close together in a pleasant wooded
spot well up the cemetery hill, "Sleepy Hollow." The flat surface of the
first was densely cover'd by myrtle, with a border of arbor-vitae,
and the other had a brown headstone, moderately elaborate, with
inscriptions. By Henry's side lies his brother John, of whom much
was expected, but he died young. Then to Walden pond, that beautiful
embower'd sheet of water, and spent over an hour there. On the spot in
the woods where Thoreau had his solitary house is now quite a cairn of
stones, to mark the place; I too carried one and deposited on the heap.