Musketaquid

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB.

A SWIFT river that flows with even, resistless current lacks charm, sympathy, responsiveness. It has lost the tinkling note, the irresponsible wandering, and to a certain extent the fascinating mystery of the brook, which frolics into view from parts unknown, and is off again without our asking whither it goes, while the river has a source and an outlet all upon the map. It has gained in force and volume, but detail and sweetness are sacrificed to this increase of sublimity ; and it is only now and then, as in the mighty Mississippi, that the mass and rush of water becomes wholly sublime. A river that presses ever onward reminds us too often of the passing of our days, and does not pause to befriend them. Its identity changes forever, but its aspect is the same from day to day, the only variations being due to great events, — a long drought that takes away its spirit, an annual flood that puts a demon of wildness into its current. The twig tossed upon its bosom is out of sight in a moment ; the secret confided to it is lost with the wave that listened. With such a river one can have no such perfect friendship as with a lake, that holds its identity through infinite variations, that mirrors every thought upon its exquisite face, can change in a flash, yet has its own depth and steadfastness, its days of repose, with now and then an hour of still, absolute expansion such as may not occur again for months, but has made the bond of friendship closer and sweetened its uses forever. And something of this fluid companionship one can enjoy with a river, provided it be a slow one, with no perceptible current and windings in which its ultimate end is lost sight of ; a river that has leisure to uphold white water-lilies and spread the delicate feathers of its algæ ; a stream that is shallow and oozy and of no account, but by sheer receptiveness and silent lingering has added the vast sky to its depths.

Floating at noon on that delightful river that winds through the Concord meadows and woods, I have found myself caught between two skies ; the fleecy clouds below looked hardly nearer than those bending above, and the azure above hardly more distant than the under blue. The line between bank and stream was obliterated in the perfect reproduction of every detail of verdure, from low water-plant and drooping flower to thick tangle of green, and to great sweeping curves of branch and massing of foliage bent forward to form, above and below, a frame for the glory of the firmament. Shelley speaks of the forest reflected in the water as being “ more perfect both in shape and hue,” which is the case; for the picture is synthesized, the details of foreground being exquisitely clear, as if washed over, while those of the background, with which they are confused as we see them, are left out or blurred. This is peculiarly striking at sunset, when the masses of hill and wood, as they grow dark, are strongly separated in the reflection from the clear sky-spaces, and, looking into the river, we see an anticipation of the deepening contrast between earth and sky. Reflections in water give us a new horizon. Not only are the angles of incidence and reflection equal, hut the reflected life seems to have its own energy ; the trees do not go downward into the blue, but spring up with litheness and aspiration : for “ up ” and “ down ” are relative terms, with all their seeming contradictions, and here on the river is one of those favored spots where their difference may be forgotten.

Is it mere prejudice in favor of slow, winding rivers, with my special reverence for this beautiful town, that inclines me to ascribe to the Musketaquid a peculiar influence in the moulding of that personality which makes Concord distinct from other New England towns ? Everybody feels its charm, and knows it to be something a little different from the rest of New England. It is sometimes spoken of as like an English village, but it seems to me rather to be tranquilly and profoundly American, a bit of New England which is neither hurried nor neglected, but has had time to develop and to hold fast the best and most distinctive traits of New England life. If the river at Concord had been one of those swift, uneasy, ambitious streams, would the memories of the place have been kept as they are now, clear and alive as the reflections in the still current ? A swift stream would have had to turn mills, and to take an active part in life ; it would have carried away all traces of the early settlers, and left only the name of a Revolutionary battle. The men who gave their lives to the defense of the country, and who helped to build up its integrity and learning, would have been forgotten, or remembered only as a history lesson ; their deeds would have become mere isolated facts, and the meaning of their lives have been lost in the different tenor and achievements of subsequent generations. But the Musketaquid, lying in the lap of its meadows, remembers the day when the Indians lived on its banks, the struggles of the early settlers, the queerness of enthusiasts with an intellectual virgin soil to till, the upright lives of learned and thoughtful villagers. It looks up reverently at the little hill graveyards where the Concord men and women are buried, and where their portraits, all prim in stock or neckerchief, with appendage of cherubwings, the work of a primitive but truly symbolic art, are carved upon the violet slate of the old gravestones, with record of their names and quiet performance. Wings of childlike holiness might well be added to lives of dignity and worth. New England has had many such lives, but in Concord their spirit and traditions have kept a little longer, their influence has been felt a little further, than elsewhere. And here on the Musketaquid we have had what is of infinitely more value than the preservation of tradition, namely, the growth and power of thought. A river that shared Emerson’s solitude, that mirrored and aided his mind, has deserved more of our gratitude and affection than if it had flowed into the land over sands thick with gold-dust. It will always seem after that to reflect something more than the sky. Our country has great rivers and vast water power, but it is not too common to find in it streams that are content to flow even with the grass ; villages where life is neither bustling nor lonely ; minds which can linger to learn, to absorb, and to feel, to love study for its own sake, and to belong to thought.