THE OLD MANSE 
 
THE 
 
 OLD MANSE 
 
 BY 
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 The 'T^iyerside *Press 
 1904 
 
Copyright 1904 by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 
 All rights reserved 
 
HAWTHORNE'S talent for descriptive 
 writing was never exercised upon a 
 happier theme than the Old Clause 
 at Concord, ^^Massachusetts. Built in 
 1765 by Emerson's grandfather, Wil 
 liam, the patriot chaplain who per 
 ished early in the Revolution, the par 
 sonage passed after his death into the 
 hands of 'Dr. Ezra Ripley, who mar 
 ried William Emerson's widow and 
 succeeded him in the pastorate. It 
 is still in the possession of the Rip- 
 ley family. At three different periods 
 it was the temporary home of Ralph 
 Waldo Emerson, who wrote his tr ^a- 
 ture ' in the small back room upon the 
 second story, looking out upon the river, 
 v 
 
the ^l^orth Bridge, and the battlefield. 
 When Hawthorne married Sophia Pea- 
 body in July, 1842, they took up their 
 abode in the Old ^I4anse 9 which had 
 stood vacant since the death of 'Dr. 
 Ripley. Here they passed three years 
 of idyllic happiness. Their Jirst child 
 was born in the Old <*JManse, and here 
 were written many of the well-known 
 pieces included in the collection enti 
 tled '^losses from an Old ^Jfrlanse.' 
 The ancient homestead fascinated the 
 imagination both of Hawthorne and 
 his wife, and there are many passages 
 in their letters and journals describing 
 the Eden-like surroundings of the new 
 ^Adam and Eve, as the happy young 
 couple loved to call themselves. When 
 Hawthorne came to write an introduc 
 tory paper for his '<*JI4osses> he gath- 
 vi 
 
JVbfe 
 
 ered these impressions into one of the 
 most perfect of his descriptive essays. It 
 is this essay which is reprinted here. 
 
 B.P. 
 
 4 PARK STREET. 
 
 Vll 
 
THE OLD MANSE 
 
THE OLD MANSE 
 
 BETWEEN two tall gateposts 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 twelve 
 month since the funeral procession of 
 the venerable clergyman, its last in 
 habitant, 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 mouth- 
 fuls to two or three vagrant cows and 
 an old white horse who had his own 
 
The Old<Jt4anse 
 
 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 lit 
 tle 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 trav 
 ellers looked too remote and dim to 
 disturb the sense of privacy. In its 
 near retirement and accessible seclu 
 sion it was the very spot for the resi 
 dence of a clergyman, a man not 
 estranged from human life, yet en- 
 4 
 
The Old Cla 
 
 veloped 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 parson 
 ages of England in which, through 
 many generations, a succession of 
 holy occupants pass from youth to 
 age, and bequeath each an inher 
 itance of sanctity to pervade the 
 house and hover over it as with an 
 atmosphere. 
 
 Nor, in truth, had the Old Manse 
 ever been profaned by a lay occu 
 pant 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 cham 
 bers had grown up to assume the 
 5 
 
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, num 
 ber that gushed living from his lips. 
 How often, no doubt, had he paced 
 to and fro along the avenue, attun 
 ing his meditations to the sighs and 
 gentle murmurs, and deep and sol 
 emn peals of the wind among the 
 lofty tops of the trees ! In that vari 
 ety 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 shad- 
 6 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 owy 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 there 
 fore unprejudiced views of religion ; 
 histories (such as Bancroft might 
 have written had he taken up his 
 abode here as he once proposed) 
 bright with picture, gleaming over a 
 depth of philosophic thought, these 
 were the works that might fitly have 
 7 
 
The Old<JI4anse 
 
 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 T^z- 
 ture ; for he was then an inhabit 
 ant of the Manse, and used to watch 
 the Assyrian dawn and Paphian sun 
 set and moonrise from the summit 
 of our eastern hill. When I first 
 saw the room its walls were black 
 ened with the smoke of unnumbered 
 8 
 
The Old<Jt4anse 
 
 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 gol 
 den tinted paper-hangings lighted 
 up the small apartment ; while the 
 shadow of a willow-tree that swept 
 against the overhanging eaves at 
 tempered the cheery western sun 
 shine. 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 deco- 
 
The Old<JI4anse 
 
 rations were a purple vase of flow 
 ers, 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 wil 
 low branches down into the orchard, 
 with glimpses of the river through 
 the trees. The third, facing north 
 ward, commanded a broader view 
 of the river at a spot where its hith 
 erto obscure waters gleam forth into 
 the light of history. It was at this 
 10 
 
The Old<JI4anse 
 
 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 pa 
 rishioners 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 can 
 not help considering as my guest in 
 the Old Manse and entitled to all 
 courtesy in the way of sight-show 
 ing, perhaps he will choose to take 
 a nearer view of the memorable 
 spot. We stand now on the river's 
 11 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 brink. It may well be called the 
 Concord, the river of peace and qui 
 etness ; 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 as 
 pect except when a northwestern 
 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 moun 
 tain torrent. While all things else 
 are compelled to subserve some use 
 ful purpose, it idles its sluggish life 
 12 
 
The Old Cla 
 
 away in lazy liberty, without turn 
 ing 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 posi 
 tion just so far from the river's 
 13 
 
The Old^/Lanse 
 
 brink that it cannot be grasped save 
 at the hazard of plunging in. 
 
 It is a marvel whence this per 
 fect 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 can 
 not 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 fra 
 grance of celestial flowers to the 
 daily life of others. 
 
 The reader must not, from any 
 14 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 testimony of mine, contract a dis 
 like 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 blus 
 tering 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 with 
 out effort and with the same felicity 
 of success. All the sky glows down 
 ward at our feet; the rich clouds 
 float through the unruffled bosom 
 of the stream like heavenly thoughts 
 15 
 
The 
 
 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 every 
 where, it must be true. 
 
 Come, we have pursued a some 
 what 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 
 16 
 
The Old^Manse 
 
 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 wa 
 ter moss ; for during that length of 
 time the tramp of horses and hu 
 man footsteps has ceased along this 
 ancient highway. The stream has 
 here about the breadth of twenty 
 strokes of a swimmer's arm, a 
 17 
 
The 
 
 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 commem 
 orate 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 me 
 morial. 
 
 18 
 
The Old^Lanse 
 
 A humbler token of the fight, yet 
 a more interesting one than the 
 granite obelisk, may be seen close 
 under the stone wall 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 end 
 ed ; a weary night march from Bos 
 ton, 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- 
 19 
 
The 
 
 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 in 
 habitants below. The story has some 
 thing deeply impressive, though its 
 circumstances cannot altogether be 
 reconciled with probability. A youth 
 in the service of the clergyman hap 
 pened 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 inter 
 vening 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 coun- 
 20 
 
The Old^Lanse 
 
 try were startled out of their custom 
 ary 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 de 
 serted 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 
 21 
 
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 sol 
 diers has the mark of an axe in his 
 skull. The story comes home to me 
 like truth. Oftentimes, as an intellec 
 tual 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. 
 22 
 
The Old<*JMan$e 
 
 Many strangers come in the sum 
 mer 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 mar 
 gin 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 per 
 haps a hundred yards in breadth 
 which extends between the battle 
 field and the northern face of our 
 Old Manse, with its contiguous ave 
 nue and orchard. Here, in some 
 unknown age, before the white man 
 came, stood an Indian village, con 
 venient to the river, whence its in 
 habitants must have drawn so large 
 a part of their subsistence. The site 
 23 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 is identified by the spear and arrow 
 heads, the chisels, and other imple 
 ments 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 after 
 wards 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 arti 
 cle, so different from the productions 
 of civilized machinery, which shapes 
 24 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 everything on one pattern. There is 
 exquisite delight, too, in picking up 
 for one's self an arrowhead that was 
 dropped 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 and its encircling for 
 est, and recalls to life the painted 
 chiefs and warriors, the squaws at 
 their household toil, and the chil 
 dren sporting among the wigwams, 
 while the little wind -rocked pap- 
 poose swings from the branch of the 
 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 
 25 
 
The Old^Manse 
 
 see stone fences, white houses, po 
 tato 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 de 
 cline 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 benefiting his suc 
 cessors, an end so seldom achieved 
 by more ambitious efforts. But the 
 26 
 
The Old^Manse 
 
 old minister, before reaching his 
 patriarchal age of ninety, ate the ap 
 ples 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 ob 
 serves how heavily the branches 
 are weighed down, and computes 
 the number of empty flour barrels 
 that will be filled by their burden. 
 He loved each tree, doubtless, as if 
 it had been his own child. An or 
 chard has a relation to mankind, and 
 readily connects itself with matters 
 of the heart. The trees possess a 
 domestic character ; they have lost 
 27 
 
The Old<Jk[anse 
 
 the wild nature of their forest kin 
 dred, 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 manifesta 
 tions ; another gives us fruit as mild 
 as charity. One is churlish and illib 
 eral, evidently grudging the few ap 
 ples 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 ac 
 quainted with them : they stretch out 
 their crooked branches, and take 
 such hold of the imagination that we 
 28 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 remember them as humorists and 
 odd-fellows. And what is more mel 
 ancholy 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 cel 
 lar ? 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 inher 
 itor of the old clergyman's wealth 
 of fruits. Throughout the summer 
 there were cherries and currants ; 
 and then came autumn, with his im- 
 29 
 
The Old^Lanse 
 
 mense burden of apples, dropping 
 them continually from his overladen 
 shoulders as he trudged along. In 
 the stillest afternoon, if I listened, 
 the thump of a great apple was audi 
 ble, 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 gener 
 osity 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 
 30 
 
The Old zJM 
 
 summer islands, where the bread 
 fruit, the cocoa, the palm, and the 
 orange grow spontaneously and hold 
 forth the ever-ready meal ; but like 
 wise 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 
 apothegm these five thousand years, 
 that toil sweetens the bread it earns. 
 For my part (speaking from hard 
 experience, acquired while belabor 
 ing the rugged furrows of Brook 
 Farm), I relish best the free gifts 
 of Providence. 
 
 Not that it can be disputed that 
 31 
 
The Old^Manse 
 
 the light toil requisite to cultivate 
 a moderately-sized garden imparts 
 such zest to kitchen vegetables as 
 is never found in those of the mar 
 ket 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 revisit it a dozen 
 32 
 
The Old^Lanse 
 
 times a day, and stand in deep con 
 templation over my vegetable pro 
 geny with a love that nobody could 
 share or 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 vari 
 ety 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 ; 
 33 
 
The 
 
 although when they had laden them 
 selves 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 a cer 
 tainty 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 man 
 kind 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 beautiful 
 and varied forms. They presented an 
 endless diversity of urns and vases, 
 shallow or deep, scalloped or plain, 
 moulded in patterns which a sculptor 
 34 
 
The 
 
 would do well to copy, since Art has 
 never in vented anything more grace 
 ful. A hundred squashes in the gar 
 den were worthy, in my eyes at 
 least, of being rendered indestructi 
 ble 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 ser 
 vice of plate, or most delicate porce 
 lain, to be wrought into the shapes 
 of summer squashes gathered from 
 vines which I will plant with my own 
 hands. As dishes for containing veg 
 etables they would be peculiarly ap 
 propriate. 
 
 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 
 
 35 
 
The Old^Lanse 
 
 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 fel 
 lows, 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 sub 
 stance was born into the world. 
 They were real and tangible exist 
 ences, which the mind could seize 
 hold of and rejoice in. A cabbage, 
 too, especially the early Dutch 
 cabbage, which swells to a mon 
 strous circumference, until its ambi 
 tious heart often bursts asunder, 
 is a matter to be proud of when we 
 36 
 
The Old^Manse 
 
 can claim a share with the earth and 
 sky in producing it. But, after all, 
 the hugest pleasure is reserved un 
 til 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 find 
 ing 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 ac 
 quainted 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 ex 
 ternal Nature than as then seen from 
 the windows of my study. The 
 great willow-tree had caught and 
 37 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 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-drip 
 ping and splash - splash - splashing 
 from the eaves, and bubbling and 
 foaming into the tubs beneath the 
 spouts. The old, unpainted shin 
 gles 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 
 afterthought of Time. The usually 
 mirrored surface of the river was 
 blurred by an infinity of raindrops ; 
 the whole landscape had a com 
 pletely water -soaked appearance, 
 conveying the impression that the 
 38 
 
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 hospi 
 tality, during a rain. In the fiercest 
 heat of sunny days she retains a se 
 cret mercy, anvi welcomes the way 
 farer 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 re 
 cesses, those overshadowing banks, 
 where we found such enjoyment 
 during the sultry afternoons. Not a 
 twig of foliage there but would dash 
 39 
 
The Old<JWanse 
 
 a little shower into our faces. Look 
 ing reproachfully towards the impen 
 etrable 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 sputtering 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 re 
 sources 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 
 40 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 garret, stored, like that of the Manse, 
 with lumber that each generation 
 has left behind it from a period be 
 fore 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 cav 
 erns, 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 chim 
 neys, 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 whitewashed apart 
 ment which bore the traditionary 
 41 
 
The Old^Lanse 
 
 title of the Saint's Chamber, because 
 holy men in their youth had slept 
 and studied and prayed there. With 
 its elevated retirement, its one win 
 dow, its small fireplace, and its 
 closet, convenient for an oratory, it 
 was the very spot where a young 
 man might inspire himself with sol 
 emn 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 canvas, which on 
 inspection proved to be the forcibly 
 wrought picture of a clergyman, in 
 wig, band, and gown, holding a Bi 
 ble in his hand. As I turned his face 
 towards the light he eyed me with 
 an air of authority such as men of 
 42 
 
The 
 
 his profession seldom assume in our 
 days. The original had been pas 
 tor of the parish more than a cen 
 tury ago, a friend of Whitefield, and 
 almost his equal in fervid eloquence. 
 I bowed before the effigy of the dig 
 nified divine, and felt as if I had now 
 met face to face with the ghost by 
 whom, as there was reason to ap 
 prehend, 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 partic 
 ular corner of the parlor, and some 
 times 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 
 43 
 
The 
 
 moonshine that fell through the east 
 ern window. Not improbably he 
 wished me to edit and publish a se 
 lection from a chest full of manu 
 script 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 ser 
 vant 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 
 44 
 
The 
 
 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 num 
 ber 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. 
 45 
 
The Old^Manse 
 
 Autographs of famous names were 
 to be seen in faded ink on some of 
 their flyleaves ; and there were mar 
 ginal observations or interpolated 
 pages closely covered with manu 
 script in illegible shorthand, 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 sledge-hammer, 
 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 chap 
 ter. Then there was a vast folio 
 body of divinity too corpulent a 
 46 
 
The Old^Manse 
 
 body, it might be feared, to compre 
 hend the spiritual element of reli 
 gion. 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 breth 
 ren, 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 unfortu 
 nately blighted at an early stage of 
 their growth. 
 
 The rain pattered upon the roof 
 47 
 
The 
 
 and the sky gloomed through the 
 dusty garret windows, while I bur 
 rowed 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 intel 
 lect 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 con 
 sidered a fair test of the enduring 
 and vivacious properties of human 
 48 
 
The 
 
 thought, because such books so sel 
 dom really touch upon their osten 
 sible 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 hold 
 ing theological libraries to be accu 
 mulations of, for the most part, stu 
 pendous impertinence. 
 
 Many of the books had accrued 
 in the latter years of the last clergy 
 man'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 them as I was doing now. 
 Volumes of the " Liberal Preacher " 
 and Christian Examiner," occa 
 sional sermons, controversial pam- 
 49 
 
The Old Cla 
 
 phlets, tracts, and other productions 
 of a like fugitive nature took the 
 place of the thick and heavy vol 
 umes 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, intellectu 
 ally 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 ; al 
 though, 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 
 50 
 
The Old^^Manse 
 
 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 bet 
 ter 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 writ 
 ten 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 un- 
 51 
 
The 
 
 accountable. It was as if I had found 
 bits of magic looking-glass among 
 the books, with the images of a van 
 ished 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 news 
 paper scribblers and almanac makers 
 had thrown off in the effervescence 
 of a moment. The portrait responded 
 not ; so I sought an answer for my 
 self. 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 ; 
 52 
 
The Old<JI4anse 
 
 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 with me 
 a superstitious reverence for litera 
 ture of all kinds. A bound volume 
 has a charm in my eyes similar to 
 what scraps of manuscript possess 
 for the good Mussulman. He ima- 
 53 
 
The Old<>JManse 
 
 gines 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 unsus 
 pected 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 
 54 
 
The Old^Manse 
 
 unseen, from beneath its heavy eye 
 lid. To-morrow for the hill-tops and 
 the wood-paths. 
 
 Or it might be that Ellery Chan- 
 ning came up the avenue to join me 
 in a fishing excursion on the river. 
 Strange and happy times were those 
 when we cast aside all irksome forms 
 and strait-laced habitudes, and deliv 
 ered ourselves up to the free air, to 
 live like the Indians or any less con 
 ventional race during one bright 
 semicircle of the sun. Rowing our 
 boat against the current, between 
 wide meadows, we turned aside into 
 the Assabeth. A more lovely stream 
 than this, for a mile above its junction 
 with the Concord, has never flowed 
 on earth, nowhere, indeed, except 
 to lave the interior regions of a 
 55 
 
The Old^Lanse 
 
 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 suf 
 ficient 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, im 
 parting specks of vivid cheerfulness, 
 in contrast with the quiet depth of the 
 56 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 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 ori 
 ginal ? the objects palpable to our 
 grosser senses, or their apotheosis in 
 the stream beneath ? Surely the dis 
 embodied images stand in closer re 
 lation to the soul. But both the origi 
 nal 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 in 
 ner 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. 
 57 
 
The 
 
 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 out 
 stretched arms, as if resolute to take 
 the plunge. In other places the 
 banks are almost on a level with 
 the water ; so that the quiet congre 
 gation of trees set their feet in the 
 flood, and are fringed with foliage 
 down to the surface. Cardinal flow 
 ers 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 be- 
 58 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 ing 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 in 
 ward eye to a proper focus with the 
 outward organ. Grape-vines here 
 and there twine themselves around 
 shrub and tree and hang their clus 
 ters over the water within reach of 
 the boatman's hand. Oftentimes they 
 unite two trees of alien race in an in 
 extricable twine, marrying the hem 
 lock and the maple against their 
 will, and enriching them with a pur 
 ple offspring of which neither is the 
 parent. One of these ambitious par 
 asites has climbed into the upper 
 branches of a tall white pine, and is 
 59 
 
The 
 
 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 be 
 hind 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 an 
 ger 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 
 60 
 
The 
 
 from among the lily-pads. The tur 
 tle, sunning itself upon a rock or at 
 the root of a tree, slid suddenly into 
 the water with a plunge. The painted 
 Indian who paddled his canoe along 
 the Assabeth three hundred years ago 
 could hardly have seen a wilder gen 
 tleness displayed upon its banks and 
 reflected in its bosom than we did. 
 Nor could the same Indian have pre 
 pared 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, im 
 pregnated with a savory incense, not 
 heavy, dull, and surfeiting, like the 
 61 
 
The Old^JManse 
 
 steam of cookery within doors, but 
 sprightly and piquant. The smell 
 of our feast was akin to the wood 
 land odors with which it mingled : 
 there was no sacrilege committed 
 by our intrusion there : the sacred 
 solitude was hospitable, and granted 
 us free leave to cook and eat in the 
 recess that was at once our kitchen 
 and banqueting hall. It is strange 
 what humble offices may be per 
 formed 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 uni 
 son with the river gliding by and 
 the foliage rustling over us. And, 
 what was strangest, neither did our 
 62 
 
The 
 
 mirth seem to disturb the propri 
 ety of the solemn woods ; although 
 the hobgoblins of the old wilderness 
 and the will-of-the-wisps that glim 
 mered 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 profound- 
 est 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 
 63 
 
The Old^Manse 
 
 of golden thought that lay glimmer 
 ing in the fountain's bed and bright 
 ened both our faces by the reflec 
 tion. 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 free 
 dom which we thereby won from all 
 custom and conventionalism and fet 
 tering influences of man on man. 
 We were so free to-day that it 
 was impossible to be slaves again 
 64 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 to-morrow. When we crossed the 
 threshold of the house or trod the 
 thronged pavements of a city, still 
 the leaves of the trees that overhang 
 the Assabeth were whispering to us, 
 "Be free! be free!" Therefore along 
 that shady river-bank there are spots, 
 marked with a heap of ashes and 
 half -consumed brands, only less sa 
 cred 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, 
 65 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 best seen from the river, overshad 
 owed with its willow and all envi 
 roned 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 con 
 nection 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, 
 66 
 
The 
 
 as if keeping guard over it. Gaz 
 ing 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 de 
 cide to give up civilized life, cities, 
 houses, and whatever moral or ma 
 terial 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 au 
 tumnal days. How early in the 
 summer, too, the prophecy of au 
 tumn comes ! Earlier in some years 
 67 
 
The 
 
 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 per 
 ception if it be not rather a fore 
 boding of the year's decay, so 
 blessedly sweet and sad in the same 
 breath. 
 
 Did I say that there was no feel 
 ing 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, 
 68 
 
The 
 
 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 exist 
 ence merged among the accompa 
 nying characteristics of the season. 
 Alas for the pleasant summer time ! 
 In August the grass is still verdant 
 on the hills and in the valleys; the 
 foliage of the trees is as dense as 
 ever, and as green ; the flowers gleam 
 forth in richer abundance along the 
 margin of the river, and by the stone 
 walls, and deep among the woods ; 
 the days, too, are as fervid now as 
 they were a month ago ; and yet in 
 every breath of wind and in every 
 beam of sunshine we hear the whis 
 pered farewell and behold the part- 
 69 
 
The 
 
 ing 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 car 
 dinal flower has never seemed gay 
 to me. 
 
 Still later in the season Nature's 
 tenderness waxes stronger. It is im 
 possible not to be fond of our mother 
 now ; for she is so fond of us ! At 
 other periods she does not make 
 70 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 this impression on me, or only at 
 rare intervals; but in those genial 
 days of autumn, when she has per 
 fected 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 on 
 ward to embrace likewise the next 
 thing that it meets. A blessing is 
 flung abroad and scattered far and 
 
The Old Cla 
 
 wide over the earth, to be gath 
 ered up by all who choose. I re 
 cline upon the still unwithered grass 
 and whisper to myself, " O perfect 
 day ! O beautiful world ! O benefi 
 cent God!" And it is the promise 
 of a blessed eternity; for our Creator 
 would never have made such lovely 
 days and have given us the deep 
 hearts to enjoy them, above and be 
 yond 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 out 
 ward world puts on a drear auster 
 ity. On some October morning there 
 is a heavy hoar-frost on the grass 
 and along the tops of the fences ; 
 72 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 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 wa 
 ters ; they have roared loudly while 
 the branches were wrestling with the 
 thunder gust ; they have made mu 
 sic 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 import 
 ance, and draws to its fireside, for 
 the abomination of the air-tight stove 
 is reserved till wintry weather, 
 draws closer and closer to its fire 
 side the vagrant impulses that had 
 73 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 gone wandering about through the 
 summer. 
 
 When summer was dead and bur 
 ied the Old Manse became as lone 
 ly 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 floating 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 slumber 
 ous influence upon them ; they fell 
 asleep in chairs, or took a more de 
 liberate siesta on the sofa, or were 
 74 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 seen stretched among the shadows 
 of the orchard, looking up dream 
 ily through the boughs. They could 
 not have paid a more acceptable com 
 pliment to my abode, nor to my 
 own qualities as a host. I held it as 
 a proof that they left their cares be 
 hind them as they passed between 
 the stone gate-posts at the entrance 
 of our avenue, and that the so power 
 ful 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 bet 
 ter could be done for those weary 
 and world -worn spirits? for him 
 whose career of perpetual action was 
 75 
 
The Old<JManse 
 
 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 pol 
 itics, and now, perchance, began 
 to suspect that one lifetime is too 
 brief for the accomplishment of any 
 lofty aim ? for her on whose femi 
 nine nature had been imposed the 
 heavy gift of intellectual power, such 
 as a strong man might have stag 
 gered under, and with it the ne 
 cessity to act upon the world ? in 
 a word, not to multiply instances, 
 what better could be done for any 
 body 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 
 76 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 dismissed him, with but misty remi 
 niscences, as if he had been dream 
 ing 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 activ 
 ity, 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 
 77 
 
The Old^Lanse 
 
 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 re 
 storing 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 afflict 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 writ 
 ing, to be but a distorted survey of 
 78 
 
The Old^Manse 
 
 the state and prospects of mankind. 
 There were circumstances around 
 me which made it difficult to view the 
 world precisely as it exists; for, se 
 vere 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 wonderful magnetism, and drew 
 many men upon long pilgrimages to 
 79 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 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 clew that should 
 guide them out of their self-involved 
 bewilderment. Grayheaded 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 the free spirit into their own 
 thraldom. People that had lighted 
 on a new thought, or a thought that 
 they fancied new, came to Emer 
 son, as the finder of a glittering 
 gem hastens to a lapidary, to ascer 
 tain its quality and value. Uncertain, 
 troubled, earnest wanderers through 
 the midnight of the moral world be- 
 So 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 held his intellectual fire as a beacon 
 burning on a hill - top, and, climb 
 ing 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 bea 
 con 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 
 
 81 
 
The Old Cl 
 
 universe ; but now, being happy, I 
 felt as if there were no question to 
 be put, and therefore admired Em 
 erson as a poet of deep beauty and 
 austere tenderness, but sought no 
 thing from him as a philosopher. It 
 was good, nevertheless, to meet him 
 in the woodpaths, 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 with 
 out pretension, encountering each 
 man alive as if expecting to receive 
 more than he could impart. And, 
 in truth, the heart of many an ordi 
 nary man had, perchance, inscriptions 
 which he could not read. But it was 
 impossible to dwell in his vicinity 
 without inhaling more or less the 
 82 
 
The 
 
 mountain atmosphere of his lofty 
 thought, which, in the brains of some 
 people, wrought a singular giddi 
 ness, 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 des 
 tiny, yet were simply bores of a very 
 intense water. Such, I imagine, is 
 the invariable character of persons 
 who crowd so closely about an ori 
 ginal thinker as to draw in his unut- 
 tered breath and thus become imbued 
 with a false originality. This trite 
 ness of novelty is enough to make any 
 man of common sense blaspheme at 
 all ideas of less than a century's stand- 
 83 
 
The Old Cl 
 
 ing, and pray that the world may be 
 petrified and rendered immovable in 
 precisely the worst moral and phy 
 sical state that it ever yet arrived 
 at, rather than be benefited 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 with 
 in 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 betray 
 ing anything too sacredly individual 
 84 
 
The 
 
 to be revealed by a human spirit to 
 its brother or sister spirit. How nar 
 row 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 exist 
 ence ! 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 pas 
 sages 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 greensward, but just 
 within the cavern's mouth, where the 
 85 
 
The 
 
 common sunshine is free to penetrate, 
 and where every footstep is there 
 fore 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 indi 
 vidual attributes, I veil my face ; nor 
 am I, nor have I ever been, one of 
 those supremely hospitable people 
 who serve up their own hearts, del 
 icately 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 
 fairyland 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 noise 
 less flight, as the breezy sunshine 
 86 
 
The Old^JManse 
 
 chases the cloud shadows across the 
 depths of a still valley. Now came 
 hints, growing more and more dis 
 tinct, that the owner of the old house 
 was pining for his native air. Car 
 penters next appeared, making a tre 
 mendous racket among the outbuild 
 ings, strewing the green grass with 
 pine shavings and chips of chestnut 
 joists, and vexing the whole anti 
 quity of the place with their discord 
 ant 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 cleared un 
 sparingly away; and there were hor 
 rible whispers about brushing up the 
 external walls with a coat of paint 
 a purpose as little to my taste 
 87 
 
The Old Cla 
 
 as might be that of rouging the ven 
 erable 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 fare 
 well cup of tea in our pleasant little 
 breakfast room, delicately fragrant 
 tea, an unpurchasable luxury, one of 
 the many angel gifts that had fallen 
 like dew upon us, and passed forth 
 between the tall stone gateposts 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 news 
 papers announce while I am writing, 
 from the Old Manse into a custom 
 88 
 
The Old Clause 
 
 house. As a story teller, I have often 
 contrived strange vicissitudes for my 
 imaginary personages, but none like 
 this. 
 
 FINIS 
 
 89 
 
Five hundred and thirty copies 
 printed at the Riverside Tress for 
 Hougbton, <*JMifflin and Company 
 Boston and < ]^ew York <^\4dcccciv 
 
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