Mosses from an old manse
possess little significance when new, and none at all when old. Genius,
indeed, melts many ages into one, and thus effects something permanent,
yet still with a similarity of office to that of the more ephemeral
writer. A work of genius is but the newspaper of a century, or
perchance of a hundred centuries.
Lightly as I have spoken of these old books, there yet lingers with me
a superstitious reverence for literature of all kinds. A bound volume
has a charm in my eyes similar to what scraps of manuscript possess for
the good Mussulman. He imagines that those wind-wafted records are
perhaps hallowed by some sacred verse; and I, that every new book or
antique one may contain the “open sesame,”—the spell to disclose
treasures hidden in some unsuspected cave of Truth. Thus it was not
without sadness that I turned away from the library of the Old Manse.
Blessed was the sunshine when it came again at the close of another
stormy day, beaming from the edge of the western horizon; while the
massive firmament of clouds threw down all the gloom it could, but
served only to kindle the golden light into a more brilliant glow by
the strongly contrasted shadows. Heaven smiled at the earth, so long
unseen, from beneath its heavy eyelid. To-morrow for the hill-tops and
the woodpaths.
Or it might be that Ellery Charming came up the avenue to join me in a
fishing excursion on the river. Strange and happy times were those when
we cast aside all irksome forms and strait-laced habitudes and
delivered ourselves up to the free air, to live like the Indians or any
less conventional race during one bright semicircle of the sun. Rowing
our boat against the current, between wide meadows, we turned aside
into the Assabeth. A more lovely stream than this, for a mile above its
junction with the Concord, has never flowed on earth, nowhere, indeed,
except to lave the interior regions of a poet’s imagination. It is
sheltered from the breeze by woods and a hillside; so that elsewhere
there might be a hurricane, and here scarcely a ripple across the
shaded water. The current lingers along so gently that the mere force
of the boatman’s will seems sufficient to propel his craft against it.
It comes flowing softly through the midmost privacy and deepest heart
of a wood which whispers it to be quiet; while the stream whispers back
again from its sedgy borders, as if river and wood were hushing one
another to sleep. Yes; the river sleeps along its course and dreams of
the sky and of the clustering foliage, amid which fall showers of
broken sunlight, imparting specks of vivid cheerfulness, in contrast
with the quiet depth of the prevailing tint. Of all this scene, the
slumbering river has a dream-picture in its bosom. Which, after all,
was the most real,—the picture, or the original?—the objects palpable
to our grosser senses, or their apotheosis in the stream beneath?
Surely the disembodied images stand in closer relation to the soul. But
both the original and the reflection had here an ideal charm; and, had
it been a thought more wild, I could have fancied that this river had
strayed forth out of the rich scenery of my companion’s inner world;
only the vegetation along its banks should then have had an Oriental
character.
Gentle and unobtrusive as the river is, yet the tranquil woods seem
hardly satisfied to allow it passage. The trees are rooted on the very
verge of the water, and dip their pendent branches into it. At one spot
there is a lofty bank, on the slope of which grow some hemlocks,
declining across the stream with outstretched arms, as if resolute to
take the plunge. In other places the banks are almost on a level with
the water; so that the quiet congregation of trees set their feet in
the flood, and are Fringed with foliage down to the surface.
Cardinal-flowers kindle their spiral flames and illuminate the dark
nooks among the shrubbery. The pond-lily grows abundantly along the
margin,—that delicious flower which, as Thoreau tells me, opens its
virgin bosom to the first sunlight and perfects its being through the
magic of that genial kiss. He has beheld beds of them unfolding in due
succession as the sunrise stole gradually from flower to flower,—a
sight not to be hoped for unless when a poet adjusts his inward eye to
a proper focus with the outward organ. Grapevines here and there twine
themselves around shrub and tree and hang their clusters over the water
within reach of the boatman’s hand. Oftentimes they unite two trees of
alien race in an inextricable twine, marrying the hemlock and the maple
against their will and enriching them with a purple offspring of which
neither is the parent. One of these ambitious parasites has climbed
into the upper branches of a tall white-pine, and is still ascending
from bough to bough, unsatisfied till it shall crown the tree’s airy
summit with a wreath of its broad foliage and a cluster of its grapes.
The winding course of the stream continually shut out the scene behind
us and revealed as calm and lovely a one before. We glided from depth
to depth, and breathed new seclusion at every turn. The shy kingfisher
flew from the withered branch close at hand to another at a distance,
uttering a shrill cry of anger or alarm. Ducks that had been floating
there since the preceding eve were startled at our approach and skimmed
along the glassy river, breaking its dark surface with a bright streak.
The pickerel leaped from among the lilypads. The turtle, sunning itself
upon a rock or at the root of a tree, slid suddenly into the water with
a plunge. The painted Indian who paddled his canoe along the Assabeth
three hundred years ago could hardly have seen a wilder gentleness
displayed upon its banks and reflected in its bosom than we did. Nor
could the same Indian have prepared his noontide meal with more
simplicity. We drew up our skiff at some point where the overarching
shade formed a natural bower, and there kindled a fire with the pine
cones and decayed branches that lay strewn plentifully around. Soon the
smoke ascended among the trees, impregnated with a savory incense, not
heavy, dull, and surfeiting, like the steam of cookery within doors,
but sprightly and piquant. The smell of our feast was akin to the
woodland odors with which it mingled: there was no sacrilege committed
by our intrusion there: the sacred solitude was hospitable, and granted
us free leave to cook and eat in the recess that was at once our
kitchen and banqueting-hall. It is strange what humble offices may be
performed in a beautiful scene without destroying its poetry. Our fire,
red gleaming among the trees, and we beside it, busied with culinary
rites and spreading out our meal on a mossgrown log, all seemed in
unison with the river gliding by and the foliage rustling over us. And,
what was strangest, neither did our mirth seem to disturb the propriety
of the solemn woods; although the hobgoblins of the old wilderness and
the will-of-the-wisps that glimmered in the marshy places might have
come trooping to share our table-talk and have added their shrill
laughter to our merriment. It was the very spot in which to utter the
extremest nonsense or the profoundest wisdom, or that ethereal product
of the mind which partakes of both, and may become one or the other, in
correspondence with the faith and insight of the auditor.
So, amid sunshine and shadow, rustling leaves and sighing waters, up
gushed our talk like the babble of a fountain. The evanescent spray was
Ellery’s; and his, too, the lumps of golden thought that lay glimmering
in the fountain’s bed and brightened both our faces by the reflection.
Could he have drawn out that virgin gold, and stamped it with the
mint-mark that alone gives currency, the world might have had the
profit, and he the fame. My mind was the richer merely by the knowledge
that it was there. But the chief profit of those wild days, to him and
me, lay not in any definite idea, not in any angular or rounded truth,
which we dug out of the shapeless mass of problematical stuff, but in
the freedom which we thereby won from all custom and conventionalism
and fettering influences of man on man. We were so free to-day that it
was impossible to be slaves again to-morrow. When we crossed the
threshold of the house or trod the thronged pavements of a city, still
the leaves of the trees that overhang the Assabeth were whispering to
us, “Be free! be free!” Therefore along that shady river-bank there are
spots, marked with a heap of ashes and half-consumed brands, only less
sacred in my remembrance than the hearth of a household fire.
And yet how sweet, as we floated homeward adown the golden river at
sunset,—how sweet was it to return within the system of human society,
not as to a dungeon and a chain, but as to a stately edifice, whence we
could go forth at will into state—her simplicity! How gently, too, did
the sight of the Old Manse, best seen from the river, overshadowed with
its willow and all environed about with the foliage of its orchard and
avenue,—how gently did its gray, homely aspect rebuke the speculative
extravagances of the day! It had grown sacred in connection with the
artificial life against which we inveighed; it had been a home for many
years, in spite of all; it was my home too; and, with these thoughts,
it seemed to me that all the artifice and conventionalism of life was
but an impalpable thinness upon its surface, and that the depth below
was none the worse for it. Once, as we turned our boat to the bank,
there was a cloud, in the shape of an immensely gigantic figure of a
hound, couched above the house, as if keeping guard over it. Gazing at
this symbol, I prayed that the upper influences might long protect the
institutions that had grown out of the heart of mankind.
If ever my readers should decide to give up civilized life, cities,
houses, and whatever moral or material enormities in addition to these
the perverted ingenuity of our race has contrived, let it be in the
early autumn. Then Nature will love him better than at any other
season, and will take him to her bosom with a more motherly tenderness.
I could scarcely endure the roof of the old house above me in those
first autumnal days. How early in the summer, too, the prophecy of
autumn comes! Earlier in some years than in others; sometimes even in
the first weeks of July. There is no other feeling like what is caused
by this faint, doubtful, yet real perception—if it be not rather a
foreboding—of the year’s decay, so blessedly sweet and sad in the same
breath.
Did I say that there was no feeling like it? Ah, but there is a
half-acknowledged melancholy like to this when we stand in the
perfected vigor of our life and feel that Time has now given us all his
flowers, and that the next work of his never-idle fingers must be to
steal them one by one away.
I have forgotten whether the song of the cricket be not as early a
token of autumn’s approach as any other,—that song which may be called
an audible stillness; for though very loud and heard afar, yet the mind
does not take note of it as a sound, so completely is its individual
existence merged among the accompanying characteristics of the season.
Alas for the pleasant summertime! In August 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 gleam forth in richer abundance along
the margin of the river and by the stone walls and deep among the
woods; the days, too, are as fervid now as they were a month ago; and
yet in every breath of wind and in every beam of sunshine we hear the
whispered farewell and behold the parting smile of a dear friend. There
is a coolness amid all the heat, a mildness in the blazing noon. Not a