Log Search Results

  P.M.—To Woodis Park over Hill . . .

The brilliant autumnal colors are red and yellow and the various tints, hues, and shades of these. Blue is reserved to be the color of the sky, but yellow and red are the colors of the earth flower . . .

  Examine arcain V Emerson’s pond lot, to learn its age by the stumps cut last spring . . .

  Then there are the countless downy seeds (thistle-like) of the goldenrods, so fine that we do not notice them in the air. They cover our clothes like dust. No wonder they spread over all fields and far into the woods . . .

  He gave us a very interesting account of his jaunt to the White Mountains—what a delightful time they must have has—should not you have liked to have gone? Georgie thought “Henry” (as he persisted in calling him) a most entertaining gentleman, for he had innumerable stories of wild animals to tell him which amused him very much.

My dear Sir,

  Your kind offer to receive and answer any communications from me, is not forgotten. I owe myself an apology for so long neglecting to avail myself of so generous an offer. Since I left Concord I have hardly found rest for the sole of my foot. I have followed the star of my destiny till it has, at length, come and stood over this place. Here I remain engaged in the study of Law — Part of the time I have spent in New Hampshire part in Ohio & part in New York and so precarious was my residence in either place that I have rarely known whither you might direct a letter with any certainty of its reaching me.

  When I left Concord I felt a strong desire to continue the conversation I had so fortunately commenced with some of those whom the Public call Transcendentalists. Their sentiments seemed to me to possess a peculiar fitness. Though full of doubt I felt I was fed & refreshed by those interviews. The doctrines I there heard have ever since, been uppermost in my mind—and like balmy sleep over the weary limbs, have they stolen over me quite unawares. I have not embraced them but they have embraced me—I am led, their willing captive. Yet I feel I have but yet taken the first step. I would know more of this matter. I would be taken by the hand and led up from this darkness and torpidity where I have so long groveled like an earthworm. I know what it is to be a slave to what I thought a Christian faith—and with what rapture do grasp the hand that breaks my chains—& the voice that bids me—live.

  Most of the books you recommended to me I was not able to obtain—“Nature” I found—and language can not express my admiration of it. When gloom like a thick cloud comes over in that I find an amulet that dissipates the darkness and kindles anew my highest hopes. Few copies of Mr Emerson’s Essays have found their way to this place. I have read part of them and am very much delighted with them. Mr. Park’s German I have also found and as much as I should have shrunk from such sentiments a year ago—half, so I already receive them. I have also obtained “Hero Worship”—which of course I read with great interest and as I read I blush for my former bigotry and wonder that I have not known it all before wonder what there is in chains that I should have loved them so much—Mr. E’s oration before the Theological Class at Cambridge I very much want. If you have it in your possession, allow me to beg you to forward it to me & I will return it by mail after perusing it. Also Mr. Alcott’s “Human Culture.” I will offer no apology for asking this favor—for I know you will not require it.

  I find I am not alone here, your principals are working their way even in Buffalo—this emporium of wickedness and sensuality. We look to the east for our guiding star for there our sun did rise. Our motto is that of the Grecian Hero—“Give but to see—and Ajax asks no more.”

  For myself my attention is much engrossed in my studies—entering upon them as I do without a Public Education—I feel that nothing but the most undivided attention and entire devotion to them will ensure me even an ordinary standing in the profession. There is something false in such devotion. I already feel its chilling effects I fear I shall fall into the wake of the profession which is in this section proverbially bestial. Law is a noble profession it calls loudly for men of genius and integrity to fill its ranks. I do not aspire to be a great lawyer. I know I cannot be, but it is the sincere desire of my heart that I may be a true one.
You are ready to ask—how I like the West. I must answer—not very well—I love New England so much that the West is comparatively odious to me. The part of Ohio that I visited was one dead level—often did I strain my eyes to catch a glimpse of some distant mountain—that should transport me in imagination to the wild country of my birth, but the eternal level spread itself on & on & I almost felt myself launched forever. Aloud did I exclaim—“My own blue hills—O, where are they!”—I did not know how much I was indebted to them for the happy hours I’d passed at home. I knew I loved them—and my noble river too—along whose banks I’d roamed half uncertain if in earth or heaven—I never shall—I never can forget them all—though I drive away the remembrances of them which ever in the unguarded moments throngs me laden with ten thousands incidents before forgotten & so talismanic its power—that I wake from the enchantment as from a dream. If I were in New England again I would never leave her but now I am away—I feel forever—I must eat of the Lotus—and forget her. Tis true we have a noble Lake—whose pure waters kiss the foot of our city — and whose bosom bears the burdens of our commerce—her beacon light now looks in upon me through my window as if to watch, lest I should say untruth of that which is her nightly charge. But hills or mountains we have none.

  My sheet is nearly full & I must draw to a close—I fear I have already wearied your patience. Please remember me to those of your friends whose acquaintance I had pleasure to form while in Concord—I engaged to write your brother—Mr Alcott also gave me then the same privilege—which I hope soon to avail myself of. I hope sometime to visit your town again which I remember with so much satisfaction—yet with so much regret—regret that I did not earlier avail myself of the acquaintances, it was my high privilege to make while there and that the lucubrations of earlier years did not better fit me to appreciate & enjoy. I cheer myself with fanning the fading embers of a hope that I shall yet retrieve my fault that such an opportunity will again be extended to me and that I may once more look upon that man whose name I never speak without reverence—whom of all I most admire—almost adore—Mr Emerson—I shall wait with impatience to hear from you.

Believe me

ever yours—

Isaiah T. Williams

  It is a cool and windy morning, and I have donned a thick coat for a walk. The wind is from the north, so that the telegraph harp does not sound where I cross. This windy autumnal weather is very exciting and bracing, clear and cold, after the rain of yesterday, it having cleared off in the night. I see a small hawk, a pigeon (?) hawk, over the Depot Field, which can hardly fly against the wind. At Hubbard’s Grove the wind roars loudly in the woods. Grapes are ripe and already shrivelled by frost; barberries also. It is cattle-show day at Lowell.

  Yesterday’s wind and rain has strewn the ground with leaves, especially under the apple trees. Rain coming after frost seems to loosen the hold of the leaves, making them rot off. Saw a woodchuck disappearing in his hole. The river washes up-stream before the wind, with white streaks of foam on its dark surface, diagonally to its course, showing the direction of the wind. Its surface, reflecting the sun, is dazzlingly bright. The outlines of the hills are remarkably distinct and firm, and their surfaces bare and hard, not clothed with a thick air. I notice one red tree, a red maple, against the green woodside in Conant’s meadow. It is a far brighter red than the blossoms of any tree in summer and more conspicuous. The huckleberry bushes on Conantum are all turned red . . .

  In Cohush Swamp the sumach leave have turned a very deep red, but have not lost their fragrance. I notice wild apples growing luxuriantly in the midst of the swamp, rising red over the colored, painted leaves of sumach, and reminding me that they were ripened and colored by the same influences,—some green, some yellow, some red, like the leaves.

  Fell in with a man whose breath smelled of spirit which he had drunk. How could I but feel that it was his own spirit that I smelt? Behind Miles’s, Darius Miles’s, that was, I asked an Irishman how many potatoes he could dig in a day, wishing to know how well they yielded. “Well, I don’t keep any account,” he answered; “I scratch away, and let the day’s work praise itself.” . . .

  I perceive from the hill behind Lee’s that much of the river meadows is not cut, though they have been very dry . . .

  At Clematis Brook I perceive that the pods or follicles of the Asclepias Syriaca now point upward . . .

  On Mt. Misery some very rich yellow leaves—clear yellow—of the Populus grandidentata, which still love to way, and tremble in my hands . . .

  Get home at noon.

  At sundown the wind has all gone down.

  Low fog-like veil on meadows.

  On the large sassafras trees on the hill I see many of the handsome red club-shaped pedicels left, with their empty cups which have held fruit; and I see one or two elliptical but still green berries. Apparently the rest have ripened and fallen or been gathered by birds already . . .

  P.M.—By boat to Grape Cliff.

  These are the stages in the river fall: first, the two varieties of yellow lily pads begin to decay and blacken (long ago), second, the first fall rains come after dog-days and arise and cool the river, and winds wash the decaying sparganium, etc., etc., to the shores and clear the channel more or less; third, when the first harder frosts come (as this year the 21st and 22d inst.), the button-bushes, which before had attained only a dull mixed Yellow, are suddenly bitten, wither, and turn brown, all but the protected parts.

  The first fall is so gradual as not to make much impression, but the last suddenly and conspicuously gives a fall aspect to the scenery of the river . . .

  There is to be a meeting here on Oct 1st that we think will interfere with yours, and so if the Lord is willing and you have no objections we will expect you on the next Sunday 8th October.

  I think Mr A. [A. Bronson Alcott] will stay till that time.

  I have been lately adding to my garden, and now have all that joins me—so I am ready to have it surveyed by you; a pleasure I have long promised myself. So, if you are at leisure and inclined to the field I hope I may be so fortunate as to engage your services

Very truly yrs

B. M. Watson

They survey might be before Monday or after as you please, and I will meet you at the Depot any time you say.

  Above Hubbard Bridge we see coming from the south in loose array some twenty apparently black ducks . . .

  Brought home quite a boat-load of fuel,—one oak rail, on which fishers had stood in wet ground at Bittern Cliff, a white pine rider (?) with a square hole in [it] made by a woodpecker anciently, so wasted the sap as to leave the knots projecting, several chestnut rails; and I obtained behind Cardinal Shore a large oak stump which I know to have been bleaching there for more than thirty years, with three great gray prongs sprinkled with lichens . . .

  Not a sign of an artichoke flower yet below Moore’s! May they not be earlier elsewhere?

  At brook, cohush and arum berries still fresh, and Viburnum acerifolium berries. Apparently Asplenium Thelypteroides, a large fern, its under side covered with linear fruit . . .

  Yours of the 23rd is received, and I notice what you say in regard to Mr. Alcott’s class; but I fear that I shall hardly prove able to undertake the business of obtaining one for him. It is entirely out of my line and very much averse to my taste, to solicit from any one. People are so ready to ride a “high horse,” as soon as you present anything to them that is left for their consideration or decision, that shrink at once from any such collision. Still should anything turn up whereby I may effect the object a third party, I shall be very glad so to do. In the mean time I am ready to listen to any suggestions Mr. Alcott may make to me in the premises.

  I am sorry that I shall not have the pleasure of a visit from you this fall, but as you need companionship so much less than I do I suppose the pleasure would not be reciprocal were we to meet. I am becoming quite a historical sketcher, and have already commenced publishing a history of New Bedford, or rather of the old township of Dartmouth, which included Ned Bedford, also the township of Westport, Fairhaven, and the present Dartmouth.

  Have you ever observed how many of the Indian names of rivers, lakes, &c, end in et? Assawampsett, Acushnet, Paceamanset, &c., &c. I am informed by a person who appeared to have some knowledge of Indian words that et signifies water—the Taunton river was called Nemasket for several miles from its outlet from the Middleborough Ponds —then Tetiquet or Tetiquid. Now I come to my object—did not your own Musketquid have the final syllable quet? If the fact can be established that et meant water, I should have no hesitation on making the alteration.

  Please remember me most truly to your family, and to Mr. Emerson and his, when you next meet him.

  Trusting that when the right time comes around we shall meet once more, I remain,

  Yours faithfully,
  D. Ricketson