To the Same.

Northampton, Aug. 22, 1875.

. . . Shall I then attempt to celebrate the glories of Ashfield, and especially of the last day of my visit? Or would it not be more in keeping with my inveterate habits of thought to account for the seeming inconsistency of my deserting your

paradise, and staying so long here, — in this very centre of dog-day weather?

While I meditated on the irrationality of such a proceeding (or non-proceeding), the sensible effect of the weather got ahead of any rational considerations upon it. I have not cared to move (spontaneously) since I came; and numbers of little reasons have bound down to the ground by small threads my great sensible purpose to get back to sea air. I roused myself, however, so far this morning as to take a short tramp with my nephew Fred, a boy of thirteen, to the summit of Mount Holyoke. The air had a whiff of Ashfield in it; and the always beautiful view was varied at a later hour by picturesque clouds and distant showers along the great valley and over the hills. I mean now to go to Cambridge on Tuesday.

It seems much more than a week since, last Tuesday morning, I set out on the stage-top, with the driver, in a drizzling fog. I was reduced to interesting myself in the talk of the driver with a former schoolmate of his, just returned from the Far West on a wedding journey with his bride. Think of my being seriously interested to catch and remember the points of humor in this talk! But they were not memorable, and have all escaped me. Only the serious fact remains, that a large number of Ashfield youths — the more energetic of them — are scattered widely; some gone to larger towns, and some to the far Western settlements. This was a glimpse of the process which has been going on for more than two generations in all the lesser towns of Massachusetts. And I was reminded of a theoretical consequence of this fact, — one of my pet speculations,—which a lately settled Northampton physician, an old schoolmate of mine, long resident in the hills, entirely indorses; namely, that the physical deterioration of Massachusetts populations, resulting in so large a proportion of persons afflicted with nervous and mental

disorders, is due, not merely to hard fare, but to the selection and removal from the population of those best able and most determined to better themselves by emigration. This is, of course, a normal fact, or universal social law, so far as the relation of the country to large towns is concerned; though in England, and other parts of the world, it is not, of course, carried so far as it has been with us.

A rather interesting bit of youthful reminiscence occurred to me the other day. A part of an herbarium which I collected in my boyhood, and which I had supposed entirely destroyed by a fire many years ago, had come to light in the garret among the things saved from the fire. My examination of it was a partial exemplification of a position I held in a talk with Miss Jane a few (by the Almanac) days ago, on the illusions of our memories of childhood,—a singular impression, on comparing memory with these documents, of familiarity and strangeness combined. The herbarium, or this remnant, is in a good state of preservation (probably saved from the insect teeth of time by the smoking it got), and seems creditable for a boy; but the botanical names, written in an unformed hand, and other points of strangeness, almost made me doubt the identity of this youthful collector with your correspondent; and a considerable number of the plants are perfect strangers to me now, though, of course, very carefully examined by their descriptions then.

As a converse experience, I took up the current number of a Northampton weekly newspaper late last evening, and, glancing at its literary matters, saw, under the heading “Educational,” a short piece on “The Memory.” Reading the first sentence, it had to me a strange familiarity; and then I discovered that the piece was an extract from my Todhunter article, The Conflict of Studies: North American Review for July, 1875; Philosophical Discussions, p. 267. ⁸⁸ and that my name (not that of the Review) was

appended. “This is fame!” I said; but, as the family had all gone to bed, I had to wait till morning to show them how a prophet had been recognized even in his own town.

. . . But all that I have said is not celebrating the praises of Ashfield, — unless it be by a theme which might appear to you to appear to himself to be one of its transient and departed glories. Nothing but poetry, I am sure, could sound the true praises adequately; and my muse is not equal to that, though in my youth she also undertook it. Late in youth, however, in a mood of scientific reformation and repentance, I burned up all my performances of this sort (and they were considerable in amount), destroying them more effectively, it seems, than the fire did the botanical labors of boyhood. Now, only for narration, exposition, description, argument, any thing didactic, — are the quills I wield. To throw a new light on old objects, — “a light that never was,” &c., — this I only emulate in abstract matters. There is a sort of resemblance between philosophy and poetry. In neither are the objects or themes matters of novel interest: in both, it is the vision, not the object, that is brought with fresh novelty to consciousness; and novelty in the object is only an aid or accessory to sight,— a new light, not a new task for it. Philosophy is poetry in the abstract, — “the vision and the faculty divine.” And poetry is philosophy in the concrete. And Ashfield, with its walks and talks, its drives and discussions, is both! Could I say more?

In the last letter, Chauncey refers to a conversation, at Northampton, with a physician who had formerly been his schoolmate. This was Dr. Thomas Gilfillan, See p. 14. ⁸⁹ formerly of Cummington, who had lately returned to his old home, and whom Chauncey had not met for many years. Dr. Gilfillan’s account of this meeting will interest those who remember

Chauncey’s quiet, easy ways among his intimates: “In the summer of 1875,” he says, “he made his last visit to his early home. We met again after nearly thirty years of separation. How quietly he would drop into my room of an evening for a chat! Taking from his pocket his corn-cob pipe, and the stem and tobacco, he proceeded to mount, load, and light it, insisting that a corn-cob made a most superior pipe. He smoked, and as he smoked he talked; and amid the pleasant fumes of his homely pipe we chatted, — sometimes of old times, sometimes of science, sometimes of medicine; often we drifted into or over many subjects; but, whatever the subject, the amount of information he would bring to bear upon it was wonderful. His memory seemed to have grasped the most salient facts, and to hold them ever ready for his use. He was at home on medical topics, — familiar with the newest and most approved remedies, their use, effects, and even their methods of preparation.

“These were happy evenings; and, as they passed, I could see more and more of the old friend, as he was of old, so like and still so different; but, though years had wrought such changes in him, he was the same quiet, companionable friend as in days gone by. He, too, seemed to enjoy his stay with us, reluctant to see its end. Several times he named the day for his departure; and still its evening would find him in my room, with his friendly cob pipe, smoking and chatting. He seemed to linger, loath to leave, as though he had a premonition that this was the last time. We parted but a few short weeks, and then the silver cord was loosed.”