Complete Prose Works

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SAMPLES OF MY COMMON-PLACE BOOK

I ought not to offer a record of these days, interests, recuperations,
without including a certain old, well-thumb'd common-place book,[18]
filled with favorite excerpts, I carried in my pocket for three
summers, and absorb'd over and over again, when the mood invited.
I find so much in having a poem or fine suggestion sink into me (a
little then goes a great ways) prepar'd by these vacant-sane and
natural influences.

Note:

[18] _Samples of my common-place book down at the creek:_

I have--says old Pindar--many swift arrows in my quiver which speak to
the wise, though they need an interpreter to the thoughtless. Such a
man as it takes ages to make, and ages to understand. _H. D. Thoreau._

If you hate a man, don't kill him, but let him live.--_Buddhistic._
Famous swords are made of refuse scraps, thought worthless.

Poetry is the only verity--the expression of a sound mind speaking
after the ideal--and not after the apparent.--_Emerson_.

The form of oath among the Shoshone Indians is, "The earth hears me.
The sun hears me. Shall I lie?"

The true test of civilization is not the census, nor the size of
cities, nor the crops--no, but the kind of a man the country turns
out.--_Emerson_.

The whole wide ether is the eagle's sway:
The whole earth is a brave man's fatherland.--_Euripides_.

Spices crush'd, their pungence yield,
Trodden scents their sweets respire;
Would you have its strength reveal'd?
Cast the incense in the fire.

Matthew Arnold speaks of "the huge Mississippi of falsehood called
History."

The wind blows north, the wind blows south,
The wind blows east and west;
No matter how the free wind blows,
Some ship will find it best.

Preach not to others what they should eat, but eat as becomes you, and
be silent.--_Epictetus_.

Victor Hugo makes a donkey meditate and apostrophize thus:

My brother, man, if you would know the truth,
We both are by the same dull walls shut in;
The gate is massive and the dungeon strong.
But you look through the key-hole out beyond,
And call this knowledge; yet have not at hand
The key wherein to turn the fatal lock.

"William Cullen Bryant surprised me once," relates a writer in a
New York paper, "by saying that prose was the natural language of
composition, and he wonder'd how anybody came to write poetry."

Farewell! I did not know thy worth;
But thou art gone, and now 'tis prized:
So angels walk'd unknown on earth,
But when they flew were recognized.--_Hood_.

John Burroughs, writing of Thoreau, says: "He improves with age--in
fact requires age to take off a little of his asperity, and fully
ripen him. The world likes a good hater and refuser almost as well as
it likes a good lover and accepter--only it likes him farther off."

_Louise Michel at the burial of Blanqui, (1881.)_

Blanqui drill'd his body to subjection to his grand conscience and his
noble passions, and commencing as a young man, broke with all that
is sybaritish in modern civilization. Without the power to sacrifice
self, great ideas will never bear fruit.

Out of the leaping furnace flame
A mass of molten silver came;
Then, beaten into pieces three,
Went forth to meet its destiny.
The first a crucifix was made,
Within a soldier's knapsack laid;
The second was a locket fair,
Where a mother kept her dead child's hair;
The third--a bangle, bright and warm,
Around a faithless woman's arm.

A mighty pain to love it is,
And'tis a pain that pain to miss;
But of all pain the greatest pain,
It is to love, but love in vain.

_Maurice F. Egan on De Guerin._

A pagan heart, a Christian soul had he,
He followed Christ, yet for dead Pan he sigh'd,
Till earth and heaven met within his breast:
As if Theocritus in Sicily
Had come upon the Figure crucified,
And lost his gods in deep, Christ-given rest.

And if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me,
Is, leave the mind that now I bear,
And give me Liberty.--_Emily Bronte._

I travel on not knowing,
I would not if I might;
I would rather walk with God in the dark,
Than go alone in the light;
I would rather walk with Him by faith
Than pick my way by sight

MY NATIVE SAND AND SALT ONCE MORE

_July 25, '81_.--Far Rockaway, L. I._--A good day here, on a jaunt,
amid the sand and salt, a steady breeze setting in from the sea, the
sun shining, the sedge-odor, the noise of the surf, a mixture of
hissing and booming, the milk-white crest curling. I had a leisurely
bath and naked ramble as of old, on the warm-gray shore-sands, my
companions off in a oat in deeper water--(I shouting to them Jupiter's
menaces against the gods, from Pope's Homer) _July 28--to Long
Branch_--8-1/2 A.M., on the steamer "Plymouth Rock," foot of 23d
street, New York, for Long Branch. Another fine day, fine sights, the
shores, the shipping and bay--everything comforting to the body and
spirit of me. (I find the human and objective atmosphere of New York
city and Brooklyn more affiliative to me than any other.) _An hour
later_--Still on the steamer, now sniffing the salt very plainly--the
long pulsating _swash_ as our boat steams seaward--the hills of
Navesink and many passing vessels--the air the best part of all. At
Long Branch the bulk of the day, stopt at a good hotel, took all very
leisurely, had an excellent dinner, and then drove for over two hours
about the place, especially Ocean avenue, the finest drive one can
imagine, seven or eight miles right along the beach. In all directions
costly villas, palaces, millionaires--(but few among them I opine like
my friend George W. Childs, whose personal integrity, generosity,
unaffected simplicity, go beyond all worldly wealth.)

HOT WEATHER NEW YORK

_August_.--In the big city awhile. Even the height of the dog-days,
there is a good deal of fun about New York, if you only avoid fluster,
and take all the buoyant wholesomeness that offers. More comfort, too,
than most folks think. A middle-aged man, with plenty of money in his
pocket, tells me that he has been off for a month to all the swell
places, has disburs'd a small fortune, has been hot and out of kilter
everywhere, and has return' d home and lived in New York city the last
two weeks quite contented and happy. People forget when it is hot
here, it is generally hotter still in other places.

New York is so situated, with the great ozonic brine on both sides, it
comprises the most favorable health-chances in the world. (If only the
suffocating crowding of some of its tenement houses could be broken
up.) I find I never sufficiently realized how beautiful are the upper
two-thirds of Manhattan island. I am stopping at Mott Haven, and have
been familiar now for ten days with the region above One-hundredth
street, and along the Harlem river and Washington heights. Am dwelling
a few days with my friends Mr. and Mrs. J. H. J., and a merry houseful
of young ladies. Am putting the last touches on the printer's copy of
my new volume of "Leaves of Grass"--the completed book at last. Work
at it two or three hours, and then go down and loaf along the Harlem
river; have just had a good spell of this recreation. The sun
sufficiently veil'd, a soft south breeze, the river full of small or
large shells (light taper boats) darting up and down, some singly, now
and then long ones with six or eight young fellows practicing--very
inspiriting sights. Two fine yachts lie anchor'd off the shore. I
linger long, enjoying the sundown, the glow, the streak'd sky, the
heights, 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. As we drove back, saw the "School of
Philosophy," but it was shut up, and I would not have it open'd for
me. Near by stopp'd at the house of W.T. Harris, the Hegelian, who
came out, and we had a pleasant chat while I sat in the wagon. I shall
not soon forget those Concord drives, and especially that charming
Sunday forenoon one with my friend Miss M., and the white ponies.

BOSTON COMMON--MORE OF EMERSON

_Oct. 10-13._--I spend a good deal of time on the Common, these
delicious days and nights--every mid-day from 11.30 to about 1--and
almost every sunset another hour. I know all the big trees, especially
the old elms along Tremont and Beacon streets, and have come to a
sociable silent understanding with most of them, in the sunlit air,
(yet crispy-cool enough,) as I saunter along the wide unpaved walks.
Up and down this breadth by Beacon street, between these same old
elms, I walk'd for two hours, of a bright sharp February mid-day
twenty-one years ago, with Emerson, then in his prime, keen,
physically and morally magnetic, arm'd at every point, and when he
chose, wielding the emotional just as well as the intellectual. During
those two hours he was the talker and I the listener. It was an
argument-statement, reconnoitring, review, attack, and pressing home,
(like an army corps in order, artillery, cavalry, infantry,) of
all that could be said against that part (and a main part) in the
construction of my poems, "Children of Adam." More precious than gold
to me that dissertion--it afforded me, ever after, this strange and
paradoxical lesson; each point of E.'s statement was unanswerable, no
judge's charge ever more complete or convincing, I could never hear
the points better put--and then I felt down in my soul the clear and
unmistakable conviction to disobey all, and pursue my own way. "What
have you to say then to such things?" said E., pausing in conclusion.
"Only that while I can't answer them at all, I feel more settled than
ever to adhere to my own theory, and exemplify it," was my candid
response. Whereupon we went and had a good dinner at the American
House. And thenceforward I never waver'd or was touch'd with qualms,
(as I confess I had been two or three times before.)

AN OSSIANIC NIGHT--DEAREST FRIENDS

Nov., '81_.--Again back in Camden. As I cross the Delaware in long
trips tonight, between 9 and 11, the scene overhead is a peculiar
one--swift sheets of flitting vapor-gauze, follow'd by dense clouds
throwing an inky pall on everything. Then a spell of that transparent
steel-gray black sky I have noticed under similar circumstances, on
which the moon would beam for a few moments with calm lustre, throwing
down a broad dazzle of highway on the waters; then the mists careering
again. All silently, yet driven as if by the furies they sweep along,
sometimes quite thin, sometimes thicker--a real Ossianic night--amid
the whirl, absent or dead friends, the old, the past, somehow
tenderly suggested--while the Gael-strains chant themselves from
the mists--"Be thy soul blest, O Carril! in the midst of thy eddying
winds. O that thou wouldst come to my hall when I am alone by night!
And thou dost come, my friend. I hear often thy light hand on my harp,
when it hangs on the distant wall, and the feeble sound touches my
ear. Why dost thou not speak to me in my grief, and tell me when I
shall behold my friends? But thou passest away in thy murmuring blast;
the wind whistles through the gray hairs of Ossian."

But most of all, those changes of moon and sheets of hurrying vapor
and black clouds, with the sense of rapid action in weird silence,
recall the far-back Erse belief that such above were the preparations
for receiving the wraiths of just-slain warriors--["We sat that night
in Selma, round the strength of the shell. The wind was abroad in
the oaks. The spirit of the mountain roar'd. The blast came rustling
through the hall, and gently touch'd my harp. The sound was mournful
and low, like the song of the tomb. Fingal heard it the first. The
crowded sighs of his bosom rose. Some of my heroes are low, said the
gray-hair'd king of Morven. I hear the sound of death on the harp.
Ossian, touch the trembling string. Bid the sorrow rise, that their
spirits may fly with joy to Morven's woody hills. I touch'd the harp
before the king; the sound was mournful and low. Bend forward from
your clouds, I said, ghosts of my fathers! bend. Lay by the red terror
of your course. Receive the falling chief; whether he comes from a
distant land, or rises from the rolling sea. Let his robe of mist be
near; his spear that is form'd of a cloud. Place a half-extinguish'd
meteor by his side, in the form of a hero's sword. And oh! let his
countenance be lovely, that his friends may delight in his presence.
Bend from your clouds, I said, ghosts of my fathers, bend. Such was my
song in Selma, to the lightly trembling harp."]

How or why I know not, just at the moment, but I too muse and think
of my best friends in their distant homes--of William O'Connor, of
Maurice Bucke, of John Burroughs, and of Mrs. Gilchrist--friends of my
soul--stanchest friends of my other soul, my poems.

ONLY A NEW FERRY-BOAT

_Jan. 12, '82_.--Such a show as the Delaware presented an hour before
sundown yesterday evening, all along between Philadelphia and Camden,
is worth weaving into an item. It was full tide, a fair breeze from
the southwest, the water of a pale tawny color, and just enough motion
to make things frolicsome and lively. Add to these an approaching
sunset of unusual splendor, a broad tumble of clouds, with much golden
haze and profusion of beaming shaft and dazzle. In the midst of all,
in the clear drab of the afternoon light, there steam'd up the river
the large, new boat, "the Wenonah," as pretty an object as you could
wish to see, lightly and swiftly skimming along, all trim and white,
cover'd with flags, transparent red and blue, streaming out in the
breeze. Only a new ferry-boat, and yet in its fitness comparable with
the prettiest product of Nature's cunning, and rivaling it. High up
in the transparent ether gracefully balanced and circled four or five
great sea hawks, while here below, amid the pomp and picturesqueness
of sky and river, swam this creation of artificial beauty and motion
and power, in its way no less perfect.