Specimen Days — Nover 8, '76 --- The Oaks and I

NOVEMBER 8, '76

The forenoon leaden and cloudy, not cold or wet, but indicating both.

As I hobble down here and sit by the silent pond, how different from the excitement amid which, in the cities, millions of people are now waiting news of yesterday's Presidential election, or receiving and discussing the result--in this secluded place uncared-for, unknown.

CROWS AND CROWS

_Nov.

14_.

--As I sit here by the creek, resting after my walk, a warm languor bathes me from the sun.

No sound but a cawing of crows, and no motion but their black flying figures from over-head, reflected in the mirror of the pond below.

Indeed a principal feature of the scene to-day is these crows, their incessant cawing, far or near, and their countless flocks and processions moving from place to place, and at times almost darkening the air with their myriads.

As I sit a moment writing this by the bank, I see the black, clear-cut reflection of them far below, flying through the watery looking-glass, by ones, twos, or long strings.

All last night I heard the noises from their great roost in a neighboring wood.

A WINTER DAY ON THE SEA-BEACH

One bright December mid-day lately I spent down on the New Jersey sea-shore, reaching it by a little more than an hour's railroad trip over the old Camden and Atlantic.

I had started betimes, fortified by nice strong coffee and a good breakfast (cook'd by the hands I love, my dear sister Lou's--how much better it makes the victuals taste, and then assimilate, strengthen you, perhaps make the whole day comfortable afterwards.

) Five or six miles at the last, our track enter'd a broad region of salt grass meadows, intersected by lagoons, and cut up everywhere by watery runs.

The sedgy perfume, delightful to my nostrils, reminded me of "the mash" and south bay of my native island.

I could have journey'd contentedly till night through these flat and odorous sea-prairies.

From half-past 11 till 2 I was nearly all the time along the beach, or in sight of the ocean, listening to its hoarse murmur, and inhaling the bracing and welcome breezes.

First, a rapid five-mile drive over the hard sand--our carriage wheels hardly made dents in it.

Then after dinner (as there were nearly two hours to spare) I walk'd off in another direction, (hardly met or saw a person,) and taking possession of what appear'd to have been the reception-room of an old bath-house range, had a broad expanse of view all to myself--quaint, refreshing, unimpeded--a dry area of sedge and Indian grass immediately before and around me--space, simple, unornamented space.

Distant vessels, and the far-off, just visible trailing smoke of an inward bound steamer; more plainly, ships, brigs, schooners, in sight, most of them with every sail set to the firm and steady wind.

The attractions, fascinations there are in sea and shore!

How one dwells on their simplicity, even vacuity!

What is it in us, arous'd by those indirections and directions?

That spread of waves and gray-white beach, salt, monotonous, senseless--such an entire absence of art, books, talk, elegance--so indescribably comforting, even this winter day--grim, yet so delicate-looking, so spiritual--striking emotional, impalpable depths, subtler than all the poems, paintings, music, I have ever read, seen, heard.

(Yet let me be fair, perhaps it is because I have read those poems and heard that music.

) SEA-SHORE FANCIES

Even as a boy, I had the fancy, the wish, to write a piece, perhaps a poem, about the sea-shore--that suggesting, dividing line, contact, junction, the solid marrying the liquid--that curious, lurking something, (as doubtless every objective form finally becomes to the subjective spirit,) which means far more than its mere first sight, grand as that is--blending the real and ideal, and each made portion of the other.

Hours, days, in my Long Island youth and early manhood, I haunted the shores of Rockaway or Coney island, or away east to the Hamptons or Montauk.

Once, at the latter place, (by the old lighthouse, nothing but sea-tossings in sight in every direction as far as the eye could reach,) I remember well, I felt that I must one day write a book expressing this liquid, mystic theme.

Afterward, I recollect, how it came to me that instead of any special lyrical or epical or literary attempt, the sea-shore should be an invisible _influence_, a pervading gauge and tally for me, in my composition.

(Let me give a hint here to young writers.

I am not sure but I have unwittingly follow'd out the same rule with other powers besides sea and shores--avoiding them, in the way of any dead set at poetizing them, as too big for formal handling--quite satisfied if I could indirectly show that we have met and fused, even if only once, but enough--that we have really absorb'd each other and understand each other.

) There is a dream, a picture, that for years at intervals, (sometimes quite long ones, but surely again, in time,) has come noiselessly up before me, and I really believe, fiction as it is, has enter'd largely into my practical life--certainly into my writings, and shaped and color'd them.

It is nothing more or less than a stretch of interminable white-brown sand, hard and smooth and broad, with the ocean perpetually, grandly, rolling in upon it, with slow-measured sweep, with rustle and hiss and foam, and many a thump as of low bass drums.

This scene, this picture, I say, has risen before me at times for years.

Sometimes I wake at night and can hear and see it plainly.

IN MEMORY OF THOMAS PAINE.

_Spoken at Lincoln Hall, Philadelphia, Sunday, Jan.

28, '77, for 140th anniversary of T. P.'

s birthday.

_ Some thirty-five years ago, in New York city, at Tammany hall, of which place I was then a frequenter, I happen'd to become quite well acquainted with Thomas Paine's perhaps most intimate chum, and certainly his later years' very frequent companion, a remarkably fine old man, Col. Fellows, who may yet be remember'd by some stray relics of that period and spot.

If you will allow me, I will first give a description of the Colonel himself.

He was tall, of military bearing, aged about 78, I should think, hair white as snow, clean-shaved on the face, dress'd very neatly, a tail-coat of blue cloth with metal buttons, buff vest, pantaloons of drab color, and his neck, breast and wrists showing the whitest of linen.

Under all circumstances, fine manners; a good but not profuse talker, his wits still fully about him, balanced and live and undimm'd as ever.

He kept pretty fair health, though so old.

For employment--for he was poor--he had a post as constable of some of the upper courts.

I used to think him very picturesque on the fringe of a crowd holding a tall staff, with his erect form, and his superb, bare, thick-hair'd, closely-cropt white head.

The judges and young lawyers, with whom he was ever a favorite, and the subject of respect, used to call him Aristides.

It was the general opinion among them that if manly rectitude and the instincts of absolute justice remain'd vital anywhere about New York City Hall, or Tammany, they were to be found in Col. Fellows.

He liked young men, and enjoy'd to leisurely talk with them over a social glass of toddy, after his day's work, (he on these occasions never drank but one glass,) and it was at reiterated meetings of this kind in old Tammany's back parlor of those days, that he told me much about Thomas Paine.

At one of our interviews he gave me a minute account of Paine's sickness and death.

In short, from those talks, I was and am satisfied that my old friend, with his mark'd advantages, had mentally, morally and emotionally gauged the author of "Common Sense," and besides giving me a good portrait of his appearance and manners, had taken the true measure of his interior character.

Paine's practical demeanor, and much of his theoretical belief, was a mixture of the French and English schools of a century ago, and the best of both.

Like most old-fashion'd people, he drank a glass or two every day, but was no tippler, nor intemperate, let alone being a drunkard.

He lived simply and economically, but quite well--was always cheery and courteous, perhaps occasionally a little blunt, having very positive opinions upon politics, religion, and so forth.

That he labor'd well and wisely for the States in the trying period of their parturition, and in the seeds of their character, there seems to me no question.

I dare not say how much of what our Union is owning and enjoying to-day--its independence--its ardent belief in, and substantial practice of radical human rights--and the severance of its government from all ecclesiastical and superstitious dominion--I dare not say how much of all this is owing to Thomas Paine, but I am inclined to think a good portion of it decidedly is.

But I was not going either into an analysis or eulogium of the man.

I wanted to carry you back a generation or two, and give you by indirection a moment's glance--and also to ventilate a very earnest and I believe authentic opinion, nay conviction, of that time, the fruit of the interviews I have mention'd, and of questioning and cross-questioning, clench'd by my best information since, that Thomas Paine had a noble personality, as exhibited in presence, face, voice, dress, manner, and what may be call'd his atmosphere and magnetism, especially the later years of his life.

I am sure of it.

Of the foul and foolish fictions yet told about the circumstances of his decease, the absolute fact is that as he lived a good life, after its kind, he died calmly and philosophically, as became him.

He served the embryo Union with most precious service--a service that every man, woman and child in our thirty-eight States is to some extent receiving the benefit of to-day--and I for one here cheerfully, reverently throw my pebble on the cairn of his memory.

As we all know, the season demands--or rather, will it ever be out of season?

--that America learn to better dwell on her choicest possession, the legacy of her good and faithful men--that she well preserve their fame, if unquestion'd--or, if need be, that she fail not to dissipate what clouds have intruded on that fame, and burnish it newer, truer and brighter, continually.

A TWO HOURS ICE-SAIL

_Feb.

3, '77_--From 4 to 6 P. M.

crossing the Delaware, (back again at my Camden home,) unable to make our landing, through the ice; our boat stanch and strong and skilfully piloted, but old and sulky, and poorly minding her helm.

(_Power_, so important in poetry and war, is also first point of all in a winter steamboat, with long stretches of ice-packs to tackle.

) For over two hours we bump'd and beat about, the invisible ebb, sluggish but irresistible, often carrying us long distances against our will.

In the first tinge of dusk, as I look'd around, I thought there could not be presented a more chilling, arctic, grim-extended, depressing scene.

Everything was yet plainly visible; for miles north and south, ice, ice, ice, mostly broken, but some big cakes, and no clear water in sight.

The shores, piers, surfaces, roofs, shipping, mantled with snow.

A faint winter vapor hung a fitting accompaniment around and over the endless whitish spread, and gave it just a tinge of steel and brown.

_Feb.

6_.

--As I cross home in the 6 P. M.

boat again, the transparent shadows are filled everywhere with leisurely falling, slightly slanting, curiously sparse but very large, flakes of snow.

On the shores, near and far, the glow of just-lit gas-clusters at intervals.

The ice, sometimes in hummocks, sometimes floating fields, through which our boat goes crunching.

The light permeated by that peculiar evening haze, right after sunset, which sometimes renders quite distant objects so distinctly.

SPRING OVERTURES--RECREATIONS

_Feb.

10_.

--The first chirping, almost singing, of a bird to-day.

Then I noticed a couple of honey-bees spirting and humming about the open window in the sun.

_Feb.

11_.

--In the soft rose and pale gold of the declining light, this beautiful evening, I heard the first hum and preparation of awakening spring--very faint--whether in the earth or roots, or starting of insects, I know not--but it was audible, as I lean'd on a rail (I am down in my country quarters awhile,) and look'd long at the western horizon.

Turning to the east, Sirius, as the shadows deepen'd, came forth in dazzling splendor.

And great Orion; and a little to the north-east the big Dipper, standing on end.

_Feb.

20_.

--A solitary and pleasant sundown hour at the pond, exercising arms, chest, my whole body, by a tough oak sapling thick as my wrist, twelve feet high--pulling and pushing, inspiring the good air.

After I wrestle with the tree awhile, I can feel its young sap and virtue welling up out of the ground and tingling through me from crown to toe, like health's wine.

Then for addition and variety I launch forth in my vocalism; shout declamatory pieces, sentiments, sorrow, anger, &c. , from the stock poets or plays--or inflate my lungs and sing the wild tunes and refrains I heard of the blacks down south, or patriotic songs I learn'd in the army.

I make the echoes ring, I tell you!

As the twilight fell, in a pause of these ebullitions, an owl somewhere the other side of the creek sounded _too-oo-oo-oo-oo_, soft and pensive (and I fancied a little sarcastic) repeated four or five times.

Either to applaud the negro songs--or perhaps an ironical comment on the sorrow, anger, or style of the stock poets.

ONE OF THE HUMAN KINKS

How is it that in all the serenity and lonesomeness of solitude, away off here amid the hush of the forest, alone, or as I have found in prairie wilds, or mountain stillness, one is never entirely without the instinct of looking around, (I never am, and others tell me the same of themselves, confidentially,) for somebody to appear, or start up out of the earth, or from behind some tree or rock?

Is it a lingering, inherited remains of man's primitive wariness, from the wild animals?

or from his savage ancestry far back?

It is not at all nervousness or fear.

Seems as if something unknown were possibly lurking in those bushes, or solitary places.

Nay, it is quite certain there is--some vital unseen presence.

AN AFTERNOON SCENE

_Feb.

22_.

--Last night and to-day rainy and thick, till mid-afternoon, when the wind chopp'd round, the clouds swiftly drew off like curtains, the clear appear'd, and with it the fairest, grandest, most wondrous rainbow I ever saw, all complete, very vivid at its earth-ends, spreading vast effusions of illuminated haze, violet, yellow, drab-green, in all directions overhead, through which the sun beam'd--an indescribable utterance of color and light, so gorgeous yet so soft, such as I had never witness'd before.

Then its continuance: a full hour pass'd before the last of those earth-ends disappear'd. The sky behind was all spread in translucent blue, with many little white clouds and edges.

To these a sunset, filling, dominating the esthetic and soul senses, sumptuously, tenderly, full.

I end this note by the pond, just light enough to see, through the evening shadows, the western reflections in its water-mirror surface, with inverted figures of trees.

I hear now and then the _flup_ of a pike leaping out, and rippling the water.

THE GATES OPENING

_April 6_.

--Palpable spring indeed, or the indications of it.

I am sitting in bright sunshine, at the edge of the creek, the surface just rippled by the wind.

All is solitude, morning freshness, negligence.

For companions my two kingfishers sailing, winding, darting, dipping, sometimes capriciously separate, then flying together.

I hear their guttural twittering again and again; for awhile nothing but that peculiar sound.

As noon approaches other birds warm up.

The reedy notes of the robin, and a musical passage of two parts, one a clear delicious gurgle, with several other birds I cannot place.

To which is join'd, (yes, I just hear it,) one low purr at intervals from some impatient hylas at the pond-edge.

The sibilant murmur of a pretty stiff breeze now and then through the trees.

Then a poor little dead leaf, long frost-bound, whirls from somewhere up aloft in one wild escaped freedom-spree in space and sunlight, and then dashes down to the waters, which hold it closely and soon drown it out of sight.

The bushes and trees are yet bare, but the beeches have their wrinkled yellow leaves of last season's foliage largely left, frequent cedars and pines yet green, and the grass not without proofs of coming fullness.

And over all a wonderfully fine dome of clear blue, the play of light coming and going, and great fleeces of white clouds swimming so silently.

THE COMMON EARTH, THE SOIL

The soil, too--let others pen-and-ink the sea, the air, (as I sometimes try)--but now I feel to choose the common soil for theme--naught else.

The brown soil here, (just between winter-close and opening spring and vegetation)--the rain-shower at night, and the fresh smell next morning--the red worms wriggling out of the ground--the dead leaves, the incipient grass, and the latent life underneath--the effort to start something--already in shelter'd spots some little flowers--the distant emerald show of winter wheat and the rye-fields--the yet naked trees, with clear insterstices, giving prospects hidden in summer--the tough fallow and the plow-team, and the stout boy whistling to his horses for encouragement--and there the dark fat earth in long slanting stripes upturn'd. BIRDS AND BIRDS AND BIRDS

_A little later--bright weather_.

--An unusual melodiousness, these days, (last of April and first of May) from the blackbirds; indeed all sorts of birds, darting, whistling, hopping or perch'd on trees.

Never before have I seen, heard, or been in the midst of, and got so flooded and saturated with them and their performances, as this current month.

Such oceans, such successions of them.

Let me make a list of those I find here: Black birds (plenty,) Meadow-larks (plenty,) Ring doves, Cat-birds (plenty,) Owls, Cuckoos, Woodpeckers, Pond snipes (plenty,) King-birds, Cheewinks, Crows (plenty,) Quawks, Wrens, Ground robins, Kingfishers, Ravens, Quails, Gray snipes, Turkey-buzzards, Eagles, Hen-hawks, High-holes, Yellow birds, Herons, Thrushes, Tits, Reed birds, Woodpigeons.

Early came the Blue birds, Meadow-lark, Killdeer, White-bellied swallow, Plover, Sandpiper, Robin, Wilson's thrush, Woodcock, Flicker.

FULL-STARR'D NIGHTS

_May 2l_.

--Back in Camden.

Again commencing one of those unusually transparent, full-starr'd, blue-black nights, as if to show that however lush and pompous the day may be, there is something left in the not-day that can outvie it.

The rarest, finest sample of long-drawn-out clear-obscure, from sundown to 9 o'clock.

I went down to the Delaware, and cross'd and cross'd. Venus like blazing silver well up in the west.

The large pale thin crescent of the new moon, half an hour high, sinking languidly under a bar-sinister of cloud, and then emerging.

Arcturus right overhead.

A faint fragrant sea-odor wafted up from the south.

The gloaming, the temper'd coolness, with every feature of the scene, indescribably soothing and tonic--one of those hours that give hints to the soul, impossible to put in a statement.

(Ah, where would be any food for spirituality without night and the stars?

) The vacant spaciousness of the air, and the veil'd blue of the heavens, seem'd miracles enough.

As the night advanc'd it changed its spirit and garments to ampler stateliness.

I was almost conscious of a definite presence, Nature silently near.

The great constellation of the Water-Serpent stretch'd its coils over more than half the heavens.

The Swan with outspread wings was flying down the Milky Way.

The northern Crown, the Eagle, Lyra, all up there in their places.

From the whole dome shot down points of light, rapport with me, through the clear blue-black.

All the usual sense of motion, all animal life, seem'd discarded, seem'd a fiction; a curious power, like the placid rest of Egyptian gods, took possession, none the less potent for being impalpable.

Earlier I had seen many bats, balancing in the luminous twilight, darting their black forms hither and yon over the river; but now they altogether disappear'd. The evening star and the moon had gone.

Alertness and peace lay camly couching together through the fluid universal shadows.

_Aug.

26_.

--Bright has the day been, and my spirits an equal _forzando_.

Then comes the night, different, inexpressibly pensive, with its own tender and temper'd splendor.

Venus lingers in the west with a voluptuous dazzle unshown hitherto this summer.

Mars rises early, and the red sulky moon, two days past her full; Jupiter at night's meridian, and the long curling-slanted Scorpion stretching full view in the south, Aretus-neck'd. Mars walks the heavens lord-paramount now; all through this month I go out after supper and watch for him; sometimes getting up at midnight to take another look at his unparallel'd lustre.

(I see lately an astronomer has made out through the new Washington telescope that Mars has certainly one moon, perhaps two.

) Pale and distant, but near in the heavens, Saturn precedes him.

MULLEINS AND MULLEINS

Large, placid mulleins, as summer advances, velvety in texture, of a light greenish-drab color, growing everywhere in the fields--at first earth's big rosettes in their broad-leav'd low cluster-plants, eight, ten, twenty leaves to a plant--plentiful on the fallow twenty-acre lot, at the end of the lane, and especially by the ridge-sides of the fences--then close to the ground, but soon springing up--leaves as broad as my hand, and the lower ones twice as long--so fresh and dewy in the morning--stalks now four or five, even seven or eight feet high.

The farmers, I find, think the mullein a mean unworthy weed, but I have grown to a fondness for it.

Every object has its lesson, enclosing the suggestion of everything else--and lately I sometimes think all is concentrated for me in these hardy, yellow-flower'd weeds.

As I come down the lane early in the morning, I pause before their soft wool-like fleece and stem and broad leaves, glittering with countless diamonds.

Annually for three summers now, they and I have silently return'd together; at such long intervals I stand or sit among them, musing--and woven with the rest, of so many hours and moods of partial rehabilitation--of my sane or sick spirit, here as near at peace as it can be.

DISTANT SOUNDS

The axe of the wood-cutter, the measured thud of a single threshing-flail, the crowing of chanticleer in the barn-yard, (with invariable responses from other barn-yards,) and the lowing of cattle--but most of all, or far or near, the wind--through the high tree-tops, or through low bushes, laving one's face and hands so gently, this balmy-bright noon, the coolest for a long time, (Sept.

2)--I will not call it _sighing_, for to me it is always a firm, sane, cheery expression, through a monotone, giving many varieties, or swift or slow, or dense or delicate.

The wind in the patch of pine woods off there--how sibilant.

Or at sea, I can imagine it this moment, tossing the waves, with spirits of foam flying far, and the free whistle, and the scent of the salt--and that vast paradox somehow with all its action and restlessness conveying a sense of eternal rest.

_Other adjuncts.

_--But the sun and the moon here and these times.

As never more wonderful by day, the gorgeous orb imperial, so vast, so ardently, lovingly hot--so never a more glorious moon of nights, especially the last three or four.

The great planets too--Mars never before so flaming bright, so flashing-large, with slight yellow tinge, (the astronomers say--is it true?

--nearer to us than any time the past century)--and well up, lord Jupiter, (a little while since close by the moon)--and in the west, after the sun sinks, voluptuous Venus, now languid and shorn of her beams, as if from some divine excess.

A SUN-BATH-NAKEDNESS

_Sunday, Aug.

27_.

--Another day quite free from mark'd prostration and pain.

It seems indeed as if peace and nutriment from heaven subtly filter into me as I slowly hobble down these country lanes and across fields, in the good air--as I sit here in solitude with Nature--open, voiceless, mystic, far removed, yet palpable, eloquent Nature.

I

merge myself in the scene, in the perfect day.

Hovering over the clear brook-water, I am sooth'd by its soft gurgle in one place, and the hoarser murmurs of its three-foot fall in another.

Come, ye disconsolate, in whom any latent eligibility is left--come get the sure virtues of creek-shore, and wood and field.

Two months (July and August, '77,) have I absorb'd them, and they begin to make a new man of me.

Every day, seclusion--every day at least two or three hours of freedom, bathing, no talk, no bonds, no dress, no books, no _manners_.

Shall I tell you, reader, to what I attribute my already much-restored health?

That I have been almost two years, off and on, without drugs and medicines, and daily in the open air.

Last summer I found a particularly secluded little dell off one side by my creek, originally a large dug-out marl-pit, now abandon'd, fill'd, with bushes, trees, grass, a group of willows, a straggling bank, and a spring of delicious water running right through the middle of it, with two or three little cascades.

Here I retreated every hot day, and follow it up this summer.

Here I realize the meaning of that old fellow who said he was seldom less alone than when alone.

Never before did I get so close to Nature;

never before did she come so close to me.

By old habit, I pencill'd down from time to time, almost automatically, moods, sights, hours, tints and outlines, on the spot.

Let me specially record the satisfaction of this current forenoon, so serene and primitive, so conventionally exceptional, natural.

An hour or so after breakfast I wended my way down to the recesses of the aforesaid dell, which I and certain thrushes, cat-birds, &c. , had all to ourselves.

A light south-west wind was blowing through the tree-tops.

It was just the place and time for my Adamic air-bath and flesh-brushing from head to foot.

So hanging clothes on a rail near by, keeping old broadbrim straw on head and easy shoes on feet, havn't I had a good time the last two hours!

First with the stiff-elastic bristles rasping arms, breast, sides, till they turn'd scarlet--then partially bathing in the clear waters of the running brook--taking everything very leisurely, with many rests and pauses--stepping about barefooted every few minutes now and then in some neighboring black ooze, for unctuous mud-bath to my feet--a brief second and third rinsing in the crystal running waters--rubbing with the fragrant towel--slow negligent promenades on the turf up and down in the sun, varied with occasional rests, and further frictions of the bristle-brush--sometimes carrying my portable chair with me from place to place, as my range is quite extensive here, nearly a hundred rods, feeling quite secure from intrusion, (and that indeed I am not at all nervous about, if it accidentally happens.

) As I walk'd slowly over the grass, the sun shone out enough to show the shadow moving with me.

Somehow I seem'd to get identity with each and every thing around me, in its condition.

Nature was naked, and I was also.

It was too lazy, soothing, and joyous-equable to speculate about.

Yet I might have thought somehow in this vein: Perhaps the inner never-lost rapport we hold with earth, light, air, trees, &c. , is not to be realized through eyes and mind only, but through the whole corporeal body, which I will not have blinded or bandaged any more than the eyes.

Sweet, sane, still Nakedness in Nature!

--ah if poor, sick, prurient humanity in cities might really know you once more!

Is not nakedness then indecent?

No, not inherently.

It is your thought, your sophistication, your tear, your respectability, that is indecent.

There come moods when these clothes of ours are not only too irksome to wear, but are themselves indecent.

Perhaps indeed he or she to whom the free exhilarating extasy of nakedness in Nature has never been eligible (and how many thousands there are!

) has not really known what purity is--nor what faith or art or health really is.

(Probably the whole curriculum of first-class philosophy, beauty, heroism, form, illustrated by the old Hellenic race--the highest height and deepest depth known to civilization in those departments--came from their natural and religious idea of Nakedness.

) Many such hours, from time to time, the last two summers--I attribute my partial rehabilitation largely to them.

Some good people may think it a feeble or half-crack'd way of spending one's time and thinking.

May-be it is.

THE OAKS AND I

_Sept.

5, '77. _--I write this, 11 A. M.

, shelter'd under a dense oak by the bank, where I have taken refuge from a sudden rain.

I came down here, (we had sulky drizzles all the morning, but an hour ago a lull,) for the before-mention'd daily and simple exercise I am fond of--to pull on that young hickory sapling out there--to sway and yield to its tough-limber upright stem--haply to get into my old sinews some of its elastic fibre and clear sap.

I stand on the turf and take these health-pulls moderately and at intervals for nearly an hour, inhaling great draughts of fresh air.

Wandering by the creek, I have three or four naturally favorable spots where I rest--besides a chair I lug with me and use for more deliberate occasions.

At other spots convenient I have selected, besides the hickory just named, strong and limber boughs of beech or holly, in easy-reaching distance, for my natural gymnasia, for arms, chest, trunk-muscles.

I can soon feel the sap and sinew rising through me, like mercury to heat.

I hold on boughs or slender trees caressingly there in the sun and shade, wrestle with their innocent stalwartness--and _know_ the virtue thereof passes from them into me.

(Or may-be we interchange--may-be the trees are more aware of it all than I ever thought.

) But now pleasantly imprison'd here under the big oak--the rain dripping, and the sky cover'd with leaden clouds--nothing but the pond on one side, and the other a spread of grass, spotted with the milky blossoms of the wild carrot--the sound of an axe wielded at some distant wood-pile--yet in this dull scene, (as most folks would call it,) why am I so (almost) happy here and alone?

Why would any intrusion, even from people I like, spoil the charm?

But am I alone?

Doubtless there comes a time--perhaps it has come to me--when one feels through his whole being, and pronouncedly the emotional part, that identity between himself subjectively and Nature objectively which Schelling and Fichte are so fond of pressing.

How it is I know not, but I often realize a presence here--in clear moods I am certain of it, and neither chemistry nor reasoning nor esthetics will give the least explanation.

All the past two summers it has been strengthening and nourishing my sick body and soul, as never before.

Thanks, invisible physician, for thy silent delicious medicine, thy day and night, thy waters and thy airs, the banks, the grass, the trees, and e'en the weeds!