If The Lions Had
Been The Painters It Would Have Been Otherwise.
In every one's
youthful dreams philosophy is still vaguely but inseparably, and
with singular truth, associated with the East, nor do after years
discover its local habitation in the Western world.
In comparison
with the philosophers of the East, we may say that modern Europe
has yet given birth to none. Beside the vast and cosmogonal
philosophy of the Bhagvat-Geeta, even our Shakespeare seems
sometimes youthfully green and practical merely. Some of these
sublime sentences, as the Chaldaean oracles of Zoroaster, still
surviving after a thousand revolutions and translations, alone
make us doubt if the poetic form and dress are not transitory,
and not essential to the most effective and enduring expression
of thought. _Ex oriente lux_ may still be the motto of scholars,
for the Western world has not yet derived from the East all the
light which it is destined to receive thence.
It would be worthy of the age to print together the collected
Scriptures or Sacred Writings of the several nations, the
Chinese, the Hindoos, the Persians, the Hebrews, and others, as
the Scripture of mankind. The New Testament is still, perhaps,
too much on the lips and in the hearts of men to be called a
Scripture in this sense. Such a juxtaposition and comparison
might help to liberalize the faith of men. This is a work which
Time will surely edit, reserved to crown the labors of the
printing-press. This would be the Bible, or Book of Books, which
let the missionaries carry to the uttermost parts of the earth.
While engaged in these reflections, thinking ourselves the only
navigators of these waters, suddenly a canal-boat, with its sail
set, glided round a point before us, like some huge river beast,
and changed the scene in an instant; and then another and another
glided into sight, and we found ourselves in the current of
commerce once more. So we threw our rinds in the water for the
fishes to nibble, and added our breath to the life of living men.
Little did we think, in the distant garden in which we had
planted the seed and reared this fruit, where it would be eaten.
Our melons lay at home on the sandy bottom of the Merrimack, and
our potatoes in the sun and water at the bottom of the boat
looked like a fruit of the country. Soon, however, we were
delivered from this fleet of junks, and possessed the river in
solitude, once more rowing steadily upward through the noon,
between the territories of Nashua on the one hand, and Hudson,
once Nottingham, on the other. From time to time we scared up a
kingfisher or a summer duck, the former flying rather by vigorous
impulses than by steady and patient steering with that short
rudder of his, sounding his rattle along the fluvial street.
Erelong another scow hove in sight, creeping down the river; and
hailing it, we attached ourselves to its side, and floated back
in company, chatting with the boatmen, and obtaining a draught of
cooler water from their jug. They appeared to be green hands
from far among the hills, who had taken this means to get to the
seaboard, and see the world; and would possibly visit the
Falkland Isles, and the China seas, before they again saw the
waters of the Merrimack, or, perchance, they would not return
this way forever. They had already embarked the private
interests of the landsman in the larger venture of the race, and
were ready to mess with mankind, reserving only the till of a
chest to themselves. But they too were soon lost behind a point,
and we went croaking on our way alone. What grievance has its
root among the New Hampshire hills? we asked; what is wanting to
human life here, that these men should make such haste to the
antipodes? We prayed that their bright anticipations might not
be rudely disappointed.
Though all the fates should prove unkind,
Leave not your native land behind.
The ship, becalmed, at length stands still;
The steed must rest beneath the hill;
But swiftly still our fortunes pace
To find us out in every place.
The vessel, though her masts be firm,
Beneath her copper bears a worm;
Around the cape, across the line,
Till fields of ice her course confine;
It matters not how smooth the breeze,
How shallow or how deep the seas,
Whether she bears Manilla twine,
Or in her hold Madeira wine,
Or China teas, or Spanish hides,
In port or quarantine she rides;
Far from New England's blustering shore,
New England's worm her hulk shall bore,
And sink her in the Indian seas,
Twine, wine, and hides, and China teas.
We passed a small desert here on the east bank, between
Tyngsborough and Hudson, which was interesting and even
refreshing to our eyes in the midst of the almost universal
greenness. This sand was indeed somewhat impressive and
beautiful to us. A very old inhabitant, who was at work in a
field on the Nashua side, told us that he remembered when corn
and grain grew there, and it was a cultivated field. But at
length the fishermen, for this was a fishing place, pulled up the
bushes on the shore, for greater convenience in hauling their
seines, and when the bank was thus broken, the wind began to blow
up the sand from the shore, until at length it had covered about
fifteen acres several feet deep. We saw near the river, where
the sand was blown off down to some ancient surface, the
foundation of an Indian wigwam exposed, a perfect circle of burnt
stones, four or five feet in diameter, mingled with fine
charcoal, and the bones of small animals which had been preserved
in the sand. The surrounding sand was sprinkled with other burnt
stones on which their fires had been built, as well as with
flakes of arrow-head stone, and we found one perfect arrow-head.
In one place we noticed where an Indian had sat to manufacture
arrow-heads out of quartz, and the sand was sprinkled with a
quart of small glass-like chips about as big as a fourpence,
which he had broken off in his work.
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