n a mood made half of tenderness, and half of laughter, i begin to speak of her: in tenderness, since to name her is a joy; and in laughter, for that i cannot for sheer inability keep the knowledge of her to myself; partly because she had many liegemen and lovers who sung of her aloud to the tell-tale winds before i found my way to her blessed door, but most of all because it would strangely savor of injustice to appropriate so sweet a thing as her favor, without sharing it with the first comer found worthy. therefore this delight of mine is no more mine than thine, and his, and theirs, and ours; and who would have it otherwise?
she dwelt of old in a tranquil vale apart from villages, with little society save that of the scarlet tanager and the periwinkle-blossom. such visitors as entered the "piny aisles" that led into her presence, were those only who reverenced her truly. she could not abide harshness and scorn, and they were always gentle; she sat in her fragrant solitude as one that broods on mysteries, and they, in sympathy, sat beside her, one by one, and spake ever after with the enthusiasm and the unworldliness of children. but the immaculate stillness which she chose for her dwelling has long been assailed. revellers came from the city to riot in her gardens, and to disport themselves in her halls. railway trains thundered hourly over against her hallowed threshold. often and often, in passing by, you may yet hear the sound of inharmonious voices, and catch a glimpse of her fair downcast brow, as she looks mutely out upon the invaders.
amid this "heavy change" she is unchanged and unchangeable. her pure serenity was a sharp rebuke to our doubting, when we first gathered around her, after the dread of missing the charm which had made her dear. we had known many of her kindred, and each of them, howsoever lovely, seemed coarsened and cheapened to the sensitive eye, by over-much familiarity with crowds. but our celestial lady moves like penelope, amid throngs of her false suitors, with thoughts disentangled from their clamor, in forbearance and patience and hope and honor, the ineffable depths of her nature evermore unjarred. long ago, and in the beginning of our affection for her, we twain found her asleep in the flooded noonday sunshine, having at her feet and at her head a sombre guard of pines; and behind them, the vagrant "glad light green" of spring; and again, above their topmost pennon, irregular amethystine clouds, visionary mountain-ranges, that climbed, peak on peak, to front
"thee, lincoln, on thy sovereign hill."
we flung ourselves in the young grass, and delayed there, lest our footsteps should break that exquisite slumber; and so awed, and so rejoicing, looked upon her whom we had travelled far to see. it was her exceeding comeliness that made the responsive gleam dance from eye to eye; but it was her sanctity, virginal as when the spirit first breathed upon it and bade it be, that held our lips hushed then, our memory secure and deferent ever after. over this unforgotten glory of ours, saint francis of assisi might have breathed his soft hymn of thanksgiving for "my sister, who is very humble, useful, precious, and chaste." crime should be wary of her bright presence; weariness should forget its landmarks, dreaming beside her; nobleness overwrought and embittered should take courage, and trust the world anew, as by a miracle, for her sake.
many, many times, but especially at the breaking of the frosts, when sap begins to thrill in the naked boughs, comes the desire to approach her peaceful abiding-place, and learn, by moon or sun, what more of winsomeness or splendor one year hath brought her. what more can it ever bring? for her soul is crystalline and candid, and on her forehead shines perpetual youth. she is one of the touch-stones of our finer selves. verily, with this secluded friend of friends, "in profanity, we are absent; in holiness, near; in sin, estranged; in innocence, reconciled." her history is in hearts rather than in books; her unprofanable beauty is the special care of heaven; and we new englanders that love her, and sometimes come about her, harping her praises with sweet extravagance, have no name for her which men shall recognize but that of walden water.
