so much by surprise, that for a second I forgot to raise it. Up came the bright trout, raining the silver water from his back, and at the second swing through the air, (for I had not yet learned the sleight of the fisher to bring him quick to hand,) he dropped into the pool, and was gone. I had already begun to take his part against my. self, and detected a pleased thrill, at his escape, venturing through my bosom. I sat down upon a prostrate pine, to new-Shylock my poor worm. The tin box was in F.'s pocket! Come! here was a relief. As to the wild-wood worms that might be dug from the pine-tassels under my feet, I was incapable of violating their forest sanctuary. I would fish no more. I had had my pleasure. It is not like pulling up a stick or a stone, to pull up a resisting trout. It is a peculiar sensation, unimaginable till felt. I should like to be an angler very well, but for the worm in my pocket. The brook at my feet, and around me, pines of the tallest lift, by thousands! You may travel through a forest, and look upon these communicants with the sky, as trees. But you cannot sit still in a forest, alone, and silent, without feeling the awe of their presence. Yet the brook ran and sang as merrily, in their black shadow, as in the open sunshine; and the woodpecker played his sharp hammer on a tree evergreen for centuries, as fearlessly as on a shivering poplar, that will be outlived by such a fish-catcher as I. Truly, this is a world in which there is small recognition of greatness. As it is in the forest, so it is in the town. The very gods would have their toes trod upon, if they walked without their wings. Yet let us take honor to ourselves above vegetables. The pine beneath me has been a giant, with his top in the clouds, but lies now, unvalued on the earth. We recognize greatness when it is dead. We are prodigal of love and honor when it is unavailing. We are, in something, above wood and stubble. I have fallen into a sad trick, dear Doctor, of preaching sermons to myself, from these texts of nature. Sometimes, like other preachers, I pervert the meaning and forget the context, but reverie would lose its charm if it went by reason. Adieu! Come up to Glenmary, and catch trout if you will. But I will have your worms decently drowned before boxed for use. I cannot sleep o'nights, after slipping one of these harmless creatures out of his own mouth, in a vain attempt to pull him asunder. LETTER V. MY DEAR DOCTOR.-If this egg hatch without getting cold, or, to accommodate my language to your city apprehension, if the letter I here begin comes to a finishing, it will be malgré blistering hands and weary backthe consequences of hard raking-of hay. The men are taking their four o'clock of cheese and cider in the meadow, and not having simplified my digestion as rapidly as my habits, I have retired to the shelter of the bridge, to be decently rid of the master's first bit and pull at the pitcher. After employing my brains in vain, to discover why this particular branch of farming should require cider and cheese, (eaten together at no other season that I can learn,) I have pulled out my scribble-book from the niche in the sleeper overhead, and find, by luck, one sheet of tabula rasa, upon which you are likely to pay eighteen pence to Amos Kendall. Were you ever in a hay-field, Doctor? I ask for information. Metaphorically, I know you "live in clover "-meaning, the society of wits, and hock of a certain vintage-but seriously, did you ever happen to stand on the natural soil of the earth, off the pavement? If you VEGETABLE PROPENSITIES. 66 45 have not, let me tell you it is a very pleasant change. I have always fancied there was a mixture of the vegetable in myself; and I am convinced now, that there is something in us which grows more thriftily on fresh earth, than on flag-stones. There are some men indigenous to brick and mortar, as there are plants which thrive best with a stone on them; but there are connecting links between all the varieties of God's works, and such men verge on the mineral kingdom. I have seen whole geodes of them, with all the properties of flints, for example. But in you, my dear Doctor, without flattery, I think I see the vegetable, strong, though latent. You would thrive in the country, well planted and a little pruned. I am not sure it would do to water you freely-but you want sunshine and fresh air, and a little bird to shake the "dew” out of your top. I see, from my seat under the bridge, a fair meadow, laid like an unrolled carpet of emerald, along the windings of a most bright and swift river. The first owner of it after the savage, all honor to his memory, sprinkled it with forest trees, now at their loftiest growth, here and there one, stately in the smooth grass, like a polished monarch on the foot-cloth of his throne. The river is the Owaga, and its opposite bank is darkened with thick wood, through which a liberal neighbour has allowed me to cut an eye-path to the village spire-a mile across the fields. From my cottage door across this meadow-lawn, steals, with silver foot, the brook I redeemed from its lost strayings, and, all along between brook and river, stand hay-cocks, not fairies. Now, possess me as well of your whereabout-what you see from your window in Broadway! Is there a sapling on my whole farm that would change root-hold with you? The hay is heavy this year, and if there were less, I should still feel like taking off my hat to the meadow. There is nothing like living in the city, to impress one with the gratuitous liberality of the services rendered one in the country. Here are meadows now, that without hint or petition, pressing or encouragement, pay or consideration, nay, careless even of gratitude, shoot me up some billions of grass-blades, clover-flowers, white and red, and here and there a nodding regiment of lilies, tall as my chin, and it is understood, I believe, that I am welcome to it all. Now, you may think this is all easy enough, and the meadow is happy to be relieved; but so the beggar might think of your alms, and be as just. But you have made the money you give him by the sweat of your brow. So has the meadow its grass. "It is estimated," says the Book of Nature," that an acre of grass-land transpires, in twenty-four hours, not less than six thousand four hundred quarts of water." Sweat me that without a fee, thou "dollar a visit !" Here comes William from the post, with a handful of papers. The Mirror, with a likeness of Sprague. A likeness in a mirror could scarce fail, one would think, and here, accordingly, he is the banker-poet, the Rogers of our country-fit as " himself to be his parallel." Yet I have never seen that stern look on him. We know he bears the "globe"* on his back, like old * Mr. Sprague is cashier of the Globe Bank, Boston. |