Saturday Evening Gazette/June 7, 1856/Summer Sojournings
Saturday Evening, June 7, 1856.
Summer Sojournings.
The first breath of summer has a moving effect on migratory men, and they are about spreading their wings or packing their trunks for a flight from the city limits to where the airs of ocean or the spicy breath of the woods or the bracing breezes of the hills will impart their invigorating influence to the system, enervated by the heat of the city, reflected from myriad bricks and stones. It is well for a little time so to flee, and there is an enjoyment in the relaxation gained or taken from the incessancy of toil, that compensates for the many months of care that have bound us. Like children out of school, we delight in the sense of freedom on the hills or by the brooks. We draw long breaths, and expand our spacious lungs in a manner not performed in the city over the dull desk. The song of the bird fills us with delight; the clover blossoms we share with the bee in enjoyment of their sweets; the cold brook that runs over the pure sand demands our homage, and we bow to the earth like mussulmen to quaff its coolness; the eye is glad in the purple glory that crowns the distant hills, or in the landscape that reveals its rare loveliness on every side; the devotion of the mount is ours—the spiritual transfiguration—where with holy awe we take off our hats and feel that we stand nearer the Deity than ever before; we joy in the rod and line and reel, and traverse miles in quest of the finny prey; the sighing of the old woods comes with a soothing influence over our spirit, and with the reflection that care killed a cat, and that it shall not have the chance to perform the same office for us, we banish him incontinently, and wear our loose boots, and the fashions of years ago with perfect impunity. There is no Sunday off soundings, and there is no fashion in the woods but hues of health and gladness of heart.
But where shall we go? and variety obtrudes to prevent a ready choice. Nahant stands beckoning to us. A more charming spot for a sea retreat cannot be found, or better landlords that the Messrs. Stevens, whose assiduous attention has won for them a deserved and wide spread praise. Here we have sea and shore—fishing, regattas, bathing and pleasant drives, make up the business of Nahant. The White Mountains have a thousand allurements to view their majestic beauties. The lovers of the sublime may in contemplation of their glories be gratified to the top of their bent. For more quiet attractions, Bellows Falls offer many inducements. It were a hard matter to find a spot more serenely beautiful, or one where the gentle spirit would find nature better in accordance with itself. Pigeon Cove has charms for many, and old usage brings nearly the same circle yearly to its rugged shores. Every railroad leads to some nook where there is “entertainment for man and beast.” The Glades are ever glades for enjoyment and Nantasket is savory with delectable compounds made of trophies of the sea.
Croakers are predicting that visitors from the south will not come north any more to avail themselves of our watering places and bold scenery. We don’t believe it. The Southerners are not all Brookses. There is nothing sectional in love of the beautiful, and the southern heart can beat as admiringly in the contemplation of New England’s beauties as that of her own sons. Herein the South and the North cannot differ. A love of nature produces no estrangement—it is a love that can be poured out lavishly with no jealous fear of favoritism on the part of its object.
We do not hold to a selfish abandonment of home in the summer time, leaving a heavier burden of care on the wife; but, if it can be afforded, it were a pleasant matter to take the wife and weans along and let them too enjoy the pure air and the pleasant sights. With some the season is looked forward to as a season of release from home as well as business, and errant spouses sport therein with a magnificent freedom,—giving small heed to the patient—she must be patient or he wouldn’t have gone—wife at home, with her increased cares on her own and his account. We wish that the conditions may be right, and then pack up. Bring out the leather valise, and the fishing gear from Bradford’s, and impurtenances belonging to summer life, and away to the mountains or the sea shore—any where out of the smell of lime and bricks and the clambake odor of the hot streets. We are almost gone.
