THE OLD MANSE 古屋杂忆

2024年1月25日发(作者：)

The Old Manse

THE AUTHOR MAKES THE READER ACQUAINTED WITH HIS

ABODE

from Mosses from an Old Manse, 1854 By Nathaniel Hawthorne

BETWEEN two tall gate-posts of rough-hewn stone, (the gate itself having fallen from its hinges, at some

unknown epoch,) we beheld the gray front of the old parsonage, terminating the vista of an avenue of

black-ash trees. It was now a twelvemonth since the funeral procession of the venerable clergyman, its

last inhabitant, had turned from that gate-way towards the village burying-ground. The wheel-track,

leading to the door, as well as the whole breadth of the avenue, was almost overgrown with grass,

affording dainty mouthfuls to two or three vagrant cows, and an old white horse, who had his own living

to pick up along the roadside. The glimmering shadows, that lay half-asleep between the door of the

house and the public highway, were a kind of spiritual medium, seen through which, the edifice had not

quite the aspect of belonging to the material world. Certainly it had little in common with those ordinary

abodes, which stand so imminent upon the road that every passer-by can thrust his head, as it were, into

the domestic circle. From these quiet windows, the figures of passing travellers looked too remote and

dim to disturb the sense of privacy. In its near retirement, and accessible seclusion, it was the very spot

for the residence of a clergyman; a man not estranged from human life, yet enveloped, in the midst of it,

with a veil woven of intermingled gloom and brightness. It was worthy to have been one of the

time-honored parsonages of England, in which, through many generations, a succession of holy

occupants pass from youth to age, and bequeath each an inheritance of sanctity to pervade the house and

hover over it, as with an atmosphere.

Nor, in truth, had the Old Manse ever been prophaned by a lay occupant, until that memorable

summer-afternoon when I entered it as my home. A priest had built it; a priest had succeeded to it; other

priestly men, from time to time, had dwelt in it; and children, born in its chambers, had grown up to

assume the priestly character. It was awful to reflect how many sermons must have been written there.

The latest inhabitant alone--he, by whose translation to Paradise the dwelling was left vacant--had

penned nearly three thousand discourses, besides the better, if not the greater number, that gushed

living from his lips. How often, no doubt, had he paced to-and-fro along the avenue, attuning his

meditations, to the sighs and gentle murmurs, and deep and solemn peals of the wind, among the lofty

tops of the trees! In that variety of natural utterances, he could find something accordant with every

passage of his sermon, were it of tenderness or reverential fear. The boughs over my head seemed

shadowy with solemn thoughts, as well as with rustling leaves. I took shame to myself for having been so

long a writer of idle stories, and ventured to hope that wisdom would descend upon me with the falling

leaves of the avenue; and that I should light upon an intellectual treasure in the Old Manse, well worth

those hoards of long-hidden gold, which people seek for in moss-grown houses. Profound treatises of

morality;--a layman's unprofessional, and therefore unprejudiced views of religion;--histories, (such as

Bancroft might have written, had he taken up his abode here, as he once purposed,) bright with picture,

gleaming over a depth of philosophic thought;--these were the works that might fitly have flowed from

such a retirement. In the humblest event, I resolved at least to achieve a novel, that should evolve some

deep lesson, and should possess physical substance enough to stand alone.

In furtherance of my design, and as if to leave me no pretext for not fulfilling it, there was, in the rear of

the house, the most delightful little nook of a study that ever afforded its snug seclusion to a scholar. It

was here that Emerson wrote 'Nature'; for he was then an inhabitant of the Manse, and used to watch the

Assyrian dawn and the Paphian sunset and moonrise, from the summit of our eastern hill. When I first

saw the room, its walls were blackened with the smoke of unnumbered years, and made still blacker by

the grim prints of Puritan ministers that hung around. These worthies looked strangely like bad angels,

or, at least, like men who had wrestled so continually and so sternly with the devil, that somewhat of his

sooty fierceness had been imparted to their own visages. They had all vanished now. A cheerful coat of

paint, and golden-tinted paper-hangings, lighted up the small apartment; while the shadow of a

willow-tree, that swept against the overhanging eaves, attempered the cheery western sunshine. In place

of the grim prints, there was the sweet and lovely head of one of Raphael's Madonnas, and two pleasant

little pictures of the Lake of Como. The only other decorations were a purple vase of flowers, always fresh,

and a bronze one containing graceful ferns. My books (few, and by no means choice; for they were chiefly

such waifs as chance had thrown in my way) stood in order about the room, seldom to be disturbed.

The study had three windows, set with little, old-fashioned panes of glass, each with a crack across it. The

two on the western side looked, or rather peeped, between the willow-branches, down into the orchard,

with glimpses of the river through the trees. The third, facing northward, commanded a broader view of

the river, at a spot where its hitherto obscure waters gleam forth into the light of history. It was at this

window that the clergyman, who then dwelt in the Manse, stood watching the outbreak of a long and

deadly struggle between two nations; he saw the irregular array of his parishioners on the farther side of

the river, and the glittering line of the British, on the hither bank. He awaited, in an agony of suspense,

the rattle of the musketry. It came--and there needed but a gentle wind to sweep the battle-smoke

around this quiet house.

Perhaps the reader--whom I cannot help considering as my guest in the Old Manse, and entitled to all

courtesy in the way of sight-showing--perhaps he will choose to take a nearer view of the memorable spot.

We stand now on the river's brink. It may well be called the Concord--the river of peace and

quietness--for it is certainly the most unexcitable and sluggish stream that ever loitered, imperceptibly,

towards its eternity, the sea. Positively, I had lived three weeks beside it, before it grew quite clear to my

perception which way the current flowed. It never has a vivacious aspect, except when a north-western

breeze is vexing its surface, on a sunshiny day. From the incurable indolence of its nature, the stream is

happily incapable of becoming the slave of human ingenuity, as is the fate of so many a wild, free

mountain torrent. While all things else are compelled to subserve some useful purpose, it idles its

sluggish life away, in lazy liberty, without turning a solitary spindle, or affording even water-power

enough to grind the corn that grows upon its banks. The torpor of its movement allows it nowhere a

bright pebbly shore, nor so much as a narrow strip of glistening sand, in any part of its course. It

slumbers between broad prairies, kissing the long meadow-grass, and bathes the overhanging boughs of

elder-bushes and willows, or the roots of elms and ash-trees, and clumps of maples. Flags and rushes

grow along its plashy shore; the yellow water-lily spreads its broad, flat leaves on the margin; and the

fragrant white pond-lily abounds, generally selecting a position just so far from the river's brink, that it

cannot be grasped, save at the hazard of plunging in.

It is a marvel whence this perfect flower derives its loveliness and perfume, springing, as it does, from

the black mud over which the river sleeps, and where lurk the slimy eel, and speckled frog, and the mud

turtle, whom continual washing cannot cleanse. It is the very same black mud out of which the yellow lily

sucks its obscene life and noisome odor. Thus we see, too, in the world, that some persons assimilate

only what is ugly and evil from the same moral circumstances which supply good and beautiful

results--the fragrance of celestial flowers--to the daily life of others.

The reader must not, from any testimony of mine, contract a dislike towards our slumberous stream. In

the light of a calm and golden sunset, it becomes lovely beyond expression; the more lovely for the

quietude that so well accords with the hour, when even the wind, after blustering all day long, usually

hushes itself to rest. Each tree and rock, and every blade of grass, is distinctly imaged, and, however

unsightly in reality, assumes ideal beauty in the reflection. The minutest things of earth, and the broad

aspect of the firmament, are pictured equally without effort, and with the same felicity of success. All the

sky glows downward at our feet; the rich clouds float through the unruffled bosom of the stream, like

heavenly thoughts through a peaceful heart. We will not, then, malign our river as gross and impure,

while it can glorify itself with so adequate a picture of the heaven that broods above it; or, if we

remember its tawny hue and the muddiness of its bed, let it be a symbol that the earthliest human soul

has an infinite spiritual capacity, and may contain the better world within its depths. But, indeed, the

same lesson might be drawn out of any mud-puddle in the streets of a city--and, being taught us

everywhere, it must be true.

Come; we have pursued a somewhat devious track, in our walk to the battle-ground. Here we are, at the

point where the river was crossed by the old bridge, the possession of which was the immediate object of

the contest. On the hither side, grow two or three elms, throwing a wide circumference of shade, but

which must have been planted at some period within the threescore years and ten, that have passed since

the battle-day. On the farther shore, overhung by a clump of elder-bushes, we discern the stone

abutment of the bridge. Looking down into the river, I once discovered some heavy fragments of the

timbers, all green with half-a-century's growth of water-moss; for, during that length of time, the tramp

of horses and human footsteps have ceased, along this ancient highway. The stream has here about the

breadth of twenty strokes of a swimmer's arm; a space not too wide, when the bullets were whistling

across. Old people, who dwell hereabouts, will point out the very spots, on the western bank, where our

countrymen fell down and died; and, on this side of the river, an obelisk of granite has grown up from the

soil that was fertilized with British blood. The monument, not more than twenty feet in height, is such as

it befitted the inhabitants of a village to erect, in illustration of a matter of local interest, rather than what

was suitable to commemorate an epoch of national history. Still, by the fathers of the village this famous

deed was done; and their descendants might rightfully claim the privilege of building a memorial.

A humbler token of the fight, yet a more interesting one than the granite obelisk, may be seen close under

the stonewall, which separates the battle-ground from the precincts of the parsonage. It is the

grave--marked by a small, moss-grown fragment of stone at the head, and another at the foot--the grave

of two British soldiers, who were slain in the skirmish, and have ever since slept peacefully where

Zechariah Brown and Thomas Davis buried them. Soon was their warfare ended;--a weary night-march

from Boston--a rattling volley of musketry across the river;--and then these many years of rest! In the

long procession of slain invaders, who passed into eternity from the battle-fields of the Revolution, these

two nameless soldiers led the way.

Lowell, the poet, as we were once standing over this grave, told me a tradition in reference to one of the

inhabitants below. The story has something deeply impressive, though its circumstances cannot

altogether be reconciled with probability. A youth, in the service of the clergyman, happened to be

chopping wood, that April morning, at the back door of the Manse; and when the noise of battle rang

from side to side of the bridge, he hastened across the intervening field, to see what might be going

forward. It is rather strange, by the way, that this lad should have been so diligently at work, when the

whole population of town and county were startled out of their customary business, by the advance of the

British troops. Be that as it might, the tradition says that the lad now left his task, and hurried to the

battle-field, with the axe still in his hand. The British had by this time retreated--the Americans were in

pursuit--and the late scene of strife was thus deserted by both parties. Two soldiers lay on the ground;

one was a corpse; but, as the young New-Englander drew nigh, the other Briton raised himself painfully

upon his hands and knees, and gave a ghastly stare into his face. The boy--it must have been a nervous

impulse, without purpose, without thought, and betokening a sensitive and impressible nature, rather

than a hardened one--the boy uplifted his axe, and dealt the wounded soldier a fierce and fatal blow upon

the head.

I could wish that the grave might be opened; for I would fain know whether either of the skeleton

soldiers have the mark of an axe in his skull. The story comes home to me like truth. Oftentimes, as an

intellectual and moral exercise, I have sought to follow that poor youth through his subsequent career,

and observe how his soul was tortured by the blood-stain, contracted, as it had been, before the long

custom of war had robbed human life of its sanctity, and while it still seemed murderous to slay a brother

man. This one circumstance has borne more fruit for me, than all that history tells us of the fight.

Many strangers come, in the summer-time, to view the battle-ground. For my own part, I have never

found my imagination much excited by this, or any other scene of historic celebrity; nor would the placid

margin of the river have lost any of its charm for me, had men never fought and died there. There is a

wilder interest in the tract of land--perhaps a hundred yards in breadth--which extends between the

battle-field and the northern face of our Old Manse, with its contiguous avenue and orchard. Here, in

some unknown age, before the white man came, stood an Indian village, convenient to the river, whence

its inhabitants must have drawn so large a part of their subsistence. The site is identified by the spear

and arrow-heads, the chisels, and other implements of war, labor, and the chase, which the plough turns

up from the soil. You see a splinter of stone, half hidden beneath a sod; it looks like nothing worthy of

note; but, if you have faith enough to pick it up--behold a relic! Thoreau, who has a strange faculty of

finding what the Indians have left behind them, first set me on the search; and I afterwards enriched

myself with some very perfect specimens, so rudely wrought that it seemed almost as if chance had

fashioned them. Their great charm consists in this rudeness, and in the individuality of each article, so

different from the productions of civilized machinery, which shapes everything on one pattern. There is

an exquisite delight, too, in picking up, for one's self, an arrow-head that was dropt centuries ago, and

has never been handled since, and which we thus receive directly from the hand of the red hunter, who

purposed to shoot it at his game, or at an enemy. Such an incident builds up again the Indian village,

amid its encircling forest, and recalls to life the painted chiefs and warriors, the squaws at their

household toil, and the children sporting among the wigwams; while the little wind-rocked papoose

swings from the branch of a tree. It can hardly be told whether it is a joy or a pain, after such a

momentary vision, to gaze around in the broad daylight of reality, and see stone-fences, white houses,

potatoe-fields, and men doggedly hoeing, in their shirt-sleeves and homespun pantaloons. But this is

nonsense. The Old Manse is better than a thousand wigwams.

The Old Manse! We had almost forgotten it, but will return thither through the orchard. This was set out

by the last clergyman, in the decline of his life, when the neighbors laughed at the hoary-headed man for

planting trees, from which he could have no prospect of gathering fruit. Even had that been the case,

there was only so much the better motive for planting them, in the pure and unselfish hope of benefitting

his successors--an end so seldom achieved by more ambitious efforts. But the old minister, before

reaching his patriarchal age of ninety, ate the apples from this orchard during many years, and added

silver and gold to his annual stipend, by disposing of the superfluity. It is pleasant to think of him,

walking among the trees in the quiet afternoons of early autumn, and picking up here and there a

windfall; while he observes how heavily the branches are weighed down, and computes the number of

empty flour-barrels that will be filled by their burthen. He loved each tree, doubtless, as if it had been his

own child. An orchard has a relation to mankind, and readily connects itself with matters of the heart.

The trees possess a domestic character; they have lost the wild nature of their forest-kindred, and have

grown humanized by receiving the care of man, as well as by contributing to his wants. There is so much

individuality of character, too, among apple-trees, that it gives them an additional claim to be the objects

of human interest. One is harsh and crabbed in its manifestations; another gives us fruit as mild as

charity. One is churlish and illiberal, evidently grudging the few apples that it bears; another exhausts

itself in free-hearted benevolence. The variety of grotesque shapes, into which apple-trees contort

themselves, has its effect on those who get acquainted with them; they stretch out their crooked branches,

and take such hold of the imagination that we remember them as humorists and odd fellows. And what is

more melancholy than the old apple-trees, that linger about the spot where once stood a homestead, but

where there is now only a ruined chimney, rising out of a grassy and weed-grown cellar? They offer their

fruit to every wayfarer--apples that are bitter-sweet with the moral of time's vicissitude.

I have met with no other such pleasant trouble in the world, as that of finding myself, with only the two

or three mouths which it was my privilege to feed, the sole inheritor of the old clergyman's wealth of

fruits. Throughout the summer, there were cherries and currants; and then came Autumn, with this

immense burthen of apples, dropping them continually from his over-laden shoulders, as he trudged

along. In the stillest afternoon, if I listened, the thump of a great apple was audible, falling without a

breath of wind, from the mere necessity of perfect ripeness. And, besides, there were pear-trees, that

flung down bushels upon bushels of heavy pears, and peach-trees, which, in a good year, tormented me

with peaches, neither to be eaten nor kept, nor, without labor and perplexity, to be given away. The idea

of an infinite generosity and exhaustless bounty, on the part of our Mother Nature, was well worth

obtaining through such cares as these. That feeling can be enjoyed in perfection only by the natives of the

summer islands, where the breadfruit, the cocoa, the palm, and the orange, grow spontaneously, and

hold forth the ever-ready meal; but, likewise, almost as well, by a man long habituated to city-life, who

plunges into such a solitude as that of the Old Manse, where he plucks the fruit of trees that he did not

plant, and which therefore, to my heterodox taste, bear the closest resemblance to those that grew in

Eden. It has been an apophthegm, these five thousand years, that toil sweetens the bread it earns. For my

part, (speaking from hard experience, acquired while belaboring the rugged furrows of Brook Farm,) I

relish best the free gifts of Providence.

Not that it can be disputed, that the light toil, requisite to cultivate a moderately sized garden, imparts

such zest to kitchen-vegetables as is never found in those of the market-gardener. Childless men, if they

would know something of the bliss of paternity, should plant a seed--be it squash, bean, Indian corn, or

perhaps a mere flower, or worthless weed--should plant it with their own hands, and nurse it from

infancy to maturity, altogether by their own care. If there be not too many of them, each individual plant

becomes an object of separate interest. My garden, that skirted the avenue of the Manse, was of precisely

the right extent. An hour or two of morning labor was all that it required. But I used to visit and re-visit it,

a dozen times a day, and stand in gratified by deep contemplation over my vegetable progeny, with a love

that nobody could share nor conceive of, who had never taken part in the process of creation. It was one

of the most bewitching sights in the world, to observe a hill of beans thrusting aside the soil, or a row of

early peas, just peeping forth sufficiently to trace a line of delicate green. Later in the season, the

humming-birds were attracted by the blossoms of a peculiar variety of bean; and they were a joy to me,

those little spiritual visitants, for deigning to sip airy food out of my nectar-cups. Multitudes of bees used

to bury themselves in the yellow blossoms of the summer-squashes. This, too, was a deep satisfaction;

although, when they had laden themselves with sweets, they flew away to some unknown hive, which

would give back nothing in requital of what my garden had contributed. But I was glad thus to fling a

benefaction upon the passing breeze, with the certainty that somebody must profit by it, and that there

would be a little more honey in the world, to allay the sourness and bitterness which mankind is always

complaining of. Yes, indeed; my life was the sweeter for that honey.

Speaking of summer-squashes, I must say a word of their beautifu1 and varied forms. They presented an

endless diversity of urns and vases, shallow or deep, scalloped or plain, moulded in patterns which a

sculptor would do well to copy, since Art has never invented anything more graceful. A hundred

squashes in the garden were worthy--in my eyes, at least--of being rendered indestructible in marble. If

ever Providence (but I know it never will) should assign me a superfluity of gold, part of it shall be

expended for a service of plate, or most delicate porcelain, to be wrought into the shapes of

summer-squashes, gathered from vines which I will plant with my own hands. As dishes for containing

vegetables, they would be peculiarly appropriate.

But, not merely the squeamish love of the Beautiful was gratified by my toil in the kitchen-garden. There

was a hearty enjoyment, likewise, in observing the growth of the crook-necked winter squashes, from the

first little bulb, with the withered blossom adhering to it, until they lay strewn upon the soil, big, round

fellows, hiding their heads beneath the leaves, but turning up their great yellow rotundities to the

noontide sun. Gazing at them, I felt that, by my agency, something worth living for had been done. A new

substance was borne into the world. They were real and tangible existences, which the mind could seize

hold of and rejoice in. A cabbage, too,--especially the early Dutch cabbage, which swells to a monstrous

circumference, until its ambitious heart often bursts asunder,--is a matter to be proud of, when we can

claim a share with the earth and sky in producing it. But, after all, the hugest pleasure is reserved, until

these vegetable children of ours are smoking on the table, and we, like Saturn, make a meal of them.

What with the river, the battle-field, the orchard, and the garden, the reader begins to despair of finding

his way back into the Old Manse. But, in agreeable weather, it is the truest hospitality to keep him out of

doors. I never grew quite acquainted with my habitation, till a long spell of sulky rain had confined me

beneath its roof. There could not be a more sombre aspect of external Nature, than as then seen from the

windows of my study. The great willow-tree had caught, and retained among its leaves, a whole cataract

of water, to be shaken down, at intervals, by the frequent gusts of wind. All day long, and for a week

together, the rain was drip-drip-dripping and splash-splash-splashing from the eaves, and bubbling and

foaming into the tubs beneath the spouts. The old, unpainted shingles of the house and out-buildings

were black with moisture; and the mosses, of ancient growth upon the walls, looked green and fresh, as if

they were the newest things and after-thought of Time. The usually mirrored surface of the river was

blurred by an infinity of rain-drops; the whole landscape had a completely water-soaked appearance,

conveying the impression that the earth was wet through, like a sponge; while the summit of a wooded

hill, about a mile distant, was enveloped in a dense mist, where the demon of the tempest seemed to have

his abiding-place, and to be plotting still direr inclemencies.

Nature has no kindness--no hospitality--during a rain. In the fiercest heat of sunny days, she retains a

secret mercy, and welcomes the wayfarer to shady nooks of the woods, whither the sun cannot penetrate;

but she provides no shelter against her storms. It makes us shiver to think of those deep, umbrageous

recesses--those overshadowing banks--where we found such enjoyment during the sultry afternoons.

Not a twig of foliage there, but would dash a little shower into our faces. Looking reproachfully towards

the impenetrable sky--if sky there be, above that dismal uniformity of cloud--we are apt to murmur

against the whole system of the universe, since it involves the extinction of so many summer days, in so

short a life, by the hissing and spluttering rain. In such spells of weather--and, it is to be supposed, such

weather came--Eve's bower in Paradise must have been but a cheerless and aguish kind of shelter,

nowise comparable to the old parsonage, which had resources of its own, to beguile the week's

imprisonment. The idea of sleeping on a couch of wet roses!

Happy the man who, in a rainy day, can betake himself to a huge garret, stored, like that of the Manse,

with lumber that each generation has left behind it, from a period before the Revolution. Our garret was

an arched hall, dimly illuminated through small and dusty windows; it was but a twilight at the best; and

there were nooks, or rather caverns of deep obscurity, the secrets of which I never learned, being too

reverent of their dust and cobwebs. The beams and rafters, roughly hewn, and with strips of bark still on

them, and the rude masonry of the chimneys, made the garret look wild and uncivilized; an aspect unlike

what was seen elsewhere, in the quiet and decorous old house. But, on one side, there was a little

white-washed apartment, which bore the traditionary title of the Saints' Chamber, because holy men, in

their youth, had slept, and studied, and prayed there. With its elevated retirement, its one window, its

small fireplace, and its closet, convenient for an oratory, it was the very spot where a young man might

inspire himself with solemn enthusiasm, and cherish saintly dreams. The occupants, at various epochs,

had left brief records and ejaculations, inscribed upon the walls. There, too, hung a tattered and

shrivelled roll of canvass, which, on inspection, proved to be the forcibly wrought picture of a clergyman,

in wig, band, and gown, holding a Bible in his hand. As I turned his face towards the light, he eyed me

with an air of authority such as men of his profession seldom assume, in our days. The original had been

pastor of the parish, more than a century ago, a friend of Whitefield, and almost his equal in fervid

eloquence. I bowed before the effigy of the dignified divine, and felt as if I had now met face to face with

the ghost, by whom, as there was reason to apprehend, the Manse was haunted.

Houses of any antiquity, in New England, are so invariably possessed with spirits, that the matter seems

hardly worth alluding to. Our ghost used to heave deep sighs in a particular corner of the parlor; and

sometimes rustled paper, as if he were turning over a sermon, in the long upper entry;--where,

nevertheless, he was invisible, in spite of the bright moonshine that fell through the eastern window. Not

improbably, he wished me to edit and publish a selection from a chest full of manuscript discourses, that

stood in the garret. Once, while Hillard and other friends sat talking with us in the twilight, there came a

rustling noise, as of a minister's silk gown, sweeping through the very midst of the company, so closely as

almost to brush against the chairs. Still, there was nothing visible. A yet stranger business was that of a

ghostly servant-maid, who used to be heard in the kitchen, at deepest midnight, grinding coffee, cooking,

ironing--performing, in short, all kinds of domestic labor--although no traces of anything accomplished

could be detected, the next morning. Some neglected duty of her servitude--some ill-starched ministerial

band--disturbed the poor damsel in her grave, and kept her at work without any wages.

But, to return from this digression. A part of my predecessor's library was stored in the garret; no unfit

receptacle, indeed, for such dreary trash as comprised the greater number of volumes. The old books

would have been worth nothing at an auction. In this venerable garret, however, they possessed an

interest quite apart from their literary value, as heirlooms, many of which had been transmitted down

through a series of consecrated hands, from the days of the mighty Puritan divines. Autographs of

famous names were to be seen, in faded ink, on some of their fly-leaves; and there were marginal

observations, or interpolated pages closely covered with manuscript, in illegible short-hand, perhaps

concealing matter of profound truth and wisdom. The world will never be the better for it. A few of the

books were Latin folios, written by Catholic authors; others demolished Papistry as with a sledgehammer,

in plain English. A dissertation on the book of Job--which only Job himself could have had patience to

read--filled at least a score of small, thickset quartos, at the rate of two or three volumes to a chapter.

Then there was a vast folio Body of Divinity; too corpulent a body, it might be feared, to comprehend the

spiritual element of religion. Volumes of this form dated back two hundred years, or more, and were

generally bound in black leather, exhibiting precisely such an appearance as we should attribute to books

of enchantment. Others, equally antique, were of a size proper to be carried in the large

waistcoat-pockets of old times; diminutive, but as black as their bulkier brethren, and abundantly

interfused with Greek and Latin quotations. These little old volumes impressed me as if they had been

intended for very large ones, but had been unfortunately blighted, at an early stage of their growth.

The rain pattered upon the roof, and the sky gloomed through the dusty garret-windows; while I

burrowed among these venerable books, in search of any living thought, which should burn like a coal of

fire, or glow like an inextinguishable gem, beneath the dead trumpery that had long hidden it. But I

found no such treasure; all was dead alike; and I could not but muse deeply and wonderingly upon the

humiliating fact, that the works of man's intellect decay like those of his hands. Thought grows mouldy.

What was good and nourishing food for the spirits of one generation, affords no sustenance for the next.

Books of religion, however, cannot be considered a fair test of the enduring and vivacious properties of

human thought; because such books so seldom really touch upon their ostensible subject, and have

therefore so little business to be written at all. So long as an unlettered soul can attain to saving grace,

there would seem to be no deadly error in holding theological libraries to be accumulations of, for the

most part, stupendous impertinence.

Many of the books had accrued in the latter years of the last clergyman's lifetime. These threatened to be

of even less interest than the elder works, a century hence, to any curious inquirer who should then

rummage among them, as I was doing now. Volumes of the Liberal Preacher and Christian Examiner,

occasional sermons, controversial pamphlets, tracts, and other productions of a like fugitive nature, took

the place of the thick and heavy volumes of past time. In a physical point of view, there was much the

same difference as between a feather and a lump of lead; but, intellectually regarded, the specific gravity

of old and new was about upon a par. Both, also, were alike frigid. The elder books, nevertheless, seemed

to have been earnestly written, and might be conceived to have possessed warmth, at some former period;

although, with the lapse of time, the heated masses had cooled down even to the freezing point. The

frigidity of the modern productions, on the other hand, was characteristic and inherent, and evidently

had little to do with the writer's qualities of mind and heart. In fine, of this whole dusty heap of literature,

I tossed aside all the sacred part, and felt myself none the less a Christian for eschewing it. There

appeared no hope of either mounting to the better world on a Gothic staircase of ancient folios, or of

flying thither on the wings of a modern tract.

Nothing, strange to say, retained any sap, except what had been written for the passing day and year,

without the remotest pretension or idea of permanence. There were a few old newspapers, and still older

almanacs, which reproduced, to my mental eye, the epochs when they had issued from the press, with a

distinctness that was altogether unaccountable. It was as if I had found bits of magic looking-glass

among the books, with the images of a vanished century in them. I turned my eyes towards the tattered

picture, above-mentioned, and asked of the austere divine, wherefore it was that he and his brethren,

after the most painful rummaging and groping into their minds, had been able to produce nothing half so

real, as these newspaper scribblers and almanac-makers had thrown off, in the effervescence of a

moment. The portrait responded not; so I sought an answer for myself. It is the Age itself that writes

newspapers and almanacs, which therefore have a distinct purpose and meaning, at the time, and a kind

of intelligible truth for all times; whereas, most other works--being written by men who, in the very act,

set themselves apart from their age--are likely to 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 ith 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. Tomorrow for the hill-tops and the woodpaths!

Or it might be that Ellery Channing 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 straight-laced habitudes,

and delivered ourselves up to the free air, to live like the Indians or any less conventional race, during

one bright semi-circle 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 hill-side; 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 pIunge. 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. Grape-vines, 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 lily-pads. The turtle, sunning itself upon a rock, or at the root of a tree,

slid suddenly into the water with a pIunge. 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 banquetting-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 moss-grown 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-whisps 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 tomorrow. When we crossed the threshold of a

house, or trod the thronged pavements of a city, still the leaves of the trees, that overhung 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 statelier 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 summer-time! In August, the grass is

still verdant on the hills and in the vallies; 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 breeze can stir,

but it thrills us with the breath of autumn. A pensive glory is seen in the far, golden gleams, among the

shadows of the trees. The flowers--even the brightest of them, and they are the most gorgeous of the

year--have this gentle sadness wedded to their pomp, and typify the character of the delicious time, each

within itself. The brilliant cardinal-flower has never seemed gay to me.

Still later in the season, Nature's tenderness waxes stronger. It is impossible not to be fond of our Mother

now; for she is so fond of us! At other periods, she does not make this impression on me, or only at rare

intervals; but, in these genial days of autumn, when she has perfected her harvests, and accomplished

every needful thing that was given her to do, then she overflows with a blessed superfluity of love. She

has leisure to caress her children now. It is good to be alive, at such times. Thank heaven for breath!--yes,

for mere breath!--when it is made up of a heavenly breeze like this! It comes with a real kiss upon our

cheeks; it would linger fondly around us, if it might; but, since it must be gone, it embraces us with its

whole kindly heart, and passes onward, to embrace likewise the next thing that it meets. A blessing is

flung abroad, and scattered far and wide over the earth, to be gathered up by all who choose. I recline

upon the still unwithered grass, and whisper to myself:--'Oh, perfect day!--Oh, beautiful world!--Oh,

beneficent God!' And it is the promise of a blissful Eternity; for our Creator would never have made such

lovely days, and have given us the deep hearts to enjoy them, above and beyond all thought, unless we

were meant to be immortal. This sunshine is the golden pledge thereof. It beams through the gates of

Paradise, and shows us glimpses far inward.

By-and-by--in a little time--the outward world puts on a drear austerity. On some October morning,

there is a heavy hoar-frost on the grass, and along the tops of the fences; and, at sunrise, the leaves fall

from the trees of our avenue without a breath of wind, quietly descending by their own weight. All

summer long, they have murmured like the noise of waters; they have roared loudly, while the branches

were wrestling with the thunder-gust; they have made music, both glad and solemn; they have attuned

my thoughts by their quiet sound, as I paced to-and-fro beneath the arch of intermingling boughs. Now,

they can only rustle under my feet. Henceforth, the gray parsonage begins to assume a larger importance,

and draws to its fireside--for the abomination of the air-tight stove is reserved till wintry weather--draws

closer and closer to its fireside the vagrant impulses, that had gone wandering about, through the

summer.

When summer was dead and buried, the Old Manse became as lonely as a hermitage. Not that ever--in

my time, at least--it had been thronged with company; but, at no rare intervals, we welcomed some

friend out of the dusty glare and tumult of the world, and rejoiced to share with him the transparent

obscurity that was flung over us. In one respect, our precincts were like the Enchanted Ground, through

which the pilgrim travelled on his way to the Celestial City. The guests, each and all, felt a slumberous

influence upon them; they fell asleep in chairs, or took a more deliberate siesta on the sofa, or were seen

stretched among the shadows of the orchard, looking up dreamily through the boughs. They could not

have paid a more acceptable compliment to my abode, nor to my own qualities as a host. I held it as a

proof, that they left their cares behind them, as they passed between the stone gate-posts, at the entrance

of our avenue; and that the so powerful opiate was the abundance of peace and quiet, within and all

around us. Others could give them pleasure and amusement, or instruction--these could be picked up

anywhere--but it was for me to give them rest--rest, in a life of trouble. What better could be done for

those weary and world-worn spirits;--for him, whose career of perpetual action was impeded and

harassed by the rarest of his powers, and the richest of his acquirements;--for another, who had thrown

his ardent heart, from earliest youth, into the strife of politics, and now, perchance, began to suspect that

one lifetime is too brief for the accomplishment of any lofty aim?--for her, on whose feminine nature had

been imposed the heavy gift of intellectual power, such as a strong man might have staggered under, and

with it the necessity to act upon the world?--in a word, not to multiply instances, what better could be

done for anybody, who came within our magic circle, than to throw the spell of a tranquil spirit over him?

And when it had wrought its full effect, then we dismissed him, with but misty reminiscences, as if he

had been dreaming of us.

Were I to adopt a pet idea, as so many people do, and fondle it in my embraces to the exclusion of all

others, it would be, that the great want which mankind labors under, at this present period, is--sleep!

The world should recline its vast head on the first convenient pillow, and take an age-long nap. It has

gone distracted, through a morbid activity, and, while preternaturally wide-awake, is nevertheless

tormented by visions, that seem real to it now, but would assume their true aspect and character, were all

things once set right by an interval of sound repose. This is the only method of getting rid of old

delusions, and avoiding new ones--of regenerating our race, so that it might in due time awake, as an

infant out of dewy slumber--of restoring to us the simple perception of what is right, and the

single-hearted desire to achieve it; both of which have long been lost, in consequence of this weary

activity of brain, and torpor or passion of the heart, that now afflicts the universe. Stimulants, the only

mode of treatment hitherto attempted, cannot quell the disease; they do but heighten the delirium.

Let not the above paragraph ever be quoted against the author; for, though tinctured with its modicum of

truth, it is the result and expression of what he knew, while he was writing, to be but a distorted survey of

the state and prospects of mankind. There were circumstances around me, which made it difficult to

view the world precisely as it exists; for, serene and sober as was the Old Manse, it was necessary to go

but a little way beyond its threshold, before meeting with stranger moral shapes of men than might have

been encountered elsewhere, in a circuit of a thousand miles.

These hobgoblins of flesh and blood were attracted thither by the wide-spreading influence of a great

original Thinker, who had his earthly abode at the opposite extremity of our village. His mind acted upon

other minds, of a certain constitution, with wonderfu1 magnetism, and drew many men upon long

pilgrimages, to speak with him face to face. Young visionaries--to whom just so much of insight had been

imparted, as to make life all a labyrinth around them--came to seek the clue that should guide them out

of their self-involved bewilderment. Gray-headed theorists--whose systems, at first air, had finally

imprisoned them in an iron frame-work--travelled painfully to his door, not to ask deliverance, but to

invite this free spirit into their own thraldom. People that had lighted on a new thought, or a thought that

they fancied new, came to Emerson, as the finder of a glittering gem hastens to a lapidary, to ascertain its

quality and value. Uncertain, troubled, earnest wanderers, through the midnight of the moral world,

beheld his intellectual fire, as a beacon burning on a hill-top, and, climbing the difficult ascent, looked

forth into the surrounding obscurity, more hopefully than hitherto. The light revealed objects unseen

before-mountains, gleaming lakes, glimpses of a creation among the chaos--but also, as was unavoidable,

it attracted bats and owls, and the whole host of night-birds, which flapped their dusky wings against the

gazer's eyes, and sometimes were mistaken for fowls of angelic feather. Such delusions always hover nigh,

whenever a beacon-fire of truth is kindled.

For myself, there had been epochs of my life, when I, too, might have asked of this prophet the

master-word, that should solve me the riddle of the universe; but now, being happy, I felt as if there were

no question to be put, and therefore admired Emerson as a poet of deep beauty and austere tenderness,

but sought nothing from him as a philosopher. It was good, nevertheless, to meet him in the wood-paths,

or sometimes in our avenue, with that pure, intellectual gleam diffused about his presence, like the

garment of a shining-one; and he so quiet, so simple, so without pretension, encountering each man alive

as if expecting to receive more than he could impart. And, in truth, the heart of many an ordinary man

had, perchance, inscriptions which he could not read. But it was impossible to dwell in his vicinity,

without inhaling, more or less, the mountain atmosphere of his lofty thought, which, in the brains of

some people, wrought a singular giddiness--new truth being as heady as new wine. Never was a poor

little country village infested with such a variety of queer, strangely dressed, oddly behaved mortals,

most of whom took upon themselves to be important agents of the world's destiny, yet were simply bores

of a very intense water. Such, I imagine, is the invariable character of persons who crowd so closely about

an original thinker, as to draw in his unuttered breath, and thus become imbued with a false originality.

This triteness of novelty is enough to make any man, of common sense, blaspheme at all ideas of less

than a century's standing; and pray that the world may be petrified and rendered immovable, in precisely

the worst moral and physical state that it ever yet arrived at, rather than be benefitted by such schemes of

such philosophers.

And now, I begin to feel--and perhaps should have sooner felt--that we have talked enough of the Old

Manse. Mine honored reader, it may be, will vilify the poor author as an egotist, for babbling through so

many pages about a moss-grown country parsonage, and his life within its walls, and on the river, and in

the woods,--and the influences that wrought upon him, from all these sources. My conscience, however,

does not reproach me with betraying anything too sacredly individual to be revealed by a human spirit,

to its brother or sister spirit. How narrow--how shallow and scanty too--is the stream of thought that has

been flowing from my pen, compared with the broad tide of dim emotions, ideas, and associations, which

swell around me from that portion of my existence! How little have I told!--and, of that little, how almost

nothing is even tinctured with any quality that makes it exclusively my own! Has the reader gone

wandering, hand in hand with me, through the inner passages of my being, and have we groped together

into all its chambers, and examined their treasures or their rubbish? Not so. We have been standing on

the green sward, but just within the cavern's mouth, where the common sunshine is free to penetrate,

and where every footstep is therefore free to come. I have appealed to no sentiment or sensibilities, save

such as are diffused among us all. So far as I am a man of really individual attributes, I veil my face; nor

am I, nor have ever been, one of those supremely hospitable people, who serve up their own hearts

delicately fried, with brain-sauce, as a tidbit for their beloved public.

Glancing back over what I have written, it seems but the scattered reminiscences of a single summer. In

fairy-land, there is no measurement of time; and, in a spot so sheltered from the turmoil of life's ocean,

three years hastened away with a noiseless flight, as the breezy sunshine chases the cloud-shadows

across the depths of a still valley. Now came hints, growing more and more distinct, that the owner of the

old house was pining for his native air. Carpenters next appeared, making a tremendous racket among

the outbuildings, strewing the green grass with pine-shavings and chips of chestnut joists, and vexing the

whole antiquity of the place with their discordant renovations. Soon, moreover, they divested our abode

of the veil of woodbine, which had crept over a large portion of its southern face. All the aged mosses

were cleaned unsparingly away; and there were horrible whispers about brushing up the external walls

with a coat of paint--a purpose as little to my taste, as might be that of rouging the venerable cheeks of

one's grandmother. But the hand that renovates is always more sacrilegious than that which destroys. In

fine, we gathered up our household goods, drank a farewell cup of tea in our pleasant little

breakfast-room--delicately fragrant tea, an unpurchaseable luxury, one of the many angel-gifts that had

fallen like dew upon us--and passed forth between the tall stone gate-posts, as uncertain as the

wandering Arabs where our tent might next be pitched. Providence took me by the hand, and--an oddity

of dispensation which, I trust, there is no irreverence in smiling at--has led me, as the newspapers

announce while I am writing, from the Old Manse into a Custom-House! As a storyteller, I have often

contrived strange vicissitudes for my imaginary personages, but none like this.

The treasure of intellectual gold, which I hoped to find in our secluded dwelling, had never come to light.

No profound treatise of ethics--no philosophic history--no novel, even, that could stand, unsupported,

on its edges. All that I had to show, as a man of letters, were these few tales and essays, which had

blossomed out like flowers in the calm summer of my heart and mind. Save editing (an easy task) the

journal of my friend of many years, the African Cruiser, I had done nothing else. With these idle weeds

and withering blossoms, I have intermixed some that were produced long ago--old, faded things,

reminding me of flowers pressed between the leaves of a book--and now offer the bouquet, such as it is,

to any whom it may please. These fitful sketches, with so little of external life about them, yet claiming no

profundity of purpose,--so reserved, even while they sometimes seem so frank,--often but half in earnest,

and never, even when most so, expressing satisfactorily the thoughts which they profess to image--such

trifles, I truly feel, afford no solid basis for a literary reputation. Nevertheless, the public--if my limited

number of readers, whom I venture to regard rather as a circle of friends, may be termed a public--will

receive them the more kindly, as the last offering, the last collection of this nature, which it is my purpose

ever to put forth. Unless I could do better, I have done enough in this kind. For myself, the book will

always retain one charm, as reminding me of the river, with its delightful solitudes, and of the avenue,

the garden, and the orchard, and especially the dear Old Manse, with the little study on its western side,

and the sunshine glimmering through the willow-branches while I wrote.

Let the reader, if he will do me so much honor, imagine himself my guest, and that, having seen whatever

may be worthy of notice, within and about the Old Manse, he has finally been ushered into my study.

There, after seating him in an antique elbow-chair, an heirloom of the house, I take forth a roll of

manuscript, and intreat his attention to the following tales:--an act of personal inhospitality, however,

which I never was guilty of, nor ever will be, even to my worst enemy.