Complete Prose Works Part 14

The birds are plenty; of any sort, or of two or three sorts, curiously, not a sign, till suddenly some warm, gus.h.i.+ng, sunny April (or even March) day--lo! there they are, from twig to twig, or fence to fence, flirting, singing, some mating, preparing to build. But most of them _en pa.s.sant_--a fortnight, a month in these parts, and then away. As in all phases, Nature keeps up her vital, copious, eternal procession. Still, plenty of the birds hang around all or most of the season--now their love-time, and era of nest-building. I find flying over the river, crows, gulls and hawks. I hear the afternoon shriek of the latter, darting about, preparing to nest. The oriole will soon be heard here, and the tw.a.n.ging _meoeow_ of the cat-bird; also the king-bird, cuckoo and the warblers. All along, there are three peculiarly characteristic spring songs--the meadow-lark's, so sweet, so alert and remonstrating (as if he said, "don't you see?" or, "can't you understand?")--the cheery, mellow, human tones of the robin--(I have been trying for years to get a brief term, or phrase, that would identify and describe that robin call)--and the amorous whistle of the high-hole. Insects are out plentifully at midday.

_April 29_.--As we drove lingering along the road we heard, just after sundown, the song of the wood-thrush. We stopp'd without a word, and listen'd long. The delicious notes--a sweet, artless, voluntary, simple anthem, as from the flute-stops of some organ, wafted through the twilight--echoing well to us from the perpendicular high rock, where, in some thick young trees' recesses at the base, sat the bird--fill'd our senses, our souls.

MEETING A HERMIT

I found in one of my rambles up the hills a real hermit, living in a lonesome spot, hard to get at, rocky, the view fine, with a little patch of land two rods square. A man of youngish middle age, city born and raised, had been to school, had travel'd in Europe and California. I first met him once or twice on the road, and pa.s.s'd the time of day, with some small talk; then, the third time, he ask'd me to go along a bit and rest in his hut (an almost unprecedented compliment, as I heard from others afterwards.) He was of Quaker stock, I think; talk'd with ease and moderate freedom, but did not unbosom his life, or story, or tragedy, or whatever it was.

AN ULSTER COUNTY WATERFALL

I jot this mem, in a wild scene of woods and hills, where we have come to visit a waterfall. I never saw finer or more copious hemlocks, many of them large, some old and h.o.a.ry. Such a sentiment to them, secretive, s.h.a.ggy--what I call weather-beaten and let-alone--a rich underlay of ferns, yew sprouts and mosses, beginning to be spotted with the early summer wild-flowers. Enveloping all, the monotone and liquid gurgle from the hoa.r.s.e impetuous copious fall--the greenish-tawny, darkly transparent waters, plunging with velocity down the rocks, with patches of milk-white foam--a stream of hurrying amber, thirty feet wide, risen far back in the hills and woods, now rus.h.i.+ng with volume--every hundred rods a fall, and sometimes three or four in that distance. A primitive forest, druidical, solitary and savage--not ten visitors a year--broken rocks everywhere--shade overhead, thick underfoot with leaves--a just palpable wild and delicate aroma.

WALTER DUMONT AND HIS MEDAL

As I saunter'd along the high road yesterday, I stopp'd to watch a man near by, ploughing a rough stony field with a yoke of oxen. Usually there is much geeing and hawing, excitement, and continual noise and expletives, about a job of this kind. But I noticed how different, how easy and wordless, yet firm and sufficient, the work of this young ploughman. His name was Walter Dumont, a farmer, and son of a farmer, working for their living. Three years ago, when the steamer "Sunnyside"

was wreck'd of a bitter icy night on the west bank here, Walter went out in his boat--was the first man on hand with a.s.sistance--made a way through the ice to sh.o.r.e, connected a line, perform'd work of first-cla.s.s readiness, daring, danger, and saved numerous lives. Some weeks after, one evening when he was up at Esopus, among the usual loafing crowd at the country store and post-office, there arrived the gift of an unexpected official gold medal for the quiet hero. The impromptu presentation was made to him on the spot, but he blush'd, hesitated as he took it, and had nothing to say.

HUDSON RIVER SIGHTS

It was a happy thought to build the Hudson river railroad right along the sh.o.r.e. The grade is already made by nature; you are sure of ventilation one side--and you are in n.o.body's way. I see, hear, the locomotives and cars, rumbling, roaring, flaming, smoking, constantly, away off there, night and day--less than a mile distant, and in full view by day. I like both sight and sound. Express trains thunder and lighten along; of freight trains, most of them very long, there cannot be less than a hundred a day. At night far down you see the headlight approaching, coming steadily on like a meteor. The river at night has its special character-beauties. The shad fishermen go forth in their boats and pay out their nets--one sitting forward, rowing, and one standing up aft dropping it properly-marking the line with little floats bearing candles, conveying, as they glide over the water, an indescribable sentiment and doubled brightness. I like to watch the tows at night, too, with their twinkling lamps, and hear the husky panting of the steamers; or catch the sloops' and schooners' shadowy forms, like phantoms, white, silent, indefinite, out there. Then the Hudson of a clear moonlight night.

But there is one sight the very grandest. Sometimes in the fiercest driving storm of wind, rain, hail or snow, a great eagle will appear over the river, now soaring with steady and now overbended wings--always confronting the gale, or perhaps cleaving into, or at times literally _sitting_ upon it. It is like reading some first-cla.s.s natural tragedy or epic, or hearing martial trumpets. The splendid bird enjoys the hubbub--is adjusted and equal to it--finishes it so artistically.

His pinions just oscillating--the position of his head and neck--his resistless, occasionally varied flight--now a swirl, now an upward movement--the black clouds driving--the angry wash below--the hiss of rain, the wind's piping (perhaps the ice colliding, grunting)--he tacking or jibing--now, as it were, for a change, abandoning himself to the gale, moving with it with such velocity--and now, resuming control, he comes up against it, lord of the situation and the storm--lord, amid it, of power and savage joy.

Sometimes (as at present writing,) middle of sunny afternoon, the old "Vanderbilt" steamer stalking ahead--I plainly hear her rhythmic, slus.h.i.+ng paddles--drawing by long hawsers an immense and varied following string, ("an old sow and pigs," the river folks call it.) First comes a big barge, with a house built on it, and spars towering over the roof; then ca.n.a.l boats, a lengthen'd, cl.u.s.tering train, fasten'd and link'd together--the one in the middle, with high staff, flaunting a broad and gaudy flag--others with the almost invariable lines of new-wash'd clothes, drying; two sloops and a schooner aside the tow--little wind, and that adverse--with three long, dark, empty barges bringing up the rear. People are on the boats: men lounging, women in sun-bonnets, children, stovepipes with streaming smoke.

TWO CITY AREAS, CERTAIN HOURS

NEW YORK, _May 24, '79_.--Perhaps no quarters of this city (I have return'd again for awhile,) make more brilliant, animated, crowded, spectacular human presentations these fine May afternoons than the two I am now going to describe from personal observation. First: that area comprising Fourteenth street (especially the short range between Broadway and Fifth avenue) with Union square, its adjacencies, and so retrostretching down Broadway for half a mile. All the walks here are wide, and the s.p.a.ces ample and free--now flooded with liquid gold from the last two hours of powerful suns.h.i.+ne. The whole area at 5 o'clock, the days of my observations, must have contain'd from thirty to forty thousand finely-dress'd people, all in motion, plenty of them good-looking, many beautiful women, often youths and children, the latter in groups with their nurses--the trottoirs everywhere close-spread, thick-tangled, (yet no collision, no trouble,) with ma.s.ses of bright color, action, and tasty toilets; (surely the women dress better than ever before, and the men do too.) As if New York would show these afternoons what it can do in its humanity, its choicest physique and physiognomy, and its countless prodigality of locomotion, dry goods, glitter, magnetism, and happiness.

Second: also from 5 to 7 P.M. the stretch of Fifth avenue, all the way from the Central Park exits at Fifty-ninth street, down to Fourteenth, especially along the high grade by Fortieth street, and down the hill.

A Mississippi of horses and rich vehicles, not by dozens and scores, but hundreds and thousands--the broad avenue filled and cramm'd with them--a moving, sparkling, hurrying crush, for more than two miles. (I wonder they don't get block'd, but I believe they never do.) Altogether it is to me the marvel sight of New York. I like to get in one of the Fifth avenue stages and ride up, stemming the swift-moving procession. I doubt if London or Paris or any city in the world can show such a carriage carnival as I have seen here five or six times these beautiful May afternoons.

CENTRAL PARK WALKS AND TALKS

_May 16 to 22_.--I visit Central Park now almost every day, sitting, or slowly rambling, or riding around. The whole place presents its very best appearance this current month--the full flush of the trees, the plentiful white and pink of the flowering shrubs, the emerald green of the gra.s.s spreading everywhere, yellow dotted still with dandelions--the specialty of the plentiful gray rocks, peculiar to these grounds, cropping out, miles and miles--and over all the beauty and purity, three days out of four, of our summer skies. As I sit, placidly, early afternoon, off against Ninetieth street, the policeman, C. C., a well-form'd sandy-complexion'd young fellow, comes over and stands near me. We grow quite friendly and chatty forth-with. He is a New Yorker born and raised, and in answer to my questions tells me about the life of a New York Park policeman, (while he talks keeping his eyes and ears vigilantly open, occasionally pausing and moving where he can get full views of the vistas of the road, up and down, and the s.p.a.ces around.) The pay is $2.40 a day (seven days to a week)--the men come on and work eight hours straight ahead, which is all that is required of them out of the twenty-four. The position has more risks than one might suppose--for instance if a team or horse runs away (which happens daily) each man is expected not only to be prompt, but to waive safety and stop wildest nag or nags--(_do it_, and don't be thinking of your bones or face)--give the alarm-whistle too, so that other guards may repeat, and the vehicles up and down the tracks be warn'd. Injuries to the men are continually happening. There is much alertness and quiet strength. (Few appreciate, I have often thought, the Ulyssean capacity, derring do, quick readiness in emergencies, practicality, unwitting devotion and heroism, among our American young men and working-people--the firemen, the railroad employes, the steamer and ferry men, the police, the conductors and drivers--the whole splendid average of native stock, city and country.) It is good work, though; and upon the whole, the Park force members like it. They see life, and the excitement keeps them up. There is not so much difficulty as might be supposed from tramps, roughs, or in keeping people "off the gra.s.s." The worst trouble of the regular Park employe is from malarial fever, chills, and the like.

A FINE AFTERNOON, 4 TO 6

Ten thousand vehicles careering through the Park this perfect afternoon.

Such a show! and I have seen all--watch'd it narrowly, and at my leisure. Private barouches, cabs and coupes, some fine horseflesh--lapdogs, footmen, fas.h.i.+ons, foreigners, c.o.c.kades on hats, crests on panels--the full oceanic tide of New York's wealth and "gentility." It was an impressive, rich, interminable circus on a grand scale, full of action and color in the beauty of the day, under the clear sun and moderate breeze. Family groups, couples, single drivers--of course dresses generally elegant--much "style," (yet perhaps little or nothing, even in that direction, that fully justified itself.) Through the windows of two or three of the richest carriages I saw faces almost corpse-like, so ashy and listless. Indeed the whole affair exhibited less of sterling America, either in spirit or countenance, than I had counted on from such a select ma.s.s-spectacle. I suppose, as a proof of limitless wealth, leisure, and the aforesaid "gentility," it was tremendous. Yet what I saw those hours (I took two other occasions, two other afternoons to watch the same scene,) confirms a thought that haunts me every additional glimpse I get of our top-loftical general or rather exceptional phases of wealth and fas.h.i.+on in this country--namely, that they are ill at ease, much too conscious, cased in too many cerements, and far from happy--that there is nothing in them which we who are poor and plain need at all envy, and that instead of the perennial smell of the gra.s.s and woods and sh.o.r.es, their typical redolence is of soaps and essences, very rare may be, but suggesting the barber shop--something that turns stale and musty in a few hours anyhow.

Perhaps the show on the horseback road was prettiest. Many groups (threes a favorite number,) some couples, some singly--many ladies--frequently horses or parties das.h.i.+ng along on a full run--fine riding the rule--a few really first-cla.s.s animals. As the afternoon waned, the wheel'd carriages grew less, but the saddle-riders seemed to increase. They linger'd long--and I saw some charming forms and faces.

DEPARTING OF THE BIG STEAMERS

_May 25._--A three hours' bay-trip from 12 to 3 this afternoon, accompanying "the City of Brussels" down as far as the Narrows, in behoof of some Europe-bound friends, to give them a good send off.

Our spirited little tug, the "Seth Low," kept close to the great black "Brussels," sometimes one side, sometimes the other, always up to her, or even pressing ahead, (like the blooded pony accompanying the royal elephant.) The whole affair, from the first, was an animated, quick-pa.s.sing, characteristic New York scene; the large, good-looking, well-dress'd crowd on the wharf-end--men and women come to see their friends depart, and bid them G.o.d-speed--the s.h.i.+p's sides swarming with pa.s.sengers--groups of bronze-faced sailors, with uniform' d officers at their posts--the quiet directions, as she quickly unfastens and moves out, prompt to a minute--the emotional faces, adieus and fluttering handkerchiefs, and many smiles and some tears on the wharf--the answering faces, smiles, tears and fluttering handkerchiefs, from the s.h.i.+p--(what can be subtler and finer than this play of faces on such occasions in these responding crowds?--what go more to one's heart?)--the proud, steady, noiseless cleaving of the grand oceaner down the bay--we speeding by her side a few miles, and then turning, wheeling,--amid a babel of wild hurrahs, shouted partings, ear-splitting steam whistles, kissing of hands and waving of handkerchiefs.

This departing of the big steamers, noons or afternoons--there is no better medicine when one is listless or vapory. I am fond of going down Wednesdays and Sat.u.r.days--their more special days--to watch them and the crowds on the wharves, the arriving pa.s.sengers, the general bustle and activity, the eager looks from the faces, the clear-toned voices, (a travel'd foreigner, a musician, told me the other day she thinks an American crowd has the finest voices in the world,) the whole look of the great, shapely black s.h.i.+ps themselves, and their groups and lined sides--in the setting of our bay with the blue sky overhead. Two days after the above I saw the "Britannic," the "Donau," the "Helvetia" and the "Schiedam" steam out, all off for Europe--a magnificent sight.

TWO HOURS ON THE MINNESOTA

From 7 to 9, aboard the United States school-s.h.i.+p Minnesota, lying up the North river. Captain Luce sent his gig for us about sundown, to the foot of Twenty-third street, and receiv'd us aboard with officer-like hospitality and sailor heartiness. There are several hundred youths on the Minnesota to be train'd for efficiently manning the government navy.

I like the idea much; and, so far as I have seen to-night, I like the way it is carried out on this huge vessel. Below, on the gun-deck, were gather'd nearly a hundred of the boys, to give us some of their singing exercises, with a melodeon accompaniment, play'd by one of their number.

They sang with a will. The best part, however, was the sight of the young fellows themselves. I went over among them before the singing began, and talk'd a few minutes informally. They are from all the States; I asked for the Southerners, but could only find one, a lad from Baltimore. In age, apparently, they range from about fourteen years to nineteen or twenty. They are all of American birth, and have to pa.s.s a rigid medical examination; well-grown youths, good flesh, bright eyes, looking straight at you, healthy, intelligent, not a slouch among them, nor a menial--in every one the promise of a man. I have been to many public aggregations of young and old, and of schools and colleges, in my day, but I confess I have never been so near satisfied, so comforted, (both from the fact of the school itself, and the splendid proof of our country, our composite race, and the sample-promises of its good average capacities, its future,) as in the collection from all parts of the United States on this navy training s.h.i.+p. ("Are there going to be _any men_ there?" was the dry and pregnant reply of Emerson to one who had been crowding him with the rich material statistics and possibilities of some western or Pacific region.)

_May 26_.--Aboard the Minnesota again. Lieut. Murphy kindly came for me in his boat. Enjoy'd specially those brief trips to and fro--the sailors, tann'd, strong, so bright and able-looking, pulling their oars in long side-swing, man-of-war style, as they row'd me across. I saw the boys in companies drilling with small arms; had a talk with Chaplain Rawson. At 11 o'clock all of us gathered to breakfast around a long table in the great ward room--I among the rest--a genial, plentiful, hospitable affair every way--plenty to eat, and of the best; became acquainted with several new officers. This second visit, with its observations, talks, (two or three at random with the boys,) confirm'd my first impressions.

MATURE SUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS

_Aug. 4_.--Forenoon--as I sit under the willow shade, (have retreated down in the country again,) a little bird is leisurely dousing and flirting himself amid the brook almost within reach of me. He evidently fears me not--takes me for some concomitant of the neighboring earthy banks, free bushery and wild weeds. _6 p.m._--The last three days have been perfect ones for the season, (four nights ago copious rains, with vehement thunder and lightning.) I write this sitting by the creek watching my two kingfishers at their sundown sport. The strong, beautiful, joyous creatures! Their wings glisten in the slanted sunbeams as they circle and circle around, occasionally dipping and das.h.i.+ng the water, and making long stretches up and down the creek. Wherever I go over fields, through lanes, in by-places, blooms the white-flowering wild-carrot, its delicate pat of snow-flakes crowning its slender stem, gracefully oscillating in the breeze,

EXPOSITION BUILDING--NEW CITY HALL--RIVER TRIP

PHILADELPHIA, _Aug. 26_.--Last night and to-night of unsurpa.s.s'd clearness, after two days' rain; moon splendor and star splendor. Being out toward the great Exposition building, West Philadelphia, I saw it lit up, and thought I would go in. There was a ball, democratic but nice; plenty of young couples waltzing and quadrilling--music by a good string-band. To the sight and hearing of these--to moderate strolls up and down the roomy s.p.a.ces--to getting off aside, resting in an arm-chair and looking up a long while at the grand high roof with its graceful and mult.i.tudinous work of iron rods, angles, gray colors, plays of light and shade, receding into dim outlines--to absorbing (in the intervals of the string band,) some capital voluntaries and rolling caprices from the big organ at the other end of the building--to sighting a shadow'd figure or group or couple of lovers every now and then pa.s.sing some near or farther aisle--I abandon'd myself for over an hour.

Returning home, riding down Market street in an open summer car, something detain'd us between Fifteenth and Broad, and I got out to view better the new, three-fifths-built marble edifice, the City Hall, of magnificent proportions--a majestic and lovely show there in the moonlight--flooded all over, facades, myriad silver-white lines and carv'd heads and mouldings, with the soft dazzle--silent, weird, beautiful--well, I know that never when finish'd will that magnificent pile impress one as it impress'd me those fifteen minutes.

To-night, since, I have been long on the river. I watch the C-shaped Northern Crown, (with the star Alshacca that blazed out so suddenly, alarmingly, one night a few years ago.) The moon in her third quarter, and up nearly all night. And there, as I look eastward, my long-absent Pleiades, welcome again to sight. For an hour I enjoy the soothing and vital scene to the low splash of waves--new stars steadily, noiselessly rising in the east.

As I cross the Delaware, one of the deck-hands, F. R., tells me how a woman jump'd overboard and was drown'd a couple of hours since. It happen'd in mid-channel--she leap'd from the forward part of the boat, which went over her. He saw her rise on the other side in the swift running water, throw her arms and closed hands high up, (white hands and bare forearms in the moonlight like a flash,) and then she sank. (I found out afterwards that this young fellow had promptly jump'd in, swam after the poor creature, and made, though unsuccessfully, the bravest efforts to rescue her; but he didn't mention that part at all in telling me the story.)

SWALLOWS ON THE RIVER

_Sept. 3_--Cloudy and wet, and wind due east; air without palpable fog, but very heavy with moisture--welcome for a change. Forenoon, crossing the Delaware, I noticed unusual numbers of swallows in flight, circling, darting, graceful beyond description, close to the water. Thick, around the bows of the ferry-boat as she lay tied in her slip, they flew; and as we went out I watch'd beyond the pier-heads, and across the broad stream, their swift-winding loop-ribands of motion, down close to it, cutting and intersecting. Though I had seen swallows all my life, seem'd as though I never before realized their peculiar beauty and character in the landscape. (Some time ago, for an hour, in a huge old country barn, watching these birds flying, recall'd the 22d book of the Odyssey, where Ulysses slays the suitors, bringing things to _eclairciss.e.m.e.nt_, and Minerva, swallow-bodied, darts up through the s.p.a.ces of the hall, sits high on a beam, looks complacently on the show of slaughter, and feels in her element, exulting, joyous.)

BEGIN A LONG JAUNT WEST

The following three or four months (Sept. to Dec. '79) I made quite a western journey, fetching up at Denver, Colorado, and penetrating the Rocky Mountain region enough to get a good notion of it all. Left West Philadelphia after 9 o'clock one night, middle of September, in a comfortable sleeper. Oblivious of the two or three hundred miles across Pennsylvania; at Pittsburgh in the morning to breakfast. Pretty good view of the city and Birmingham--fog and damp, smoke, c.o.ke-furnaces, flames, discolor'd wooden houses, and vast collections of coal-barges.

Presently a bit of fine region, West Virginia, the Panhandle, and crossing the river, the Ohio. By day through the latter State--then Indiana--and so rock'd to slumber for a second night, flying like lightning through Illinois.

IN THE SLEEPER

What a fierce weird pleasure to lie in my berth at night in the luxurious palace-car, drawn by the mighty Baldwin--embodying, and filling me, too, full of the swiftest motion, and most resistless strength! It is late, perhaps midnight or after--distances join'd like magic--as we speed through Harrisburg, Columbus, Indianapolis. The element of danger adds zest to it all. On we go, rumbling and flas.h.i.+ng, with our loud whinnies thrown out from time to time, or trumpet-blasts, into the darkness. Pa.s.sing the homes of men, the farms, barns, cattle--the silent villages. And the car itself, the sleeper, with curtains drawn and lights turn'd down--in the berths the slumberers, many of them women and children--as on, on, on, we fly like lightning through the night--how strangely sound and sweet they sleep! (They say the French Voltaire in his time designated the grand opera and a s.h.i.+p of war the most signal ill.u.s.trations of the growth of humanity's and art's advance beyond primitive barbarism. Perhaps if the witty philosopher were here these days, and went in the same car with perfect bedding and feed from New York to San Francisco, he would s.h.i.+ft his type and sample to one of our American sleepers.)