Nonfiction > Verse > Ralph Waldo Emerson > The Complete Works > Poems
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882).  The Complete Works.  1904.
Vol. IX. Poems
II. May-Day and Other Pieces
The Adirondacs
A Journal
Dedicated to My Fellow Travellers in August, 1858

        Wise and polite,—and if I drew
Their several portraits, you would own
Chaucer had no such worthy crew,
Nor Boccace in Decameron.

WE 1 crossed Champlain to Keeseville with our friends,
Thence, in strong country carts, rode up the forks
Of the Ausable stream, intent to reach
The Adirondac lakes. At Martin’s Beach
We chose our boats; each man a boat and guide,—        5
Ten men, ten guides, our company all told.
  Next morn, we swept with oars the Saranac,
With skies of benediction, to Round Lake,
Where all the sacred mountains drew around us,
Taháwus, Seaward, MacIntyre, Baldhead,        10
And other Titans without muse or name.
Pleased with these grand companions, we glide on,
Instead of flowers, crowned with a wreath of hills.
We made our distance wider, boat from boat,
As each would hear the oracle alone.        15
By the bright morn the gay flotilla slid
Through files of flags that gleamed like bayonets,
Through gold-moth-haunted beds of pickerel-flower,
Through scented banks of lilies white and gold,
Where the deer feeds at night, the teal by day,        20
On through the Upper Saranac, and up
Père Raquette stream, to a small tortuous pass
Winding through grassy shallows in and out,
Two creeping miles of rushes, pads and sponge,
To Follansbee Water and the Lake of Loons.        25
  Northward the length of Follansbee we rowed,
Under low mountains, whose unbroken ridge
Ponderous with beechen forest sloped the shore.
A pause and council: then, where near the head
Due east a bay makes inward to the land        30
Between two rocky arms, we climb the bank,
And in the twilight of the forest noon
Wield the first axe these echoes ever heard.
We cut young trees to make our poles and thwarts,
Barked the white spruce to weatherfend the roof,        35
Then struck a light and kindled the camp-fire.
  The wood was sovran with centennial trees,—
Oak, cedar, maple, poplar, beech and fir,
Linden and spruce. In strict society
Three conifers, white, pitch and Norway pine,        40
Five-leaved, three-leaved and two-leaved, grew thereby.
Our patron pine was fifteen feet in girth,
The maple eight, beneath its shapely tower.
  ‘Welcome!’ the wood-god murmured through the leaves,—
‘Welcome, though late, unknowing, yet known to me.’        45
Evening drew on; stars peeped through maple-boughs,
Which o’erhung, like a cloud, our camping fire.
Decayed millennial trunks, like moonlight flecks,
Lit with phosphoric crumbs the forest floor.
  Ten scholars, wonted to lie warm and soft        50
In well-hung chambers daintily bestowed,
Lie here on hemlock-boughs, like Sacs and Sioux,
And greet unanimous the joyful change.
So fast will Nature acclimate her sons,
Though late returning to her pristine ways.        55
Off soundings, seamen do not suffer cold;
And, in the forest, delicate clerks, unbrowned,
Sleep on the fragrant brush, as on down-beds.
Up with the dawn, they fancied the light air
That circled freshly in their forest dress        60
Made them to boys again. Happier that they
Slipped off their pack of duties, leagues behind,
At the first mounting of the giant stairs.
No placard on these rocks warned to the polls,
No door-bell heralded a visitor,        65
No courier waits, no letter came or went,
Nothing was ploughed, or reaped, or bought, or sold;
The frost might glitter, it would blight no crop,
The falling rain will spoil no holiday.
We were made freemen of the forest laws,        70
All dressed, like Nature, fit for her own ends,
Essaying nothing she cannot perform.

                        In Adirondac lakes,
At morn or noon, the guide rows bareheaded:
Shoes, flannel shirt, and kersey trousers make
His brief toilette: at night, or in the rain,        75
He dons a surcoat which he doffs at morn:
A paddle in the right hand, or an oar,
And in the left, a gun, his needful arms.
By turns we praised the stature of our guides,
Their rival strength and suppleness, their skill        80
To row, to swim, to shoot, to build a camp,
To climb a lofty stem, clean without boughs
Full fifty feet, and bring the eaglet down:
Temper to face wolf, bear, or catamount,
And wit to trap or take him in his lair.        85
Sound, ruddy men, frolic and innocent,
In winter, lumberers; in summer, guides;
Their sinewy arms pull at the oar untired
Three times ten thousand strokes, from morn to eve.
  Look to yourselves, ye polished gentlemen!        90
No city airs or arts pass current here.
Your rank is all reversed; let men of cloth
Bow to the stalwart churls in overalls:
They are the doctors of the wilderness,
And we the low-prized laymen.        95
In sooth, red flannel is a saucy test
Which few can put on with impunity.
What make you, master, fumbling at the oar?
Will you catch crabs? Truth tries pretension here.
The sallow knows the basket-maker’s thumb;        100
The oar, the guide’s. Dare you accept the tasks
He shall impose, to find a spring, trap foxes,
Tell the sun’s time, determine the true north,
Or stumbling on through vast self-similar woods
To thread by night the nearest way to camp?        105
  Ask you, how went the hours?
All day we swept the lake, searched every cove,
North from Camp Maple, south to Osprey Bay,
Watching when the loud dogs should drive in deer,
Or whipping its rough surface for a trout;        110
Or, bathers, diving from the rock at noon;
Challenging Echo by our guns and cries;
Or listening to the laughter of the loon;
Or, in the evening twilight’s latest red,
Beholding the procession of the pines; 2        115
Or, later yet, beneath a lighted jack,
In the boat’s bows, a silent night-hunter
Stealing with paddle to the feeding-grounds
Of the red deer, to aim at a square mist. 3
Hark to that muffled roar! a tree in the woods        120
Is fallen: but hush! it has not scared the buck
Who stands astonished at the meteor light,
Then turns to bound away,—is it too late?
  Our heroes tried their rifles at a mark,
Six rods, sixteen, twenty, or forty-five;        125
Sometimes their wits at sally and retort,
With laughter sudden as the crack of rifle;
Or parties scaled the near acclivities
Competing seekers of a rumored lake,
Whose unauthenticated waves we named        130
Lake Probability,—our carbuncle,
Long sought, not found.

                    Two Doctors in the camp
Dissected the slain deer, weighed the trout’s brain,
Captured the lizard, salamander, shrew,
Crab, mice, snail, dragon-fly, minnow and moth;        135
Insatiate skill in water or in air
Waved the scoop-net, and nothing came amiss;
The while, one leaden pot of alcohol
Gave an impartial tomb to all the kinds.
Not less the ambitious botanist sought plants,        140
Orchis and gentian, fern and long whip-scirpus,
Rosy polygonum, lake-margin’s pride,
Hypnum and hydnum, mushroom, sponge and moss,
Or harebell nodding in the gorge of falls.
Above, the eagle flew, the osprey screamed,        145
The raven croaked, owls hooted, the woodpecker
Loud hammered, and the heron rose in the swamp.
As water poured through hollows of the hills
To feed this wealth of lakes and rivulets,
So Nature shed all beauty lavishly        150
From her redundant horn.

                    Lords of this realm,
Bounded by dawn and sunset, and the day
Rounded by hours where each outdid the last
In miracles of pomp, we must be proud,
As if associates of the sylvan gods.        155
We seemed the dwellers of the zodiac,
So pure the Alpine element we breathed,
So light, so lofty pictures came and went.
We trode on air, contemned the distant town,
Its timorous ways, big trifles, and we planned        160
That we should build, hard-by, a spacious lodge
And how we should come hither with our sons,
Hereafter,—willing they, and more adroit. 4
  Hard fare, hard bed and comic misery,—
The midge, the blue-fly and the mosquito        165
Painted our necks, hands, ankles, with red bands:
But, on the second day, we heed them not,
Nay, we saluted them Auxiliaries,
Whom earlier we had chid with spiteful names.
For who defends our leafy tabernacle        170
From bold intrusion of the travelling crowd,—
Who but the midge, mosquito and the fly,
Which past endurance sting the tender cit,
But which we learn to scatter with a smudge,
Or baffle by a veil, or slight by scorn?        175
  Our foaming ale we drank from hunters’ pans,
Ale, and a sup of wine. Our steward gave
Venison and trout, potatoes, beans, wheat-bread;
All ate like abbots, and, if any missed
Their wonted convenance, cheerly hid the loss        180
With hunters’ appetite and peals of mirth.
And Stillman, our guides’ guide, and Commodore,
Crusoe, Crusader, Pius Æneas, said aloud,
“Chronic dyspepsia never came from eating
Food indigestible”:—then murmured some,        185
Others applauded him who spoke the truth. 5
  Nor doubt but visitings of graver thought
Checked in these souls the turbulent heyday
’Mid all the hints and glories of the home.
For who can tell what sudden privacies        190
Were sought and found, amid the hue and cry
Of scholars furloughed from their tasks and let
Into this Oreads’ fended Paradise,
As chapels in the city’s thoroughfares,
Whither gaunt Labor slips to wipe his brow        195
And meditate a moment on Heaven’s rest.
Judge with what sweet surprises Nature spoke
To each apart, lifting her lovely shows
To spiritual lessons pointed home,
And as through dreams in watches of the night,        200
So through all creatures in their form and ways
Some mystic hint accosts the vigilant,
Not clearly voiced, but waking a new sense
Inviting to new knowledge, one with old.
Hark to that petulant chirp! what ails the warbler?        205
Mark his capricious ways to draw the eye.
Now soar again. What wilt thou, restless bird,
Seeking in that chaste blue a bluer light,
Thirsting in that pure for a purer sky?
  And presently the sky is changed; O world!        210
What pictures and what harmonies are thine!
The clouds are rich and dark, the air serene,
So like the soul of me, what if ’t were me?
A melancholy better than all mirth.
Comes the sweet sadness at the retrospect,        215
Or at the foresight of obscurer years?
Like yon slow-sailing cloudy promontory
Whereon the purple iris dwells in beauty
Superior to all its gaudy skirts.
And, that no day of life may lack romance,        220
The spiritual stars rise nightly, shedding down
A private beam into each several heart.
Daily the bending skies solicit man,
The seasons chariot him from this exile,
The rainbow hours bedeck his glowing chair,        225
The storm-winds urge the heavy weeks along,
Suns haste to set, that so remoter lights
Beckon the wanderer to his vaster home.
  With a vermilion pencil mark the day
When of our little fleet three cruising skiffs        230
Entering Big Tupper, bound for the foaming Falls
Of loud Bog River, suddenly confront
Two of our mates returning with swift oars.
One held a printed journal waving high
Caught from a late-arriving traveller,        235
Big with great news, and shouted the report
For which the world had waited, now firm fact,
Of the wire-cable laid beneath the sea,
And landed on our coast, and pulsating
With ductile fire. Loud, exulting cries        240
From boat to boat, and to the echoes round,
Greet the glad miracle. Thought’s new-found path
Shall supplement henceforth all trodden ways,
Match God’s equator with a zone of art,
And lift man’s public action to a height        245
Worthy the enormous cloud of witnesses,
When linkèd hemispheres attest his deed.
We have few moments in the longest life
Of such delight and wonder as there grew,—
Nor yet unsuited to that solitude:        250
A burst of joy, as if we told the fact
To ears intelligent; as if gray rock
And cedar grove and cliff and lake should know
This feat of wit, this triumph of mankind;
As if we men were talking in a vein        255
Of sympathy so large, that ours was theirs,
And a prime end of the most subtle element
Were fairly reached at last. Wake, echoing caves!
Bend nearer, faint day-moon! Yon thundertops,
Let them hear well! ’t is theirs as much as ours. 6        260
  A spasm throbbing through the pedestals
Of Alp and Andes, isle and continent,
Urging astonished Chaos with a thrill
To be a brain, or serve the brain of man. 7
The lightning has run masterless too long;        265
He must to school and learn his verb and noun
And teach his nimbleness to earn his wage,
Spelling with guided tongue man’s messages
Shot through the weltering pit of the salt sea.
And yet I marked, even in the manly joy        270
Of our great-hearted Doctor in his boat
(Perchance I erred), a shade of discontent;
Or was it for mankind a generous shame,
As of a luck not quite legitimate,
Since fortune snatched from wit the lion’s part?        275
Was it a college pique of town and gown,
As one within whose memory it burned
That not academicians, but some lout,
Found ten years since the Californian gold?
And now, again, a hungry company        280
Of traders, led by corporate sons of trade,
Perversely borrowing from the shop the tools
Of science, not from the philosophers,
Had won the brightest laurel of all time.
’T was always thus, and will be; hand and head        285
Are ever rivals: but, though this be swift,
The other slow,—this the Prometheus,
And that the Jove,—yet, howsoever hid,
It was from Jove the other stole his fire,
And, without Jove, the good had never been.        290
It is not Iroquois or cannibals,
But ever the free race with front sublime,
And these instructed by their wisest too,
Who do the feat, and lift humanity.
Let not him mourn who best entitled was,        295
Nay, mourn not one: let him exult,
Yea, plant the tree that bears best apples, plant,
And water it with wine, nor watch askance
Whether thy sons or strangers eat the fruit:
Enough that mankind eat and are refreshed.        300
  We flee away from cities, but we bring
The best of cities with us, these learned classifiers,
Men knowing what they seek, armed eyes of experts.
We praise the guide, we praise the forest life:
But will we sacrifice our dear-bought lore        305
Of books and arts and trained experiment,
Or count the Sioux a match for Agassiz?
O no, not we! Witness the shout that shook
Wild Tupper Lake; witness the mute all-hail
The joyful traveller gives, when on the verge        310
Of craggy Indian wilderness he hears
From a log cabin stream Beethoven’s notes
On the piano, played with master’s hand.
‘Well done!’ he cries; ‘the bear is kept at bay,
The lynx, the rattlesnake, the flood, the fire;        315
All the fierce enemies, ague, hunger, cold,
This thin spruce roof, this clayed log-wall,
This wild plantation will suffice to chase.
Now speed the gay celerities of art,
What in the desert was impossible        320
Within four walls is possible again,—
Culture and libraries, mysteries of skill,
Traditioned fame of masters, eager strife
Of keen competing youths, joined or alone
To outdo each other and extort applause.        325
Mind wakes a new-born giant from her sleep.
Twirl the old wheels! Time takes fresh start again,
On for a thousand years of genius more.’
  The holidays were fruitful, but must end;
One August evening had a cooler breath;        330
Into each mind intruding duties crept;
Under the cinders burned the fires of home;
Nay, letters found us in our paradise:
So in the gladness of the new event
We struck our camp and left the happy hills.        335
The fortunate star that rose on us sank not;
The prodigal sunshine rested on the land,
The rivers gambolled onward to the sea,
And Nature, the inscrutable and mute,
Permitted on her infinite repose        340
Almost a smile to steal to cheer her sons,
As if one riddle of the Sphinx were guessed.
Note 1. In August, 1858, Mr. William J. Stillman, an artist by profession, but a man almost of the versatility in accomplishment of The Admirable Crichton, as painter, writer, critic, foreign consul (in which service he showed himself a chivalrous Philhellene), and last, not least, an accomplished woodsman and hunter, led a party of his friends into the then primæval forest of the Adirondac Mountains. The party were, Stillman, Agassiz, Lowell, Judge Hoar, Dr. Jeffries Wyman, the comparative anatomist; Samuel G. Ward, a near friend of Mr. Emerson’s; Dr. Estes Howe, John Holmes (brother of Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes), Horatio Woodman, Dr. Amos Binney, and Emerson. Mr. Stillman in his autobiography [The Autobiography of a Journalist. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 1901.] gives a very interesting account of this company, the region, and their adventures. The following notes of the trip I find in Mr. Emerson’s journals. All readers of Lowell will feel pleasure in reading the unexpected postscript to the osprey-nest story.
  “Adirondac, August 7th, 1858. Follansbee’s Pond. It should be called Stillman’s henceforward, from the good camp which this gallant artist has built, and the good party he has led and planted here for the present at the bottom of the little bay which lies near the head of the lake.
  “The lake is two miles long, 1 to 1/2 mile wide, and surrounded by low mountains. Norway pine and white pine abound.
  “On the top of a large white pine, in a bay, was an osprey’s nest, around which the ospreys were screaming, 5 or 6. We thought there were young birds in it, and sent Preston to the top. This looked like an adventure. The tree must be 150 feet high at least; 60 feet clean straight stem, without a single branch, and, as Lowell and I measured it by the tape as high as we could reach, 14 ft. 6 inches in girth. Preston took advantage of a hemlock close by it and climbed till he got on the branches, then went to the top of the pine and found the nest empty, tho’ the great birds wheeled and screamed about him. He said he could climb the bare stem of the pine, ‘tho’ it would be awful hard work.’ When he came down, I asked him to go up it a little way, which he did, clinging to the corrugations of the bark. Afterwards Lowell watched for a chance to shoot the osprey, but he soared magnificently and would not alight.
  “The pond is totally virgin soil, without a clearing in any point, and covered with primitive woods, rock-maple, beech, spruce, white cedar, arbor vitæ. We have seen bald eagles, loons, ravens, kingfishers, ducks, tatlers. We have killed 2 deer yesterday, both in the lake, and otherwise fed our party with lake-trout and river-trout. The wood-thrush we heard at Stephen Barlett’s carry, but not since, and no other thrush.
  “River, lake and brook trout cannot be scientifically discriminated, nor yet male from female.
  “Lowell, next morning, was missing at breakfast, and when he came to camp told me he had climbed Preston’s pine-tree.”
  Mr. Stillman painted the forest camp and the company. Mr. Herbert W. Gleason’s remarkably successful photograph of the painting (left to the Concord Library by Judge Hoar) might almost seem a photograph from Nature, so faithfully did Mr. Stillman give the character and the values of the trees. At the left of the picture, Agassiz, helped by the tall Dr. Wyman, is dissecting a fish, while Dr. Estes Howe looks on, and Mr. Holmes, who was lame, sits close by. On the right, Dr. Binney is aiming his rifle at a mark, and a little behind, Lowell and Judge Hoar are waiting their turn to shoot, and Mr. Woodman sits on the ground. The tall, lean figure behind the marksman is the painter himself, hardly distinguishable in the photograph, their tutor in the art of shooting, of which he was master. The guides at the right of the picture critically watch the mark to see the results of the amateurs.
  Between the groups, admiring their accomplishments, which are yet foreign to him, but more occupied with Nature in her columned temple, is the poet. The reproduction is too small to do justice to the figure and attitude, which in the picture are given with wonderful success, and but for the unwonted flannel shirt, it might well represent him in his daily commune with the pines. [back]
Note 2. A remarkable picture, “The Procession of the Pines,” was painted of this subject by Mr. Stillman, huge Norway pines on a high promontory standing black against the orange twilight glow, and reflected in the still lake. [back]
Note 3. This was Mr. Emerson’s own experience: paddled noiselessly by the guide, in a boat with torch and reflector in the bow, he was bidden to shoot at the staring “deer” among the lily-pads by the shore. The “square mist” was too much of an illusion, even to the student of Oriental Mayas; he did not fire, and in an instant it was gone. [back]
Note 4. An Adirondac Club was formed, and Mr. Stillman succeeded in buying for them a lake (Ampersand) and its enclosing mountains, sold for unpaid taxes, at a ridiculously low price. But some people of that part of New York, understanding that Boston capitalists had bought a large tract, could not credit the avowed purpose of the buyers, and, supposing that they knew of some coming railroad and had designs on the lumber, redeemed the land. The camp at Lake Ampersand was, however, occupied by the Club in 1859, but Mr. Emerson did not go there. [back]
Note 5. Mr. Emerson always held that the introverted eye, and apprehension, had much to do with perverted digestion. [back]
Note 6. Here is an instance of the interest and pride which this man of the spirit took even in the application of scientific discovery to the convenience of man. It represented an advance and ascent, and this particular discovery was to weld the races together in brotherhood. A prophecy of this event he wrote in his Concord “Ode for the Fourth of July” of the previous year. [back]
Note 7. The trial for the passage in the verse-book reads thus:—
                  To be a brain,
Or to obey the brain of upstart man,
And shake the slumbers of a million years.

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