Out in the country, near a dusty turnpike, and a straight, hot railroad track,—but we'll leave the turnpike, which is well scattered with young gentlemen in high shirt-collars, who drink clouds of dust, and drive hired horses to death,—and we'll leave the railroad where the steam engine, like a tired devil, comes blowing and swearing, with red coals in its mouth, and a cloud of brimstone smoke about its head. We'll climb the rails of yonder gray old fence, and get us straightway into the fields; not much have we to show you there. A narrow path winds among tangled bushes and clumps of dwarfed cedar trees; it shows us, here a grassy nook, hidden in shade, and there a rough old rock, projecting its bald head in the sun; and then it goes winding down and down, until you hear the singing of the brook. Where that brook comes from, you cannot tell; yonder it is hidden under a world of leaves; here it sinks from view under a bridge curiously made up of stone, and timber, and sod; a little to your right it comes into light, dashing over cool rocks and forming little lakes all over beds of smooth gray sand. Follow the path and cross the bridge; we stand in the shade of trees, that are scattered at irregular intervals, along the side of a hill. Here a willow near the brook, with rank grass about its trunks; there a poplar with a trunk like a Grecian column, and leaves like a canopy; and farther on, a mass of oaks, chesnuts, and maples, grouped together, their boughs mingling, and a thicket of bushes and vines around their trunks. So you see, we stand at the bottom of an amphitheater, one side of which is forest, the other low brushwood; beyond the brushwood, a distant glimpse of another forest, and in the center of the scene, the hidden brooklet singing its June-day song.
You look above, and the blue sky is set in an irregular frame of leaves,—leaves now shadowed by a cloud, and now dancing in the sun.
Let us stretch ourselves upon this level bit of sod, where all is shade and quiet, and——
Think? No, sir. Do not think that there is such a creature as a bad man, or a crime in the world. But drink the summer air,—drink the freshness of foliage and flowers,—lull yourself with the song of the brook,—look at the blue sky, and feel that there is a God, and that he is good.
You may depend you will feel better after it. If you don't, why, it is clear that your mind is upon bank stock, or politics,—and there's not much hope of you.
Thus, stretched in the shade, at the bottom of this leafy amphitheater, you'll wrap yourself in summer, and forget the world, which, beyond that wall of trees, is still at its old work,—swearing, lying, fretting, loving, hating, and rushing on all the while at steam-engine speed.
You won't care who's President, or who robbed the treasury of half a million dollars. You'll forget that there is a Pope who washed his hands in the blood of brave men and heroic women. You'll not be anxious about the rate of stock; whether money is tight or easy, shall not trouble you one jot. Thus resting quietly at the bottom of your amphitheater in the country, you'll feel that you are in the church of God, which has sky for roof, leaves for walls, grassy sod for floor, and for music,—hark! Did you ever hear organ or orchestra that could match that? The hum of bees, the bubble of brooks, the air rustling among the leaves, all woven together, in one dreamy hymn, that melts into your soul, and takes you up to heaven, quick as a sunbeam flies!
And when the sun goes behind the trees, and the dell is filled with broad gleams of golden light and deep masses of shade, you may watch the moon as she steals into sight, right over your head, in the very center of the glimpse of blue sky. You may hear the low murmur which tells you that the day's work is almost done, and that the solemn night has come to wrap you in her stillness.
And ere you leave the dell, just give one moment of thought to those you love, whose eyes are shut by the graveyard sod,—think of them, not as dead, but as living and beautiful among those stars,—and then taking the path over the brook, turn your steps to the world again.
Hark! Here it comes on the steam-engine's roar and whistle,—that bustling, hating, fighting world, which, like the steam-engine, rushes onward, with hot coals at its heart, and a brimstone cloud above it.