Yet he received a shock of elation as the train had moved slowly along the bridge, carrying him with it; and as he gazed downward upon flowing waters, again he marvelled at what men could do; at the power of men to build; to build a bridge so strong it would carry the weight of a great train, even with his own precious and conscious weight added thereto. And Louis mused about the bridge; why was it so mean, so ugly, so servile, so low-lived? Why could not a bridge perform its task with pride? Why was not a proud bridge built here? Was not New York a great state? Was it not called in his geography “The Empire State”? Was not Albany the Capital City of that state? Then why so shabby an approach? Was not the broad Hudson figuratively a great aqueous frontier between Massachusetts and New York, each state proud in sovereignty? And was not this bridge a presumptive greeting between sovereign states? For surely, the railroad train came straight from proud Boston to exalted Albany? And a veil lifted as there came to his mind a striking verse he had read:
“Why were they proud?
Again I cry aloud
Why in the name of glory
Were they proud?”
And there came up also to him the saying: “By their fruits ye shall know them,” as, lost in imagery, he visioned forth the great Bay State, saluting the great Empire State, saying solemnly: “The Sovereign State of Massachusetts greets the Sovereign State of New York. Let this noble bridge we herewith present you be a sign and a bond of everlasting amity between us, even as Almighty God proclaimed unto Noah of old and his sons: ‘I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.’ ” Thus Louis, ruminating rather fiercely, wished to know what was behind the pestiferous bridge. He keenly felt that man’s amazing power to do, should, in all decency and all reason, be coupled with Romance in the deed. And even more keenly he felt, as his eyesight cleared, that this venomous bridge was a betrayal of all that was best in himself, a denial of all that was best in mankind.
That day they took the New York Central train for Utica. After traversing the roughage, the Mohawk Valley opened to them its placid beauty as in welcome to a new land. And to Louis it was in verity a new land, known to him up to this very present hour as a geographical name—an abstraction—unknown to him and wholly unimagined, in its wealth of open rarity, its beauteous immensity of atmosphere. Here was freedom; here was expanse! Louis ranged with his eyes from near to far, following the sweep of the valley floor from the Mohawk to the distant low-flowing hills, and to and fro caressingly; and as mile after mile of valley passed by, and again mile upon mile Louis’s peaceful mind passed into wonder that such an open world could be; and now he marvelled, not at man’s power and his works, but at the earth itself, and a reverential mood claimed him for its own, as he began in part to see with his own calm eyes what Mother Earth, in her power, had done in her varied moods, and to surmise as best he could what more she had done that he knew not of. And all this while the Mohawk wound its limpid way, gentle as all else; and Louis, softening into an exquisite sympathy, cast his burden upon the valley, and there he found rest; rest from overintrospection, rest from overconcentration; freed from suppression and taboo.
Thus Louis became freshened with new growth as a tree in spring, and a new resilience came to take the place of the old. He was cleansed as by a storm, and purified as by fire; but there was no storm, no fire, no whirlwind—there arose from the valley a still, small voice, and Louis heard the voice and recognized it as his own returning to him, and he was overjoyed and strengthened in his faith and became as one translated into the fresh, free joy of living; for in this valley, this wilderness of light and earth he had found surcease.
Louis turned to Grandpa, whom he found dozing. The hills were coming together; a lurch of the train awakened Grandpa; he regarded Louis with a lazy smile and asked him if he had found the “big things,” and how about the “shut-in life.” Louis at once overflowed concerning the Berkshires, the Hudson, and the Bridge, but said not a word about the valley—that was sacred. When he had finished, Grandpa’s face spread into one of those grimaces that Louis knew but too well as a preliminary to speech; and Grandpa said: “As to your bridge, young man, I know nothing; as to the Hudson, you know nothing; as to your Berkshires, they are an impertinence.”
Grandpa was an incorrigible tease. With inward chuckle, with sweet, succulent sinfulness, he gazed his fill upon a crestfallen face, knowing the while how quickly and how well he could restore its color; then, having gloated long enough, he, as always, relented—but slowly, for effect, he began: “Louis, what good does the study of your stupid geography do you? Suppose you can bound all the states, you haven’t an idea of what the states are. You see a crooked black line on your map and it is marked such or such a river; what do you know about that river? Have your teachers ever told you anything of value about a river? Any river? Have they ever told you that there are rivers and rivers each with its special character? Have they ever given you a word-picture of a river, so that you might
