tretched by
the force of the current, looking as if they were forced to hold on to
their roots with all their might. If for a moment I desisted from
paddling, the head of the boat was swept round by the combined might of
wind and tide. However, I toiled onward stoutly, and, entering the North
Branch, soon found myself floating quietly along a tranquil stream,
sheltered from the breeze by the woods and a lofty hill. The current,
likewise, lingered along so gently that it was merely a pleasure to
propel the boat against it. I never could have conceived that there was
so beautiful a river-scene in Concord as this of the North Branch. The
stream flows through the midmost privacy and deepest heart of a wood,
which, as if but half satisfied with its presence, calm, gentle, and
unobtrusive as it is, seems to crowd upon it, and barely to allow it
passage; for the trees are rooted on the very verge of the water, and
dip their pendent branches into it. On one side there is a high bank,
forming the side of a hill, the Indian name of which I have forgotten,
though Mr. Thoreau told it to me; and here, in some instances, the trees
stand leaning over the river, stretching out their arms as if about to
plunge in headlong. On the other side, the bank is almost on a level
with the water; and there the quiet congregation of trees stood with
feet in the flood, and fringed with foliage down to its very surface.
Vines here and there twine themselves about bushes or aspens or
alder-trees, and hang their clusters (though scanty and infrequent this
season) so that I can reach them from my boat. I scarcely remember a
scene of more complete and lovely seclusion than the passage of the
river through this wood. Even an Indian canoe, in olden times, could not
have floated onward in deeper solitude than my boat. I have never
elsewhere had such an opportunity to observe how much more beautiful
reflection is than what we call reality. The sky, and the clustering
foliage on either hand, and the effect of sunlight as it found its way
through the shade, giving lightsome hues in contrast with the quiet
depth of the prevailing tints,--all these seemed unsurpassably beautiful
when beheld in upper air. But on gazing downward, there they were, the
same even to the minutest particular, yet arrayed in ideal beauty, which
satisfied the spirit incomparably more than the actual scene. I am half
convinced that the reflection is indeed the reality, the real thing
whic