After all, Salem never really knew Hawthorne. Though the town was his birthplace, he had little liking for it, and was seldom there. During the four years of his incumbency of the Custom House, he kept aloof from the townspeople, most of whom had no knowledge whatever of his literary efforts. When the fame of “The Scarlet Letter” had made Hawthorne’s name a familiar one throughout America and England, the author was no longer a resident of Salem, for immediately after the publication of his first and most famous novel, he was glad to seek relief from the gloomy memories of Mall Street in the fresh mountain air of the Berkshires.
Hawthorne, though apparently glad to escape, still allowed his thought to dwell in Salem, for in the same year of the completion of “The Scarlet Letter” and his removal to Lenox, Massachusetts, he began “The House of the Seven Gables.” The identity of this house has long beena matter of curiosity. Three old Salem houses, two of which have since disappeared, have been pointed out as originals, the authenticity of all of which has been denied by George Parsons Lathrop, Hawthorne’s son-in-law, who maintains that the author’s statement, that he built his house only of “materials long in use for constructing castles in the air,” must be taken literally.
It must not be supposed that an author need ever describe such a building in detail or provide for its future identification. He may do as Scott often did, put the details of three or four houses into one structure, taking his material, not “out of the air,” but from recollections of many places he has seen. It does not detract from the supposed “original” to find that the author has made material, even radical, departures from the original plan. The real point of interest is to know whether the old landmark suggested anything to the author, and if so, how much.
To those who follow this line of reasoning, an old house at the foot of Turner Street, now commonly known as “The House of the Seven Gables,” has many points of interest. It is a weather-stained old building dating back to 1669, and contains so many gables that you are reasonably content to accept seven as the number, though I believe it has eight, not counting the one over the rear porch, recently added.
The identification of this house as the onewhich, more than any other, suggested to Hawthorne the idea of a house of seven gables, rests upon two facts. The first is that in 1782 it came into the possession of Captain Samuel Ingersoll, whose wife was a niece of Hawthorne’s grandfather. It passed, later, to their only surviving daughter, Susannah. Her portrait, which now hangs in the parlor of the old house, shows that, as a young woman, she was not unattractive. An unfortunate love affair caused her to withdraw from society and to live a life of solitude in the old house, from which all male visitors were rigidly excluded. An exception seems to have been made in favor of her cousin Nathaniel Hawthorne, who, it is said, was a frequent visitor and listened with interest to the legends of the house as told by his elder cousin.
The second fact of identification rests upon more recent evidence. The building was purchased in 1908 by a generous resident of Salem and turned into a settlement house. This lady, who possesses the highest antiquarian instincts, determined to restore the house to its original form. In doing so she discovered traces of four gables which had been removed. These, with three that remained, made the desired seven, but, unfortunately, about the same time an old plan was unearthed which proved that the house at one time must have had eight gables! So the house has been restored to its full quota of eight.When Hawthorne was calling there it had only three gables, and his elderly kinswoman must have told traditions of the time when it had seven or eight, as the case may be. And so the question of gables becomes as bewildering as Tom Sawyer’s aunt’s spoons.
Aside from this not very profitable speculation, the house is an interesting survival of the time when Salem was a seaport town of some importance. A secret staircase has been reconstructed according to the recollections of the man who took it down a quarter of a century ago. It opens by a secret spring in a panel of the wall in the third-story front room, now known as “Clifford’s chamber,” and ascends through a false fireplace in the dining-room. It will be remembered how Clifford mysteriously disappeared from his room, and as mysteriously reappeared in the parlor where Judge Pyncheon sat in the easy-chair, dead. Perhaps he came down this secret stairway, though Hawthorne forgot to mention it.
A little shop, where real gingerbread “Jim Crows” are sold, makes the present “House of the Seven Gables” seem real, so that when the bell tinkles as you open the door, you would not be at all surprised if Hepzibah Pyncheon herself should appear, entering from the quaint little New England kitchen on the right. A sunny chamber upstairs now called “Phœbe’s room,” and a pleasant little garden in the rear, stillfurther heighten the illusion and make one feel that if this is not the real “House of the Seven Gables,” it certainly ought to be.
The conditions under which “The House of the Seven Gables” was written were quite the reverse of those which brought forth “The Scarlet Letter.” Instead of obscurity, ill health, and financial difficulties, the author was now in the full flush of his fame, reveling in the friendship of the most distinguished men of letters, enjoying the best of health himself, and happy in the consciousness that his dear wife was also well, and living amid the most delightful surroundings, free from care and taking no anxious thought for the morrow.
The people of Salem are now preparing to make ample amends for any neglect of Hawthorne in the past. A committee of prominent citizens has been at work for several years upon a plan to erect a handsome statue upon the Common, the design for which has been made by a well-known artist, and a portion of the funds collected. With this monument before them, we may reasonably hope that future generations will be able to forgive the frankness which irritated their ancestors, though it was kindly meant, and eventually open their hearts to adopt Hawthorne as their very own, just as Stratford does Shakespeare, acknowledging the full extent of their obligation for the luster which his brilliant genius has shed upon their town.
IIIPORTSMOUTH
IfThomas Bailey Aldrich were living to-day and could enter the front door of his grandfather’s house in Court Street, Portsmouth, New Hampshire, he would be likely to have a strange feeling of suddenly renewed youth, for his eyes would rest upon the same rooms and many of the same furnishings as those which greeted him in 1849, when he returned to the old house, a lad of twelve, to enter upon those happy boyish experiences so pleasantly related in “The Story of a Bad Boy.” And then, as he passed from room to room and gazed once more upon the old familiar sights, he would experience a deeper and richer joy—a sense of pride, mingled with love and gratitude, for this unique and splendid tribute to his memory, from his faithful wife and many loyal friends.
In the summer of 1907, following the death of Mr. Aldrich, which occurred in the spring of that year, it was suggested in a local newspaper of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, that the old Bailey house, where “Tom Bailey” lived with his “Grandfather Nutter,” should be purchased by the town and refurnished as a permanent memorial to its distinguished son. The response was instant and hearty. The Thomas Bailey AldrichMemorial Association was at once formed, and a fund of ten thousand dollars was raised by popular subscriptions, in sums varying from one dollar to one thousand dollars. The house, which had fallen into alien hands and had not been kept in good repair, was purchased and restored to its original condition, and the heirs gladly gave back all that had been taken away at the death of Grandfather Bailey. On June 30, 1908, the restored house was formally dedicated by a distinguished representation of Aldrich’s friends, including Richard Watson Gilder, William Dean Howells, Hamilton Wright Mabie, Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Thomas Nelson Page, Samuel L. Clemens, and many others whose names are well known.
The “Nutter” house, or the “Aldrich Memorial” as it is officially known, impresses one with a sense of perfect satisfaction. I have seen memorials that are barn-like in their emptiness, so difficult has it been to secure a sufficient number of relics to furnish the rooms; others impress me like shops for the sale of souvenirs; others have the cold, touch-me-not aspect of a museum; and some are overloaded with busts, pictures, and inscriptions intended to convey an impression of the greatness of the former occupant. The Nutter house, on the contrary, looks as though Tom and his grandfather had gone off to the village an hour before, and Aunt Abigailand Kitty Collins, after “tidying” the rooms to perfection, had slipped away to gossip with the neighbors. The visitor has a feeling that real people are living there and is surprised to learn that at a certain hour each day the attendants go away and lock it up for the night.
Mrs. Aldrich told us that when her husband took her there for the first time, as his bride, the old house made such a strong impression upon her mind that when she came to restore the place, many years afterward, she remembered distinctly where every piece of furniture used to stand. The perfection of her work is seen in the hundreds of little touches—the shawl thrown carelessly over the back of a chair, the fan lying on the sofa, the books on the center table, the music on the old-fashioned square piano, grandfather’s Bible and spectacles on his bedroom table, the embroidered coverlet in the “blue-chintz room,” the netting over Aunt Abigail’s bed, the clothing in the closets, and even the night-clothes carefully laid out on each corpulent feather bed. I fancy the most loving touches of all were given to the little hall bedroom where Tom Bailey slept. There is the little window out of which Tom swung himself, with the aid of Kitty Collins’s clothes-line, at the awful hour of eleven o’clock, and tumbled into a big rosebush, on the night before “the Fourth.” The “pretty chintz curtain” may not be the one Tom knew, but it isvery like it; and there is a very good imitation of the original wall-paper, on which Tom counted two hundred and sixty-eight birds, each individual one of which he admired, although no such bird ever existed. He knew the exact number because he once counted them when laid up with a black eye and dreamed that the whole flock flew out of the window. The little bed has “a patch quilt of more colors than were in Joseph’s coat,” and across it lies a clean white waistcoat waiting for Tom to put it on, as though to-morrow would be Sunday. Above the head of the bed are the two oak shelves, holding the very books that Tom loved. In front of the window is the “high-backed chair studded with brass nails like a coffin,” and on the right “a chest of carved mahogany drawers” and “a looking-glass in a filigreed frame.” A little swallow-tailed coat, once worn by Tom, hangs over the back of a chair, ready to be worn again. Surely Tom Bailey is expected home to-night!
Even the garret is ready in case to-morrow should be stormy. “Here meet together, as if by some preconcerted arrangement, all the broken-down chairs of the household, all the spavined tables, all the seedy hats, all the intoxicated-looking boots, all the split walking-sticks that have retired from business, weary with the march of life.” One slight liberty has been taken, in placing “The Rivermouth Theater” in one cornerof the attic, next to Kitty Collins’s room, but this may be forgiven in view of the fact that the barn, where the “Theater” really was, has disappeared.
In our anxiety to see Tom’s room and the attic, we have rushed upstairs somewhat too rapidly. Let us now go down and inspect the other rooms with more leisure.
In the front of the house, on the second floor, and at the left of the tiny bedroom which Tom occupied, is Grandfather Nutter’s room. It was too near for Tom’s convenience, and that is why the young gentleman lowered himself from the window by a rope—at least, that was the reason he doubtless argued to himself in favor of the more romantic mode of exit, although as a matter of fact grandfather was a sound sleeper and Tom might have walked boldly downstairs without awakening him. Still he would have had to pass the door of Aunt Abigail’s room at the head of the stairs, and if the old lady had suddenly appeared, Tom could scarcely have escaped a dose of “hot drops,” which his aunt considered a certain cure for any known ailment, from a black eye to a broken arm. Aunt Abigail, it will be remembered, was the maiden sister of Captain Nutter, who “swooped down on him,” at the funeral of the captain’s wife, “with a bandbox in one hand and a faded blue cotton umbrella in the other.” Though apparently intending to stayonly a few days, she decided that her presence was indispensable to the captain, and whether he wished it or not she kept on staying for seventeen years, and might have stayed longer had not death released her from the self-imposed duty.
On the right of Tom’s room is “the blue-chintz room, into which a ray of sun was never allowed to penetrate.” But it was “thrown open and dusted, and its mouldy air made sweet with a bouquet of pot-roses” on the occasion of Nelly Glentworth’s visit, and a very delightful room Nelly must have found it, if it looked as well then as it does now, under the skillful direction of Mrs. Aldrich.
Across the hall from Aunt Abigail’s room is the guest chamber. An old-fashioned rocking-chair by the window, with a Bible and candle conveniently placed on a stand close by, offer the visitor every opportunity to get himself into a proper frame of mind before taking a plunge into the depths of the snow-white mountain of feathers, hospitably piled up to an enormous height for his comfort.
Descending now to the main floor (for we are inspecting this house exactly contrary to the usual order), we step into the large corner room at our left. Here visions arise of Tom sitting disconsolately on the haircloth sofa, in the evening, driven to distraction by the monotonous click-click ofAunt Abigail’s knitting-needles, but sometimes happily diverted by the spectacle of grandfather going to sleep over his newspaper and setting fire to it with the small block-tin lamp which he held in his hand.
Across the hall is the parlor, which was seldom open except on Sundays, and was “pervaded by a strong smell of center table.” Here again we fancy Tom sitting in one corner, “crushed.” All his favorite books are banished to the sitting-room closet until Monday morning. There is nothing to do and nothing to read except Baxter’s “Saint’s Rest.” “Genial converse, harmless books, smiles, lightsome hearts, all are banished.” It was no fault of the room, however, that Tom felt doleful, for there is a fine, wide, open fireplace with big brass andirons from which a wonderful amount of cheer might have been extracted, while a piano in one corner and some shelves of books in another were capable of providing boundless entertainment, had the room been accessible on any other day than Sunday.
Passing down through the hall we enter a door on the left, into the dining-room. Do you remember how Captain Nutter tormented poor Tom at the breakfast table, on the morning of the Fourth of July, by reading from the Rivermouth “Barnacle” an account of the burning of the stage-coach the night before? “Miscreants unknown,” read the grandfather, while Tom’s hair stoodon end. “Five dollars reward offered for the apprehension of the perpetrators. Sho! I hope Wingate will catch them,” continued the old gentleman, while Tom nearly ceased to breathe. And the sly old fox knew all about it and had already settled Tom’s share of the damages!
We now cross the hall into the kitchen, which we ought to have visited first, as everybody else does. A more delightful New England kitchen could scarcely be imagined. This was the only place where Sailor Ben felt at home—and no wonder, for how could any room have a more inviting fireplace? Here Tom sought refuge when oppressed by the atmosphere of the sitting-room and found relief in Kitty Collins’s funny Irish stories. And here Sailor Ben gathered the whole family around the table while he spun his yarn “all about a man as has made a fool of hisself.”
This is the delightful fact about the Nutter house of to-day—every room brings back memories of Tom Bailey, Grandfather Nutter, Aunt Abigail, Kitty Collins, and Sailor Ben. The furnishings are so perfect that we should not have been surprised if any one of these old friends had suddenly confronted us. Our minds were concentrated upon their personalities and upon “The Story of a Bad Boy.” The illusion is so complete that we scarcely gave a thought to the author of the tale until we entered the Memorial buildingat the rear. Suddenly Tom Bailey vanished and with him all the other ghosts of the old house. We stood in the presence of Thomas Bailey Aldrich, the poet, the writer of a multitude of delightful tales, and the man of genial personality. Here, in a single large room, are brought together the priceless autographs, manuscripts, first editions, and pictures which Aldrich had found pleasure in collecting. Here is the little table on which he wrote “The Story of a Bad Boy,” and there are cases containing countless presents, trophies, and expressions of regard from his friends. The walls are hung with manuscripts, framed in connection with portraits of their distinguished writers, as Aldrich loved to have them. At the end of the room is a handsome oil painting of Aldrich himself. Everything tends to suggest the exquisite taste of the man, his genial nature, his varied attainments, and the extent of his wide circle of distinguished friends. Above all, the room speaks in eloquent terms of the affectionate loyalty to his memory that has led his family to bring together the material for a memorial unsurpassed in variety of interest and tasteful arrangement of details.
Even the garden in the rear of the house is made to sing its song in memory of Aldrich, for here are growing all the flowers mentioned in his poetry, blending their perfumes and uniting harmoniously their richness of color in onegraceful tribute to the beauty and delicacy of his verse.
After living over again the scenes of “The Story of a Bad Boy,” in so far as they were suggested by the Nutter house, it was only natural that we should wish to stroll about the “Old Town by the Sea” in the hope of identifying some of the out-of-door scenes of “young Bailey’s” exploits. The first house on the right, as we walked toward the river, is the William Pitt Tavern. In the early days of the Revolution it was an aristocratic hotel, much frequented by the Tories, and kept by a certain astute landlord named John Stavers. He had formerly kept a tavern on State Street, known as the “Earl of Halifax,” and when it became necessary to move to the newer house in Court Street, he carried sign and all with him. But the patriots, whose resort was the old Bell Tavern, kept a jealous eye on the Earl of Halifax, and in 1777 attacked it, seriously damaging the building. Master Stavers, being at heart neither Tory nor patriot, but primarily an innkeeper, promptly changed both his politics and his sign. The latter became “William Pitt,” in honor of the colonists’ English friend and supporter, and the thrifty landlord began to entertain the leaders of the Revolution at his house. John Hancock, Elbridge Gerry, and Edward Rutledge decorated with their autographs the pages of his register as well as theDeclaration of Independence. General Knox was a frequent visitor and Lafayette came there in 1882. Moreover, the old tavern has had the honor of entertaining the last of the French kings, Louis Philippe, who came there with his two brothers during the French Revolution, and the first American President, who was a guest in 1789.
All this glory had long since departed in Aldrich’s day, and his chief interest in the old tavern lay in the fact that he could climb up the dingy stairs to the top floor and listen for hours to the stories of the olden times, as told by Dame Jocelyn, with whom, as she asserted, Washington had flirted just a little, though in a “stately and highly finished manner”!
Continuing down the street, we found the empty old warehouses and rotting wharves among which Aldrich spent so many hours of his boyhood, and we took a picture of one old crumbling dock, which we felt sure must have been very like the one upon which the boys of the Rivermouth Centipedes fired a broadside from “Bailey’s Battery.” The old abandoned guns, twelve in all, were cleaned out, loaded, provided with fuses, and set off mysteriously at midnight, much to the astonishment of the Rivermouthians, who thought the town was being bombarded or that the end of the world had come. The old wharf possessed a singular fascination for me because I still recall how vividly the incident impressedme in my boyhood and how fervently I envied Tom Bailey his unusual opportunities. Nor did it mar my enjoyment in the least to learn that the wharf I was looking at was not the right place, the real one, where the guns were stored, having been removed some time ago. It was near the Point of Graves, the spot where the boys went in bathing and where Binny Wallace’s body was washed ashore after the ill-fated cruise of the Dolphin. The real Binny, by the way, was not drowned at all. The author, here, deviated from the facts to make his story more dramatic.
Point of Graves takes its name from the old burying-ground, occupying a triangular space near the river’s edge. It has quaint old tombstones dating back as far as 1682, with curious epitaphs, skulls, and cherubs carved upon them. Here is the place where Tom Bailey, disappointed in love and determined to become “a blighted being,” used to lie in the long grass, speculating on “the advantages and disadvantages of being a cherub”—the disadvantages being that the cherub, having only a head and wings, could not sit down when he was tired and could not possess trousers pockets!
A stroll through this part of the town, which in olden times was the center of its trade and commerce, is like walking through some of the old English villages. Every house, nearly, has its history, and I fancy the streets have not greatlychanged their appearance since the days of Aldrich’s boyhood.
On the corner of Fleet and State Streets we came to an old house, which has an interesting connection with our story. A part of it was occupied as a candy store for nearly sixty years. On the Fourth of July, after Tom had treated the boys to root-beer, a single glass of which “insured an uninterrupted pain for twenty-four hours,” they came here for ice-cream. It is said that one of the ringleaders subsequently celebrated every third of July, until his death, by eating ice-cream in the same room. The story was based upon an incident that really happened in 1847, in which, of course, Aldrich could have had no part, as he was not then living in Portsmouth. I am inclined to doubt whether the real event was half so delightful as the tale which Aldrich tells, of the twelve sixpenny ice-creams, “strawberry and verneller mixed,” and how poor Tom was left to pay for the whole crowd, who slipped out of the window while he was in another room ordering more cream!
No doubt we might have coupled many other places in Portsmouth with “The Story of a Bad Boy”—for it is a very real story, though not to be taken literally in every detail. It is interesting to think of the town, also, as the scene of “Prudence Palfrey.” The old Bell Tavern, where Mr. Dillingham boarded, ceased to exist as a publichouse in 1852 and was destroyed by fire fifteen years later. It is pleasant also to follow Aldrich in a walk through the streets, with a copy of “An Old Town by the Sea” for a guide, and note all the fine old houses he so charmingly describes.
But we must not devote our entire time to Aldrich, for an older poet has a slight claim to our attention. The opening scene of Longfellow’s “Lady Wentworth,” in the “Tales of a Wayside Inn,” is laid in State Street.
“One hundred years ago and something more,In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door,”—
“One hundred years ago and something more,
In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door,”—
is the way the poem opens. Queen Street was the old name for State Street, and the tavern was the old Earl of Halifax before Master Stavers carried the sign over to the new house in Court Street. It has long since disappeared. It was before this house that the barefooted and ragged little beauty, Martha Hilton, was rebuked by Dame Stavers for appearing on the street half-dressed and looking so shabby, to which she quickly replied:—
“No matter how I look: I yet shall rideIn my own chariot, ma’am.”
“No matter how I look: I yet shall ride
In my own chariot, ma’am.”
The house to which she did drive in her own chariot, many a time in later days, as the wife of Governor Wentworth, is one of the most pleasantly situated of all the houses in Portsmouth.It is at Little Harbor, on one of the many peninsulas that jut out into the Piscataqua, below the town, and commands a fine view of the beautiful river and its many islands. The house is a large wooden building containing forty-five rooms, though originally it had fifty-two. Architecturally it is unattractive, external beauty of design having been sacrificed to utility.
“Within, unwonted splendors met the eye,Panels and floors of oak, and tapestry;Carved chimney pieces, where on brazen dogsReveled and roared the Christmas fires of logs.”
“Within, unwonted splendors met the eye,
Panels and floors of oak, and tapestry;
Carved chimney pieces, where on brazen dogs
Reveled and roared the Christmas fires of logs.”
The historic building, with its great Chamber where the Governor and his Council met for their deliberations, still remains in almost its original state.
One could spend many days in Portsmouth investigating its connection with the history of the country, from the early explorations in 1603 of Martin Pring and the visit in 1614 of Captain John Smith, down through the settlements of David Thomson and Captain John Mason, the Indian wars and massacres, the incidents of the Revolution, and the rise and fall of the town’s commerce, and find plenty of old landmarks to give zest to the pursuit. But our search, at present, is for literary landmarks. We, therefore, take passage on the little steamer that plies to and from the Isles of Shoals for a pilgrimage to the Island Garden of Celia Thaxter.
IVTHE ISLES OF SHOALS
Itis a pleasant sail down the Piscataqua, past the old “slumberous” wharves, where “the sunshine seems to lie a foot deep in the planks”; past the long bridges; the numerous clusters of islands; the white sails of the yacht club, hovering like gulls about the huge battleships, moored to the docks of the navy yard; the ruins of Fort Constitution, formerly Fort William and Mary, famed in history, but more interesting to us as the place where Prudence Palfrey came near surrendering her heart to the infamous Dillingham; the ancient town of Newcastle with its old-fashioned dwellings mingling with pretty new summer cottages, the whole dominated by the white walls of a huge hotel; Kittery Point, birthplace of Sir William Pepperell, the famous Governor and Indian fighter: and at last, the broad Atlantic, stretching to the eastward with nothing to obstruct the view save a few tiny specks, dimly visible in the distance. These are the Isles of Shoals, looking so small that they seem to be only rocks jutting a few feet above the sea, upon which it would be impossible to land.
As we approach Appledore, the islands still seem to be only a cluster of barren rocks, with a few scattered buildings. The charm which they undoubtedlyexert upon those who come year after year does not immediately manifest itself to the stranger. He must spend a night there, breathing the pure sea air, watching in the early evening the glistening lights on the far-off shore, and finally falling asleep to dream that he is in mid-ocean, on one of the steadiest of steamers, enjoying the luxury of absolute rest, for which there is no better prescription than an ocean voyage. In the morning, he must walk around the island—it can be done in an hour or two—threading the narrow paths through the huckleberry bushes and picking his way over the high rocks that present their front to the full force of the waves, on the side of Appledore that faces the sea. Here he will see artists spreading their easels and canvases for a day’s work and less busy people settling down in various shady nooks, to read, to chat, to knit, to dream.
To get the real spirit of the islands it is advisable to find one of these quiet nooks and read Celia Thaxter’s “Among the Isles of Shoals,” a book of sketches for which the author needlessly apologizes, but of which Mrs. Annie Fields says, “She portrays, in a prose which for beauty and wealth of diction has few rivals, the unfolding of sky and sea and solitude and untrammeled freedom, such as have been almost unknown to civilized humanity in any age of the world.” Celia Thaxter is herself the Spirit of the Isles ofShoals, and if we are to know and love them, we must take her as our guide. She will be found an efficient one and there is no other.
With this purpose in mind, we began our tour of the islands, book in hand, stopping first at the cottage of Mrs. Thaxter. One room is maintained somewhat as she left it, with every square foot of wall space covered by her pictures. But the flower-garden is sadly neglected. Only the vines that still clamber over the porch, and a few hollyhocks that stubbornly refuse to die, remain to suggest the dooryard where the garden flowers used to “fairly run mad with color.” The salt air and some peculiar richness of the soil seem to impart unusual brilliancy to the blossoms and strength to the roots of all kinds of flowers, whether wild or cultivated. Celia Thaxter was one of those people for whom flowers will grow. They responded with blushing enthusiasm to the constant manifestations of her love and tender care. Flowers have a great deal of humanity about them after all. They refuse to display their real luxuriance for cold, careless, or indifferent people, just as babies and dogs know how to distinguish between those who love them and those who love only themselves.
“More dear to me than words can tellWas every cup and spray and leaf;Too perfect for a life so briefSeemed every star and bud and bell.”
“More dear to me than words can tell
Was every cup and spray and leaf;
Too perfect for a life so brief
Seemed every star and bud and bell.”
Celia Thaxter loved her flowers with a devotion born of the hours of solitude when they were her sole companions. “The little spot of earth on which they grow is like a mass of jewels. Who shall describe the pansies, richly streaked with burning gold; the dark velvet coreopsis and the nasturtiums; the larkspurs, blue and brilliant as lapis-lazuli; the ‘ardent marigolds’ that flame like mimic suns? The sweet peas are of a deep, bright rose-color, and their odor is like rich wine, too sweet almost to be borne, except when the pure fragrance of mignonette is added,—such mignonette as never grows on shore. Why should the poppies blaze in such imperial scarlet? What quality is hidden in this thin soil, which so transfigures all the familiar flowers with fresh beauty?”
Unfortunately, the mysterious quality hidden in the soil, assisted by the warm sunshine and the salt air, with all their powers could not maintain the island garden after the loving hands of its owner were withdrawn, and the little inclosure is now a mass of weeds.
Celia Laighton was brought to the Isles of Shoals as a child of five, and lived with her parents in a little cottage on White Island where her father was the keeper of the lighthouse. She grew to womanhood in the companionship of the rocks, the spray of the ocean, the seaweeds, the shells and the miniature wild life she discovered among them, the tiny wild flowers which hersharp young eyes could find in the most secret crannies, and the marigolds, “rich in color as barbaric gold,” which she early learned to cultivate in “a scrap of garden literally not more than a yard square.” She shouted a friendly greeting to the noisy gulls and kittiwakes that fluttered overhead, chased the sandpipers along the gravelly beach, made friends and neighbors of the crabs, the sea-spiders and land-spiders, the sea-urchins, the grasshoppers and crickets, and set in motion armies of sandhoppers, that jumped away like tiny kangaroos when she lifted the stranded seaweed. And then the birds came to see her. The swallows gathered fearlessly upon the window-sills and built their nests in the eaves, seeming to know that the loving eyes watching their movements could mean no evil. Now and then a bobolink, an oriole, or a scarlet tanager would be seen. The song sparrows came in flocks to be fed every morning. With them, at times, came robins and blackbirds, and occasionally yellowbirds and kingbirds. Sometimes, in hazy weather, they would fly against the glass of the lighthouse with fatal results. “Many a May morning,” says Mrs. Thaxter, “have I wandered about the rock at the foot of the tower mourning over a little apron brimful of sparrows, swallows, thrushes, robins, fire-winged blackbirds, many-colored yellowbirds, nuthatches, catbirds, even the purple finch and scarlet tanager and golden oriole, andmany more beside—enough to break the heart of a small child to think of.”
It is no wonder that such a sympathetic soul could even summon the birds to keep her company—as she frequently did with the loons. “I learned to imitate their different cries; they are wonderful! At one time the loon language was so familiar that I could almost always summon a considerable flock by going down to the water and assuming the neighborly and conversational tone which they generally use: after calling a few minutes, first a far-off voice responded, then other voices answered him, and when this was kept up a while, half a dozen birds would come sailing in. It was the most delightful little party imaginable; so comical were they that it was impossible not to laugh aloud.”
To her love of birds and flowers, Mrs. Thaxter added a love of the sea itself, finding delight equally in the sparkle of the calm waves of summer or the wild beating of the surf in winter. She developed a marvelous ear for the music of the sea—something akin to that which enables John Burroughs to name a bird correctly from its notes, even when the songster is trying to imitate the call of another bird as the little impostors sometimes do. She says: “Who shall describe that wonderful voice of the sea among the rocks, to me the most suggestive of all the sounds in nature? Each island, every isolatedrock, has its own peculiar note, and ears made delicate by listening, in great and frequent peril, can distinguish the bearings of each in a dense fog.”
Equally well did she know humanity. The daily life of the fishermen, the kind and quantity of the fish they caught, the adventures they experienced, the stories they told, the hardships they endured, the little domestic tragedies that now and then took place in their humble cottages, the sufferings from illness or accident, were all matters of everyday knowledge to her and enlisted her profound sympathy.
Everything in nature appealed to her—the sea and sky, the sunrise and the sunset, the winds and storms, the birds and flowers, the butterflies and insects, the sea-shells and kelp, the fishes and all the lower forms of life—all were objects of careful observation in which she took delight; and to these must be added a deep interest in humanity, particularly of the kind which she met in fishermen’s cottages, where her good common sense and knowledge of simple remedies enabled her to render, again and again, a service in time of need when no other assistance could be obtained.
Such was the unique character whose spirit dominates the islands even to-day,—a lover of nature worthy to stand with Gilbert White, Thoreau, or Burroughs, a poet, an artist, a friendly neighbor, and a womanly woman.
It was a part of our good fortune to have the actual guidance in our tour of the islands of the only surviving brother of Mrs. Thaxter, Mr. Oscar Laighton. In his little motor boat he took us to the tiny island known as Londoners, where for many winters he was the sole inhabitant. Although advancing years have now made it inexpedient for him to live in solitude, the little cottage still remains ready for occupancy at any moment. We stepped inside expecting to see, in so desolate a spot, only such rude furnishings as might be found in some mountain cabin or hunter’s lodge. To our astonishment we found it a veritable little bower, a model of neatness and order, and every room, including the kitchen, filled with well-chosen pictures and books, as though some dainty fairy, of literary tastes, had planned it for her permanent abode. Among the highly prized ornaments were many pieces of china, painted by Mrs. Thaxter. To our minds, the most valuable article in the house—valuable because of the lesson it teaches—is a typewritten card, hanging conspicuously over the kitchen stove, with this cordial greeting to the uninvited guest:—
“Welcome to any one entering this house in shipwreck or trouble. You will find matches in the box on the mantel. The key to the wood-house is in this box. Start a fire in the stove and make yourself comfortable. There are some cans of food on shelf in thepantry. Blankets will be found in the chamber on lower floor. There is a dory ready to launch in the boat-house.”
“Welcome to any one entering this house in shipwreck or trouble. You will find matches in the box on the mantel. The key to the wood-house is in this box. Start a fire in the stove and make yourself comfortable. There are some cans of food on shelf in thepantry. Blankets will be found in the chamber on lower floor. There is a dory ready to launch in the boat-house.”
Three times have shipwrecked men entered the house and taken advantage of this kindly welcome.
Our next visit was to White Island, where, after much difficulty in getting ashore, we climbed to the top of the lighthouse. This is a very different structure from the old wooden building of Celia Thaxter’s childhood and only a small part of the original dwelling remains. But the landing is very much as she describes it. “Two long and very solid timbers about three feet apart are laid from the boat-house to low-water mark, and between those timbers the boat’s bow must be accurately steered.... Safely lodged in the slip, as it is called, she is drawn up into the boat-house by a capstan, and fastened securely.” Our boat was not drawn up, and we had to walk up the steep, slippery planks—with what success I shall not attempt to describe. Here, at night, the little Celia used to sit, with a lantern at her feet, waiting in the darkness, without fear, for the arrival of her father’s boat, knowing that the “little star was watched for, and that the safety of the boat depended in a great measure upon it.”
Haley’s Island, or “Smutty Nose,” as it was long ago dubbed by the sailors because of its longprojecting point of black rocks, lies between Appledore and Star Island. Of the two houses now remaining, one is the original cottage of Samuel Haley, an energetic and useful citizen, who once owned the island. Nearby fourteen rude and neglected graves tell a pathetic tale. The Spanish ship Sagunto was wrecked on Smutty Nose, during a severe snowstorm on a January night. The shipwrecked sailors saw the light in Haley’s cottage and crept toward it, benumbed with cold and overcome with the horror and fatigue of their experience. Two reached the stone wall in front of the house, but were too weak to climb over, and their bodies were discovered the next morning, frozen to the stones. Twelve other bodies were found scattered about the island. How gladly the old man would have given these poor sailors the warmth and comfort of his home could he have known the tragedy that was happening while he slept soundly only a few yards away!
Star Island, once the site of the village of Gosport, was in early days the most important of the group. Before the Revolution a settlement of from three to six hundred people carried on the fisheries of the island, catching yearly three or four thousand quintals of fish. All this business is now a thing of the past. The great shoals of mackerel and herring, from which the islands took their name, have disappeared—driven awayor killed by the steam trawlers. The old families departed long since, and new ones have never come to take their places, save a few lobster fishermen, who with difficulty eke out a bare living. A quaint little church of stone is perched upon the highest rocks of Star Island, but I fear the attendance is small, even in the summer time.
We found our way back to Appledore, content to spend the remaining days of our visit on this the largest and most inviting of the group.
“A common island, you will say;But stay a moment; only climbUp to the highest rock of the isle,Stand there alone for a little while,And with gentle approaches it grows sublime,Dilating slowly as you winA sense from the silence to take it in.”
“A common island, you will say;
But stay a moment; only climb
Up to the highest rock of the isle,
Stand there alone for a little while,
And with gentle approaches it grows sublime,
Dilating slowly as you win
A sense from the silence to take it in.”
Lowell was right. The greatest charm of the islands is felt when you stand on “the highest rock of the isle,” looking out upon the ever sparkling sea that stretches
“Eastward as far as the eye can see—Still Eastward, eastward, endlessly”;
“Eastward as far as the eye can see—
Still Eastward, eastward, endlessly”;
and feeling the restful quietude of the spot. I fancy Celia Thaxter stood upon this rock when she sang—
“O Earth! thy summer song of joy may soarRinging to heaven in triumph. I but craveThe sad, caressing murmur of the waveThat breaks in tender music on the shore.”
“O Earth! thy summer song of joy may soar
Ringing to heaven in triumph. I but crave
The sad, caressing murmur of the wave
That breaks in tender music on the shore.”
VIIIA DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS
VIIIA DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS
“Oh, everybody here calls him Uncle John,” was the quick reply to one of my queries of the man who drove me to the country house of John Burroughs, near Roxbury, New York. He had been saying many pleasant things about the distinguished naturalist, dwelling particularly upon his kind heart and genial nature. I noticed that he never referred to him as “Dr.” Burroughs, nor “Mr.” Burroughs, nor even as “Burroughs,” but always as “John” or “good old John,” or most often, “Uncle John.” So I asked by what name the people called him, and the answer seemed to me the most sincere compliment that could have been paid.
When a man has received many honorary degrees which the great universities have felt proud to confer, it is an indication that those most competent to judge have appreciated his intellectual attainments or public services, or both. When the people of his native village bestow upon him the title of “Uncle,” it is an indication that the achievement of fame has not eclipsed the lovable qualities in his character nor dimmed the affectionate regard of the neighbors who have learnedto know him as a man. There is a certain friendliness implied in the title of “Uncle,” while it also suggests respect. If you live in a small town you call everybody by his first name. But one of your number becomes famous. To call him “John” seems too familiar. It implies that you do not properly appreciate his attainments. To call him “Mister” or “Doctor” seems to make a stranger of him, and you would not for the world admit that he is not still your friend. “Uncle” is often a happy compromise, particularly if he still retains the neighborly qualities of his less distinguished years.
I do not know that the people of Roxbury ever followed this line of reasoning, but it does seem quite appropriate that they should call their most distinguished fellow citizen “Uncle John.” He was born on a farm near this little village in the Catskills on the 3d of April, 1837, in the very time of the return of the birds. Perhaps this is why he is so fond of them and particularly of Robin Redbreast, that fine old-fashioned democrat, who is one of his prime favorites. He spent his boyhood here, and now, in the fullness of his years, quietly returns each summer to the old familiar haunts, living the same simple life as of yore, except that the pen is now his tool instead of the farming implements.
The little red schoolhouse, where Burroughs and Jay Gould went to school together, may stillbe seen in the valley, standing in the open country with one of those rounded hilltops in the background which form the characteristic feature of the Catskills. Near by is the Gould birthplace, now a comfortable-looking farmhouse, glistening with a fresh coat of white paint. “Take away the porch and the back extension, and the top story and the paint,” said my driver, “and you will have the original ‘birthplace.’” He said that when he first began the livery business in Roxbury many people came to see the birthplace of Jay Gould, but no one mentioned Burroughs. Now it is just the other way, and the number of visitors increases yearly, all anxious to see the home of the famous philosopher. Yet these two men, one of whom seems to have belonged to the generations of the past while the other is a part of the ever-living present, were boys together in the same schoolhouse more than sixty years ago.
As my conveyance drew up to the door, Mr. Burroughs came out with a hearty welcome. He was alone, for during the summer, when he retires to this place for work, he prefers to do his own housekeeping in his own way. “I am a good cook,” said he, “but a poor housekeeper.” I did not agree with the latter part of the statement, for as I looked around I thought he had about all he needed and everything was clean. Moreover, things were where he could get at them, andfrom a man’s point of view what better housekeeping could anybody want?
The house which he now occupies is a plain-looking farmhouse, built in 1869 by Mr. Burroughs’s elder brother. Its most distinctive feature is the rustic porch, a recent addition, which serves the purposes of living-room, library, and bedroom. Mr. Burroughs is a believer in fresh air and during the summer likes to sleep out of doors. He has a rustic table, covered with favorite books. When he is not at work, he likes to sit on the porch and enjoy what he calls “the peace of the hills.” Across the road there is a field, broad and long and crossed by numerous stone walls. In the distance are the hills of his well-loved Catskills, their smoothly undulating lines giving a sense of repose. At the right of the house I noticed a small patch of green corn, in front of which were some rambling cucumber vines. In the rear and at the left were a few old apple trees, and farther back, capping the summit of a ridge, a fine grove of trees, standing in orderly array, like an army ready for action. Mr. Burroughs has named the place, in characteristic fashion, “Woodchuck Lodge,” “because,” he said, “I can sit here and count the woodchucks, sometimes eight or ten at a time.”
Not wishing to interfere with his plans, I expressed the hope that I was not interrupting him, when he quickly replied, “O, my work forto-day is all done. I rise at six and usually do all my writing before noon.” “You are like Sir Walter Scott, then,” said I, “who always began early and, as he said, ‘broke the neck of the day’s work’ before the family came down to breakfast and was ‘his own man before noon.’” “Ah, he was a wonderful man,” replied Mr. Burroughs. Then, after a pause and with a little sigh—“I wish I could invest these hills with romance as he did the hills of Scotland.” “But youhaveinvested them with romance,” I said, “although of a different kind.” “Yes,” he replied, with brightening eyes, “with the romance of humanity and of nature, the only kind to which they are entitled.”
I could not help thinking how wonderfully like Wordsworth this seemed. The romance of humanity and nature! Is it not this, which, since Wordsworth’s time, has given a new charm to the hills and valleys of Westmoreland and Cumberland, causing every visitor to seek the dwelling-places of the poet? And are not those who spend their summers in the Catskills finding a new delight in those beautiful mountains because of the spell which John Burroughs has thrown upon them?
Wordsworth wrote the history of his own mind and called it “The Prelude,” intending it to be but the introduction to a greater poem to be entitled “The Recluse,” which should be a broadpresentation of his views on Man, Nature, and Society. “The Excursion” was to be the second part, but the third was never written. He conceived that this great work would be like a Gothic church, the main body of which would be represented by “The Recluse,” while “The Prelude” would be but the ante-chapel. All his other poems, when properly arranged, would then be “likened to the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses, ordinarily included in those edifices.”
Burroughs is far too modest to compare his writings to a cathedral, but he has nevertheless, like Wordsworth, written himself into nearly all of them. Following the English poet’s simile in a modified form, we may think of the product of his pen, not as a cathedral, but as a mansion of many rooms, each furnished with beautiful simplicity and charming taste to represent some different phase of the author’s mind, and each equipped, so to speak, with a mirror, possessing all the magic but without the unpleasant duty of the one in Hawthorne’s tale, so arranged as to reflect the very soul of its builder with perfect fidelity.
So sincere is Burroughs that you feel certain he is constantly revealing his true self. Therefore, when he praises Wordsworth as the English poet who has touched him more closely than any other, you begin to realize the bond of sympathy. When he says that Wordsworth’s poetry has thecharacter of “a message, special and personal to a comparatively small circle of readers,” you know that he is one of the few who have taken the message to heart.
Wordsworth’s love of Nature was of the same kind as the American poet’s. “Nature,” says Burroughs, “is not to be praised or patronized. You cannot go to her and describe her; she must speak through your heart. The woods and fields must melt into your mind, dissolved by your love for them. Did they not melt into Wordsworth’s mind? They colored all his thoughts; the solitude of those green, rocky Westmoreland fells broods over every page. He does not tell us how beautiful he finds Nature, and how much he enjoys her; he makes us share his enjoyment.” Substitute Burroughs for Wordsworth, and Catskill for Westmoreland, and you have in this passage a fine statement of the reason why John Burroughs is winning the gratitude of more and more people every year.
Wordsworth thought of Nature as an all-pervading Presence, something mysterious and sublime, a supreme Being,—
“The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soulOf all my moral being.”
“The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.”
Burroughs does not rise to such ethereal heights, but recognizes that the passion for Nature is “a form of, or closely related to, ourreligious instincts.” He lives closer to Nature than Wordsworth ever did. His knowledge of her secrets is far deeper and more intimate. He is a naturalist and scientist, as well as a man of poetic temperament. He has a trained eye that sees what others would miss. “There is a great deal of byplay going on in the life of Nature about us,” he says, “a great deal of variation and outcropping of individual traits, that we entirely miss unless we have our eyes and ears open.”
Probably no other man has a keener ear for the music of the birds. He possesses that “special gift of grace,” to use his own expression, that enables one to hear the bird-songs. Not only can he distinguish the various species by their songs, but he instantly recognizes a new note. He once detected a robin, singing with great spirit and accuracy the song of the brown thrasher, and on another occasion followed a thrush for a long time because he recognized three or four notes of a popular air which the bird had probably learned from some whistling shepherd boy. He loves to put words into the mouths of the birds to fit their songs and to fancy conversations between husband and wife upon their nest. The sensitiveness of his ear for bird-music is wonderfully illustrated in his story of a new song which he heard on Slide Mountain in the Catskills. “The moment I heard it, I said, ‘There is a newbird, a new thrush,’ for the quality of all the thrush songs is the same. A moment more and I knew it was Bicknell’s thrush. The song is in a minor key, finer, more attenuated, and more under the breath than that of any other thrush. It seemed as if the bird was blowing into a delicate, slender, golden tube, so fine and yet so flute-like and resonant the song appeared. At times it was like a musical whisper of great sweetness and power.” I do not believe that Wordsworth or any other poet, however passionate his love of Nature, ever heard such a bird-song or could describe its qualities with so keen a discernment.
Mr. Burroughs made me think of Wordsworth again when, as we sat looking over toward the Catskills, he explained his residence at Woodchuck Lodge by referring to his enjoyment of the open country and the peace and quiet of the scene. For, says Wordsworth,—
“What want we? Have we not perpetual streams,Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh green fieldsAnd mountains not less green, and flocks and herdsAnd thickets full of songsters, and the voiceOf lordly birds, an unexpected soundHeard now and then from morn to latest eve,Admonishing the man who walks belowOf solitude and silence in the sky?”
“What want we? Have we not perpetual streams,
Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh green fields
And mountains not less green, and flocks and herds
And thickets full of songsters, and the voice
Of lordly birds, an unexpected sound
Heard now and then from morn to latest eve,
Admonishing the man who walks below
Of solitude and silence in the sky?”
After an hour of pleasant conversation my host arose, saying he would build his fire and we would have our dinner. In due course we satdown to a repast that would have gladdened the heart of General Grant himself. The old veteran, as many will remember, after his return from a tour of triumph around the world, in which he had been banqueted by kings and emperors, dukes, millionaires, and public societies, once slipped into a farmer’s kitchen for a dinner of corned beef and cabbage, declaring that he was glad to get something good to eat. Our meal did not consist of corned beef and cabbage, but of corn cakes, made of fresh green corn plucked not a couple of yards from the kitchen door and baked on a griddle by one of the foremost literary men of America. There were other good things, plenty of them, but those delicious cakes with maple syrup of the genuine kind exactly “touched the spot,” as old-fashioned folks used to say. Mine host must have noticed the unusual demands upon his crop of corn and marveled to see the rapid disappearance of the cakes, but he did not seem displeased. On the contrary, as he brought in, time after time, a fresh pile of the steaming flapjacks, his face beamed with the smile that betokens genuine hospitality. Our conversation at table was mostly on politics, in which Mr. Burroughs takes keen interest and upon which he is a man of decided convictions; but this is a subject which he must be allowed to elucidate in his own way.
After dinner, Mr. Burroughs laughingly remarkedthat his study was the barn, and we walked up the road to visit it. “I cannot bear to be cramped by the four walls of a room,” said he, “so I have moved out to the barn. I enjoy it greatly. The birds and the small animals come to see me every day and often sit and talk with me. The woodchucks and chipmunks, the blue jays and the hawks, all look in at me while I am at work. A red squirrel often squats on the stone wall and scolds me, and the other day an old gray rabbit came. He sat there twisting his nose like this” (here Mr. Burroughs twisted his own nose in comical fashion), “and seemed to be saying saying—
‘By the pricking of my thumbsSomething wicked this way comes.’”
‘By the pricking of my thumbs
Something wicked this way comes.’”
Arrived at the barn, Mr. Burroughs seated himself at his “desk.” With twinkling eyes he explained that it was an old hen-coop. The inside was stuffed with hay to keep his feet warm, and if the weather happens to be chilly, he wears a blanket over his shoulders. A market-basket contains his manuscript and a few books complete the equipment. The desk is just inside the wide-open doors of the barn, and he sits with his face to the light. “There is a broad outlook from a barn door,” said he, smilingly.
Beyond the low stone wall, where his animal friends seat themselves for the daily conversations, is an apple orchard, and in the distance arethe rounded summits of the Catskills—a view as peaceful and refreshing as the one from the house. Here Mr. Burroughs is never lonely. One day a junco, or slate-colored snowbird, came on a tour of inspection. She decided to build her nest in the hay. She scorned all the materials so close at hand and brought everything from outside. Her instinct had taught her to find certain materials for a nest, and she could not suddenly learn to make use of the convenient hay. Mr. Burroughs, in speaking of this, told me of a phœbe who built her nest over the window of his house. She brought moss to conceal it, but as the moss did not match the color of the house, she succeeded only in making her nest more conspicuous. Since the evolution of the species, phœbes have built their nests on the sides of cliffs, using moss of the color of the rocks to conceal them. The little bird who, like the junco, followed her instincts, failed to note the difference between the house and the rocks.
In conversation of this kind, Mr. Burroughs turned the hours into minutes, and I was surprised to look up and see the team approaching which was to carry me away. After a reluctant farewell, we drove over the brow of a hill and stopped for a few moments before the farmhouse which was the birthplace of John Burroughs. A comical incident took place. It was raining hard when we arrived and we drove into the barn,directly across the road from the house. An old dog and a young one were here, keeping themselves dry from the shower. I set up my camera in the barn, to take a picture of the house. As I did so, I noticed the old dog walk deliberately out in the rain and perch himself upon the doorstep, where he turned around once or twice as if trying to strike the right attitude. This point determined, he stood perfectly still until I had taken the picture, and when I started to put away the camera, came trotting back to the barn. I do not know what instinct, if any, prompted the dog to wish his picture to be taken, but he was no more foolish than many people,—men, women, and children,—who have insisted upon getting into my pictures, though they knew there was no possibility of their ever seeing them.
Mr. Burrough’s permanent home is at West Park, on the Hudson River, a few miles south of Kingston. Here he has a farm mostly devoted to the cultivation of grapes. He occupies a comfortable stone house, pleasantly situated and nearly surrounded by trees of various kinds. Back of the house and near the river is the study or den, a little rustic building on the slope of the hill, where Mr. Burroughs can write undisturbed by the business of the farm. The walls are partly lined with bookshelves, well crowded with favorite volumes. Near by is a small rustic summer house from which a delightful view of the rivermay be seen for miles to the north and to the south. This is why the place is called “Riverby”—simply “by-the-river.” It has been the author’s home for many years.
Even the study, however, did not satisfy Mr. Burroughs’s longing for quiet, and so he built another retreat about a mile and a half west of the village which he calls “Slabsides.” It is reached by walking up a hill and passing through a bit of hemlock woods which I found quite charming. Slabsides is a rustic house like many camps in the Adirondacks. It is roughly built, but sufficiently comfortable, and has a pleasant little porch, at the entrance to which a climbing vine gives a picturesque effect which is greatly enhanced by a stone chimney, now almost completely clothed with foliage. It is in an out-of-the-way hollow of the woods where nobody would be likely to come except for the express purpose of visiting Mr. Burroughs. For several summers this was his favorite retreat. He would walk over from his home at Riverby and stay perhaps two or three weeks at a time, doing his own cooking and housekeeping. Of late years, however, Slabsides has been less frequently used, Woodchuck Lodge having received the preference.
All of these abodes, whether you see them within or without, reveal the secret of John Burroughs’s strength. They coincide with his personal appearance, his dress, his conversation, hismanner. It is the strength of absolute simplicity. Everything is sincere. Nothing is superfluous. There is no such thing as “putting on airs.” Fame and popularity have not spoiled him. He is genuine. You feel it when you see his workshops. You know it when you meet the man.
Mr. Charles Wagner, the apostle of “the simple life,” has said, “All the strength of the world and all true joy, everything that consoles, that feeds hope, or throws a ray of light along our dark paths, everything that makes us see across our poor lives asplendidgoal and a boundless future, comes to us from people of simplicity, those who have made another object of their desires than the passing satisfaction and vanity, and have understood that the art of living is to know how to give one’s life.”
John Burroughs is one of these “people of simplicity,” and his contribution to our happiness lies in his rare power of bringing to his reader something of his own enjoyment of Nature—an enjoyment which he has been able to obtain only through the living of a simple life. He is the complete embodiment of Emerson’s “forest seer”:—
“Many haps fall in the fieldSeldom seen by wishful eyes;But all her shows did Nature yield,To please and win this pilgrim wise.He saw the partridge drum in the woods;He heard the woodcock’s evening hymn;He found the tawny thrushes’ broods;And the shy hawk did wait for him;What others did at distance hear,And guessed within the thicket’s gloom,Was shown to this philosopherAnd at his bidding seemed to come.”
“Many haps fall in the field
Seldom seen by wishful eyes;
But all her shows did Nature yield,
To please and win this pilgrim wise.
He saw the partridge drum in the woods;
He heard the woodcock’s evening hymn;
He found the tawny thrushes’ broods;
And the shy hawk did wait for him;
What others did at distance hear,
And guessed within the thicket’s gloom,
Was shown to this philosopher
And at his bidding seemed to come.”
IXGLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE
IXGLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE
TheYellowstone National Park is Nature’s jewel casket, in which she has kept her choicest gems for countless generations. Securely sheltered by ranges of rugged mountains they have long been safe from human depredations. The red man doubtless knew of them, but superstition came to the aid of Nature and held him awe-struck at a safe distance. The first white man who came within sight of these wonders a century ago could find no one to believe his tales, and for a generation or two the region of hot springs and boiling geysers which he described was sneeringly termed “Colter’s Hell.” Only within the last half-century have the generality of mankind been permitted to view these precious jewels, and even then jealous Nature, it would seem, did not consent to reveal her treasures until fully assured that they would have the protection of no less powerful a guardianship than that of the National Government.
On the 18th of September, 1870, a party of explorers, headed by General Henry D. Washburn, then Surveyor-General of Montana, emerged from the forest into an open plain and suddenly foundthemselves not one hundred yards away from a huge column of boiling water, from which great rolling clouds of snow-white vapor rose high into the air against the blue sky. It was “Old Faithful” in action. Then and there they resolved that this whole region of wonders should be made into a public park for the benefit of all the people, and renouncing any thought of securing the lands for personal gain, these broad-minded men used their influence to have the National Congress assume the permanent guardianship of the place. And now that protection is fully assured these jewels of Nature may be seen by you and me.
Those who have traveled much will tell you that Nature is prodigal of her riches, and, indeed, this would seem to be true to one who has spent a summer among the snow-clad peaks of the Alps, or dreamed away the days amid the blue lakes of northern Italy, or wandered about in the green forests of the Adirondacks, where every towering spruce, every fragrant balsam, every dainty wild flower and every mossy log is a thing of beauty. But these are Nature’s full-dress garments, just as the broad-spreading wheatfields of the Dakotas are her work-a-day clothes. Her “jewels” are safely locked up in places more difficult of access, where they may be seen by only a favored few; and one of these safe-deposit boxes, so to speak, is the Yellowstone National Park.
The first collection of these natural gems is atMammoth Hot Springs, and here my camera, as if by instinct, led me quickly to the daintiest in form and most delicate in colorings of them all, a beautiful formation known as Hymen Terrace. A series of steps, covering a circular area of perhaps one hundred feet in diameter, has been formed by the overflow of a hot spring. The terraces consist of a series of semicircular and irregular curves or scallops, like a combination of hundreds of richly carved pulpits, wrought in a soft, white substance resembling coral. Little pools of glistening water reflect the sunlight from the tops of the steps, while a gently flowing stream spreads imperceptibly over about one half the surface, sprinkling it with millions of diamonds as the altar of Hymen ought to be. The pools are greens and blues of many shades, varying with the depth of the water. The sides of the steps are pure white in the places where the water has ceased to flow, but beneath the thin stream they range in color from a rich cream to a deep brown, with all the intermediate shades harmoniously blended. From the highest pools, and especially from the largest one at the very summit of the mound, rise filmy veils of steam, softening the exquisite tints into a rich harmony of color against the azure of the sky.