front, and not far away over the meadows sluggishly steals the river.
It is the most quiet of prospects. Eight acres of good land lie in
front of the house, across the road, and in the rear the estate
extends a little distance over the brow of the hill.

This latter is not good garden-ground, but it yields that other crop
which the poet "gathers in a song". Perhaps the world will forgive our
author that he is not a prize farmer, and makes but an indifferent
figure at the annual cattle-show. We have seen that he is more nomadic
than agricultural. He has wandered from spot to spot, pitching a
temporary tent, then striking it for "fresh fields and pastures new".
It is natural, therefore, that he should call his house "The
Wayside"--a bench upon the road where he sits for a while before
passing on. If the wayfarer finds him upon that bench he shall have
rare pleasure in sitting with him, yet shudder while he stays. For the
pictures of our poet have more than the shadows of Rembrandt. If you
listen to his story, the lonely pastures and dull towns of our dear
old homely New England shall become suddenly as radiant with grace and
terrible with tragedy as any country and any time. The waning
afternoon in Concord, in which the blue-frocked farmers are reaping
and hoeing, shall set in pensive glory. The woods will forever after
be haunted with strange forms. You will hear whispers and music "i'
the air". In the softest morning you will suspect sadness; in the most
fervent noon a nameless terror. It is because the imagination of our
author treads the almost imperceptible line between the natural and
the supernatural. We are all conscious of striking it sometimes. But
we avoid it. We recoil and hurry away, nor dare to glance over our
shoulders lest we should see phantoms. What are these tales of
supernatural appearances, as well authenticated as any news of the
day--and what is the sphere which they imply? What is the more subtle