{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_205/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_205","id":"gutenberg_205","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/205","summary":null,"tags":["Authors, American -- 19th century -- Biography","Category: American Literature","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Civil disobedience","Government, Resistance to","Natural history -- Massachusetts -- Walden Woods","Solitude","Thoreau, Henry David, 1817-1862 -- Homes and haunts -- Massachusetts -- Walden Woods","Walden Woods (Mass.) -- Social life and customs","Wilderness areas -- Massachusetts -- Walden Woods"],"text":"WALDEN\n\nand\n\nON THE DUTY OF CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE\n\nby Henry David Thoreau\n\n\n\n\nContents\n\n\n WALDEN\n\n Economy\n Where I Lived, and What I Lived For\n Reading\n Sounds\n Solitude\n Visitors\n The Bean-Field\n The Village\n The Ponds\n Baker Farm\n Higher Laws\n Brute Neighbors\n House-Warming\n Former Inhabitants and Winter Visitors\n Winter Animals\n The Pond in Winter\n Spring\n Conclusion\n\n ON THE DUTY OF CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE\n\n\n\n\n    _\"I do not propose to write an ode to dejection, but to brag as\n    lustily as chanticleer in the morning, standing on his roost,\n    if only to wake my neighbors up.\"_\n\n\n\n\nWALDEN\n\nEconomy\n\nWhen I wrote the following pages, or rather the bulk of them, I lived\nalone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor, in a house which I had\nbuilt myself, on the shore of Walden Pond, in Concord, Massachusetts,\nand earned my living by the labor of my hands only. I lived there two\nyears and two months. At present I am a sojourner in civilized life\nagain.\n\nI should not obtrude my affairs so much on the notice of my readers if\nvery particular inquiries had not been made by my townsmen concerning\nmy mode of life, which some would call impertinent, though they do not\nappear to me at all impertinent, but, considering the circumstances,\nvery natural and pertinent. Some have asked what I got to eat; if I did\nnot feel lonesome; if I was not afraid; and the like. Others have been\ncurious to learn what portion of my income I devoted to charitable\npurposes; and some, who have large families, how many poor children I\nmaintained. I will therefore ask those of my readers who feel no\nparticular interest in me to pardon me if I undertake to answer some of\nthese questions in this book. In most books, the _I_, or first person,\nis omitted; in this it will be retained; that, in respect to egotism,\nis the main difference. We commonly do not remember that it is, after\nall, always the first person that is speaking. I should not talk so\nmuch about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well.\nUnfortunately, I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my\nexperience. Moreover, I, on my side, require of every writer, first or\nlast, a simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely what\nhe has heard of other men\u2019s lives; some such account as he would send\nto his kindred from a distant land; for if he has lived sincerely, it\nmust have been in a distant land to me. Perhaps these pages are more\nparticularly addressed to poor students. As for the rest of my readers,\nthey will accept such portions as apply to them. I trust that none will\nstretch the seams in putting on the coat, for it may do good service to\nhim whom it fits.\n\nI would fain say something, not so much concerning the Chinese and\nSandwich Islanders as you who read these pages, who are said to live in\nNew England; something about your condition, especially your outward\ncondition or circumstances in this world, in this town, what it is,\nwhether it is necessary that it be as bad as it is, whether it cannot\nbe improved as well as not. I have travelled a good deal in Concord;\nand everywhere, in shops, and offices, and fields, the inhabitants have\nappeared to me to be doing penance in a thousand remarkable ways. What\nI have heard of Brahmins sitting exposed to four fires and looking in\nthe face of the sun; or hanging suspended, with their heads downward,\nover flames; or looking at the heavens over their shoulders \u201cuntil it\nbecomes impossible for them to resume their natural position, while\nfrom the twist of the neck nothing but liquids can pass into the\nstomach;\u201d or dwelling, chained for life, at the foot of a tree; or\nmeasuring with their bodies, like caterpillars, the breadth of vast\nempires; or standing on one leg on the tops of pillars,\u2014even these\nforms of conscious penance are hardly more incredible and astonishing\nthan the scenes which I daily witness. The twelve labors of Hercules\nwere trifling in comparison with those which my neighbors have\nundertaken; for they were only twelve, and had an end; but I could\nnever see that these men slew or captured any monster or finished any\nlabor. They have no friend Iolas to burn with a hot iron the root of\nthe hydra\u2019s head, but as soon as one head is crushed, two spring up.\n\nI see young men, my townsmen, whose misfortune it is to have inherited\nfarms, houses, barns, cattle, and farming tools; for these are more\neasily acquired than got rid of. Better if they had been born in the\nopen pasture and suckled by a wolf, that they might have seen with\nclearer eyes what field they were called to labor in. Who made them\nserfs of the soil? Why should they eat their sixty acres, when man is\ncondemned to eat only his peck of dirt? Why should they begin digging\ntheir graves as soon as they are born? They have got to live a man\u2019s\nlife, pushing all these things before them, and get on as well as they\ncan. How many a poor immortal soul have I met well nigh crushed and\nsmothered under its load, creeping down the road of life, pushing\nbefore it a barn seventy-five feet by forty, its Augean stables never\ncleansed, and one hundred acres of land, tillage, mowing, pasture, and\nwood-lot! The portionless, who struggle with no such unnecessary\ninherited encumbrances, find it labor enough to subdue and cultivate a\nfew cubic feet of flesh.\n\nBut men labor under a mistake. The better part of the man is soon\nplowed into the soil for compost. By a seeming fate, commonly called\nnecessity, they are employed, as it says in an old book, laying up\ntreasures which moth and rust will corrupt and thieves break through\nand steal. It is a fool\u2019s life, as they will find when they get to the\nend of it, if not before. It is said that Deucalion and Pyrrha created\nmen by throwing stones over their heads behind them:\u2014\n\n     Inde genus durum sumus, experiensque laborum,\n     Et documenta damus qu\u00e2 simus origine nati.\n\nOr, as Raleigh rhymes it in his sonorous way,\u2014\n\n     \u201cFrom thence our kind hard-hearted is, enduring pain and care,\n     Approving that our bodies of a stony nature are.\u201d\n\nSo much for a blind obedience to a blundering oracle, throwing the\nstones over their heads behind them, and not seeing where they fell.\n\nMost men, even in this comparatively free country, through mere\nignorance and mistake, are so occupied with the factitious cares and\nsuperfluously coarse labors of life that its finer fruits cannot be\nplucked by them. Their fingers, from excessive toil, are too clumsy and\ntremble too much for that. Actually, the laboring man has not leisure\nfor a true integrity day by day; he cannot afford to sustain the\nmanliest relations to men; his labor would be depreciated in the\nmarket. He has no time to be anything but a machine. How can he\nremember well his ignorance\u2014which his growth requires\u2014who has so often\nto use his knowledge? We should feed and clothe him gratuitously\nsometimes, and recruit him with our cordials, before we judge of him.\nThe finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruits, can be\npreserved only by the most delicate handling. Yet we do not treat\nourselves nor one another thus tenderly.\n\nSome of you, we all know, are poor, find it hard to live, are\nsometimes, as it were, gasping for breath. I have no doubt that some of\nyou who read this book are unable to pay for all the dinners which you\nhave actually eaten, or for the coats and shoes which are fast wearing\nor are already worn out, and have come to this page to spend borrowed\nor stolen time, robbing your creditors of an hour. It is very evident\nwhat mean and sneaking lives many of you live, for my sight has been\nwhetted by experience; always on the limits, trying to get into\nbusiness and trying to get out of debt, a very ancient slough, called\nby the Latins _\u00e6s alienum_, another\u2019s brass, for some of their coins\nwere made of brass; still living, and dying, and buried by this other\u2019s\nbrass; always promising to pay, promising to pay, tomorrow, and dying\ntoday, insolvent; seeking to curry favor, to get custom, by how many\nmodes, only not state-prison offences; lying, flattering, voting,\ncontracting yourselves into a nutshell of civility or dilating into an\natmosphere of thin and vaporous generosity, that you may persuade your\nneighbor to let you make his shoes, or his hat, or his coat, or his\ncarriage, or import his groceries for him; making yourselves sick, that\nyou may lay up something against a sick day, something to be tucked\naway in an old chest, or in a stocking behind the plastering, or, more\nsafely, in the brick bank; no matter where, no matter how much or how\nlittle.\n\nI sometimes wonder that we can be so frivolous, I may almost say, as to\nattend to the gross but somewhat foreign form of servitude called Negro\nSlavery, there are so many keen and subtle masters that enslave both\nnorth and south. It is hard to have a southern overseer; it is worse to\nhave a northern one; but worst of all when you are the slave-driver of\nyourself. Talk of a divinity in man! Look at the teamster on the\nhighway, wending to market by day or night; does any divinity stir\nwithin him? His highest duty to fodder and water his horses! What is\nhis destiny to him compared with the shipping interests? Does not he\ndrive for Squire Make-a-stir? How godlike, how immortal, is he? See how\nhe cowers and sneaks, how vaguely all the day he fears, not being\nimmortal nor divine, but the slave and prisoner of his own opinion of\nhimself, a fame won by his own deeds. Public opinion is a weak tyrant\ncompared with our own private opinion. What a man thinks of himself,\nthat it is which determines, or rather indicates, his fate.\nSelf-emancipation even in the West Indian provinces of the fancy and\nimagination,\u2014what Wilberforce is there to bring that about? Think,\nalso, of the ladies of the land weaving toilet cushions against the\nlast day, not to betray too green an interest in their fates! As if you\ncould kill time without injuring eternity.\n\nThe mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called\nresignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go\ninto the desperate country, and have to console yourself with the\nbravery of minks and muskrats. A stereotyped but unconscious despair is\nconcealed even under what are called the games and amusements of\nmankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work. But it is\na characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.\n\nWhen we consider what, to use the words of the catechism, is the chief\nend of man, and what are the true necessaries and means of life, it\nappears as if men had deliberately chosen the common mode of living\nbecause they preferred it to any other. Yet they honestly think there\nis no choice left. But alert and healthy natures remember that the sun\nrose clear. It is never too late to give up our prejudices. No way of\nthinking or doing, however ancient, can be trusted without proof. What\neverybody echoes or in silence passes by as true to-day may turn out to\nbe falsehood to-morrow, mere smoke of opinion, which some had trusted\nfor a cloud that would sprinkle fertilizing rain on their fields. What\nold people say you cannot do you try and find that you can. Old deeds\nfor old people, and new deeds for new. Old people did not know enough\nonce, perchance, to fetch fresh fuel to keep the fire a-going; new\npeople put a little dry wood under a pot, and are whirled round the\nglobe with the speed of birds, in a way to kill old people, as the\nphrase is. Age is no better, hardly so well, qualified for an\ninstructor as youth, for it has not profited so much as it has lost.\nOne may almost doubt if the wisest man has learned any thing of\nabsolute value by living. Practically, the old have no very important\nadvice to give the young, their own experience has been so partial, and\ntheir lives have been such miserable failures, for private reasons, as\nthey must believe; and it may be that they have some faith left which\nbelies that experience, and they are only less young than they were. I\nhave lived some thirty years on this planet, and I have yet to hear the\nfirst syllable of valuable or even earnest advice from my seniors. They\nhave told me nothing, and probably cannot tell me any thing to the\npurpose. Here is life, an experiment to a great extent untried by me;\nbut it does not avail me that they have tried it. If I have any\nexperience which I think valuable, I am sure to reflect that this my\nMentors said nothing about.\n\nOne farmer says to me, \u201cYou cannot live on vegetable food solely, for\nit furnishes nothing to make bones with;\u201d and so he religiously devotes\na part of his day to supplying his system with the raw material of\nbones; walking all the while he talks behind his oxen, which, with\nvegetable-made bones, jerk him and his lumbering plough along in spite\nof every obstacle. Some things are really necessaries of life in some\ncircles, the most helpless and diseased, which in others are luxuries\nmerely, and in others still are entirely unknown.\n\nThe whole ground of human life seems to some to have been gone over by\ntheir predecessors, both the heights and the valleys, and all things to\nhave been cared for. According to Evelyn, \u201cthe wise Solomon prescribed\nordinances for the very distances of trees; and the Roman pr\u00e6tors have\ndecided how often you may go into your neighbor\u2019s land to gather the\nacorns which fall on it without trespass, and what share belongs to\nthat neighbor.\u201d Hippocrates has even left directions how we should cut\nour nails; that is, even with the ends of the fingers, neither shorter\nnor longer. Undoubtedly the very tedium and ennui which presume to have\nexhausted the variety and the joys of life are as old as Adam. But\nman\u2019s capacities have never been measured; nor are we to judge of what\nhe can do by any precedents, so little has been tried. Whatever have\nbeen thy failures hitherto, \u201cbe not afflicted, my child, for who shall\nassign to thee what thou hast left undone?\u201d\n\nWe might try our lives by a thousand simple tests; as, for instance,\nthat the same sun which ripens my beans illumines at once a system of\nearths like ours. If I had remembered this it would have prevented some\nmistakes. This was not the light in which I hoed them. The stars are\nthe apexes of what wonderful triangles! What distant and different\nbeings in the various mansions of the universe are contemplating the\nsame one at the same moment! Nature and human life are as various as\nour several constitutions. Who shall say what prospect life offers to\nanother? Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through\neach other\u2019s eyes for an instant? We should live in all the ages of the\nworld in an hour; ay, in all the worlds of the ages. History, Poetry,\nMythology!\u2014I know of no reading of another\u2019s experience so startling\nand informing as this would be.\n\nThe greater part of what my neighbors call good I believe in my soul to\nbe bad, and if I repent of anything, it is very likely to be my good\nbehavior. What demon possessed me that I behaved so well? You may say\nthe wisest thing you can, old man,\u2014you who have lived seventy years,\nnot without honor of a kind,\u2014I hear an irresistible voice which invites\nme away from all that. One generation abandons the enterprises of\nanother like stranded vessels.\n\nI think that we may safely trust a good deal more than we do. We may\nwaive just so much care of ourselves as we honestly bestow elsewhere.\nNature is as well adapted to our weakness as to our strength. The\nincessant anxiety and strain of some is a well nigh incurable form of\ndisease. We are made to exaggerate the importance of what work we do;\nand yet how much is not done by us! or, what if we had been taken sick?\nHow vigilant we are! determined not to live by faith if we can avoid\nit; all the day long on the alert, at night we unwillingly say our\nprayers and commit ourselves to uncertainties. So thoroughly and\nsincerely are we compelled to live, reverencing our life, and denying\nthe possibility of change. This is the only way, we say; but there are\nas many ways as there can be drawn radii from one centre. All change is\na miracle to contemplate; but it is a miracle which is taking place\nevery instant. Confucius said, \u201cTo know that we know what we know, and\nthat we do not know what we do not know, that is true knowledge.\u201d When\none man has reduced a fact of the imagination to be a fact to his\nunderstanding, I foresee that all men at length establish their lives\non that basis.\n\n\n\nLet us consider for a moment what most of the trouble and anxiety which\nI have referred to is about, and how much it is necessary that we be\ntroubled, or, at least, careful. It would be some advantage to live a\nprimitive and frontier life, though in the midst of an outward\ncivilization, if only to learn what are the gross necessaries of life\nand what methods have been taken to obtain them; or even to look over\nthe old day-books of the merchants, to see what it was that men most\ncommonly bought at the stores, what they stored, that is, what are the\ngrossest groceries. For the improvements of ages have had but little\ninfluence on the essential laws of man\u2019s existence; as our skeletons,\nprobably, are not to be distinguished from those of our ancestors.\n\nBy the words, _necessary of life_, I mean whatever, of all that man\nobtains by his own exertions, has been from the first, or from long use\nhas become, so important to human life that few, if any, whether from\nsavageness, or poverty, or philosophy, ever attempt to do without it.\nTo many creatures there is in this sense but one necessary of life,\nFood. To the bison of the prairie it is a few inches of palatable\ngrass, with water to drink; unless he seeks the Shelter of the forest\nor the mountain\u2019s shadow. None of the brute creation requires more than\nFood and Shelter. The necessaries of life for man in this climate may,\naccurately enough, be distributed under the several heads of Food,\nShelter, Clothing, and Fuel; for not till we have secured these are we\nprepared to entertain the true problems of life with freedom and a\nprospect of success. Man has invented, not only houses, but clothes and\ncooked food; and possibly from the accidental discovery of the warmth\nof fire, and the consequent use of it, at first a luxury, arose the\npresent necessity to sit by it. We observe cats and dogs acquiring the\nsame second nature. By proper Shelter and Clothing we legitimately\nretain our own internal heat; but with an excess of these, or of Fuel,\nthat is, with an external heat greater than our own internal, may not\ncookery properly be said to begin? Darwin, the naturalist, says of the\ninhabitants of Tierra del Fuego, that while his own party, who were\nwell clothed and sitting close to a fire, were far from too warm, these\nnaked savages, who were farther off, were observed, to his great\nsurprise, \u201cto be streaming with perspiration at undergoing such a\nroasting.\u201d So, we are told, the New Hollander goes naked with impunity,\nwhile the European shivers in his clothes. Is it impossible to combine\nthe hardiness of these savages with the intellectualness of the\ncivilized man? According to Liebig, man\u2019s body is a stove, and food the\nfuel which keeps up the internal combustion in the lungs. In cold\nweather we eat more, in warm less. The animal heat is the result of a\nslow combustion, and disease and death take place when this is too\nrapid; or for want of fuel, or from some defect in the draught, the\nfire goes out. Of course the vital heat is not to be confounded with\nfire; but so much for analogy. It appears, therefore, from the above\nlist, that the expression, _animal life_, is nearly synonymous with the\nexpression, _animal heat_; for while Food may be regarded as the Fuel\nwhich keeps up the fire within us,\u2014and Fuel serves only to prepare that\nFood or to increase the warmth of our bodies by addition from\nwithout,\u2014Shelter and Clothing also serve only to retain the _heat_ thus\ngenerated and absorbed.\n\nThe grand necessity, then, for our bodies, is to keep warm, to keep the\nvital heat in us. What pains we accordingly take, not only with our\nFood, and Clothing, and Shelter, but with our beds, which are our\nnight-clothes, robbing the nests and breasts of birds to prepare this\nshelter within a shelter, as the mole has its bed of grass and leaves\nat the end of its burrow! The poor man is wont to complain that this is\na cold world; and to cold, no less physical than social, we refer\ndirectly a great part of our ails. The summer, in some climates, makes\npossible to man a sort of Elysian life. Fuel, except to cook his Food,\nis then unnecessary; the sun is his fire, and many of the fruits are\nsufficiently cooked by its rays; while Food generally is more various,\nand more easily obtained, and Clothing and Shelter are wholly or half\nunnecessary. At the present day, and in this country, as I find by my\nown experience, a few implements, a knife, an axe, a spade, a\nwheelbarrow, &c., and for the studious, lamplight, stationery, and\naccess to a few books, rank next to necessaries, and can all be\nobtained at a trifling cost. Yet some, not wise, go to the other side\nof the globe, to barbarous and unhealthy regions, and devote themselves\nto trade for ten or twenty years, in order that they may live,\u2014that is,\nkeep comfortably warm,\u2014and die in New England at last. The luxuriously\nrich are not simply kept comfortably warm, but unnaturally hot; as I\nimplied before, they are cooked, of course _\u00e0 la mode_.\n\nMost of the luxuries, and many of the so called comforts of life, are\nnot only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of\nmankind. With respect to luxuries and comforts, the wisest have ever\nlived a more simple and meagre life than the poor. The ancient\nphilosophers, Chinese, Hindoo, Persian, and Greek, were a class than\nwhich none has been poorer in outward riches, none so rich in inward.\nWe know not much about them. It is remarkable that _we_ know so much of\nthem as we do. The same is true of the more modern reformers and\nbenefactors of their race. None can be an impartial or wise observer of\nhuman life but from the vantage ground of what we should call voluntary\npoverty. Of a life of luxury the fruit is luxury, whether in\nagriculture, or commerce, or literature, or art. There are nowadays\nprofessors of philosophy, but not philosophers. Yet it is admirable to\nprofess because it was once admirable to live. To be a philosopher is\nnot merely to have subtle thoughts, nor even to found a school, but so\nto love wisdom as to live according to its dictates, a life of\nsimplicity, independence, magnanimity, and trust. It is to solve some\nof the problems of life, not only theoretically, but practically. The\nsuccess of great scholars and thinkers is commonly a courtier-like\nsuccess, not kingly, not manly. They make shift to live merely by\nconformity, practically as their fathers did, and are in no sense the\nprogenitors of a nobler race of men. But why do men degenerate ever?\nWhat makes families run out? What is the nature of the luxury which\nenervates and destroys nations? Are we sure that there is none of it in\nour own lives? The philosopher is in advance of his age even in the\noutward form of his life. He is not fed, sheltered, clothed, warmed,\nlike his contemporaries. How can a man be a philosopher and not\nmaintain his vital heat by better methods than other men?\n\nWhen a man is warmed by the several modes which I have described, what\ndoes he want next? Surely not more warmth of the same kind, as more and\nricher food, larger and more splendid houses, finer and more abundant\nclothing, more numerous incessant and hotter fires, and the like. When\nhe has obtained those things which are necessary to life, there is\nanother alternative than to obtain the superfluities; and that is, to\nadventure on life now, his vacation from humbler toil having commenced.\nThe soil, it appears, is suited to the seed, for it has sent its\nradicle downward, and it may now send its shoot upward also with\nconfidence. Why has man rooted himself thus firmly in the earth, but\nthat he may rise in the same proportion into the heavens above?\u2014for the\nnobler plants are valued for the fruit they bear at last in the air and\nlight, far from the ground, and are not treated like the humbler\nesculents, which, though they may be biennials, are cultivated only\ntill they have perfected their root, and often cut down at top for this\npurpose, so that most would not know them in their flowering season.\n\nI do not mean to prescribe rules to strong and valiant natures, who\nwill mind their own affairs whether in heaven or hell, and perchance\nbuild more magnificently and spend more lavishly than the richest,\nwithout ever impoverishing themselves, not knowing how they live,\u2014if,\nindeed, there are any such, as has been dreamed; nor to those who find\ntheir encouragement and inspiration in precisely the present condition\nof things, and cherish it with the fondness and enthusiasm of\nlovers,\u2014and, to some extent, I reckon myself in this number; I do not\nspeak to those who are well employed, in whatever circumstances, and\nthey know whether they are well employed or not;\u2014but mainly to the mass\nof men who are discontented, and idly complaining of the hardness of\ntheir lot or of the times, when they might improve them. There are some\nwho complain most energetically and inconsolably of any, because they\nare, as they say, doing their duty. I also have in my mind that\nseemingly wealthy, but most terribly impoverished class of all, who\nhave accumulated dross, but know not how to use it, or get rid of it,\nand thus have forged their own golden or silver fetters.\n\n\n\nIf I should attempt to tell how I have desired to spend my life in\nyears past, it would probably surprise those of my readers who are\nsomewhat acquainted with its actual history; it would certainly\nastonish those who know nothing about it. I will only hint at some of\nthe enterprises which I have cherished.\n\nIn any weather, at any hour of the day or night, I have been anxious to\nimprove the nick of time, and notch it on my stick too; to stand on the\nmeeting of two eternities, the past and future, which is precisely the\npresent moment; to toe that line. You will pardon some obscurities, for\nthere are more secrets in my trade than in most men\u2019s, and yet not\nvoluntarily kept, but inseparable from its very nature. I would gladly\ntell all that I know about it, and never paint \u201cNo Admittance\u201d on my\ngate.\n\nI long ago lost a hound, a bay horse, and a turtle-dove, and am still\non their trail. Many are the travellers I have spoken concerning them,\ndescribing their tracks and what calls they answered to. I have met one\nor two who had heard the hound, and the tramp of the horse, and even\nseen the dove disappear behind a cloud, and they seemed as anxious to\nrecover them as if they had lost them themselves.\n\nTo anticipate, not the sunrise and the dawn merely, but, if possible,\nNature herself! How many mornings, summer and winter, before yet any\nneighbor was stirring about his business, have I been about mine! No\ndoubt, many of my townsmen have met me returning from this enterprise,\nfarmers starting for Boston in the twilight, or woodchoppers going to\ntheir work. It is true, I never assisted the sun materially in his\nrising, but, doubt not, it was of the last importance only to be\npresent at it.\n\nSo many autumn, ay, and winter days, spent outside the town, trying to\nhear what was in the wind, to hear and carry it express! I well-nigh\nsunk all my capital in it, and lost my own breath into the bargain,\nrunning in the face of it. If it had concerned either of the political\nparties, depend upon it, it would have appeared in the Gazette with the\nearliest intelligence. At other times watching from the observatory of\nsome cliff or tree, to telegraph any new arrival; or waiting at evening\non the hill-tops for the sky to fall, that I might catch something,\nthough I never caught much, and that, manna-wise, would dissolve again\nin the sun.\n\nFor a long time I was reporter to a journal, of no very wide\ncirculation, whose editor has never yet seen fit to print the bulk of\nmy contributions, and, as is too common with writers, I got only my\nlabor for my pains. However, in this case my pains were their own\nreward.\n\nFor many years I was self-appointed inspector of snow storms and rain\nstorms, and did my duty faithfully; surveyor, if not of highways, then\nof forest paths and all across-lot routes, keeping them open, and\nravines bridged and passable at all seasons, where the public heel had\ntestified to their utility.\n\nI have looked after the wild stock of the town, which give a faithful\nherdsman a good deal of trouble by leaping fences; and I have had an\neye to the unfrequented nooks and corners of the farm; though I did not\nalways know whether Jonas or Solomon worked in a particular field\nto-day; that was none of my business. I have watered the red\nhuckleberry, the sand cherry and the nettle tree, the red pine and the\nblack ash, the white grape and the yellow violet, which might have\nwithered else in dry seasons.\n\nIn short, I went on thus for a long time, I may say it without\nboasting, faithfully minding my business, till it became more and more\nevident that my townsmen would not after all admit me into the list of\ntown officers, nor make my place a sinecure with a moderate allowance.\nMy accounts, which I can swear to have kept faithfully, I have, indeed,\nnever got audited, still less accepted, still less paid and settled.\nHowever, I have not set my heart on that.\n\nNot long since, a strolling Indian went to sell baskets at the house of\na well-known lawyer in my neighborhood. \u201cDo you wish to buy any\nbaskets?\u201d he asked. \u201cNo, we do not want any,\u201d was the reply. \u201cWhat!\u201d\nexclaimed the Indian as he went out the gate, \u201cdo you mean to starve\nus?\u201d Having seen his industrious white neighbors so well off,\u2014that the\nlawyer had only to weave arguments, and by some magic, wealth and\nstanding followed, he had said to himself; I will go into business; I\nwill weave baskets; it is a thing which I can do. Thinking that when he\nhad made the baskets he would have done his part, and then it would be\nthe white man\u2019s to buy them. He had not discovered that it was\nnecessary for him to make it worth the other\u2019s while to buy them, or at\nleast make him think that it was so, or to make something else which it\nwould be worth his while to buy. I too had woven a kind of basket of a\ndelicate texture, but I had not made it worth any one\u2019s while to buy\nthem. Yet not the less, in my case, did I think it worth my while to\nweave them, and instead of studying how to make it worth men\u2019s while to\nbuy my baskets, I studied rather how to avoid the necessity of selling\nthem. The life which men praise and regard as successful is but one\nkind. Why should we exaggerate any one kind at the expense of the\nothers?\n\nFinding that my fellow-citizens were not likely to offer me any room in\nthe court house, or any curacy or living any where else, but I must\nshift for myself, I turned my face more exclusively than ever to the\nwoods, where I was better known. I determined to go into business at\nonce, and not wait to acquire the usual capital, using such slender\nmeans as I had already got. My purpose in going to Walden Pond was not\nto live cheaply nor to live dearly there, but to transact some private\nbusiness with the fewest obstacles; to be hindered from accomplishing\nwhich for want of a little common sense, a little enterprise and\nbusiness talent, appeared not so sad as foolish.\n\nI have always endeavored to acquire strict business habits; they are\nindispensable to every man. If your trade is with the Celestial Empire,\nthen some small counting house on the coast, in some Salem harbor, will\nbe fixture enough. You will export such articles as the country\naffords, purely native products, much ice and pine timber and a little\ngranite, always in native bottoms. These will be good ventures. To\noversee all the details yourself in person; to be at once pilot and\ncaptain, and owner and underwriter; to buy and sell and keep the\naccounts; to read every letter received, and write or read every letter\nsent; to superintend the discharge of imports night and day; to be upon\nmany parts of the coast almost at the same time;\u2014often the richest\nfreight will be discharged upon a Jersey shore;\u2014to be your own\ntelegraph, unweariedly sweeping the horizon, speaking all passing\nvessels bound coastwise; to keep up a steady despatch of commodities,\nfor the supply of such a distant and exorbitant market; to keep\nyourself informed of the state of the markets, prospects of war and\npeace every where, and anticipate the tendencies of trade and\ncivilization,\u2014taking advantage of the results of all exploring\nexpeditions, using new passages and all improvements in\nnavigation;\u2014charts to be studied, the position of reefs and new lights\nand buoys to be ascertained, and ever, and ever, the logarithmic tables\nto be corrected, for by the error of some calculator the vessel often\nsplits upon a rock that should have reached a friendly pier,\u2014there is\nthe untold fate of La Perouse;\u2014universal science to be kept pace with,\nstudying the lives of all great discoverers and navigators, great\nadventurers and merchants, from Hanno and the Ph\u0153nicians down to our\nday; in fine, account of stock to be taken from time to time, to know\nhow you stand. It is a labor to task the faculties of a man,\u2014such\nproblems of profit and loss, of interest, of tare and tret, and gauging\nof all kinds in it, as demand a universal knowledge.\n\nI have thought that Walden Pond would be a good place for business, not\nsolely on account of the railroad and the ice trade; it offers\nadvantages which it may not be good policy to divulge; it is a good\nport and a good foundation. No Neva marshes to be filled; though you\nmust every where build on piles of your own driving. It is said that a\nflood-tide, with a westerly wind, and ice in the Neva, would sweep St.\nPetersburg from the face of the earth.\n\n\n\nAs this business was to be entered into without the usual capital, it\nmay not be easy to conjecture where those means, that will still be\nindispensable to every such undertaking, were to be obtained. As for\nClothing, to come at once to the practical part of the question,\nperhaps we are led oftener by the love of novelty, and a regard for the\nopinions of men, in procuring it, than by a true utility. Let him who\nhas work to do recollect that the object of clothing is, first, to\nretain the vital heat, and secondly, in this state of society, to cover\nnakedness, and he may judge how much of any necessary or important work\nmay be accomplished without adding to his wardrobe. Kings and queens\nwho wear a suit but once, though made by some tailor or dressmaker to\ntheir majesties, cannot know the comfort of wearing a suit that fits.\nThey are no better than wooden horses to hang the clean clothes on.\nEvery day our garments become more assimilated to ourselves, receiving\nthe impress of the wearer\u2019s character, until we hesitate to lay them\naside, without such delay and medical appliances and some such\nsolemnity even as our bodies. No man ever stood the lower in my\nestimation for having a patch in his clothes; yet I am sure that there\nis greater anxiety, commonly, to have fashionable, or at least clean\nand unpatched clothes, than to have a sound conscience. But even if the\nrent is not mended, perhaps the worst vice betrayed is improvidence. I\nsometimes try my acquaintances by such tests as this;\u2014who could wear a\npatch, or two extra seams only, over the knee? Most behave as if they\nbelieved that their prospects for life would be ruined if they should\ndo it. It would be easier for them to hobble to town with a broken leg\nthan with a broken pantaloon. Often if an accident happens to a\ngentleman\u2019s legs, they can be mended; but if a similar accident happens\nto the legs of his pantaloons, there is no help for it; for he\nconsiders, not what is truly respectable, but what is respected. We\nknow but few men, a great many coats and breeches. Dress a scarecrow in\nyour last shift, you standing shiftless by, who would not soonest\nsalute the scarecrow? Passing a cornfield the other day, close by a hat\nand coat on a stake, I recognized the owner of the farm. He was only a\nlittle more weather-beaten than when I saw him last. I have heard of a\ndog that barked at every stranger who approached his master\u2019s premises\nwith clothes on, but was easily quieted by a naked thief. It is an\ninteresting question how far men would retain their relative rank if\nthey were divested of their clothes. Could you, in such a case, tell\nsurely of any company of civilized men, which belonged to the most\nrespected class? When Madam Pfeiffer, in her adventurous travels round\nthe world, from east to west, had got so near home as Asiatic Russia,\nshe says that she felt the necessity of wearing other than a travelling\ndress, when she went to meet the authorities, for she \u201cwas now in a\ncivilized country, where \u2014\u2014 \u2014 people are judged of by their clothes.\u201d\nEven in our democratic New England towns the accidental possession of\nwealth, and its manifestation in dress and equipage alone, obtain for\nthe possessor almost universal respect. But they yield such respect,\nnumerous as they are, are so far heathen, and need to have a missionary\nsent to them. Beside, clothes introduced sewing, a kind of work which\nyou may call endless; a woman\u2019s dress, at least, is never done.\n\nA man who has at length found something to do will not need to get a\nnew suit to do it in; for him the old will do, that has lain dusty in\nthe garret for an indeterminate period. Old shoes will serve a hero\nlonger than they have served his valet,\u2014if a hero ever has a\nvalet,\u2014bare feet are older than shoes, and he can make them do. Only\nthey who go to soir\u00e9es and legislative halls must have new coats, coats\nto change as often as the man changes in them. But if my jacket and\ntrousers, my hat and shoes, are fit to worship God in, they will do;\nwill they not? Who ever saw his old clothes,\u2014his old coat, actually\nworn out, resolved into its primitive elements, so that it was not a\ndeed of charity to bestow it on some poor boy, by him perchance to be\nbestowed on some poorer still, or shall we say richer, who could do\nwith less? I say, beware of all enterprises that require new clothes,\nand not rather a new wearer of clothes. If there is not a new man, how\ncan the new clothes be made to fit? If you have any enterprise before\nyou, try it in your old clothes. All men want, not something to _do\nwith_, but something to _do_, or rather something to _be_. Perhaps we\nshould never procure a new suit, however ragged or dirty the old, until\nwe have so conducted, so enterprised or sailed in some way, that we\nfeel like new men in the old, and that to retain it would be like\nkeeping new wine in old bottles. Our moulting season, like that of the\nfowls, must be a crisis in our lives. The loon retires to solitary\nponds to spend it. Thus also the snake casts its slough, and the\ncaterpillar its wormy coat, by an internal industry and expansion; for\nclothes are but our outmost cuticle and mortal coil. Otherwise we shall\nbe found sailing under false colors, and be inevitably cashiered at\nlast by our own opinion, as well as that of mankind.\n\nWe don garment after garment, as if we grew like exogenous plants by\naddition without. Our outside and often thin and fanciful clothes are\nour epidermis, or false skin, which partakes not of our life, and may\nbe stripped off here and there without fatal injury; our thicker\ngarments, constantly worn, are our cellular integument, or cortex; but\nour shirts are our liber or true bark, which cannot be removed without\ngirdling and so destroying the man. I believe that all races at some\nseasons wear something equivalent to the shirt. It is desirable that a\nman be clad so simply that he can lay his hands on himself in the dark,\nand that he live in all respects so compactly and preparedly, that, if\nan enemy take the town, he can, like the old philosopher, walk out the\ngate empty-handed without anxiety. While one thick garment is, for most\npurposes, as good as three thin ones, and cheap clothing can be\nobtained at prices really to suit customers; while a thick coat can be\nbought for five dollars, which will last as many years, thick\npantaloons for two dollars, cowhide boots for a dollar and a half a\npair, a summer hat for a quarter of a dollar, and a winter cap for\nsixty-two and a half cents, or a better be made at home at a nominal\ncost, where is he so poor that, clad in such a suit, of _his own\nearning_, there will not be found wise men to do him reverence?\n\nWhen I ask for a garment of a particular form, my tailoress tells me\ngravely, \u201cThey do not make them so now,\u201d not emphasizing the \u201cThey\u201d at\nall, as if she quoted an authority as impersonal as the Fates, and I\nfind it difficult to get made what I want, simply because she cannot\nbelieve that I mean what I say, that I am so rash. When I hear this\noracular sentence, I am for a moment absorbed in thought, emphasizing\nto myself each word separately that I may come at the meaning of it,\nthat I may find out by what degree of consanguinity _They_ are related\nto _me_, and what authority they may have in an affair which affects me\nso nearly; and, finally, I am inclined to answer her with equal\nmystery, and without any more emphasis of the \u201cthey,\u201d\u2014\u201cIt is true, they\ndid not make them so recently, but they do now.\u201d Of what use this\nmeasuring of me if she does not measure my character, but only the\nbreadth of my shoulders, as it were a peg to hang the coat on? We\nworship not the Graces, nor the Parc\u00e6, but Fashion. She spins and\nweaves and cuts with full authority. The head monkey at Paris puts on a\ntraveller\u2019s cap, and all the monkeys in America do the same. I\nsometimes despair of getting anything quite simple and honest done in\nthis world by the help of men. They would have to be passed through a\npowerful press first, to squeeze their old notions out of them, so that\nthey would not soon get upon their legs again, and then there would be\nsome one in the company with a maggot in his head, hatched from an egg\ndeposited there nobody knows when, for not even fire kills these\nthings, and you would have lost your labor. Nevertheless, we will not\nforget that some Egyptian wheat was handed down to us by a mummy.\n\nOn the whole, I think that it cannot be maintained that dressing has in\nthis or any country risen to the dignity of an art. At present men make\nshift to wear what they can get. Like shipwrecked sailors, they put on\nwhat they can find on the beach, and at a little distance, whether of\nspace or time, laugh at each other\u2019s masquerade. Every generation\nlaughs at the old fashions, but follows religiously the new. We are\namused at beholding the costume of Henry VIII., or Queen Elizabeth, as\nmuch as if it was that of the King and Queen of the Cannibal Islands.\nAll costume off a man is pitiful or grotesque. It is only the serious\neye peering from and the sincere life passed within it, which restrain\nlaughter and consecrate the costume of any people. Let Harlequin be\ntaken with a fit of the colic and his trappings will have to serve that\nmood too. When the soldier is hit by a cannon ball rags are as becoming\nas purple.\n\nThe childish and savage taste of men and women for new patterns keeps\nhow many shaking and squinting through kaleidoscopes that they may\ndiscover the particular figure which this generation requires today.\nThe manufacturers have learned that this taste is merely whimsical. Of\ntwo patterns which differ only by a few threads more or less of a\nparticular color, the one will be sold readily, the other lie on the\nshelf, though it frequently happens that after the lapse of a season\nthe latter becomes the most fashionable. Comparatively, tattooing is\nnot the hideous custom which it is called. It is not barbarous merely\nbecause the printing is skin-deep and unalterable.\n\nI cannot believe that our factory system is the best mode by which men\nmay get clothing. The condition of the operatives is becoming every day\nmore like that of the English; and it cannot be wondered at, since, as\nfar as I have heard or observed, the principal object is, not that\nmankind may be well and honestly clad, but, unquestionably, that\ncorporations may be enriched. In the long run men hit only what they\naim at. Therefore, though they should fail immediately, they had better\naim at something high.\n\n\n\nAs for a Shelter, I will not deny that this is now a necessary of life,\nthough there are instances of men having done without it for long\nperiods in colder countries than this. Samuel Laing says that \u201cthe\nLaplander in his skin dress, and in a skin bag which he puts over his\nhead and shoulders, will sleep night after night on the snow\u2014in a\ndegree of cold which would extinguish the life of one exposed to it in\nany woollen clothing.\u201d He had seen them asleep thus. Yet he adds, \u201cThey\nare not hardier than other people.\u201d But, probably, man did not live\nlong on the earth without discovering the convenience which there is in\na house, the domestic comforts, which phrase may have originally\nsignified the satisfactions of the house more than of the family;\nthough these must be extremely partial and occasional in those climates\nwhere the house is associated in our thoughts with winter or the rainy\nseason chiefly, and two thirds of the year, except for a parasol, is\nunnecessary. In our climate, in the summer, it was formerly almost\nsolely a covering at night. In the Indian gazettes a wigwam was the\nsymbol of a day\u2019s march, and a row of them cut or painted on the bark\nof a tree signified that so many times they had camped. Man was not\nmade so large limbed and robust but that he must seek to narrow his\nworld, and wall in a space such as fitted him. He was at first bare and\nout of doors; but though this was pleasant enough in serene and warm\nweather, by daylight, the rainy season and the winter, to say nothing\nof the torrid sun, would perhaps have nipped his race in the bud if he\nhad not made haste to clothe himself with the shelter of a house. Adam\nand Eve, according to the fable, wore the bower before other clothes.\nMan wanted a home, a place of warmth, or comfort, first of physical\nwarmth, then the warmth of the affections.\n\nWe may imagine a time when, in the infancy of the human race, some\nenterprising mortal crept into a hollow in a rock for shelter. Every\nchild begins the world again, to some extent, and loves to stay out\ndoors, even in wet and cold. It plays house, as well as horse, having\nan instinct for it. Who does not remember the interest with which when\nyoung he looked at shelving rocks, or any approach to a cave? It was\nthe natural yearning of that portion of our most primitive ancestor\nwhich still survived in us. From the cave we have advanced to roofs of\npalm leaves, of bark and boughs, of linen woven and stretched, of grass\nand straw, of boards and shingles, of stones and tiles. At last, we\nknow not what it is to live in the open air, and our lives are domestic\nin more senses than we think. From the hearth to the field is a great\ndistance. It would be well perhaps if we were to spend more of our days\nand nights without any obstruction between us and the celestial bodies,\nif the poet did not speak so much from under a roof, or the saint dwell\nthere so long. Birds do not sing in caves, nor do doves cherish their\ninnocence in dovecots.\n\nHowever, if one designs to construct a dwelling house, it behooves him\nto exercise a little Yankee shrewdness, lest after all he find himself\nin a workhouse, a labyrinth without a clue, a museum, an almshouse, a\nprison, or a splendid mausoleum instead. Consider first how slight a\nshelter is absolutely necessary. I have seen Penobscot Indians, in this\ntown, living in tents of thin cotton cloth, while the snow was nearly a\nfoot deep around them, and I thought that they would be glad to have it\ndeeper to keep out the wind. Formerly, when how to get my living\nhonestly, with freedom left for my proper pursuits, was a question\nwhich vexed me even more than it does now, for unfortunately I am\nbecome somewhat callous, I used to see a large box by the railroad, six\nfeet long by three wide, in which the laborers locked up their tools at\nnight, and it suggested to me that every man who was hard pushed might\nget such a one for a dollar, and, having bored a few auger holes in it,\nto admit the air at least, get into it when it rained and at night, and\nhook down the lid, and so have freedom in his love, and in his soul be\nfree. This did not appear the worst, nor by any means a despicable\nalternative. You could sit up as late as you pleased, and, whenever you\ngot up, go abroad without any landlord or house-lord dogging you for\nrent. Many a man is harassed to death to pay the rent of a larger and\nmore luxurious box who would not have frozen to death in such a box as\nthis. I am far from jesting. Economy is a subject which admits of being\ntreated with levity, but it cannot so be disposed of. A comfortable\nhouse for a rude and hardy race, that lived mostly out of doors, was\nonce made here almost entirely of such materials as Nature furnished\nready to their hands. Gookin, who was superintendent of the Indians\nsubject to the Massachusetts Colony, writing in 1674, says, \u201cThe best\nof their houses are covered very neatly, tight and warm, with barks of\ntrees, slipped from their bodies at those seasons when the sap is up,\nand made into great flakes, with pressure of weighty timber, when they\nare green.... The meaner sort are covered with mats which they make of\na kind of bulrush, and are also indifferently tight and warm, but not\nso good as the former.... Some I have seen, sixty or a hundred feet\nlong and thirty feet broad.... I have often lodged in their wigwams,\nand found them as warm as the best English houses.\u201d He adds, that they\nwere commonly carpeted and lined within with well-wrought embroidered\nmats, and were furnished with various utensils. The Indians had\nadvanced so far as to regulate the effect of the wind by a mat\nsuspended over the hole in the roof and moved by a string. Such a lodge\nwas in the first instance constructed in a day or two at most, and\ntaken down and put up in a few hours; and every family owned one, or\nits apartment in one.\n\nIn the savage state every family owns a shelter as good as the best,\nand sufficient for its coarser and simpler wants; but I think that I\nspeak within bounds when I say that, though the birds of the air have\ntheir nests, and the foxes their holes, and the savages their wigwams,\nin modern civilized society not more than one half the families own a\nshelter. In the large towns and cities, where civilization especially\nprevails, the number of those who own a shelter is a very small\nfraction of the whole. The rest pay an annual tax for this outside\ngarment of all, become indispensable summer and winter, which would buy\na village of Indian wigwams, but now helps to keep them poor as long as\nthey live. I do not mean to insist here on the disadvantage of hiring\ncompared with owning, but it is evident that the savage owns his\nshelter because it costs so little, while the civilized man hires his\ncommonly because he cannot afford to own it; nor can he, in the long\nrun, any better afford to hire. But, answers one, by merely paying this\ntax the poor civilized man secures an abode which is a palace compared\nwith the savage\u2019s. An annual rent of from twenty-five to a hundred\ndollars, these are the country rates, entitles him to the benefit of\nthe improvements of centuries, spacious apartments, clean paint and\npaper, Rumford fireplace, back plastering, Venetian blinds, copper\npump, spring lock, a commodious cellar, and many other things. But how\nhappens it that he who is said to enjoy these things is so commonly a\n_poor_ civilized man, while the savage, who has them not, is rich as a\nsavage? If it is asserted that civilization is a real advance in the\ncondition of man,\u2014and I think that it is, though only the wise improve\ntheir advantages,\u2014it must be shown that it has produced better\ndwellings without making them more costly; and the cost of a thing is\nthe amount of what I will call life which is required to be exchanged\nfor it, immediately or in the long run. An average house in this\nneighborhood costs perhaps eight hundred dollars, and to lay up this\nsum will take from ten to fifteen years of the laborer\u2019s life, even if\nhe is not encumbered with a family;\u2014estimating the pecuniary value of\nevery man\u2019s labor at one dollar a day, for if some receive more, others\nreceive less;\u2014so that he must have spent more than half his life\ncommonly before _his_ wigwam will be earned. If we suppose him to pay a\nrent instead, this is but a doubtful choice of evils. Would the savage\nhave been wise to exchange his wigwam for a palace on these terms?\n\nIt may be guessed that I reduce almost the whole advantage of holding\nthis superfluous property as a fund in store against the future, so far\nas the individual is concerned, mainly to the defraying of funeral\nexpenses. But perhaps a man is not required to bury himself.\nNevertheless this points to an important distinction between the\ncivilized man and the savage; and, no doubt, they have designs on us\nfor our benefit, in making the life of a civilized people an\n_institution_, in which the life of the individual is to a great extent\nabsorbed, in order to preserve and perfect that of the race. But I wish\nto show at what a sacrifice this advantage is at present obtained, and\nto suggest that we may possibly so live as to secure all the advantage\nwithout suffering any of the disadvantage. What mean ye by saying that\nthe poor ye have always with you, or that the fathers have eaten sour\ngrapes, and the children\u2019s teeth are set on edge?\n\n\u201cAs I live, saith the Lord God, ye shall not have occasion any more to\nuse this proverb in Israel.\u201d\n\n\u201cBehold all souls are mine; as the soul of the father, so also the soul\nof the son is mine: the soul that sinneth, it shall die.\u201d\n\nWhen I consider my neighbors, the farmers of Concord, who are at least\nas well off as the other classes, I find that for the most part they\nhave been toiling twenty, thirty, or forty years, that they may become\nthe real owners of their farms, which commonly they have inherited with\nencumbrances, or else bought with hired money,\u2014and we may regard one\nthird of that toil as the cost of their houses,\u2014but commonly they have\nnot paid for them yet. It is true, the encumbrances sometimes outweigh\nthe value of the farm, so that the farm itself becomes one great\nencumbrance, and still a man is found to inherit it, being well\nacquainted with it, as he says. On applying to the assessors, I am\nsurprised to learn that they cannot at once name a dozen in the town\nwho own their farms free and clear. If you would know the history of\nthese homesteads, inquire at the bank where they are mortgaged. The man\nwho has actually paid for his farm with labor on it is so rare that\nevery neighbor can point to him. I doubt if there are three such men in\nConcord. What has been said of the merchants, that a very large\nmajority, even ninety-seven in a hundred, are sure to fail, is equally\ntrue of the farmers. With regard to the merchants, however, one of them\nsays pertinently that a great part of their failures are not genuine\npecuniary failures, but merely failures to fulfil their engagements,\nbecause it is inconvenient; that is, it is the moral character that\nbreaks down. But this puts an infinitely worse face on the matter, and\nsuggests, beside, that probably not even the other three succeed in\nsaving their souls, but are perchance bankrupt in a worse sense than\nthey who fail honestly. Bankruptcy and repudiation are the springboards\nfrom which much of our civilization vaults and turns its somersets, but\nthe savage stands on the unelastic plank of famine. Yet the Middlesex\nCattle Show goes off here with _\u00e9clat_ annually, as if all the joints\nof the agricultural machine were suent.\n\nThe farmer is endeavoring to solve the problem of a livelihood by a\nformula more complicated than the problem itself. To get his\nshoestrings he speculates in herds of cattle. With consummate skill he\nhas set his trap with a hair spring to catch comfort and independence,\nand then, as he turned away, got his own leg into it. This is the\nreason he is poor; and for a similar reason we are all poor in respect\nto a thousand savage comforts, though surrounded by luxuries. As\nChapman sings,\u2014\n\n     \u201cThe false society of men\u2014\n             \u2014for earthly greatness\n     All heavenly comforts rarefies to air.\u201d\n\nAnd when the farmer has got his house, he may not be the richer but the\npoorer for it, and it be the house that has got him. As I understand\nit, that was a valid objection urged by Momus against the house which\nMinerva made, that she \u201chad not made it movable, by which means a bad\nneighborhood might be avoided;\u201d and it may still be urged, for our\nhouses are such unwieldy property that we are often imprisoned rather\nthan housed in them; and the bad neighborhood to be avoided is our own\nscurvy selves. I know one or two families, at least, in this town, who,\nfor nearly a generation, have been wishing to sell their houses in the\noutskirts and move into the village, but have not been able to\naccomplish it, and only death will set them free.\n\nGranted that the _majority_ are able at last either to own or hire the\nmodern house with all its improvements. While civilization has been\nimproving our houses, it has not equally improved the men who are to\ninhabit them. It has created palaces, but it was not so easy to create\nnoblemen and kings. And _if the civilized man\u2019s pursuits are no\nworthier than the savage\u2019s, if he is employed the greater part of his\nlife in obtaining gross necessaries and comforts merely, why should he\nhave a better dwelling than the former?_\n\nBut how do the poor minority fare? Perhaps it will be found, that just\nin proportion as some have been placed in outward circumstances above\nthe savage, others have been degraded below him. The luxury of one\nclass is counterbalanced by the indigence of another. On the one side\nis the palace, on the other are the almshouse and \u201csilent poor.\u201d The\nmyriads who built the pyramids to be the tombs of the Pharaohs were fed\non garlic, and it may be were not decently buried themselves. The mason\nwho finishes the cornice of the palace returns at night perchance to a\nhut not so good as a wigwam. It is a mistake to suppose that, in a\ncountry where the usual evidences of civilization exist, the condition\nof a very large body of the inhabitants may not be as degraded as that\nof savages. I refer to the degraded poor, not now to the degraded rich.\nTo know this I should not need to look farther than to the shanties\nwhich every where border our railroads, that last improvement in\ncivilization; where I see in my daily walks human beings living in\nsties, and all winter with an open door, for the sake of light, without\nany visible, often imaginable, wood pile, and the forms of both old and\nyoung are permanently contracted by the long habit of shrinking from\ncold and misery, and the development of all their limbs and faculties\nis checked. It certainly is fair to look at that class by whose labor\nthe works which distinguish this generation are accomplished. Such too,\nto a greater or less extent, is the condition of the operatives of\nevery denomination in England, which is the great workhouse of the\nworld. Or I could refer you to Ireland, which is marked as one of the\nwhite or enlightened spots on the map. Contrast the physical condition\nof the Irish with that of the North American Indian, or the South Sea\nIslander, or any other savage race before it was degraded by contact\nwith the civilized man. Yet I have no doubt that that people\u2019s rulers\nare as wise as the average of civilized rulers. Their condition only\nproves what squalidness may consist with civilization. I hardly need\nrefer now to the laborers in our Southern States who produce the staple\nexports of this country, and are themselves a staple production of the\nSouth. But to confine myself to those who are said to be in _moderate_\ncircumstances.\n\nMost men appear never to have considered what a house is, and are\nactually though needlessly poor all their lives because they think that\nthey must have such a one as their neighbors have. As if one were to\nwear any sort of coat which the tailor might cut out for him, or,\ngradually leaving off palmleaf hat or cap of woodchuck skin, complain\nof hard times because he could not afford to buy him a crown! It is\npossible to invent a house still more convenient and luxurious than we\nhave, which yet all would admit that man could not afford to pay for.\nShall we always study to obtain more of these things, and not sometimes\nto be content with less? Shall the respectable citizen thus gravely\nteach, by precept and example, the necessity of the young man\u2019s\nproviding a certain number of superfluous glow-shoes, and umbrellas,\nand empty guest chambers for empty guests, before he dies? Why should\nnot our furniture be as simple as the Arab\u2019s or the Indian\u2019s? When I\nthink of the benefactors of the race, whom we have apotheosized as\nmessengers from heaven, bearers of divine gifts to man, I do not see in\nmy mind any retinue at their heels, any car-load of fashionable\nfurniture. Or what if I were to allow\u2014would it not be a singular\nallowance?\u2014that our furniture should be more complex than the Arab\u2019s,\nin proportion as we are morally and intellectually his superiors! At\npresent our houses are cluttered and defiled with it, and a good\nhousewife would sweep out the greater part into the dust hole, and not\nleave her morning\u2019s work undone. Morning work! By the blushes of Aurora\nand the music of Memnon, what should be man\u2019s _morning work_ in this\nworld? I had three pieces of limestone on my desk, but I was terrified\nto find that they required to be dusted daily, when the furniture of my\nmind was all undusted still, and I threw them out the window in\ndisgust. How, then, could I have a furnished house? I would rather sit\nin the open air, for no dust gathers on the grass, unless where man has\nbroken ground.\n\nIt is the luxurious and dissipated who set the fashions which the herd\nso diligently follow. The traveller who stops at the best houses, so\ncalled, soon discovers this, for the publicans presume him to be a\nSardanapalus, and if he resigned himself to their tender mercies he\nwould soon be completely emasculated. I think that in the railroad car\nwe are inclined to spend more on luxury than on safety and convenience,\nand it threatens without attaining these to become no better than a\nmodern drawing room, with its divans, and ottomans, and sun-shades, and\na hundred other oriental things, which we are taking west with us,\ninvented for the ladies of the harem and the effeminate natives of the\nCelestial Empire, which Jonathan should be ashamed to know the names\nof. I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself than be\ncrowded on a velvet cushion. I would rather ride on earth in an ox cart\nwith a free circulation, than go to heaven in the fancy car of an\nexcursion train and breathe a _malaria_ all the way.\n\nThe very simplicity and nakedness of man\u2019s life in the primitive ages\nimply this advantage at least, that they left him still but a sojourner\nin nature. When he was refreshed with food and sleep he contemplated\nhis journey again. He dwelt, as it were, in a tent in this world, and\nwas either threading the valleys, or crossing the plains, or climbing\nthe mountain tops. But lo! men have become the tools of their tools.\nThe man who independently plucked the fruits when he was hungry is\nbecome a farmer; and he who stood under a tree for shelter, a\nhousekeeper. We now no longer camp as for a night, but have settled\ndown on earth and forgotten heaven. We have adopted Christianity merely\nas an improved method of _agri_-culture. We have built for this world a\nfamily mansion, and for the next a family tomb. The best works of art\nare the expression of man\u2019s struggle to free himself from this\ncondition, but the effect of our art is merely to make this low state\ncomfortable and that higher state to be forgotten. There is actually no\nplace in this village for a work of _fine_ art, if any had come down to\nus, to stand, for our lives, our houses and streets, furnish no proper\npedestal for it. There is not a nail to hang a picture on, nor a shelf\nto receive the bust of a hero or a saint. When I consider how our\nhouses are built and paid for, or not paid for, and their internal\neconomy managed and sustained, I wonder that the floor does not give\nway under the visitor while he is admiring the gewgaws upon the\nmantel-piece, and let him through into the cellar, to some solid and\nhonest though earthy foundation. I cannot but perceive that this so\ncalled rich and refined life is a thing jumped at, and I do not get on\nin the enjoyment of the _fine_ arts which adorn it, my attention being\nwholly occupied with the jump; for I remember that the greatest genuine\nleap, due to human muscles alone, on record, is that of certain\nwandering Arabs, who are said to have cleared twenty-five feet on level\nground. Without factitious support, man is sure to come to earth again\nbeyond that distance. The first question which I am tempted to put to\nthe proprietor of such great impropriety is, Who bolsters you? Are you\none of the ninety-seven who fail, or of the three who succeed? Answer\nme these questions, and then perhaps I may look at your bawbles and\nfind them ornamental. The cart before the horse is neither beautiful\nnor useful. Before we can adorn our houses with beautiful objects the\nwalls must be stripped, and our lives must be stripped, and beautiful\nhousekeeping and beautiful living be laid for a foundation: now, a\ntaste for the beautiful is most cultivated out of doors, where there is\nno house and no housekeeper.\n\nOld Johnson, in his \u201cWonder-Working Providence,\u201d speaking of the first\nsettlers of this town, with whom he was contemporary, tells us that\n\u201cthey burrow themselves in the earth for their first shelter under some\nhillside, and, casting the soil aloft upon timber, they make a smoky\nfire against the earth, at the highest side.\u201d They did not \u201cprovide\nthem houses,\u201d says he, \u201ctill the earth, by the Lord\u2019s blessing, brought\nforth bread to feed them,\u201d and the first year\u2019s crop was so light that\n\u201cthey were forced to cut their bread very thin for a long season.\u201d The\nsecretary of the Province of New Netherland, writing in Dutch, in 1650,\nfor the information of those who wished to take up land there, states\nmore particularly that \u201cthose in New Netherland, and especially in New\nEngland, who have no means to build farmhouses at first according to\ntheir wishes, dig a square pit in the ground, cellar fashion, six or\nseven feet deep, as long and as broad as they think proper, case the\nearth inside with wood all round the wall, and line the wood with the\nbark of trees or something else to prevent the caving in of the earth;\nfloor this cellar with plank, and wainscot it overhead for a ceiling,\nraise a roof of spars clear up, and cover the spars with bark or green\nsods, so that they can live dry and warm in these houses with their\nentire families for two, three, and four years, it being understood\nthat partitions are run through those cellars which are adapted to the\nsize of the family. The wealthy and principal men in New England, in\nthe beginning of the colonies, commenced their first dwelling houses in\nthis fashion for two reasons; firstly, in order not to waste time in\nbuilding, and not to want food the next season; secondly, in order not\nto discourage poor laboring people whom they brought over in numbers\nfrom Fatherland. In the course of three or four years, when the country\nbecame adapted to agriculture, they built themselves handsome houses,\nspending on them several thousands.\u201d\n\nIn this course which our ancestors took there was a show of prudence at\nleast, as if their principle were to satisfy the more pressing wants\nfirst. But are the more pressing wants satisfied now? When I think of\nacquiring for myself one of our luxurious dwellings, I am deterred,\nfor, so to speak, the country is not yet adapted to _human_ culture,\nand we are still forced to cut our _spiritual_ bread far thinner than\nour forefathers did their wheaten. Not that all architectural ornament\nis to be neglected even in the rudest periods; but let our houses first\nbe lined with beauty, where they come in contact with our lives, like\nthe tenement of the shellfish, and not overlaid with it. But, alas! I\nhave been inside one or two of them, and know what they are lined with.\n\nThough we are not so degenerate but that we might possibly live in a\ncave or a wigwam or wear skins today, it certainly is better to accept\nthe advantages, though so dearly bought, which the invention and\nindustry of mankind offer. In such a neighborhood as this, boards and\nshingles, lime and bricks, are cheaper and more easily obtained than\nsuitable caves, or whole logs, or bark in sufficient quantities, or\neven well-tempered clay or flat stones. I speak understandingly on this\nsubject, for I have made myself acquainted with it both theoretically\nand practically. With a little more wit we might use these materials so\nas to become richer than the richest now are, and make our civilization\na blessing. The civilized man is a more experienced and wiser savage.\nBut to make haste to my own experiment.\n\n\n\nNear the end of March, 1845, I borrowed an axe and went down to the\nwoods by Walden Pond, nearest to where I intended to build my house,\nand began to cut down some tall, arrowy white pines, still in their\nyouth, for timber. It is difficult to begin without borrowing, but\nperhaps it is the most generous course thus to permit your fellow-men\nto have an interest in your enterprise. The owner of the axe, as he\nreleased his hold on it, said that it was the apple of his eye; but I\nreturned it sharper than I received it. It was a pleasant hillside\nwhere I worked, covered with pine woods, through which I looked out on\nthe pond, and a small open field in the woods where pines and hickories\nwere springing up. The ice in the pond was not yet dissolved, though\nthere were some open spaces, and it was all dark colored and saturated\nwith water. There were some slight flurries of snow during the days\nthat I worked there; but for the most part when I came out on to the\nrailroad, on my way home, its yellow sand heap stretched away gleaming\nin the hazy atmosphere, and the rails shone in the spring sun, and I\nheard the lark and pewee and other birds already come to commence\nanother year with us. They were pleasant spring days, in which the\nwinter of man\u2019s discontent was thawing as well as the earth, and the\nlife that had lain torpid began to stretch itself. One day, when my axe\nhad come off and I had cut a green hickory for a wedge, driving it with\na stone, and had placed the whole to soak in a pond hole in order to\nswell the wood, I saw a striped snake run into the water, and he lay on\nthe bottom, apparently without inconvenience, as long as I stayed\nthere, or more than a quarter of an hour; perhaps because he had not\nyet fairly come out of the torpid state. It appeared to me that for a\nlike reason men remain in their present low and primitive condition;\nbut if they should feel the influence of the spring of springs arousing\nthem, they would of necessity rise to a higher and more ethereal life.\nI had previously seen the snakes in frosty mornings in my path with\nportions of their bodies still numb and inflexible, waiting for the sun\nto thaw them. On the 1st of April it rained and melted the ice, and in\nthe early part of the day, which was very foggy, I heard a stray goose\ngroping about over the pond and cackling as if lost, or like the spirit\nof the fog.\n\nSo I went on for some days cutting and hewing timber, and also studs\nand rafters, all with my narrow axe, not having many communicable or\nscholar-like thoughts, singing to myself,\u2014\n\n     Men say they know many things;\n     But lo! they have taken wings,\u2014\n     The arts and sciences,\n     And a thousand appliances;\n     The wind that blows\n     Is all that any body knows.\n\nI hewed the main timbers six inches square, most of the studs on two\nsides only, and the rafters and floor timbers on one side, leaving the\nrest of the bark on, so that they were just as straight and much\nstronger than sawed ones. Each stick was carefully mortised or tenoned\nby its stump, for I had borrowed other tools by this time. My days in\nthe woods were not very long ones; yet I usually carried my dinner of\nbread and butter, and read the newspaper in which it was wrapped, at\nnoon, sitting amid the green pine boughs which I had cut off, and to my\nbread was imparted some of their fragrance, for my hands were covered\nwith a thick coat of pitch. Before I had done I was more the friend\nthan the foe of the pine tree, though I had cut down some of them,\nhaving become better acquainted with it. Sometimes a rambler in the\nwood was attracted by the sound of my axe, and we chatted pleasantly\nover the chips which I had made.\n\nBy the middle of April, for I made no haste in my work, but rather made\nthe most of it, my house was framed and ready for the raising. I had\nalready bought the shanty of James Collins, an Irishman who worked on\nthe Fitchburg Railroad, for boards. James Collins\u2019 shanty was\nconsidered an uncommonly fine one. When I called to see it he was not\nat home. I walked about the outside, at first unobserved from within,\nthe window was so deep and high. It was of small dimensions, with a\npeaked cottage roof, and not much else to be seen, the dirt being\nraised five feet all around as if it were a compost heap. The roof was\nthe soundest part, though a good deal warped and made brittle by the\nsun. Door-sill there was none, but a perennial passage for the hens\nunder the door board. Mrs. C. came to the door and asked me to view it\nfrom the inside. The hens were driven in by my approach. It was dark,\nand had a dirt floor for the most part, dank, clammy, and aguish, only\nhere a board and there a board which would not bear removal. She\nlighted a lamp to show me the inside of the roof and the walls, and\nalso that the board floor extended under the bed, warning me not to\nstep into the cellar, a sort of dust hole two feet deep. In her own\nwords, they were \u201cgood boards overhead, good boards all around, and a\ngood window,\u201d\u2014of two whole squares originally, only the cat had passed\nout that way lately. There was a stove, a bed, and a place to sit, an\ninfant in the house where it was born, a silk parasol, gilt-framed\nlooking-glass, and a patent new coffee mill nailed to an oak sapling,\nall told. The bargain was soon concluded, for James had in the\nmeanwhile returned. I to pay four dollars and twenty-five cents\nto-night, he to vacate at five to-morrow morning, selling to nobody\nelse meanwhile: I to take possession at six. It were well, he said, to\nbe there early, and anticipate certain indistinct but wholly unjust\nclaims on the score of ground rent and fuel. This he assured me was the\nonly encumbrance. At six I passed him and his family on the road. One\nlarge bundle held their all,\u2014bed, coffee-mill, looking-glass, hens,\u2014all\nbut the cat, she took to the woods and became a wild cat, and, as I\nlearned afterward, trod in a trap set for woodchucks, and so became a\ndead cat at last.\n\nI took down this dwelling the same morning, drawing the nails, and\nremoved it to the pond side by small cartloads, spreading the boards on\nthe grass there to bleach and warp back again in the sun. One early\nthrush gave me a note or two as I drove along the woodland path. I was\ninformed treacherously by a young Patrick that neighbor Seeley, an\nIrishman, in the intervals of the carting, transferred the still\ntolerable, straight, and drivable nails, staples, and spikes to his\npocket, and then stood when I came back to pass the time of day, and\nlook freshly up, unconcerned, with spring thoughts, at the devastation;\nthere being a dearth of work, as he said. He was there to represent\nspectatordom, and help make this seemingly insignificant event one with\nthe removal of the gods of Troy.\n\nI dug my cellar in the side of a hill sloping to the south, where a\nwoodchuck had formerly dug his burrow, down through sumach and\nblackberry roots, and the lowest stain of vegetation, six feet square\nby seven deep, to a fine sand where potatoes would not freeze in any\nwinter. The sides were left shelving, and not stoned; but the sun\nhaving never shone on them, the sand still keeps its place. It was but\ntwo hours\u2019 work. I took particular pleasure in this breaking of ground,\nfor in almost all latitudes men dig into the earth for an equable\ntemperature. Under the most splendid house in the city is still to be\nfound the cellar where they store their roots as of old, and long after\nthe superstructure has disappeared posterity remark its dent in the\nearth. The house is still but a sort of porch at the entrance of a\nburrow.\n\nAt length, in the beginning of May, with the help of some of my\nacquaintances, rather to improve so good an occasion for neighborliness\nthan from any necessity, I set up the frame of my house. No man was\never more honored in the character of his raisers than I. They are\ndestined, I trust, to assist at the raising of loftier structures one\nday. I began to occupy my house on the 4th of July, as soon as it was\nboarded and roofed, for the boards were carefully feather-edged and\nlapped, so that it was perfectly impervious to rain; but before\nboarding I laid the foundation of a chimney at one end, bringing two\ncartloads of stones up the hill from the pond in my arms. I built the\nchimney after my hoeing in the fall, before a fire became necessary for\nwarmth, doing my cooking in the mean while out of doors on the ground,\nearly in the morning: which mode I still think is in some respects more\nconvenient and agreeable than the usual one. When it stormed before my\nbread was baked, I fixed a few boards over the fire, and sat under them\nto watch my loaf, and passed some pleasant hours in that way. In those\ndays, when my hands were much employed, I read but little, but the\nleast scraps of paper which lay on the ground, my holder, or\ntablecloth, afforded me as much entertainment, in fact answered the\nsame purpose as the Iliad.\n\n\n\nIt would be worth the while to build still more deliberately than I\ndid, considering, for instance, what foundation a door, a window, a\ncellar, a garret, have in the nature of man, and perchance never\nraising any superstructure until we found a better reason for it than\nour temporal necessities even. There is some of the same fitness in a\nman\u2019s building his own house that there is in a bird\u2019s building its own\nnest. Who knows but if men constructed their dwellings with their own\nhands, and provided food for themselves and families simply and\nhonestly enough, the poetic faculty would be universally developed, as\nbirds universally sing when they are so engaged? But alas! we do like\ncowbirds and cuckoos, which lay their eggs in nests which other birds\nhave built, and cheer no traveller with their chattering and unmusical\nnotes. Shall we forever resign the pleasure of construction to the\ncarpenter? What does architecture amount to in the experience of the\nmass of men? I never in all my walks came across a man engaged in so\nsimple and natural an occupation as building his house. We belong to\nthe community. It is not the tailor alone who is the ninth part of a\nman; it is as much the preacher, and the merchant, and the farmer.\nWhere is this division of labor to end? and what object does it finally\nserve? No doubt another _may_ also think for me; but it is not\ntherefore desirable that he should do so to the exclusion of my\nthinking for myself.\n\nTrue, there are architects so called in this country, and I have heard\nof one at least possessed with the idea of making architectural\nornaments have a core of truth, a necessity, and hence a beauty, as if\nit were a revelation to him. All very well perhaps from his point of\nview, but only a little better than the common dilettantism. A\nsentimental reformer in architecture, he began at the cornice, not at\nthe foundation. It was only how to put a core of truth within the\nornaments, that every sugar plum in fact might have an almond or\ncaraway seed in it,\u2014though I hold that almonds are most wholesome\nwithout the sugar,\u2014and not how the inhabitant, the indweller, might\nbuild truly within and without, and let the ornaments take care of\nthemselves. What reasonable man ever supposed that ornaments were\nsomething outward and in the skin merely,\u2014that the tortoise got his\nspotted shell, or the shellfish its mother-o\u2019-pearl tints, by such a\ncontract as the inhabitants of Broadway their Trinity Church? But a man\nhas no more to do with the style of architecture of his house than a\ntortoise with that of its shell: nor need the soldier be so idle as to\ntry to paint the precise color of his virtue on his standard. The enemy\nwill find it out. He may turn pale when the trial comes. This man\nseemed to me to lean over the cornice, and timidly whisper his half\ntruth to the rude occupants who really knew it better than he. What of\narchitectural beauty I now see, I know has gradually grown from within\noutward, out of the necessities and character of the indweller, who is\nthe only builder,\u2014out of some unconscious truthfulness, and nobleness,\nwithout ever a thought for the appearance and whatever additional\nbeauty of this kind is destined to be produced will be preceded by a\nlike unconscious beauty of life. The most interesting dwellings in this\ncountry, as the painter knows, are the most unpretending, humble log\nhuts and cottages of the poor commonly; it is the life of the\ninhabitants whose shells they are, and not any peculiarity in their\nsurfaces merely, which makes them _picturesque;_ and equally\ninteresting will be the citizen\u2019s suburban box, when his life shall be\nas simple and as agreeable to the imagination, and there is as little\nstraining after effect in the style of his dwelling. A great proportion\nof architectural ornaments are literally hollow, and a September gale\nwould strip them off, like borrowed plumes, without injury to the\nsubstantials. They can do without _architecture_ who have no olives nor\nwines in the cellar. What if an equal ado were made about the ornaments\nof style in literature, and the architects of our bibles spent as much\ntime about their cornices as the architects of our churches do? So are\nmade the _belles-lettres_ and the _beaux-arts_ and their professors.\nMuch it concerns a man, forsooth, how a few sticks are slanted over him\nor under him, and what colors are daubed upon his box. It would signify\nsomewhat, if, in any earnest sense, _he_ slanted them and daubed it;\nbut the spirit having departed out of the tenant, it is of a piece with\nconstructing his own coffin,\u2014the architecture of the grave, and\n\u201ccarpenter\u201d is but another name for \u201ccoffin-maker.\u201d One man says, in\nhis despair or indifference to life, take up a handful of the earth at\nyour feet, and paint your house that color. Is he thinking of his last\nand narrow house? Toss up a copper for it as well. What an abundance of\nleisure he must have! Why do you take up a handful of dirt? Better\npaint your house your own complexion; let it turn pale or blush for\nyou. An enterprise to improve the style of cottage architecture! When\nyou have got my ornaments ready I will wear them.\n\nBefore winter I built a chimney, and shingled the sides of my house,\nwhich were already impervious to rain, with imperfect and sappy\nshingles made of the first slice of the log, whose edges I was obliged\nto straighten with a plane.\n\nI have thus a tight shingled and plastered house, ten feet wide by\nfifteen long, and eight-feet posts, with a garret and a closet, a large\nwindow on each side, two trap doors, one door at the end, and a brick\nfireplace opposite. The exact cost of my house, paying the usual price\nfor such materials as I used, but not counting the work, all of which\nwas done by myself, was as follows; and I give the details because very\nfew are able to tell exactly what their houses cost, and fewer still,\nif any, the separate cost of the various materials which compose them:\u2014\n\n\n    Boards.......................... $ 8.03\u00bd, mostly shanty boards.\n    Refuse shingles for roof sides,..  4.00\n    Laths,...........................  1.25\n    Two second-hand windows\n       with glass,...................  2.43\n    One thousand old brick,..........  4.00\n    Two casks of lime,...............  2.40  That was high.\n    Hair,............................  0.31  More than I needed.\n    Mantle-tree iron,................  0.15\n    Nails,...........................  3.90\n    Hinges and screws,...............  0.14\n    Latch,...........................  0.10\n    Chalk,...........................  0.01\n    Transportation,..................  1.40  I carried a good part\n                                     \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014 on my back.\n        In all,..................... $28.12\u00bd\n\n\nThese are all the materials excepting the timber stones and sand, which\nI claimed by squatter\u2019s right. I have also a small wood-shed adjoining,\nmade chiefly of the stuff which was left after building the house.\n\nI intend to build me a house which will surpass any on the main street\nin Concord in grandeur and luxury, as soon as it pleases me as much and\nwill cost me no more than my present one.\n\nI thus found that the student who wishes for a shelter can obtain one\nfor a lifetime at an expense not greater than the rent which he now\npays annually. If I seem to boast more than is becoming, my excuse is\nthat I brag for humanity rather than for myself; and my shortcomings\nand inconsistencies do not affect the truth of my statement.\nNotwithstanding much cant and hypocrisy,\u2014chaff which I find it\ndifficult to separate from my wheat, but for which I am as sorry as any\nman,\u2014I will breathe freely and stretch myself in this respect, it is\nsuch a relief to both the moral and physical system; and I am resolved\nthat I will not through humility become the devil\u2019s attorney. I will\nendeavor to speak a good word for the truth. At Cambridge College the\nmere rent of a student\u2019s room, which is only a little larger than my\nown, is thirty dollars each year, though the corporation had the\nadvantage of building thirty-two side by side and under one roof, and\nthe occupant suffers the inconvenience of many and noisy neighbors, and\nperhaps a residence in the fourth story. I cannot but think that if we\nhad more true wisdom in these respects, not only less education would\nbe needed, because, forsooth, more would already have been acquired,\nbut the pecuniary expense of getting an education would in a great\nmeasure vanish. Those conveniences which the student requires at\nCambridge or elsewhere cost him or somebody else ten times as great a\nsacrifice of life as they would with proper management on both sides.\nThose things for which the most money is demanded are never the things\nwhich the student most wants. Tuition, for instance, is an important\nitem in the term bill, while for the far more valuable education which\nhe gets by associating with the most cultivated of his contemporaries\nno charge is made. The mode of founding a college is, commonly, to get\nup a subscription of dollars and cents, and then following blindly the\nprinciples of a division of labor to its extreme, a principle which\nshould never be followed but with circumspection,\u2014to call in a\ncontractor who makes this a subject of speculation, and he employs\nIrishmen or other operatives actually to lay the foundations, while the\nstudents that are to be are said to be fitting themselves for it; and\nfor these oversights successive generations have to pay. I think that\nit would be _better than this_, for the students, or those who desire\nto be benefited by it, even to lay the foundation themselves. The\nstudent who secures his coveted leisure and retirement by\nsystematically shirking any labor necessary to man obtains but an\nignoble and unprofitable leisure, defrauding himself of the experience\nwhich alone can make leisure fruitful. \u201cBut,\u201d says one, \u201cyou do not\nmean that the students should go to work with their hands instead of\ntheir heads?\u201d I do not mean that exactly, but I mean something which he\nmight think a good deal like that; I mean that they should not _play_\nlife, or _study_ it merely, while the community supports them at this\nexpensive game, but earnestly _live_ it from beginning to end. How\ncould youths better learn to live than by at once trying the experiment\nof living? Methinks this would exercise their minds as much as\nmathematics. If I wished a boy to know something about the arts and\nsciences, for instance, I would not pursue the common course, which is\nmerely to send him into the neighborhood of some professor, where any\nthing is professed and practised but the art of life;\u2014to survey the\nworld through a telescope or a microscope, and never with his natural\neye; to study chemistry, and not learn how his bread is made, or\nmechanics, and not learn how it is earned; to discover new satellites\nto Neptune, and not detect the motes in his eyes, or to what vagabond\nhe is a satellite himself; or to be devoured by the monsters that swarm\nall around him, while contemplating the monsters in a drop of vinegar.\nWhich would have advanced the most at the end of a month,\u2014the boy who\nhad made his own jackknife from the ore which he had dug and smelted,\nreading as much as would be necessary for this,\u2014or the boy who had\nattended the lectures on metallurgy at the Institute in the mean while,\nand had received a Rodgers\u2019 penknife from his father? Which would be\nmost likely to cut his fingers?... To my astonishment I was informed on\nleaving college that I had studied navigation!\u2014why, if I had taken one\nturn down the harbor I should have known more about it. Even the _poor_\nstudent studies and is taught only _political_ economy, while that\neconomy of living which is synonymous with philosophy is not even\nsincerely professed in our colleges. The consequence is, that while he\nis reading Adam Smith, Ricardo, and Say, he runs his father in debt\nirretrievably.\n\nAs with our colleges, so with a hundred \u201cmodern improvements\u201d; there is\nan illusion about them; there is not always a positive advance. The\ndevil goes on exacting compound interest to the last for his early\nshare and numerous succeeding investments in them. Our inventions are\nwont to be pretty toys, which distract our attention from serious\nthings. They are but improved means to an unimproved end, an end which\nit was already but too easy to arrive at; as railroads lead to Boston\nor New York. We are in great haste to construct a magnetic telegraph\nfrom Maine to Texas; but Maine and Texas, it may be, have nothing\nimportant to communicate. Either is in such a predicament as the man\nwho was earnest to be introduced to a distinguished deaf woman, but\nwhen he was presented, and one end of her ear trumpet was put into his\nhand, had nothing to say. As if the main object were to talk fast and\nnot to talk sensibly. We are eager to tunnel under the Atlantic and\nbring the old world some weeks nearer to the new; but perchance the\nfirst news that will leak through into the broad, flapping American ear\nwill be that the Princess Adelaide has the whooping cough. After all,\nthe man whose horse trots a mile in a minute does not carry the most\nimportant messages; he is not an evangelist, nor does he come round\neating locusts and wild honey. I doubt if Flying Childers ever carried\na peck of corn to mill.\n\nOne says to me, \u201cI wonder that you do not lay up money; you love to\ntravel; you might take the cars and go to Fitchburg to-day and see the\ncountry.\u201d But I am wiser than that. I have learned that the swiftest\ntraveller is he that goes afoot. I say to my friend, Suppose we try who\nwill get there first. The distance is thirty miles; the fare ninety\ncents. That is almost a day\u2019s wages. I remember when wages were sixty\ncents a day for laborers on this very road. Well, I start now on foot,\nand get there before night; I have travelled at that rate by the week\ntogether. You will in the mean while have earned your fare, and arrive\nthere some time to-morrow, or possibly this evening, if you are lucky\nenough to get a job in season. Instead of going to Fitchburg, you will\nbe working here the greater part of the day. And so, if the railroad\nreached round the world, I think that I should keep ahead of you; and\nas for seeing the country and getting experience of that kind, I should\nhave to cut your acquaintance altogether.\n\nSuch is the universal law, which no man can ever outwit, and with\nregard to the railroad even we may say it is as broad as it is long. To\nmake a railroad round the world available to all mankind is equivalent\nto grading the whole surface of the planet. Men have an indistinct\nnotion that if they keep up this activity of joint stocks and spades\nlong enough all will at length ride somewhere, in next to no time, and\nfor nothing; but though a crowd rushes to the depot, and the conductor\nshouts \u201cAll aboard!\u201d when the smoke is blown away and the vapor\ncondensed, it will be perceived that a few are riding, but the rest are\nrun over,\u2014and it will be called, and will be, \u201cA melancholy accident.\u201d\nNo doubt they can ride at last who shall have earned their fare, that\nis, if they survive so long, but they will probably have lost their\nelasticity and desire to travel by that time. This spending of the best\npart of one\u2019s life earning money in order to enjoy a questionable\nliberty during the least valuable part of it, reminds me of the\nEnglishman who went to India to make a fortune first, in order that he\nmight return to England and live the life of a poet. He should have\ngone up garret at once. \u201cWhat!\u201d exclaim a million Irishmen starting up\nfrom all the shanties in the land, \u201cis not this railroad which we have\nbuilt a good thing?\u201d Yes, I answer, _comparatively_ good, that is, you\nmight have done worse; but I wish, as you are brothers of mine, that\nyou could have spent your time better than digging in this dirt.\n\n\n\nBefore I finished my house, wishing to earn ten or twelve dollars by\nsome honest and agreeable method, in order to meet my unusual expenses,\nI planted about two acres and a half of light and sandy soil near it\nchiefly with beans, but also a small part with potatoes, corn, peas,\nand turnips. The whole lot contains eleven acres, mostly growing up to\npines and hickories, and was sold the preceding season for eight\ndollars and eight cents an acre. One farmer said that it was \u201cgood for\nnothing but to raise cheeping squirrels on.\u201d I put no manure whatever\non this land, not being the owner, but merely a squatter, and not\nexpecting to cultivate so much again, and I did not quite hoe it all\nonce. I got out several cords of stumps in ploughing, which supplied me\nwith fuel for a long time, and left small circles of virgin mould,\neasily distinguishable through the summer by the greater luxuriance of\nthe beans there. The dead and for the most part unmerchantable wood\nbehind my house, and the driftwood from the pond, have supplied the\nremainder of my fuel. I was obliged to hire a team and a man for the\nploughing, though I held the plough myself. My farm outgoes for the\nfirst season were, for implements, seed, work, &c., $14.72\u00bd. The seed\ncorn was given me. This never costs anything to speak of, unless you\nplant more than enough. I got twelve bushels of beans, and eighteen\nbushels of potatoes, beside some peas and sweet corn. The yellow corn\nand turnips were too late to come to any thing. My whole income from\nthe farm was\n\n                                       $ 23.44\n      Deducting the outgoes,...........  14.72\u00bd\n                                         \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n      There are left,................. $  8.71\u00bd,\n\nbeside produce consumed and on hand at the time this estimate was made\nof the value of $4.50,\u2014the amount on hand much more than balancing a\nlittle grass which I did not raise. All things considered, that is,\nconsidering the importance of a man\u2019s soul and of to-day,\nnotwithstanding the short time occupied by my experiment, nay, partly\neven because of its transient character, I believe that that was doing\nbetter than any farmer in Concord did that year.\n\nThe next year I did better still, for I spaded up all the land which I\nrequired, about a third of an acre, and I learned from the experience\nof both years, not being in the least awed by many celebrated works on\nhusbandry, Arthur Young among the rest, that if one would live simply\nand eat only the crop which he raised, and raise no more than he ate,\nand not exchange it for an insufficient quantity of more luxurious and\nexpensive things, he would need to cultivate only a few rods of ground,\nand that it would be cheaper to spade up that than to use oxen to\nplough it, and to select a fresh spot from time to time than to manure\nthe old, and he could do all his necessary farm work as it were with\nhis left hand at odd hours in the summer; and thus he would not be tied\nto an ox, or horse, or cow, or pig, as at present. I desire to speak\nimpartially on this point, and as one not interested in the success or\nfailure of the present economical and social arrangements. I was more\nindependent than any farmer in Concord, for I was not anchored to a\nhouse or farm, but could follow the bent of my genius, which is a very\ncrooked one, every moment. Beside being better off than they already,\nif my house had been burned or my crops had failed, I should have been\nnearly as well off as before.\n\nI am wont to think that men are not so much the keepers of herds as\nherds are the keepers of men, the former are so much the freer. Men and\noxen exchange work; but if we consider necessary work only, the oxen\nwill be seen to have greatly the advantage, their farm is so much the\nlarger. Man does some of his part of the exchange work in his six weeks\nof haying, and it is no boy\u2019s play. Certainly no nation that lived\nsimply in all respects, that is, no nation of philosophers, would\ncommit so great a blunder as to use the labor of animals. True, there\nnever was and is not likely soon to be a nation of philosophers, nor am\nI certain it is desirable that there should be. However, _I_ should\nnever have broken a horse or bull and taken him to board for any work\nhe might do for me, for fear I should become a horse-man or a herds-man\nmerely; and if society seems to be the gainer by so doing, are we\ncertain that what is one man\u2019s gain is not another\u2019s loss, and that the\nstable-boy has equal cause with his master to be satisfied? Granted\nthat some public works would not have been constructed without this\naid, and let man share the glory of such with the ox and horse; does it\nfollow that he could not have accomplished works yet more worthy of\nhimself in that case? When men begin to do, not merely unnecessary or\nartistic, but luxurious and idle work, with their assistance, it is\ninevitable that a few do all the exchange work with the oxen, or, in\nother words, become the slaves of the strongest. Man thus not only\nworks for the animal within him, but, for a symbol of this, he works\nfor the animal without him. Though we have many substantial houses of\nbrick or stone, the prosperity of the farmer is still measured by the\ndegree to which the barn overshadows the house. This town is said to\nhave the largest houses for oxen, cows, and horses hereabouts, and it\nis not behindhand in its public buildings; but there are very few halls\nfor free worship or free speech in this county. It should not be by\ntheir architecture, but why not even by their power of abstract\nthought, that nations should seek to commemorate themselves? How much\nmore admirable the Bhagvat-Geeta than all the ruins of the East! Towers\nand temples are the luxury of princes. A simple and independent mind\ndoes not toil at the bidding of any prince. Genius is not a retainer to\nany emperor, nor is its material silver, or gold, or marble, except to\na trifling extent. To what end, pray, is so much stone hammered? In\nArcadia, when I was there, I did not see any hammering stone. Nations\nare possessed with an insane ambition to perpetuate the memory of\nthemselves by the amount of hammered stone they leave. What if equal\npains were taken to smooth and polish their manners? One piece of good\nsense would be more memorable than a monument as high as the moon. I\nlove better to see stones in place. The grandeur of Thebes was a vulgar\ngrandeur. More sensible is a rod of stone wall that bounds an honest\nman\u2019s field than a hundred-gated Thebes that has wandered farther from\nthe true end of life. The religion and civilization which are barbaric\nand heathenish build splendid temples; but what you might call\nChristianity does not. Most of the stone a nation hammers goes toward\nits tomb only. It buries itself alive. As for the Pyramids, there is\nnothing to wonder at in them so much as the fact that so many men could\nbe found degraded enough to spend their lives constructing a tomb for\nsome ambitious booby, whom it would have been wiser and manlier to have\ndrowned in the Nile, and then given his body to the dogs. I might\npossibly invent some excuse for them and him, but I have no time for\nit. As for the religion and love of art of the builders, it is much the\nsame all the world over, whether the building be an Egyptian temple or\nthe United States Bank. It costs more than it comes to. The mainspring\nis vanity, assisted by the love of garlic and bread and butter. Mr.\nBalcom, a promising young architect, designs it on the back of his\nVitruvius, with hard pencil and ruler, and the job is let out to Dobson\n& Sons, stonecutters. When the thirty centuries begin to look down on\nit, mankind begin to look up at it. As for your high towers and\nmonuments, there was a crazy fellow once in this town who undertook to\ndig through to China, and he got so far that, as he said, he heard the\nChinese pots and kettles rattle; but I think that I shall not go out of\nmy way to admire the hole which he made. Many are concerned about the\nmonuments of the West and the East,\u2014to know who built them. For my\npart, I should like to know who in those days did not build them,\u2014who\nwere above such trifling. But to proceed with my statistics.\n\nBy surveying, carpentry, and day-labor of various other kinds in the\nvillage in the mean while, for I have as many trades as fingers, I had\nearned $13.34. The expense of food for eight months, namely, from July\n4th to March 1st, the time when these estimates were made, though I\nlived there more than two years,\u2014not counting potatoes, a little green\ncorn, and some peas, which I had raised, nor considering the value of\nwhat was on hand at the last date, was\n\n\n    Rice,................... $ 1.73\u00bd\n    Molasses,................  1.73     Cheapest form of the\n                                         saccharine.\n    Rye meal,................  1.04\u00be\n    Indian meal,.............  0.99\u00be     Cheaper than rye.\n    Pork,....................  0.22\n\n    All experiments which failed:\n    Flour,...................  0.88  Costs more than Indian meal,\n                                      both money and trouble.\n    Sugar,...................  0.80\n    Lard,....................  0.65\n    Apples,..................  0.25\n    Dried apple,.............  0.22\n    Sweet potatoes,..........  0.10\n    One pumpkin,.............  0.06\n    One watermelon,..........  0.02\n    Salt,....................  0.03\n\nYes, I did eat $8.74, all told; but I should not thus unblushingly\npublish my guilt, if I did not know that most of my readers were\nequally guilty with myself, and that their deeds would look no better\nin print. The next year I sometimes caught a mess of fish for my\ndinner, and once I went so far as to slaughter a woodchuck which\nravaged my bean-field,\u2014effect his transmigration, as a Tartar would\nsay,\u2014and devour him, partly for experiment\u2019s sake; but though it\nafforded me a momentary enjoyment, notwithstanding a musky flavor, I\nsaw that the longest use would not make that a good practice, however\nit might seem to have your woodchucks ready dressed by the village\nbutcher.\n\nClothing and some incidental expenses within the same dates, though\nlittle can be inferred from this item, amounted to\n\n                                            $8.40\u00be\n    Oil and some household utensils,.......  2.00\n\nSo that all the pecuniary outgoes, excepting for washing and mending,\nwhich for the most part were done out of the house, and their bills\nhave not yet been received,\u2014and these are all and more than all the\nways by which money necessarily goes out in this part of the\nworld,\u2014were\n\n    House,................................ $ 28.12\u00bd\n    Farm one year,.......................... 14.72\u00bd\n    Food eight months,......................  8.74\n    Clothing, etc., eight months,...........  8.40\u00be\n    Oil, &c., eight months,.................  2.00\n                                           \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n        In all,........................... $ 61.99\u00be\n\nI address myself now to those of my readers who have a living to get.\nAnd to meet this I have for farm produce sold\n\n                                            $23.44\n    Earned by day-labor,...................  13.34\n                                           \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n        In all,............................ $36.78,\n\nwhich subtracted from the sum of the outgoes leaves a balance of\n$25.21\u00be on the one side,\u2014this being very nearly the means with which I\nstarted, and the measure of expenses to be incurred,\u2014and on the other,\nbeside the leisure and independence and health thus secured, a\ncomfortable house for me as long as I choose to occupy it.\n\nThese statistics, however accidental and therefore uninstructive they\nmay appear, as they have a certain completeness, have a certain value\nalso. Nothing was given me of which I have not rendered some account.\nIt appears from the above estimate, that my food alone cost me in money\nabout twenty-seven cents a week. It was, for nearly two years after\nthis, rye and Indian meal without yeast, potatoes, rice, a very little\nsalt pork, molasses, and salt, and my drink water. It was fit that I\nshould live on rice, mainly, who loved so well the philosophy of India.\nTo meet the objections of some inveterate cavillers, I may as well\nstate, that if I dined out occasionally, as I always had done, and I\ntrust shall have opportunities to do again, it was frequently to the\ndetriment of my domestic arrangements. But the dining out, being, as I\nhave stated, a constant element, does not in the least affect a\ncomparative statement like this.\n\nI learned from my two years\u2019 experience that it would cost incredibly\nlittle trouble to obtain one\u2019s necessary food, even in this latitude;\nthat a man may use as simple a diet as the animals, and yet retain\nhealth and strength. I have made a satisfactory dinner, satisfactory on\nseveral accounts, simply off a dish of purslane (_Portulaca oleracea_)\nwhich I gathered in my cornfield, boiled and salted. I give the Latin\non account of the savoriness of the trivial name. And pray what more\ncan a reasonable man desire, in peaceful times, in ordinary noons, than\na sufficient number of ears of green sweet-corn boiled, with the\naddition of salt? Even the little variety which I used was a yielding\nto the demands of appetite, and not of health. Yet men have come to\nsuch a pass that they frequently starve, not for want of necessaries,\nbut for want of luxuries; and I know a good woman who thinks that her\nson lost his life because he took to drinking water only.\n\nThe reader will perceive that I am treating the subject rather from an\neconomic than a dietetic point of view, and he will not venture to put\nmy abstemiousness to the test unless he has a well-stocked larder.\n\nBread I at first made of pure Indian meal and salt, genuine hoe-cakes,\nwhich I baked before my fire out of doors on a shingle or the end of a\nstick of timber sawed off in building my house; but it was wont to get\nsmoked and to have a piny flavor. I tried flour also; but have at last\nfound a mixture of rye and Indian meal most convenient and agreeable.\nIn cold weather it was no little amusement to bake several small loaves\nof this in succession, tending and turning them as carefully as an\nEgyptian his hatching eggs. They were a real cereal fruit which I\nripened, and they had to my senses a fragrance like that of other noble\nfruits, which I kept in as long as possible by wrapping them in cloths.\nI made a study of the ancient and indispensable art of bread-making,\nconsulting such authorities as offered, going back to the primitive\ndays and first invention of the unleavened kind, when from the wildness\nof nuts and meats men first reached the mildness and refinement of this\ndiet, and travelling gradually down in my studies through that\naccidental souring of the dough which, it is supposed, taught the\nleavening process, and through the various fermentations thereafter,\ntill I came to \u201cgood, sweet, wholesome bread,\u201d the staff of life.\nLeaven, which some deem the soul of bread, the _spiritus_ which fills\nits cellular tissue, which is religiously preserved like the vestal\nfire,\u2014some precious bottle-full, I suppose, first brought over in the\nMayflower, did the business for America, and its influence is still\nrising, swelling, spreading, in cerealian billows over the land,\u2014this\nseed I regularly and faithfully procured from the village, till at\nlength one morning I forgot the rules, and scalded my yeast; by which\naccident I discovered that even this was not indispensable,\u2014for my\ndiscoveries were not by the synthetic but analytic process,\u2014and I have\ngladly omitted it since, though most housewives earnestly assured me\nthat safe and wholesome bread without yeast might not be, and elderly\npeople prophesied a speedy decay of the vital forces. Yet I find it not\nto be an essential ingredient, and after going without it for a year am\nstill in the land of the living; and I am glad to escape the\ntrivialness of carrying a bottle-full in my pocket, which would\nsometimes pop and discharge its contents to my discomfiture. It is\nsimpler and more respectable to omit it. Man is an animal who more than\nany other can adapt himself to all climates and circumstances. Neither\ndid I put any sal soda, or other acid or alkali, into my bread. It\nwould seem that I made it according to the recipe which Marcus Porcius\nCato gave about two centuries before Christ. \u201cPanem depsticium sic\nfacito. Manus mortariumque bene lavato. Farinam in mortarium indito,\naqu\u00e6 paulatim addito, subigitoque pulchre. Ubi bene subegeris,\ndefingito, coquitoque sub testu.\u201d Which I take to mean\u2014\u201cMake kneaded\nbread thus. Wash your hands and trough well. Put the meal into the\ntrough, add water gradually, and knead it thoroughly. When you have\nkneaded it well, mould it, and bake it under a cover,\u201d that is, in a\nbaking-kettle. Not a word about leaven. But I did not always use this\nstaff of life. At one time, owing to the emptiness of my purse, I saw\nnone of it for more than a month.\n\nEvery New Englander might easily raise all his own breadstuffs in this\nland of rye and Indian corn, and not depend on distant and fluctuating\nmarkets for them. Yet so far are we from simplicity and independence\nthat, in Concord, fresh and sweet meal is rarely sold in the shops, and\nhominy and corn in a still coarser form are hardly used by any. For the\nmost part the farmer gives to his cattle and hogs the grain of his own\nproducing, and buys flour, which is at least no more wholesome, at a\ngreater cost, at the store. I saw that I could easily raise my bushel\nor two of rye and Indian corn, for the former will grow on the poorest\nland, and the latter does not require the best, and grind them in a\nhand-mill, and so do without rice and pork; and if I must have some\nconcentrated sweet, I found by experiment that I could make a very good\nmolasses either of pumpkins or beets, and I knew that I needed only to\nset out a few maples to obtain it more easily still, and while these\nwere growing I could use various substitutes beside those which I have\nnamed. \u201cFor,\u201d as the Forefathers sang,\u2014\n\n     \u201cwe can make liquor to sweeten our lips\n     Of pumpkins and parsnips and walnut-tree chips.\u201d\n\nFinally, as for salt, that grossest of groceries, to obtain this might\nbe a fit occasion for a visit to the seashore, or, if I did without it\naltogether, I should probably drink the less water. I do not learn that\nthe Indians ever troubled themselves to go after it.\n\nThus I could avoid all trade and barter, so far as my food was\nconcerned, and having a shelter already, it would only remain to get\nclothing and fuel. The pantaloons which I now wear were woven in a\nfarmer\u2019s family,\u2014thank Heaven there is so much virtue still in man; for\nI think the fall from the farmer to the operative as great and\nmemorable as that from the man to the farmer;\u2014and in a new country,\nfuel is an encumbrance. As for a habitat, if I were not permitted still\nto squat, I might purchase one acre at the same price for which the\nland I cultivated was sold\u2014namely, eight dollars and eight cents. But\nas it was, I considered that I enhanced the value of the land by\nsquatting on it.\n\nThere is a certain class of unbelievers who sometimes ask me such\nquestions as, if I think that I can live on vegetable food alone; and\nto strike at the root of the matter at once,\u2014for the root is faith,\u2014I\nam accustomed to answer such, that I can live on board nails. If they\ncannot understand that, they cannot understand much that I have to say.\nFor my part, I am glad to hear of experiments of this kind being tried;\nas that a young man tried for a fortnight to live on hard, raw corn on\nthe ear, using his teeth for all mortar. The squirrel tribe tried the\nsame and succeeded. The human race is interested in these experiments,\nthough a few old women who are incapacitated for them, or who own their\nthirds in mills, may be alarmed.\n\n\n\nMy furniture, part of which I made myself, and the rest cost me nothing\nof which I have not rendered an account, consisted of a bed, a table, a\ndesk, three chairs, a looking-glass three inches in diameter, a pair of\ntongs and andirons, a kettle, a skillet, and a frying-pan, a dipper, a\nwash-bowl, two knives and forks, three plates, one cup, one spoon, a\njug for oil, a jug for molasses, and a japanned lamp. None is so poor\nthat he need sit on a pumpkin. That is shiftlessness. There is a plenty\nof such chairs as I like best in the village garrets to be had for\ntaking them away. Furniture! Thank God, I can sit and I can stand\nwithout the aid of a furniture warehouse. What man but a philosopher\nwould not be ashamed to see his furniture packed in a cart and going up\ncountry exposed to the light of heaven and the eyes of men, a beggarly\naccount of empty boxes? That is Spaulding\u2019s furniture. I could never\ntell from inspecting such a load whether it belonged to a so called\nrich man or a poor one; the owner always seemed poverty-stricken.\nIndeed, the more you have of such things the poorer you are. Each load\nlooks as if it contained the contents of a dozen shanties; and if one\nshanty is poor, this is a dozen times as poor. Pray, for what do we\n_move_ ever but to get rid of our furniture, our _exuvi\u00e6_; at last to\ngo from this world to another newly furnished, and leave this to be\nburned? It is the same as if all these traps were buckled to a man\u2019s\nbelt, and he could not move over the rough country where our lines are\ncast without dragging them,\u2014dragging his trap. He was a lucky fox that\nleft his tail in the trap. The muskrat will gnaw his third leg off to\nbe free. No wonder man has lost his elasticity. How often he is at a\ndead set! \u201cSir, if I may be so bold, what do you mean by a dead set?\u201d\nIf you are a seer, whenever you meet a man you will see all that he\nowns, ay, and much that he pretends to disown, behind him, even to his\nkitchen furniture and all the trumpery which he saves and will not\nburn, and he will appear to be harnessed to it and making what headway\nhe can. I think that the man is at a dead set who has got through a\nknot hole or gateway where his sledge load of furniture cannot follow\nhim. I cannot but feel compassion when I hear some trig,\ncompact-looking man, seemingly free, all girded and ready, speak of his\n\u201cfurniture,\u201d as whether it is insured or not. \u201cBut what shall I do with\nmy furniture?\u201d My gay butterfly is entangled in a spider\u2019s web then.\nEven those who seem for a long while not to have any, if you inquire\nmore narrowly you will find have some stored in somebody\u2019s barn. I look\nupon England to-day as an old gentleman who is travelling with a great\ndeal of baggage, trumpery which has accumulated from long housekeeping,\nwhich he has not the courage to burn; great trunk, little trunk,\nbandbox and bundle. Throw away the first three at least. It would\nsurpass the powers of a well man nowadays to take up his bed and walk,\nand I should certainly advise a sick one to lay down his bed and run.\nWhen I have met an immigrant tottering under a bundle which contained\nhis all\u2014looking like an enormous wen which had grown out of the nape of\nhis neck\u2014I have pitied him, not because that was his all, but because\nhe had all _that_ to carry. If I have got to drag my trap, I will take\ncare that it be a light one and do not nip me in a vital part. But\nperchance it would be wisest never to put one\u2019s paw into it.\n\nI would observe, by the way, that it costs me nothing for curtains, for\nI have no gazers to shut out but the sun and moon, and I am willing\nthat they should look in. The moon will not sour milk nor taint meat of\nmine, nor will the sun injure my furniture or fade my carpet, and if he\nis sometimes too warm a friend, I find it still better economy to\nretreat behind some curtain which nature has provided, than to add a\nsingle item to the details of housekeeping. A lady once offered me a\nmat, but as I had no room to spare within the house, nor time to spare\nwithin or without to shake it, I declined it, preferring to wipe my\nfeet on the sod before my door. It is best to avoid the beginnings of\nevil.\n\nNot long since I was present at the auction of a deacon\u2019s effects, for\nhis life had not been ineffectual:\u2014\n\n     \u201cThe evil that men do lives after them.\u201d\n\nAs usual, a great proportion was trumpery which had begun to accumulate\nin his father\u2019s day. Among the rest was a dried tapeworm. And now,\nafter lying half a century in his garret and other dust holes, these\nthings were not burned; instead of a _bonfire_, or purifying\ndestruction of them, there was an _auction_, or increasing of them. The\nneighbors eagerly collected to view them, bought them all, and\ncarefully transported them to their garrets and dust holes, to lie\nthere till their estates are settled, when they will start again. When\na man dies he kicks the dust.\n\nThe customs of some savage nations might, perchance, be profitably\nimitated by us, for they at least go through the semblance of casting\ntheir slough annually; they have the idea of the thing, whether they\nhave the reality or not. Would it not be well if we were to celebrate\nsuch a \u201cbusk,\u201d or \u201cfeast of first fruits,\u201d as Bartram describes to have\nbeen the custom of the Mucclasse Indians? \u201cWhen a town celebrates the\nbusk,\u201d says he, \u201chaving previously provided themselves with new\nclothes, new pots, pans, and other household utensils and furniture,\nthey collect all their worn out clothes and other despicable things,\nsweep and cleanse their houses, squares, and the whole town of their\nfilth, which with all the remaining grain and other old provisions they\ncast together into one common heap, and consume it with fire. After\nhaving taken medicine, and fasted for three days, all the fire in the\ntown is extinguished. During this fast they abstain from the\ngratification of every appetite and passion whatever. A general amnesty\nis proclaimed; all malefactors may return to their town.\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cOn the fourth morning, the high priest, by rubbing dry wood together,\nproduces new fire in the public square, from whence every habitation in\nthe town is supplied with the new and pure flame.\u201d\n\nThey then feast on the new corn and fruits, and dance and sing for\nthree days, \u201cand the four following days they receive visits and\nrejoice with their friends from neighboring towns who have in like\nmanner purified and prepared themselves.\u201d\n\nThe Mexicans also practised a similar purification at the end of every\nfifty-two years, in the belief that it was time for the world to come\nto an end.\n\nI have scarcely heard of a truer sacrament, that is, as the dictionary\ndefines it, \u201coutward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual\ngrace,\u201d than this, and I have no doubt that they were originally\ninspired directly from Heaven to do thus, though they have no biblical\nrecord of the revelation.\n\n\n\nFor more than five years I maintained myself thus solely by the labor\nof my hands, and I found, that by working about six weeks in a year, I\ncould meet all the expenses of living. The whole of my winters, as well\nas most of my summers, I had free and clear for study. I have\nthoroughly tried school-keeping, and found that my expenses were in\nproportion, or rather out of proportion, to my income, for I was\nobliged to dress and train, not to say think and believe, accordingly,\nand I lost my time into the bargain. As I did not teach for the good of\nmy fellow-men, but simply for a livelihood, this was a failure. I have\ntried trade; but I found that it would take ten years to get under way\nin that, and that then I should probably be on my way to the devil. I\nwas actually afraid that I might by that time be doing what is called a\ngood business. When formerly I was looking about to see what I could do\nfor a living, some sad experience in conforming to the wishes of\nfriends being fresh in my mind to tax my ingenuity, I thought often and\nseriously of picking huckleberries; that surely I could do, and its\nsmall profits might suffice,\u2014for my greatest skill has been to want but\nlittle,\u2014so little capital it required, so little distraction from my\nwonted moods, I foolishly thought. While my acquaintances went\nunhesitatingly into trade or the professions, I contemplated this\noccupation as most like theirs; ranging the hills all summer to pick\nthe berries which came in my way, and thereafter carelessly dispose of\nthem; so, to keep the flocks of Admetus. I also dreamed that I might\ngather the wild herbs, or carry evergreens to such villagers as loved\nto be reminded of the woods, even to the city, by hay-cart loads. But I\nhave since learned that trade curses everything it handles; and though\nyou trade in messages from heaven, the whole curse of trade attaches to\nthe business.\n\nAs I preferred some things to others, and especially valued my freedom,\nas I could fare hard and yet succeed well, I did not wish to spend my\ntime in earning rich carpets or other fine furniture, or delicate\ncookery, or a house in the Grecian or the Gothic style just yet. If\nthere are any to whom it is no interruption to acquire these things,\nand who know how to use them when acquired, I relinquish to them the\npursuit. Some are \u201cindustrious,\u201d and appear to love labor for its own\nsake, or perhaps because it keeps them out of worse mischief; to such I\nhave at present nothing to say. Those who would not know what to do\nwith more leisure than they now enjoy, I might advise to work twice as\nhard as they do,\u2014work till they pay for themselves, and get their free\npapers. For myself I found that the occupation of a day-laborer was the\nmost independent of any, especially as it required only thirty or forty\ndays in a year to support one. The laborer\u2019s day ends with the going\ndown of the sun, and he is then free to devote himself to his chosen\npursuit, independent of his labor; but his employer, who speculates\nfrom month to month, has no respite from one end of the year to the\nother.\n\nIn short, I am convinced, both by faith and experience, that to\nmaintain one\u2019s self on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime, if\nwe will live simply and wisely; as the pursuits of the simpler nations\nare still the sports of the more artificial. It is not necessary that a\nman should earn his living by the sweat of his brow, unless he sweats\neasier than I do.\n\nOne young man of my acquaintance, who has inherited some acres, told me\nthat he thought he should live as I did, _if he had the means_. I would\nnot have any one adopt _my_ mode of living on any account; for, beside\nthat before he has fairly learned it I may have found out another for\nmyself, I desire that there may be as many different persons in the\nworld as possible; but I would have each one be very careful to find\nout and pursue _his own_ way, and not his father\u2019s or his mother\u2019s or\nhis neighbor\u2019s instead. The youth may build or plant or sail, only let\nhim not be hindered from doing that which he tells me he would like to\ndo. It is by a mathematical point only that we are wise, as the sailor\nor the fugitive slave keeps the polestar in his eye; but that is\nsufficient guidance for all our life. We may not arrive at our port\nwithin a calculable period, but we would preserve the true course.\n\nUndoubtedly, in this case, what is true for one is truer still for a\nthousand, as a large house is not proportionally more expensive than a\nsmall one, since one roof may cover, one cellar underlie, and one wall\nseparate several apartments. But for my part, I preferred the solitary\ndwelling. Moreover, it will commonly be cheaper to build the whole\nyourself than to convince another of the advantage of the common wall;\nand when you have done this, the common partition, to be much cheaper,\nmust be a thin one, and that other may prove a bad neighbor, and also\nnot keep his side in repair. The only co\u00f6peration which is commonly\npossible is exceedingly partial and superficial; and what little true\nco\u00f6peration there is, is as if it were not, being a harmony inaudible\nto men. If a man has faith, he will co\u00f6perate with equal faith\neverywhere; if he has not faith, he will continue to live like the rest\nof the world, whatever company he is joined to. To co\u00f6perate, in the\nhighest as well as the lowest sense, means _to get our living\ntogether_. I heard it proposed lately that two young men should travel\ntogether over the world, the one without money, earning his means as he\nwent, before the mast and behind the plow, the other carrying a bill of\nexchange in his pocket. It was easy to see that they could not long be\ncompanions or co\u00f6perate, since one would not _operate_ at all. They\nwould part at the first interesting crisis in their adventures. Above\nall, as I have implied, the man who goes alone can start to-day; but he\nwho travels with another must wait till that other is ready, and it may\nbe a long time before they get off.\n\n\n\nBut all this is very selfish, I have heard some of my townsmen say. I\nconfess that I have hitherto indulged very little in philanthropic\nenterprises. I have made some sacrifices to a sense of duty, and among\nothers have sacrificed this pleasure also. There are those who have\nused all their arts to persuade me to undertake the support of some\npoor family in the town; and if I had nothing to do,\u2014for the devil\nfinds employment for the idle,\u2014I might try my hand at some such pastime\nas that. However, when I have thought to indulge myself in this\nrespect, and lay their Heaven under an obligation by maintaining\ncertain poor persons in all respects as comfortably as I maintain\nmyself, and have even ventured so far as to make them the offer, they\nhave one and all unhesitatingly preferred to remain poor. While my\ntownsmen and women are devoted in so many ways to the good of their\nfellows, I trust that one at least may be spared to other and less\nhumane pursuits. You must have a genius for charity as well as for any\nthing else. As for Doing-good, that is one of the professions which are\nfull. Moreover, I have tried it fairly, and, strange as it may seem, am\nsatisfied that it does not agree with my constitution. Probably I\nshould not consciously and deliberately forsake my particular calling\nto do the good which society demands of me, to save the universe from\nannihilation; and I believe that a like but infinitely greater\nsteadfastness elsewhere is all that now preserves it. But I would not\nstand between any man and his genius; and to him who does this work,\nwhich I decline, with his whole heart and soul and life, I would say,\nPersevere, even if the world call it doing evil, as it is most likely\nthey will.\n\nI am far from supposing that my case is a peculiar one; no doubt many\nof my readers would make a similar defence. At doing something,\u2014I will\nnot engage that my neighbors shall pronounce it good,\u2014I do not hesitate\nto say that I should be a capital fellow to hire; but what that is, it\nis for my employer to find out. What _good_ I do, in the common sense\nof that word, must be aside from my main path, and for the most part\nwholly unintended. Men say, practically, Begin where you are and such\nas you are, without aiming mainly to become of more worth, and with\nkindness aforethought go about doing good. If I were to preach at all\nin this strain, I should say rather, Set about being good. As if the\nsun should stop when he had kindled his fires up to the splendor of a\nmoon or a star of the sixth magnitude, and go about like a Robin\nGoodfellow, peeping in at every cottage window, inspiring lunatics, and\ntainting meats, and making darkness visible, instead of steadily\nincreasing his genial heat and beneficence till he is of such\nbrightness that no mortal can look him in the face, and then, and in\nthe mean while too, going about the world in his own orbit, doing it\ngood, or rather, as a truer philosophy has discovered, the world going\nabout him getting good. When Phaeton, wishing to prove his heavenly\nbirth by his beneficence, had the sun\u2019s chariot but one day, and drove\nout of the beaten track, he burned several blocks of houses in the\nlower streets of heaven, and scorched the surface of the earth, and\ndried up every spring, and made the great desert of Sahara, till at\nlength Jupiter hurled him headlong to the earth with a thunderbolt, and\nthe sun, through grief at his death, did not shine for a year.\n\nThere is no odor so bad as that which arises from goodness tainted. It\nis human, it is divine, carrion. If I knew for a certainty that a man\nwas coming to my house with the conscious design of doing me good, I\nshould run for my life, as from that dry and parching wind of the\nAfrican deserts called the simoom, which fills the mouth and nose and\nears and eyes with dust till you are suffocated, for fear that I should\nget some of his good done to me,\u2014some of its virus mingled with my\nblood. No,\u2014in this case I would rather suffer evil the natural way. A\nman is not a good _man_ to me because he will feed me if I should be\nstarving, or warm me if I should be freezing, or pull me out of a ditch\nif I should ever fall into one. I can find you a Newfoundland dog that\nwill do as much. Philanthropy is not love for one\u2019s fellow-man in the\nbroadest sense. Howard was no doubt an exceedingly kind and worthy man\nin his way, and has his reward; but, comparatively speaking, what are a\nhundred Howards to _us_, if their philanthropy do not help _us_ in our\nbest estate, when we are most worthy to be helped? I never heard of a\nphilanthropic meeting in which it was sincerely proposed to do any good\nto me, or the like of me.\n\nThe Jesuits were quite balked by those Indians who, being burned at the\nstake, suggested new modes of torture to their tormentors. Being\nsuperior to physical suffering, it sometimes chanced that they were\nsuperior to any consolation which the missionaries could offer; and the\nlaw to do as you would be done by fell with less persuasiveness on the\nears of those who, for their part, did not care how they were done by,\nwho loved their enemies after a new fashion, and came very near freely\nforgiving them all they did.\n\nBe sure that you give the poor the aid they most need, though it be\nyour example which leaves them far behind. If you give money, spend\nyourself with it, and do not merely abandon it to them. We make curious\nmistakes sometimes. Often the poor man is not so cold and hungry as he\nis dirty and ragged and gross. It is partly his taste, and not merely\nhis misfortune. If you give him money, he will perhaps buy more rags\nwith it. I was wont to pity the clumsy Irish laborers who cut ice on\nthe pond, in such mean and ragged clothes, while I shivered in my more\ntidy and somewhat more fashionable garments, till, one bitter cold day,\none who had slipped into the water came to my house to warm him, and I\nsaw him strip off three pairs of pants and two pairs of stockings ere\nhe got down to the skin, though they were dirty and ragged enough, it\nis true, and that he could afford to refuse the _extra_ garments which\nI offered him, he had so many _intra_ ones. This ducking was the very\nthing he needed. Then I began to pity myself, and I saw that it would\nbe a greater charity to bestow on me a flannel shirt than a whole\nslop-shop on him. There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil\nto one who is striking at the root, and it may be that he who bestows\nthe largest amount of time and money on the needy is doing the most by\nhis mode of life to produce that misery which he strives in vain to\nrelieve. It is the pious slave-breeder devoting the proceeds of every\ntenth slave to buy a Sunday\u2019s liberty for the rest. Some show their\nkindness to the poor by employing them in their kitchens. Would they\nnot be kinder if they employed themselves there? You boast of spending\na tenth part of your income in charity; maybe you should spend the nine\ntenths so, and done with it. Society recovers only a tenth part of the\nproperty then. Is this owing to the generosity of him in whose\npossession it is found, or to the remissness of the officers of\njustice?\n\nPhilanthropy is almost the only virtue which is sufficiently\nappreciated by mankind. Nay, it is greatly overrated; and it is our\nselfishness which overrates it. A robust poor man, one sunny day here\nin Concord, praised a fellow-townsman to me, because, as he said, he\nwas kind to the poor; meaning himself. The kind uncles and aunts of the\nrace are more esteemed than its true spiritual fathers and mothers. I\nonce heard a reverend lecturer on England, a man of learning and\nintelligence, after enumerating her scientific, literary, and political\nworthies, Shakespeare, Bacon, Cromwell, Milton, Newton, and others,\nspeak next of her Christian heroes, whom, as if his profession required\nit of him, he elevated to a place far above all the rest, as the\ngreatest of the great. They were Penn, Howard, and Mrs. Fry. Every one\nmust feel the falsehood and cant of this. The last were not England\u2019s\nbest men and women; only, perhaps, her best philanthropists.\n\nI would not subtract any thing from the praise that is due to\nphilanthropy, but merely demand justice for all who by their lives and\nworks are a blessing to mankind. I do not value chiefly a man\u2019s\nuprightness and benevolence, which are, as it were, his stem and\nleaves. Those plants of whose greenness withered we make herb tea for\nthe sick, serve but a humble use, and are most employed by quacks. I\nwant the flower and fruit of a man; that some fragrance be wafted over\nfrom him to me, and some ripeness flavor our intercourse. His goodness\nmust not be a partial and transitory act, but a constant superfluity,\nwhich costs him nothing and of which he is unconscious. This is a\ncharity that hides a multitude of sins. The philanthropist too often\nsurrounds mankind with the remembrance of his own cast-off griefs as an\natmosphere, and calls it sympathy. We should impart our courage, and\nnot our despair, our health and ease, and not our disease, and take\ncare that this does not spread by contagion. From what southern plains\ncomes up the voice of wailing? Under what latitudes reside the heathen\nto whom we would send light? Who is that intemperate and brutal man\nwhom we would redeem? If any thing ail a man, so that he does not\nperform his functions, if he have a pain in his bowels even,\u2014for that\nis the seat of sympathy,\u2014he forthwith sets about reforming\u2014the world.\nBeing a microcosm himself, he discovers, and it is a true discovery,\nand he is the man to make it,\u2014that the world has been eating green\napples; to his eyes, in fact, the globe itself is a great green apple,\nwhich there is danger awful to think of that the children of men will\nnibble before it is ripe; and straightway his drastic philanthropy\nseeks out the Esquimaux and the Patagonian, and embraces the populous\nIndian and Chinese villages; and thus, by a few years of philanthropic\nactivity, the powers in the mean while using him for their own ends, no\ndoubt, he cures himself of his dyspepsia, the globe acquires a faint\nblush on one or both of its cheeks, as if it were beginning to be ripe,\nand life loses its crudity and is once more sweet and wholesome to\nlive. I never dreamed of any enormity greater than I have committed. I\nnever knew, and never shall know, a worse man than myself.\n\nI believe that what so saddens the reformer is not his sympathy with\nhis fellows in distress, but, though he be the holiest son of God, is\nhis private ail. Let this be righted, let the spring come to him, the\nmorning rise over his couch, and he will forsake his generous\ncompanions without apology. My excuse for not lecturing against the use\nof tobacco is, that I never chewed it; that is a penalty which reformed\ntobacco-chewers have to pay; though there are things enough I have\nchewed, which I could lecture against. If you should ever be betrayed\ninto any of these philanthropies, do not let your left hand know what\nyour right hand does, for it is not worth knowing. Rescue the drowning\nand tie your shoe-strings. Take your time, and set about some free\nlabor.\n\nOur manners have been corrupted by communication with the saints. Our\nhymn-books resound with a melodious cursing of God and enduring him\nforever. One would say that even the prophets and redeemers had rather\nconsoled the fears than confirmed the hopes of man. There is nowhere\nrecorded a simple and irrepressible satisfaction with the gift of life,\nany memorable praise of God. All health and success does me good,\nhowever far off and withdrawn it may appear; all disease and failure\nhelps to make me sad and does me evil, however much sympathy it may\nhave with me or I with it. If, then, we would indeed restore mankind by\ntruly Indian, botanic, magnetic, or natural means, let us first be as\nsimple and well as Nature ourselves, dispel the clouds which hang over\nour own brows, and take up a little life into our pores. Do not stay to\nbe an overseer of the poor, but endeavor to become one of the worthies\nof the world.\n\nI read in the Gulistan, or Flower Garden, of Sheik Sadi of Shiraz, that\n\u201cThey asked a wise man, saying; Of the many celebrated trees which the\nMost High God has created lofty and umbrageous, they call none azad, or\nfree, excepting the cypress, which bears no fruit; what mystery is\nthere in this? He replied; Each has its appropriate produce, and\nappointed season, during the continuance of which it is fresh and\nblooming, and during their absence dry and withered; to neither of\nwhich states is the cypress exposed, being always flourishing; and of\nthis nature are the azads, or religious independents.\u2014Fix not thy heart\non that which is transitory; for the Dijlah, or Tigris, will continue\nto flow through Bagdad after the race of caliphs is extinct: if thy\nhand has plenty, be liberal as the date tree; but if it affords nothing\nto give away, be an azad, or free man, like the cypress.\u201d\n\n     COMPLEMENTAL VERSES\n\n     The Pretensions of Poverty\n\n     \u201cThou dost presume too much, poor needy wretch,\n     To claim a station in the firmament\n     Because thy humble cottage, or thy tub,\n     Nurses some lazy or pedantic virtue\n     In the cheap sunshine or by shady springs,\n     With roots and pot-herbs; where thy right hand,\n     Tearing those humane passions from the mind,\n     Upon whose stocks fair blooming virtues flourish,\n     Degradeth nature, and benumbeth sense,\n     And, Gorgon-like, turns active men to stone.\n     We not require the dull society\n     Of your necessitated temperance,\n     Or that unnatural stupidity\n     That knows nor joy nor sorrow; nor your forc\u2019d\n     Falsely exalted passive fortitude\n     Above the active. This low abject brood,\n     That fix their seats in mediocrity,\n     Become your servile minds; but we advance\n     Such virtues only as admit excess,\n     Brave, bounteous acts, regal magnificence,\n     All-seeing prudence, magnanimity\n     That knows no bound, and that heroic virtue\n     For which antiquity hath left no name,\n     But patterns only, such as Hercules,\n     Achilles, Theseus. Back to thy loath\u2019d cell;\n     And when thou seest the new enlightened sphere,\n     Study to know but what those worthies were.\u201d\n                                    T. CAREW\n\n\nWhere I Lived, and What I Lived For\n\nAt a certain season of our life we are accustomed to consider every\nspot as the possible site of a house. I have thus surveyed the country\non every side within a dozen miles of where I live. In imagination I\nhave bought all the farms in succession, for all were to be bought, and\nI knew their price. I walked over each farmer\u2019s premises, tasted his\nwild apples, discoursed on husbandry with him, took his farm at his\nprice, at any price, mortgaging it to him in my mind; even put a higher\nprice on it,\u2014took everything but a deed of it,\u2014took his word for his\ndeed, for I dearly love to talk,\u2014cultivated it, and him too to some\nextent, I trust, and withdrew when I had enjoyed it long enough,\nleaving him to carry it on. This experience entitled me to be regarded\nas a sort of real-estate broker by my friends. Wherever I sat, there I\nmight live, and the landscape radiated from me accordingly. What is a\nhouse but a _sedes_, a seat?\u2014better if a country seat. I discovered\nmany a site for a house not likely to be soon improved, which some\nmight have thought too far from the village, but to my eyes the village\nwas too far from it. Well, there I might live, I said; and there I did\nlive, for an hour, a summer and a winter life; saw how I could let the\nyears run off, buffet the winter through, and see the spring come in.\nThe future inhabitants of this region, wherever they may place their\nhouses, may be sure that they have been anticipated. An afternoon\nsufficed to lay out the land into orchard, woodlot, and pasture, and to\ndecide what fine oaks or pines should be left to stand before the door,\nand whence each blasted tree could be seen to the best advantage; and\nthen I let it lie, fallow perchance, for a man is rich in proportion to\nthe number of things which he can afford to let alone.\n\nMy imagination carried me so far that I even had the refusal of several\nfarms,\u2014the refusal was all I wanted,\u2014but I never got my fingers burned\nby actual possession. The nearest that I came to actual possession was\nwhen I bought the Hollowell place, and had begun to sort my seeds, and\ncollected materials with which to make a wheelbarrow to carry it on or\noff with; but before the owner gave me a deed of it, his wife\u2014every man\nhas such a wife\u2014changed her mind and wished to keep it, and he offered\nme ten dollars to release him. Now, to speak the truth, I had but ten\ncents in the world, and it surpassed my arithmetic to tell, if I was\nthat man who had ten cents, or who had a farm, or ten dollars, or all\ntogether. However, I let him keep the ten dollars and the farm too, for\nI had carried it far enough; or rather, to be generous, I sold him the\nfarm for just what I gave for it, and, as he was not a rich man, made\nhim a present of ten dollars, and still had my ten cents, and seeds,\nand materials for a wheelbarrow left. I found thus that I had been a\nrich man without any damage to my poverty. But I retained the\nlandscape, and I have since annually carried off what it yielded\nwithout a wheelbarrow. With respect to landscapes,\u2014\n\n     \u201cI am monarch of all I _survey_,\n     My right there is none to dispute.\u201d\n\nI have frequently seen a poet withdraw, having enjoyed the most\nvaluable part of a farm, while the crusty farmer supposed that he had\ngot a few wild apples only. Why, the owner does not know it for many\nyears when a poet has put his farm in rhyme, the most admirable kind of\ninvisible fence, has fairly impounded it, milked it, skimmed it, and\ngot all the cream, and left the farmer only the skimmed milk.\n\nThe real attractions of the Hollowell farm, to me, were; its complete\nretirement, being, about two miles from the village, half a mile from\nthe nearest neighbor, and separated from the highway by a broad field;\nits bounding on the river, which the owner said protected it by its\nfogs from frosts in the spring, though that was nothing to me; the gray\ncolor and ruinous state of the house and barn, and the dilapidated\nfences, which put such an interval between me and the last occupant;\nthe hollow and lichen-covered apple trees, gnawed by rabbits, showing\nwhat kind of neighbors I should have; but above all, the recollection I\nhad of it from my earliest voyages up the river, when the house was\nconcealed behind a dense grove of red maples, through which I heard the\nhouse-dog bark. I was in haste to buy it, before the proprietor\nfinished getting out some rocks, cutting down the hollow apple trees,\nand grubbing up some young birches which had sprung up in the pasture,\nor, in short, had made any more of his improvements. To enjoy these\nadvantages I was ready to carry it on; like Atlas, to take the world on\nmy shoulders,\u2014I never heard what compensation he received for that,\u2014and\ndo all those things which had no other motive or excuse but that I\nmight pay for it and be unmolested in my possession of it; for I knew\nall the while that it would yield the most abundant crop of the kind I\nwanted if I could only afford to let it alone. But it turned out as I\nhave said.\n\nAll that I could say, then, with respect to farming on a large scale,\n(I have always cultivated a garden,) was, that I had had my seeds\nready. Many think that seeds improve with age. I have no doubt that\ntime discriminates between the good and the bad; and when at last I\nshall plant, I shall be less likely to be disappointed. But I would say\nto my fellows, once for all, As long as possible live free and\nuncommitted. It makes but little difference whether you are committed\nto a farm or the county jail.\n\nOld Cato, whose \u201cDe Re Rustic\u00e2\u201d is my \u201cCultivator,\u201d says, and the only\ntranslation I have seen makes sheer nonsense of the passage, \u201cWhen you\nthink of getting a farm, turn it thus in your mind, not to buy\ngreedily; nor spare your pains to look at it, and do not think it\nenough to go round it once. The oftener you go there the more it will\nplease you, if it is good.\u201d I think I shall not buy greedily, but go\nround and round it as long as I live, and be buried in it first, that\nit may please me the more at last.\n\n\n\nThe present was my next experiment of this kind, which I purpose to\ndescribe more at length; for convenience, putting the experience of two\nyears into one. As I have said, I do not propose to write an ode to\ndejection, but to brag as lustily as chanticleer in the morning,\nstanding on his roost, if only to wake my neighbors up.\n\nWhen first I took up my abode in the woods, that is, began to spend my\nnights as well as days there, which, by accident, was on Independence\nDay, or the Fourth of July, 1845, my house was not finished for winter,\nbut was merely a defence against the rain, without plastering or\nchimney, the walls being of rough, weather-stained boards, with wide\nchinks, which made it cool at night. The upright white hewn studs and\nfreshly planed door and window casings gave it a clean and airy look,\nespecially in the morning, when its timbers were saturated with dew, so\nthat I fancied that by noon some sweet gum would exude from them. To my\nimagination it retained throughout the day more or less of this auroral\ncharacter, reminding me of a certain house on a mountain which I had\nvisited the year before. This was an airy and unplastered cabin, fit to\nentertain a travelling god, and where a goddess might trail her\ngarments. The winds which passed over my dwelling were such as sweep\nover the ridges of mountains, bearing the broken strains, or celestial\nparts only, of terrestrial music. The morning wind forever blows, the\npoem of creation is uninterrupted; but few are the ears that hear it.\nOlympus is but the outside of the earth every where.\n\nThe only house I had been the owner of before, if I except a boat, was\na tent, which I used occasionally when making excursions in the summer,\nand this is still rolled up in my garret; but the boat, after passing\nfrom hand to hand, has gone down the stream of time. With this more\nsubstantial shelter about me, I had made some progress toward settling\nin the world. This frame, so slightly clad, was a sort of\ncrystallization around me, and reacted on the builder. It was\nsuggestive somewhat as a picture in outlines. I did not need to go\noutdoors to take the air, for the atmosphere within had lost none of\nits freshness. It was not so much within doors as behind a door where I\nsat, even in the rainiest weather. The Harivansa says, \u201cAn abode\nwithout birds is like a meat without seasoning.\u201d Such was not my abode,\nfor I found myself suddenly neighbor to the birds; not by having\nimprisoned one, but having caged myself near them. I was not only\nnearer to some of those which commonly frequent the garden and the\norchard, but to those wilder and more thrilling songsters of the forest\nwhich never, or rarely, serenade a villager,\u2014the wood-thrush, the\nveery, the scarlet tanager, the field-sparrow, the whippoorwill, and\nmany others.\n\nI was seated by the shore of a small pond, about a mile and a half\nsouth of the village of Concord and somewhat higher than it, in the\nmidst of an extensive wood between that town and Lincoln, and about two\nmiles south of that our only field known to fame, Concord Battle\nGround; but I was so low in the woods that the opposite shore, half a\nmile off, like the rest, covered with wood, was my most distant\nhorizon. For the first week, whenever I looked out on the pond it\nimpressed me like a tarn high up on the side of a mountain, its bottom\nfar above the surface of other lakes, and, as the sun arose, I saw it\nthrowing off its nightly clothing of mist, and here and there, by\ndegrees, its soft ripples or its smooth reflecting surface was\nrevealed, while the mists, like ghosts, were stealthily withdrawing in\nevery direction into the woods, as at the breaking up of some nocturnal\nconventicle. The very dew seemed to hang upon the trees later into the\nday than usual, as on the sides of mountains.\n\nThis small lake was of most value as a neighbor in the intervals of a\ngentle rain storm in August, when, both air and water being perfectly\nstill, but the sky overcast, mid-afternoon had all the serenity of\nevening, and the wood-thrush sang around, and was heard from shore to\nshore. A lake like this is never smoother than at such a time; and the\nclear portion of the air above it being shallow and darkened by clouds,\nthe water, full of light and reflections, becomes a lower heaven itself\nso much the more important. From a hill top near by, where the wood had\nbeen recently cut off, there was a pleasing vista southward across the\npond, through a wide indentation in the hills which form the shore\nthere, where their opposite sides sloping toward each other suggested a\nstream flowing out in that direction through a wooded valley, but\nstream there was none. That way I looked between and over the near\ngreen hills to some distant and higher ones in the horizon, tinged with\nblue. Indeed, by standing on tiptoe I could catch a glimpse of some of\nthe peaks of the still bluer and more distant mountain ranges in the\nnorth-west, those true-blue coins from heaven\u2019s own mint, and also of\nsome portion of the village. But in other directions, even from this\npoint, I could not see over or beyond the woods which surrounded me. It\nis well to have some water in your neighborhood, to give buoyancy to\nand float the earth. One value even of the smallest well is, that when\nyou look into it you see that earth is not continent but insular. This\nis as important as that it keeps butter cool. When I looked across the\npond from this peak toward the Sudbury meadows, which in time of flood\nI distinguished elevated perhaps by a mirage in their seething valley,\nlike a coin in a basin, all the earth beyond the pond appeared like a\nthin crust insulated and floated even by this small sheet of\ninterverting water, and I was reminded that this on which I dwelt was\nbut _dry land_.\n\nThough the view from my door was still more contracted, I did not feel\ncrowded or confined in the least. There was pasture enough for my\nimagination. The low shrub-oak plateau to which the opposite shore\narose, stretched away toward the prairies of the West and the steppes\nof Tartary, affording ample room for all the roving families of men.\n\u201cThere are none happy in the world but beings who enjoy freely a vast\nhorizon,\u201d\u2014said Damodara, when his herds required new and larger\npastures.\n\nBoth place and time were changed, and I dwelt nearer to those parts of\nthe universe and to those eras in history which had most attracted me.\nWhere I lived was as far off as many a region viewed nightly by\nastronomers. We are wont to imagine rare and delectable places in some\nremote and more celestial corner of the system, behind the\nconstellation of Cassiopeia\u2019s Chair, far from noise and disturbance. I\ndiscovered that my house actually had its site in such a withdrawn, but\nforever new and unprofaned, part of the universe. If it were worth the\nwhile to settle in those parts near to the Pleiades or the Hyades, to\nAldebaran or Altair, then I was really there, or at an equal remoteness\nfrom the life which I had left behind, dwindled and twinkling with as\nfine a ray to my nearest neighbor, and to be seen only in moonless\nnights by him. Such was that part of creation where I had squatted;\u2014\n\n     \u201cThere was a shepherd that did live,\n         And held his thoughts as high\n     As were the mounts whereon his flocks\n         Did hourly feed him by.\u201d\n\nWhat should we think of the shepherd\u2019s life if his flocks always\nwandered to higher pastures than his thoughts?\n\nEvery morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal\nsimplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature herself. I have been\nas sincere a worshipper of Aurora as the Greeks. I got up early and\nbathed in the pond; that was a religious exercise, and one of the best\nthings which I did. They say that characters were engraven on the\nbathing tub of king Tching-thang to this effect: \u201cRenew thyself\ncompletely each day; do it again, and again, and forever again.\u201d I can\nunderstand that. Morning brings back the heroic ages. I was as much\naffected by the faint hum of a mosquito making its invisible and\nunimaginable tour through my apartment at earliest dawn, when I was\nsitting with door and windows open, as I could be by any trumpet that\never sang of fame. It was Homer\u2019s requiem; itself an Iliad and Odyssey\nin the air, singing its own wrath and wanderings. There was something\ncosmical about it; a standing advertisement, till forbidden, of the\neverlasting vigor and fertility of the world. The morning, which is the\nmost memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour. Then there is\nleast somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, some part of us\nawakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and night. Little is to\nbe expected of that day, if it can be called a day, to which we are not\nawakened by our Genius, but by the mechanical nudgings of some\nservitor, are not awakened by our own newly-acquired force and\naspirations from within, accompanied by the undulations of celestial\nmusic, instead of factory bells, and a fragrance filling the air\u2014to a\nhigher life than we fell asleep from; and thus the darkness bear its\nfruit, and prove itself to be good, no less than the light. That man\nwho does not believe that each day contains an earlier, more sacred,\nand auroral hour than he has yet profaned, has despaired of life, and\nis pursuing a descending and darkening way. After a partial cessation\nof his sensuous life, the soul of man, or its organs rather, are\nreinvigorated each day, and his Genius tries again what noble life it\ncan make. All memorable events, I should say, transpire in morning time\nand in a morning atmosphere. The Vedas say, \u201cAll intelligences awake\nwith the morning.\u201d Poetry and art, and the fairest and most memorable\nof the actions of men, date from such an hour. All poets and heroes,\nlike Memnon, are the children of Aurora, and emit their music at\nsunrise. To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the\nsun, the day is a perpetual morning. It matters not what the clocks say\nor the attitudes and labors of men. Morning is when I am awake and\nthere is a dawn in me. Moral reform is the effort to throw off sleep.\nWhy is it that men give so poor an account of their day if they have\nnot been slumbering? They are not such poor calculators. If they had\nnot been overcome with drowsiness, they would have performed something.\nThe millions are awake enough for physical labor; but only one in a\nmillion is awake enough for effective intellectual exertion, only one\nin a hundred millions to a poetic or divine life. To be awake is to be\nalive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have\nlooked him in the face?\n\nWe must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical\naids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not\nforsake us in our soundest sleep. I know of no more encouraging fact\nthan the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a\nconscious endeavor. It is something to be able to paint a particular\npicture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful;\nbut it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and\nmedium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect the\nquality of the day, that is the highest of arts. Every man is tasked to\nmake his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his\nmost elevated and critical hour. If we refused, or rather used up, such\npaltry information as we get, the oracles would distinctly inform us\nhow this might be done.\n\nI went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front\nonly the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it\nhad to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not\nlived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor\ndid I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I\nwanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so\nsturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to\ncut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and\nreduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then\nto get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness\nto the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be\nable to give a true account of it in my next excursion. For most men,\nit appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is\nof the devil or of God, and have _somewhat hastily_ concluded that it\nis the chief end of man here to \u201cglorify God and enjoy him forever.\u201d\n\nStill we live meanly, like ants; though the fable tells us that we were\nlong ago changed into men; like pygmies we fight with cranes; it is\nerror upon error, and clout upon clout, and our best virtue has for its\noccasion a superfluous and evitable wretchedness. Our life is frittered\naway by detail. An honest man has hardly need to count more than his\nten fingers, or in extreme cases he may add his ten toes, and lump the\nrest. Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity! I say, let your affairs be as\ntwo or three, and not a hundred or a thousand; instead of a million\ncount half a dozen, and keep your accounts on your thumb nail. In the\nmidst of this chopping sea of civilized life, such are the clouds and\nstorms and quicksands and thousand-and-one items to be allowed for,\nthat a man has to live, if he would not founder and go to the bottom\nand not make his port at all, by dead reckoning, and he must be a great\ncalculator indeed who succeeds. Simplify, simplify. Instead of three\nmeals a day, if it be necessary eat but one; instead of a hundred\ndishes, five; and reduce other things in proportion. Our life is like a\nGerman Confederacy, made up of petty states, with its boundary forever\nfluctuating, so that even a German cannot tell you how it is bounded at\nany moment. The nation itself, with all its so called internal\nimprovements, which, by the way, are all external and superficial, is\njust such an unwieldy and overgrown establishment, cluttered with\nfurniture and tripped up by its own traps, ruined by luxury and\nheedless expense, by want of calculation and a worthy aim, as the\nmillion households in the land; and the only cure for it as for them is\nin a rigid economy, a stern and more than Spartan simplicity of life\nand elevation of purpose. It lives too fast. Men think that it is\nessential that the _Nation_ have commerce, and export ice, and talk\nthrough a telegraph, and ride thirty miles an hour, without a doubt,\nwhether _they_ do or not; but whether we should live like baboons or\nlike men, is a little uncertain. If we do not get out sleepers, and\nforge rails, and devote days and nights to the work, but go to\ntinkering upon our _lives_ to improve _them_, who will build railroads?\nAnd if railroads are not built, how shall we get to heaven in season?\nBut if we stay at home and mind our business, who will want railroads?\nWe do not ride on the railroad; it rides upon us. Did you ever think\nwhat those sleepers are that underlie the railroad? Each one is a man,\nan Irish-man, or a Yankee man. The rails are laid on them, and they are\ncovered with sand, and the cars run smoothly over them. They are sound\nsleepers, I assure you. And every few years a new lot is laid down and\nrun over; so that, if some have the pleasure of riding on a rail,\nothers have the misfortune to be ridden upon. And when they run over a\nman that is walking in his sleep, a supernumerary sleeper in the wrong\nposition, and wake him up, they suddenly stop the cars, and make a hue\nand cry about it, as if this were an exception. I am glad to know that\nit takes a gang of men for every five miles to keep the sleepers down\nand level in their beds as it is, for this is a sign that they may\nsometime get up again.\n\nWhy should we live with such hurry and waste of life? We are determined\nto be starved before we are hungry. Men say that a stitch in time saves\nnine, and so they take a thousand stitches to-day to save nine\nto-morrow. As for _work_, we haven\u2019t any of any consequence. We have\nthe Saint Vitus\u2019 dance, and cannot possibly keep our heads still. If I\nshould only give a few pulls at the parish bell-rope, as for a fire,\nthat is, without setting the bell, there is hardly a man on his farm in\nthe outskirts of Concord, notwithstanding that press of engagements\nwhich was his excuse so many times this morning, nor a boy, nor a\nwoman, I might almost say, but would forsake all and follow that sound,\nnot mainly to save property from the flames, but, if we will confess\nthe truth, much more to see it burn, since burn it must, and we, be it\nknown, did not set it on fire,\u2014or to see it put out, and have a hand in\nit, if that is done as handsomely; yes, even if it were the parish\nchurch itself. Hardly a man takes a half hour\u2019s nap after dinner, but\nwhen he wakes he holds up his head and asks, \u201cWhat\u2019s the news?\u201d as if\nthe rest of mankind had stood his sentinels. Some give directions to be\nwaked every half hour, doubtless for no other purpose; and then, to pay\nfor it, they tell what they have dreamed. After a night\u2019s sleep the\nnews is as indispensable as the breakfast. \u201cPray tell me any thing new\nthat has happened to a man any where on this globe,\u201d\u2014and he reads it\nover his coffee and rolls, that a man has had his eyes gouged out this\nmorning on the Wachito River; never dreaming the while that he lives in\nthe dark unfathomed mammoth cave of this world, and has but the\nrudiment of an eye himself.\n\nFor my part, I could easily do without the post-office. I think that\nthere are very few important communications made through it. To speak\ncritically, I never received more than one or two letters in my life\u2014I\nwrote this some years ago\u2014that were worth the postage. The penny-post\nis, commonly, an institution through which you seriously offer a man\nthat penny for his thoughts which is so often safely offered in jest.\nAnd I am sure that I never read any memorable news in a newspaper. If\nwe read of one man robbed, or murdered, or killed by accident, or one\nhouse burned, or one vessel wrecked, or one steamboat blown up, or one\ncow run over on the Western Railroad, or one mad dog killed, or one lot\nof grasshoppers in the winter,\u2014we never need read of another. One is\nenough. If you are acquainted with the principle, what do you care for\na myriad instances and applications? To a philosopher all _news_, as it\nis called, is gossip, and they who edit and read it are old women over\ntheir tea. Yet not a few are greedy after this gossip. There was such a\nrush, as I hear, the other day at one of the offices to learn the\nforeign news by the last arrival, that several large squares of plate\nglass belonging to the establishment were broken by the pressure,\u2014news\nwhich I seriously think a ready wit might write a twelve-month, or\ntwelve years, beforehand with sufficient accuracy. As for Spain, for\ninstance, if you know how to throw in Don Carlos and the Infanta, and\nDon Pedro and Seville and Granada, from time to time in the right\nproportions,\u2014they may have changed the names a little since I saw the\npapers,\u2014and serve up a bull-fight when other entertainments fail, it\nwill be true to the letter, and give us as good an idea of the exact\nstate or ruin of things in Spain as the most succinct and lucid reports\nunder this head in the newspapers: and as for England, almost the last\nsignificant scrap of news from that quarter was the revolution of 1649;\nand if you have learned the history of her crops for an average year,\nyou never need attend to that thing again, unless your speculations are\nof a merely pecuniary character. If one may judge who rarely looks into\nthe newspapers, nothing new does ever happen in foreign parts, a French\nrevolution not excepted.\n\nWhat news! how much more important to know what that is which was never\nold! \u201cKieou-he-yu (great dignitary of the state of Wei) sent a man to\nKhoung-tseu to know his news. Khoung-tseu caused the messenger to be\nseated near him, and questioned him in these terms: What is your master\ndoing? The messenger answered with respect: My master desires to\ndiminish the number of his faults, but he cannot come to the end of\nthem. The messenger being gone, the philosopher remarked: What a worthy\nmessenger! What a worthy messenger!\u201d The preacher, instead of vexing\nthe ears of drowsy farmers on their day of rest at the end of the\nweek,\u2014for Sunday is the fit conclusion of an ill-spent week, and not\nthe fresh and brave beginning of a new one,\u2014with this one other\ndraggle-tail of a sermon, should shout with thundering voice, \u201cPause!\nAvast! Why so seeming fast, but deadly slow?\u201d\n\nShams and delusions are esteemed for soundest truths, while reality is\nfabulous. If men would steadily observe realities only, and not allow\nthemselves to be deluded, life, to compare it with such things as we\nknow, would be like a fairy tale and the Arabian Nights\u2019\nEntertainments. If we respected only what is inevitable and has a right\nto be, music and poetry would resound along the streets. When we are\nunhurried and wise, we perceive that only great and worthy things have\nany permanent and absolute existence,\u2014that petty fears and petty\npleasures are but the shadow of the reality. This is always\nexhilarating and sublime. By closing the eyes and slumbering, and\nconsenting to be deceived by shows, men establish and confirm their\ndaily life of routine and habit everywhere, which still is built on\npurely illusory foundations. Children, who play life, discern its true\nlaw and relations more clearly than men, who fail to live it worthily,\nbut who think that they are wiser by experience, that is, by failure. I\nhave read in a Hindoo book, that \u201cthere was a king\u2019s son, who, being\nexpelled in infancy from his native city, was brought up by a forester,\nand, growing up to maturity in that state, imagined himself to belong\nto the barbarous race with which he lived. One of his father\u2019s\nministers having discovered him, revealed to him what he was, and the\nmisconception of his character was removed, and he knew himself to be a\nprince. So soul,\u201d continues the Hindoo philosopher, \u201cfrom the\ncircumstances in which it is placed, mistakes its own character, until\nthe truth is revealed to it by some holy teacher, and then it knows\nitself to be _Brahme_.\u201d I perceive that we inhabitants of New England\nlive this mean life that we do because our vision does not penetrate\nthe surface of things. We think that that _is_ which _appears_ to be.\nIf a man should walk through this town and see only the reality, where,\nthink you, would the \u201cMill-dam\u201d go to? If he should give us an account\nof the realities he beheld there, we should not recognize the place in\nhis description. Look at a meeting-house, or a court-house, or a jail,\nor a shop, or a dwelling-house, and say what that thing really is\nbefore a true gaze, and they would all go to pieces in your account of\nthem. Men esteem truth remote, in the outskirts of the system, behind\nthe farthest star, before Adam and after the last man. In eternity\nthere is indeed something true and sublime. But all these times and\nplaces and occasions are now and here. God himself culminates in the\npresent moment, and will never be more divine in the lapse of all the\nages. And we are enabled to apprehend at all what is sublime and noble\nonly by the perpetual instilling and drenching of the reality that\nsurrounds us. The universe constantly and obediently answers to our\nconceptions; whether we travel fast or slow, the track is laid for us.\nLet us spend our lives in conceiving then. The poet or the artist never\nyet had so fair and noble a design but some of his posterity at least\ncould accomplish it.\n\nLet us spend one day as deliberately as Nature, and not be thrown off\nthe track by every nutshell and mosquito\u2019s wing that falls on the\nrails. Let us rise early and fast, or break fast, gently and without\nperturbation; let company come and let company go, let the bells ring\nand the children cry,\u2014determined to make a day of it. Why should we\nknock under and go with the stream? Let us not be upset and overwhelmed\nin that terrible rapid and whirlpool called a dinner, situated in the\nmeridian shallows. Weather this danger and you are safe, for the rest\nof the way is down hill. With unrelaxed nerves, with morning vigor,\nsail by it, looking another way, tied to the mast like Ulysses. If the\nengine whistles, let it whistle till it is hoarse for its pains. If the\nbell rings, why should we run? We will consider what kind of music they\nare like. Let us settle ourselves, and work and wedge our feet downward\nthrough the mud and slush of opinion, and prejudice, and tradition, and\ndelusion, and appearance, that alluvion which covers the globe, through\nParis and London, through New York and Boston and Concord, through\nchurch and state, through poetry and philosophy and religion, till we\ncome to a hard bottom and rocks in place, which we can call _reality_,\nand say, This is, and no mistake; and then begin, having a _point\nd\u2019appui_, below freshet and frost and fire, a place where you might\nfound a wall or a state, or set a lamp-post safely, or perhaps a gauge,\nnot a Nilometer, but a Realometer, that future ages might know how deep\na freshet of shams and appearances had gathered from time to time. If\nyou stand right fronting and face to face to a fact, you will see the\nsun glimmer on both its surfaces, as if it were a cimeter, and feel its\nsweet edge dividing you through the heart and marrow, and so you will\nhappily conclude your mortal career. Be it life or death, we crave only\nreality. If we are really dying, let us hear the rattle in our throats\nand feel cold in the extremities; if we are alive, let us go about our\nbusiness.\n\nTime is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I\ndrink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin\ncurrent slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper; fish\nin the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars. I cannot count one. I\nknow not the first letter of the alphabet. I have always been\nregretting that I was not as wise as the day I was born. The intellect\nis a cleaver; it discerns and rifts its way into the secret of things.\nI do not wish to be any more busy with my hands than is necessary. My\nhead is hands and feet. I feel all my best faculties concentrated in\nit. My instinct tells me that my head is an organ for burrowing, as\nsome creatures use their snout and fore-paws, and with it I would mine\nand burrow my way through these hills. I think that the richest vein is\nsomewhere hereabouts; so by the divining-rod and thin rising vapors I\njudge; and here I will begin to mine.\n\n\nReading\n\nWith a little more deliberation in the choice of their pursuits, all\nmen would perhaps become essentially students and observers, for\ncertainly their nature and destiny are interesting to all alike. In\naccumulating property for ourselves or our posterity, in founding a\nfamily or a state, or acquiring fame even, we are mortal; but in\ndealing with truth we are immortal, and need fear no change nor\naccident. The oldest Egyptian or Hindoo philosopher raised a corner of\nthe veil from the statue of the divinity; and still the trembling robe\nremains raised, and I gaze upon as fresh a glory as he did, since it\nwas I in him that was then so bold, and it is he in me that now reviews\nthe vision. No dust has settled on that robe; no time has elapsed since\nthat divinity was revealed. That time which we really improve, or which\nis improvable, is neither past, present, nor future.\n\nMy residence was more favorable, not only to thought, but to serious\nreading, than a university; and though I was beyond the range of the\nordinary circulating library, I had more than ever come within the\ninfluence of those books which circulate round the world, whose\nsentences were first written on bark, and are now merely copied from\ntime to time on to linen paper. Says the poet M\u00eer Camar Udd\u00een Mast,\n\u201cBeing seated to run through the region of the spiritual world; I have\nhad this advantage in books. To be intoxicated by a single glass of\nwine; I have experienced this pleasure when I have drunk the liquor of\nthe esoteric doctrines.\u201d I kept Homer\u2019s Iliad on my table through the\nsummer, though I looked at his page only now and then. Incessant labor\nwith my hands, at first, for I had my house to finish and my beans to\nhoe at the same time, made more study impossible. Yet I sustained\nmyself by the prospect of such reading in future. I read one or two\nshallow books of travel in the intervals of my work, till that\nemployment made me ashamed of myself, and I asked where it was then\nthat _I_ lived.\n\nThe student may read Homer or \u00c6schylus in the Greek without danger of\ndissipation or luxuriousness, for it implies that he in some measure\nemulate their heroes, and consecrate morning hours to their pages. The\nheroic books, even if printed in the character of our mother tongue,\nwill always be in a language dead to degenerate times; and we must\nlaboriously seek the meaning of each word and line, conjecturing a\nlarger sense than common use permits out of what wisdom and valor and\ngenerosity we have. The modern cheap and fertile press, with all its\ntranslations, has done little to bring us nearer to the heroic writers\nof antiquity. They seem as solitary, and the letter in which they are\nprinted as rare and curious, as ever. It is worth the expense of\nyouthful days and costly hours, if you learn only some words of an\nancient language, which are raised out of the trivialness of the\nstreet, to be perpetual suggestions and provocations. It is not in vain\nthat the farmer remembers and repeats the few Latin words which he has\nheard. Men sometimes speak as if the study of the classics would at\nlength make way for more modern and practical studies; but the\nadventurous student will always study classics, in whatever language\nthey may be written and however ancient they may be. For what are the\nclassics but the noblest recorded thoughts of man? They are the only\noracles which are not decayed, and there are such answers to the most\nmodern inquiry in them as Delphi and Dodona never gave. We might as\nwell omit to study Nature because she is old. To read well, that is, to\nread true books in a true spirit, is a noble exercise, and one that\nwill task the reader more than any exercise which the customs of the\nday esteem. It requires a training such as the athletes underwent, the\nsteady intention almost of the whole life to this object. Books must be\nread as deliberately and reservedly as they were written. It is not\nenough even to be able to speak the language of that nation by which\nthey are written, for there is a memorable interval between the spoken\nand the written language, the language heard and the language read. The\none is commonly transitory, a sound, a tongue, a dialect merely, almost\nbrutish, and we learn it unconsciously, like the brutes, of our\nmothers. The other is the maturity and experience of that; if that is\nour mother tongue, this is our father tongue, a reserved and select\nexpression, too significant to be heard by the ear, which we must be\nborn again in order to speak. The crowds of men who merely _spoke_ the\nGreek and Latin tongues in the middle ages were not entitled by the\naccident of birth to _read_ the works of genius written in those\nlanguages; for these were not written in that Greek or Latin which they\nknew, but in the select language of literature. They had not learned\nthe nobler dialects of Greece and Rome, but the very materials on which\nthey were written were waste paper to them, and they prized instead a\ncheap contemporary literature. But when the several nations of Europe\nhad acquired distinct though rude written languages of their own,\nsufficient for the purposes of their rising literatures, then first\nlearning revived, and scholars were enabled to discern from that\nremoteness the treasures of antiquity. What the Roman and Grecian\nmultitude could not _hear_, after the lapse of ages a few scholars\n_read_, and a few scholars only are still reading it.\n\nHowever much we may admire the orator\u2019s occasional bursts of eloquence,\nthe noblest written words are commonly as far behind or above the\nfleeting spoken language as the firmament with its stars is behind the\nclouds. _There_ are the stars, and they who can may read them. The\nastronomers forever comment on and observe them. They are not\nexhalations like our daily colloquies and vaporous breath. What is\ncalled eloquence in the forum is commonly found to be rhetoric in the\nstudy. The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient occasion,\nand speaks to the mob before him, to those who can _hear_ him; but the\nwriter, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would be\ndistracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks\nto the intellect and health of mankind, to all in any age who can\n_understand_ him.\n\nNo wonder that Alexander carried the Iliad with him on his expeditions\nin a precious casket. A written word is the choicest of relics. It is\nsomething at once more intimate with us and more universal than any\nother work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself. It may\nbe translated into every language, and not only be read but actually\nbreathed from all human lips;\u2014not be represented on canvas or in marble\nonly, but be carved out of the breath of life itself. The symbol of an\nancient man\u2019s thought becomes a modern man\u2019s speech. Two thousand\nsummers have imparted to the monuments of Grecian literature, as to her\nmarbles, only a maturer golden and autumnal tint, for they have carried\ntheir own serene and celestial atmosphere into all lands to protect\nthem against the corrosion of time. Books are the treasured wealth of\nthe world and the fit inheritance of generations and nations. Books,\nthe oldest and the best, stand naturally and rightfully on the shelves\nof every cottage. They have no cause of their own to plead, but while\nthey enlighten and sustain the reader his common sense will not refuse\nthem. Their authors are a natural and irresistible aristocracy in every\nsociety, and, more than kings or emperors, exert an influence on\nmankind. When the illiterate and perhaps scornful trader has earned by\nenterprise and industry his coveted leisure and independence, and is\nadmitted to the circles of wealth and fashion, he turns inevitably at\nlast to those still higher but yet inaccessible circles of intellect\nand genius, and is sensible only of the imperfection of his culture and\nthe vanity and insufficiency of all his riches, and further proves his\ngood sense by the pains which he takes to secure for his children that\nintellectual culture whose want he so keenly feels; and thus it is that\nhe becomes the founder of a family.\n\nThose who have not learned to read the ancient classics in the language\nin which they were written must have a very imperfect knowledge of the\nhistory of the human race; for it is remarkable that no transcript of\nthem has ever been made into any modern tongue, unless our civilization\nitself may be regarded as such a transcript. Homer has never yet been\nprinted in English, nor \u00c6schylus, nor Virgil even\u2014works as refined, as\nsolidly done, and as beautiful almost as the morning itself; for later\nwriters, say what we will of their genius, have rarely, if ever,\nequalled the elaborate beauty and finish and the lifelong and heroic\nliterary labors of the ancients. They only talk of forgetting them who\nnever knew them. It will be soon enough to forget them when we have the\nlearning and the genius which will enable us to attend to and\nappreciate them. That age will be rich indeed when those relics which\nwe call Classics, and the still older and more than classic but even\nless known Scriptures of the nations, shall have still further\naccumulated, when the Vaticans shall be filled with Vedas and\nZendavestas and Bibles, with Homers and Dantes and Shakespeares, and\nall the centuries to come shall have successively deposited their\ntrophies in the forum of the world. By such a pile we may hope to scale\nheaven at last.\n\nThe works of the great poets have never yet been read by mankind, for\nonly great poets can read them. They have only been read as the\nmultitude read the stars, at most astrologically, not astronomically.\nMost men have learned to read to serve a paltry convenience, as they\nhave learned to cipher in order to keep accounts and not be cheated in\ntrade; but of reading as a noble intellectual exercise they know little\nor nothing; yet this only is reading, in a high sense, not that which\nlulls us as a luxury and suffers the nobler faculties to sleep the\nwhile, but what we have to stand on tip-toe to read and devote our most\nalert and wakeful hours to.\n\nI think that having learned our letters we should read the best that is\nin literature, and not be forever repeating our a b abs, and words of\none syllable, in the fourth or fifth classes, sitting on the lowest and\nforemost form all our lives. Most men are satisfied if they read or\nhear read, and perchance have been convicted by the wisdom of one good\nbook, the Bible, and for the rest of their lives vegetate and dissipate\ntheir faculties in what is called easy reading. There is a work in\nseveral volumes in our Circulating Library entitled Little Reading,\nwhich I thought referred to a town of that name which I had not been\nto. There are those who, like cormorants and ostriches, can digest all\nsorts of this, even after the fullest dinner of meats and vegetables,\nfor they suffer nothing to be wasted. If others are the machines to\nprovide this provender, they are the machines to read it. They read the\nnine thousandth tale about Zebulon and Sephronia, and how they loved as\nnone had ever loved before, and neither did the course of their true\nlove run smooth,\u2014at any rate, how it did run and stumble, and get up\nagain and go on! how some poor unfortunate got up on to a steeple, who\nhad better never have gone up as far as the belfry; and then, having\nneedlessly got him up there, the happy novelist rings the bell for all\nthe world to come together and hear, O dear! how he did get down again!\nFor my part, I think that they had better metamorphose all such\naspiring heroes of universal noveldom into man weathercocks, as they\nused to put heroes among the constellations, and let them swing round\nthere till they are rusty, and not come down at all to bother honest\nmen with their pranks. The next time the novelist rings the bell I will\nnot stir though the meeting-house burn down. \u201cThe Skip of the\nTip-Toe-Hop, a Romance of the Middle Ages, by the celebrated author of\n\u2018Tittle-Tol-Tan,\u2019 to appear in monthly parts; a great rush; don\u2019t all\ncome together.\u201d All this they read with saucer eyes, and erect and\nprimitive curiosity, and with unwearied gizzard, whose corrugations\neven yet need no sharpening, just as some little four-year-old bencher\nhis two-cent gilt-covered edition of Cinderella,\u2014without any\nimprovement, that I can see, in the pronunciation, or accent, or\nemphasis, or any more skill in extracting or inserting the moral. The\nresult is dulness of sight, a stagnation of the vital circulations, and\na general deliquium and sloughing off of all the intellectual\nfaculties. This sort of gingerbread is baked daily and more sedulously\nthan pure wheat or rye-and-Indian in almost every oven, and finds a\nsurer market.\n\nThe best books are not read even by those who are called good readers.\nWhat does our Concord culture amount to? There is in this town, with a\nvery few exceptions, no taste for the best or for very good books even\nin English literature, whose words all can read and spell. Even the\ncollege-bred and so called liberally educated men here and elsewhere\nhave really little or no acquaintance with the English classics; and as\nfor the recorded wisdom of mankind, the ancient classics and Bibles,\nwhich are accessible to all who will know of them, there are the\nfeeblest efforts any where made to become acquainted with them. I know\na woodchopper, of middle age, who takes a French paper, not for news as\nhe says, for he is above that, but to \u201ckeep himself in practice,\u201d he\nbeing a Canadian by birth; and when I ask him what he considers the\nbest thing he can do in this world, he says, beside this, to keep up\nand add to his English. This is about as much as the college bred\ngenerally do or aspire to do, and they take an English paper for the\npurpose. One who has just come from reading perhaps one of the best\nEnglish books will find how many with whom he can converse about it? Or\nsuppose he comes from reading a Greek or Latin classic in the original,\nwhose praises are familiar even to the so called illiterate; he will\nfind nobody at all to speak to, but must keep silence about it. Indeed,\nthere is hardly the professor in our colleges, who, if he has mastered\nthe difficulties of the language, has proportionally mastered the\ndifficulties of the wit and poetry of a Greek poet, and has any\nsympathy to impart to the alert and heroic reader; and as for the\nsacred Scriptures, or Bibles of mankind, who in this town can tell me\neven their titles? Most men do not know that any nation but the Hebrews\nhave had a scripture. A man, any man, will go considerably out of his\nway to pick up a silver dollar; but here are golden words, which the\nwisest men of antiquity have uttered, and whose worth the wise of every\nsucceeding age have assured us of;\u2014and yet we learn to read only as far\nas Easy Reading, the primers and class-books, and when we leave school,\nthe \u201cLittle Reading,\u201d and story books, which are for boys and\nbeginners; and our reading, our conversation and thinking, are all on a\nvery low level, worthy only of pygmies and manikins.\n\nI aspire to be acquainted with wiser men than this our Concord soil has\nproduced, whose names are hardly known here. Or shall I hear the name\nof Plato and never read his book? As if Plato were my townsman and I\nnever saw him,\u2014my next neighbor and I never heard him speak or attended\nto the wisdom of his words. But how actually is it? His Dialogues,\nwhich contain what was immortal in him, lie on the next shelf, and yet\nI never read them. We are underbred and low-lived and illiterate; and\nin this respect I confess I do not make any very broad distinction\nbetween the illiterateness of my townsman who cannot read at all, and\nthe illiterateness of him who has learned to read only what is for\nchildren and feeble intellects. We should be as good as the worthies of\nantiquity, but partly by first knowing how good they were. We are a\nrace of tit-men, and soar but little higher in our intellectual flights\nthan the columns of the daily paper.\n\nIt is not all books that are as dull as their readers. There are\nprobably words addressed to our condition exactly, which, if we could\nreally hear and understand, would be more salutary than the morning or\nthe spring to our lives, and possibly put a new aspect on the face of\nthings for us. How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the\nreading of a book. The book exists for us perchance which will explain\nour miracles and reveal new ones. The at present unutterable things we\nmay find somewhere uttered. These same questions that disturb and\npuzzle and confound us have in their turn occurred to all the wise men;\nnot one has been omitted; and each has answered them, according to his\nability, by his words and his life. Moreover, with wisdom we shall\nlearn liberality. The solitary hired man on a farm in the outskirts of\nConcord, who has had his second birth and peculiar religious\nexperience, and is driven as he believes into the silent gravity and\nexclusiveness by his faith, may think it is not true; but Zoroaster,\nthousands of years ago, travelled the same road and had the same\nexperience; but he, being wise, knew it to be universal, and treated\nhis neighbors accordingly, and is even said to have invented and\nestablished worship among men. Let him humbly commune with Zoroaster\nthen, and through the liberalizing influence of all the worthies, with\nJesus Christ himself, and let \u201cour church\u201d go by the board.\n\nWe boast that we belong to the nineteenth century and are making the\nmost rapid strides of any nation. But consider how little this village\ndoes for its own culture. I do not wish to flatter my townsmen, nor to\nbe flattered by them, for that will not advance either of us. We need\nto be provoked,\u2014goaded like oxen, as we are, into a trot. We have a\ncomparatively decent system of common schools, schools for infants\nonly; but excepting the half-starved Lyceum in the winter, and latterly\nthe puny beginning of a library suggested by the state, no school for\nourselves. We spend more on almost any article of bodily aliment or\nailment than on our mental aliment. It is time that we had uncommon\nschools, that we did not leave off our education when we begin to be\nmen and women. It is time that villages were universities, and their\nelder inhabitants the fellows of universities, with leisure\u2014if they are\nindeed so well off\u2014to pursue liberal studies the rest of their lives.\nShall the world be confined to one Paris or one Oxford forever? Cannot\nstudents be boarded here and get a liberal education under the skies of\nConcord? Can we not hire some Abelard to lecture to us? Alas! what with\nfoddering the cattle and tending the store, we are kept from school too\nlong, and our education is sadly neglected. In this country, the\nvillage should in some respects take the place of the nobleman of\nEurope. It should be the patron of the fine arts. It is rich enough. It\nwants only the magnanimity and refinement. It can spend money enough on\nsuch things as farmers and traders value, but it is thought Utopian to\npropose spending money for things which more intelligent men know to be\nof far more worth. This town has spent seventeen thousand dollars on a\ntown-house, thank fortune or politics, but probably it will not spend\nso much on living wit, the true meat to put into that shell, in a\nhundred years. The one hundred and twenty-five dollars annually\nsubscribed for a Lyceum in the winter is better spent than any other\nequal sum raised in the town. If we live in the nineteenth century, why\nshould we not enjoy the advantages which the nineteenth century offers?\nWhy should our life be in any respect provincial? If we will read\nnewspapers, why not skip the gossip of Boston and take the best\nnewspaper in the world at once?\u2014not be sucking the pap of \u201cneutral\nfamily\u201d papers, or browsing \u201cOlive-Branches\u201d here in New England. Let\nthe reports of all the learned societies come to us, and we will see if\nthey know any thing. Why should we leave it to Harper & Brothers and\nRedding & Co. to select our reading? As the nobleman of cultivated\ntaste surrounds himself with whatever conduces to his\nculture,\u2014genius\u2014learning\u2014wit\u2014books\u2014paintings\u2014statuary\u2014music\u2014\nphilosophical instruments, and the like; so let the village do,\u2014not\nstop short at a pedagogue, a parson, a sexton, a parish library, and\nthree selectmen, because our pilgrim forefathers got through a cold\nwinter once on a bleak rock with these. To act collectively is\naccording to the spirit of our institutions; and I am confident that,\nas our circumstances are more flourishing, our means are greater than\nthe nobleman\u2019s. New England can hire all the wise men in the world to\ncome and teach her, and board them round the while, and not be\nprovincial at all. That is the _uncommon_ school we want. Instead of\nnoblemen, let us have noble villages of men. If it is necessary, omit\none bridge over the river, go round a little there, and throw one arch\nat least over the darker gulf of ignorance which surrounds us.\n\n\nSounds\n\nBut while we are confined to books, though the most select and classic,\nand read only particular written languages, which are themselves but\ndialects and provincial, we are in danger of forgetting the language\nwhich all things and events speak without metaphor, which alone is\ncopious and standard. Much is published, but little printed. The rays\nwhich stream through the shutter will be no longer remembered when the\nshutter is wholly removed. No method nor discipline can supersede the\nnecessity of being forever on the alert. What is a course of history,\nor philosophy, or poetry, no matter how well selected, or the best\nsociety, or the most admirable routine of life, compared with the\ndiscipline of looking always at what is to be seen? Will you be a\nreader, a student merely, or a seer? Read your fate, see what is before\nyou, and walk on into futurity.\n\nI did not read books the first summer; I hoed beans. Nay, I often did\nbetter than this. There were times when I could not afford to sacrifice\nthe bloom of the present moment to any work, whether of the head or\nhands. I love a broad margin to my life. Sometimes, in a summer\nmorning, having taken my accustomed bath, I sat in my sunny doorway\nfrom sunrise till noon, rapt in a revery, amidst the pines and\nhickories and sumachs, in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the\nbirds sing around or flitted noiseless through the house, until by the\nsun falling in at my west window, or the noise of some traveller\u2019s\nwagon on the distant highway, I was reminded of the lapse of time. I\ngrew in those seasons like corn in the night, and they were far better\nthan any work of the hands would have been. They were not time\nsubtracted from my life, but so much over and above my usual allowance.\nI realized what the Orientals mean by contemplation and the forsaking\nof works. For the most part, I minded not how the hours went. The day\nadvanced as if to light some work of mine; it was morning, and lo, now\nit is evening, and nothing memorable is accomplished. Instead of\nsinging like the birds, I silently smiled at my incessant good fortune.\nAs the sparrow had its trill, sitting on the hickory before my door, so\nhad I my chuckle or suppressed warble which he might hear out of my\nnest. My days were not days of the week, bearing the stamp of any\nheathen deity, nor were they minced into hours and fretted by the\nticking of a clock; for I lived like the Puri Indians, of whom it is\nsaid that \u201cfor yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow they have only one\nword, and they express the variety of meaning by pointing backward for\nyesterday, forward for to-morrow, and overhead for the passing day.\u201d\nThis was sheer idleness to my fellow-townsmen, no doubt; but if the\nbirds and flowers had tried me by their standard, I should not have\nbeen found wanting. A man must find his occasions in himself, it is\ntrue. The natural day is very calm, and will hardly reprove his\nindolence.\n\nI had this advantage, at least, in my mode of life, over those who were\nobliged to look abroad for amusement, to society and the theatre, that\nmy life itself was become my amusement and never ceased to be novel. It\nwas a drama of many scenes and without an end. If we were always indeed\ngetting our living, and regulating our lives according to the last and\nbest mode we had learned, we should never be troubled with ennui.\nFollow your genius closely enough, and it will not fail to show you a\nfresh prospect every hour. Housework was a pleasant pastime. When my\nfloor was dirty, I rose early, and, setting all my furniture out of\ndoors on the grass, bed and bedstead making but one budget, dashed\nwater on the floor, and sprinkled white sand from the pond on it, and\nthen with a broom scrubbed it clean and white; and by the time the\nvillagers had broken their fast the morning sun had dried my house\nsufficiently to allow me to move in again, and my meditations were\nalmost uninterupted. It was pleasant to see my whole household effects\nout on the grass, making a little pile like a gypsy\u2019s pack, and my\nthree-legged table, from which I did not remove the books and pen and\nink, standing amid the pines and hickories. They seemed glad to get out\nthemselves, and as if unwilling to be brought in. I was sometimes\ntempted to stretch an awning over them and take my seat there. It was\nworth the while to see the sun shine on these things, and hear the free\nwind blow on them; so much more interesting most familiar objects look\nout of doors than in the house. A bird sits on the next bough,\nlife-everlasting grows under the table, and blackberry vines run round\nits legs; pine cones, chestnut burs, and strawberry leaves are strewn\nabout. It looked as if this was the way these forms came to be\ntransferred to our furniture, to tables, chairs, and bedsteads,\u2014because\nthey once stood in their midst.\n\nMy house was on the side of a hill, immediately on the edge of the\nlarger wood, in the midst of a young forest of pitch pines and\nhickories, and half a dozen rods from the pond, to which a narrow\nfootpath led down the hill. In my front yard grew the strawberry,\nblackberry, and life-everlasting, johnswort and goldenrod, shrub-oaks\nand sand-cherry, blueberry and groundnut. Near the end of May, the\nsand-cherry (_Cerasus pumila_,) adorned the sides of the path with its\ndelicate flowers arranged in umbels cylindrically about its short\nstems, which last, in the fall, weighed down with good sized and\nhandsome cherries, fell over in wreaths like rays on every side. I\ntasted them out of compliment to Nature, though they were scarcely\npalatable. The sumach (_Rhus glabra_,) grew luxuriantly about the\nhouse, pushing up through the embankment which I had made, and growing\nfive or six feet the first season. Its broad pinnate tropical leaf was\npleasant though strange to look on. The large buds, suddenly pushing\nout late in the spring from dry sticks which had seemed to be dead,\ndeveloped themselves as by magic into graceful green and tender boughs,\nan inch in diameter; and sometimes, as I sat at my window, so\nheedlessly did they grow and tax their weak joints, I heard a fresh and\ntender bough suddenly fall like a fan to the ground, when there was not\na breath of air stirring, broken off by its own weight. In August, the\nlarge masses of berries, which, when in flower, had attracted many wild\nbees, gradually assumed their bright velvety crimson hue, and by their\nweight again bent down and broke the tender limbs.\n\n\n\nAs I sit at my window this summer afternoon, hawks are circling about\nmy clearing; the tantivy of wild pigeons, flying by twos and threes\nathwart my view, or perching restless on the white-pine boughs behind\nmy house, gives a voice to the air; a fishhawk dimples the glassy\nsurface of the pond and brings up a fish; a mink steals out of the\nmarsh before my door and seizes a frog by the shore; the sedge is\nbending under the weight of the reed-birds flitting hither and thither;\nand for the last half hour I have heard the rattle of railroad cars,\nnow dying away and then reviving like the beat of a partridge,\nconveying travellers from Boston to the country. For I did not live so\nout of the world as that boy who, as I hear, was put out to a farmer in\nthe east part of the town, but ere long ran away and came home again,\nquite down at the heel and homesick. He had never seen such a dull and\nout-of-the-way place; the folks were all gone off; why, you couldn\u2019t\neven hear the whistle! I doubt if there is such a place in\nMassachusetts now:\u2014\n\n     \u201cIn truth, our village has become a butt\n     For one of those fleet railroad shafts, and o\u2019er\n     Our peaceful plain its soothing sound is\u2014Concord.\u201d\n\nThe Fitchburg Railroad touches the pond about a hundred rods south of\nwhere I dwell. I usually go to the village along its causeway, and am,\nas it were, related to society by this link. The men on the freight\ntrains, who go over the whole length of the road, bow to me as to an\nold acquaintance, they pass me so often, and apparently they take me\nfor an employee; and so I am. I too would fain be a track-repairer\nsomewhere in the orbit of the earth.\n\nThe whistle of the locomotive penetrates my woods summer and winter,\nsounding like the scream of a hawk sailing over some farmer\u2019s yard,\ninforming me that many restless city merchants are arriving within the\ncircle of the town, or adventurous country traders from the other side.\nAs they come under one horizon, they shout their warning to get off the\ntrack to the other, heard sometimes through the circles of two towns.\nHere come your groceries, country; your rations, countrymen! Nor is\nthere any man so independent on his farm that he can say them nay. And\nhere\u2019s your pay for them! screams the countryman\u2019s whistle; timber like\nlong battering rams going twenty miles an hour against the city\u2019s\nwalls, and chairs enough to seat all the weary and heavy laden that\ndwell within them. With such huge and lumbering civility the country\nhands a chair to the city. All the Indian huckleberry hills are\nstripped, all the cranberry meadows are raked into the city. Up comes\nthe cotton, down goes the woven cloth; up comes the silk, down goes the\nwoollen; up come the books, but down goes the wit that writes them.\n\nWhen I meet the engine with its train of cars moving off with planetary\nmotion,\u2014or, rather, like a comet, for the beholder knows not if with\nthat velocity and with that direction it will ever revisit this system,\nsince its orbit does not look like a returning curve,\u2014with its steam\ncloud like a banner streaming behind in golden and silver wreaths, like\nmany a downy cloud which I have seen, high in the heavens, unfolding\nits masses to the light,\u2014as if this travelling demigod, this\ncloud-compeller, would ere long take the sunset sky for the livery of\nhis train; when I hear the iron horse make the hills echo with his\nsnort like thunder, shaking the earth with his feet, and breathing fire\nand smoke from his nostrils, (what kind of winged horse or fiery dragon\nthey will put into the new Mythology I don\u2019t know), it seems as if the\nearth had got a race now worthy to inhabit it. If all were as it seems,\nand men made the elements their servants for noble ends! If the cloud\nthat hangs over the engine were the perspiration of heroic deeds, or as\nbeneficent as that which floats over the farmer\u2019s fields, then the\nelements and Nature herself would cheerfully accompany men on their\nerrands and be their escort.\n\nI watch the passage of the morning cars with the same feeling that I do\nthe rising of the sun, which is hardly more regular. Their train of\nclouds stretching far behind and rising higher and higher, going to\nheaven while the cars are going to Boston, conceals the sun for a\nminute and casts my distant field into the shade, a celestial train\nbeside which the petty train of cars which hugs the earth is but the\nbarb of the spear. The stabler of the iron horse was up early this\nwinter morning by the light of the stars amid the mountains, to fodder\nand harness his steed. Fire, too, was awakened thus early to put the\nvital heat in him and get him off. If the enterprise were as innocent\nas it is early! If the snow lies deep, they strap on his snow-shoes,\nand with the giant plow, plow a furrow from the mountains to the\nseaboard, in which the cars, like a following drill-barrow, sprinkle\nall the restless men and floating merchandise in the country for seed.\nAll day the fire-steed flies over the country, stopping only that his\nmaster may rest, and I am awakened by his tramp and defiant snort at\nmidnight, when in some remote glen in the woods he fronts the elements\nincased in ice and snow; and he will reach his stall only with the\nmorning star, to start once more on his travels without rest or\nslumber. Or perchance, at evening, I hear him in his stable blowing off\nthe superfluous energy of the day, that he may calm his nerves and cool\nhis liver and brain for a few hours of iron slumber. If the enterprise\nwere as heroic and commanding as it is protracted and unwearied!\n\nFar through unfrequented woods on the confines of towns, where once\nonly the hunter penetrated by day, in the darkest night dart these\nbright saloons without the knowledge of their inhabitants; this moment\nstopping at some brilliant station-house in town or city, where a\nsocial crowd is gathered, the next in the Dismal Swamp, scaring the owl\nand fox. The startings and arrivals of the cars are now the epochs in\nthe village day. They go and come with such regularity and precision,\nand their whistle can be heard so far, that the farmers set their\nclocks by them, and thus one well conducted institution regulates a\nwhole country. Have not men improved somewhat in punctuality since the\nrailroad was invented? Do they not talk and think faster in the depot\nthan they did in the stage-office? There is something electrifying in\nthe atmosphere of the former place. I have been astonished at the\nmiracles it has wrought; that some of my neighbors, who, I should have\nprophesied, once for all, would never get to Boston by so prompt a\nconveyance, are on hand when the bell rings. To do things \u201crailroad\nfashion\u201d is now the by-word; and it is worth the while to be warned so\noften and so sincerely by any power to get off its track. There is no\nstopping to read the riot act, no firing over the heads of the mob, in\nthis case. We have constructed a fate, an _Atropos_, that never turns\naside. (Let that be the name of your engine.) Men are advertised that\nat a certain hour and minute these bolts will be shot toward particular\npoints of the compass; yet it interferes with no man\u2019s business, and\nthe children go to school on the other track. We live the steadier for\nit. We are all educated thus to be sons of Tell. The air is full of\ninvisible bolts. Every path but your own is the path of fate. Keep on\nyour own track, then.\n\nWhat recommends commerce to me is its enterprise and bravery. It does\nnot clasp its hands and pray to Jupiter. I see these men every day go\nabout their business with more or less courage and content, doing more\neven than they suspect, and perchance better employed than they could\nhave consciously devised. I am less affected by their heroism who stood\nup for half an hour in the front line at Buena Vista, than by the\nsteady and cheerful valor of the men who inhabit the snow-plough for\ntheir winter quarters; who have not merely the three-o\u2019-clock in the\nmorning courage, which Bonaparte thought was the rarest, but whose\ncourage does not go to rest so early, who go to sleep only when the\nstorm sleeps or the sinews of their iron steed are frozen. On this\nmorning of the Great Snow, perchance, which is still raging and\nchilling men\u2019s blood, I hear the muffled tone of their engine bell from\nout the fog bank of their chilled breath, which announces that the cars\n_are coming_, without long delay, notwithstanding the veto of a New\nEngland north-east snow storm, and I behold the ploughmen covered with\nsnow and rime, their heads peering, above the mould-board which is\nturning down other than daisies and the nests of field-mice, like\nbowlders of the Sierra Nevada, that occupy an outside place in the\nuniverse.\n\nCommerce is unexpectedly confident and serene, alert, adventurous, and\nunwearied. It is very natural in its methods withal, far more so than\nmany fantastic enterprises and sentimental experiments, and hence its\nsingular success. I am refreshed and expanded when the freight train\nrattles past me, and I smell the stores which go dispensing their odors\nall the way from Long Wharf to Lake Champlain, reminding me of foreign\nparts, of coral reefs, and Indian oceans, and tropical climes, and the\nextent of the globe. I feel more like a citizen of the world at the\nsight of the palm-leaf which will cover so many flaxen New England\nheads the next summer, the Manilla hemp and cocoa-nut husks, the old\njunk, gunny bags, scrap iron, and rusty nails. This car-load of torn\nsails is more legible and interesting now than if they should be\nwrought into paper and printed books. Who can write so graphically the\nhistory of the storms they have weathered as these rents have done?\nThey are proof-sheets which need no correction. Here goes lumber from\nthe Maine woods, which did not go out to sea in the last freshet, risen\nfour dollars on the thousand because of what did go out or was split\nup; pine, spruce, cedar,\u2014first, second, third, and fourth qualities, so\nlately all of one quality, to wave over the bear, and moose, and\ncaribou. Next rolls Thomaston lime, a prime lot, which will get far\namong the hills before it gets slacked. These rags in bales, of all\nhues and qualities, the lowest condition to which cotton and linen\ndescend, the final result of dress,\u2014of patterns which are now no longer\ncried up, unless it be in Milwaukie, as those splendid articles,\nEnglish, French, or American prints, ginghams, muslins, &c., gathered\nfrom all quarters both of fashion and poverty, going to become paper of\none color or a few shades only, on which forsooth will be written tales\nof real life, high and low, and founded on fact! This closed car smells\nof salt fish, the strong New England and commercial scent, reminding me\nof the Grand Banks and the fisheries. Who has not seen a salt fish,\nthoroughly cured for this world, so that nothing can spoil it, and\nputting the perseverance of the saints to the blush? with which you may\nsweep or pave the streets, and split your kindlings, and the teamster\nshelter himself and his lading against sun wind and rain behind it,\u2014and\nthe trader, as a Concord trader once did, hang it up by his door for a\nsign when he commences business, until at last his oldest customer\ncannot tell surely whether it be animal, vegetable, or mineral, and yet\nit shall be as pure as a snowflake, and if it be put into a pot and\nboiled, will come out an excellent dun fish for a Saturday\u2019s dinner.\nNext Spanish hides, with the tails still preserving their twist and the\nangle of elevation they had when the oxen that wore them were careering\nover the pampas of the Spanish main,\u2014a type of all obstinacy, and\nevincing how almost hopeless and incurable are all constitutional\nvices. I confess, that practically speaking, when I have learned a\nman\u2019s real disposition, I have no hopes of changing it for the better\nor worse in this state of existence. As the Orientals say, \u201cA cur\u2019s\ntail may be warmed, and pressed, and bound round with ligatures, and\nafter a twelve years\u2019 labor bestowed upon it, still it will retain its\nnatural form.\u201d The only effectual cure for such inveteracies as these\ntails exhibit is to make glue of them, which I believe is what is\nusually done with them, and then they will stay put and stick. Here is\na hogshead of molasses or of brandy directed to John Smith,\nCuttingsville, Vermont, some trader among the Green Mountains, who\nimports for the farmers near his clearing, and now perchance stands\nover his bulk-head and thinks of the last arrivals on the coast, how\nthey may affect the price for him, telling his customers this moment,\nas he has told them twenty times before this morning, that he expects\nsome by the next train of prime quality. It is advertised in the\nCuttingsville Times.\n\nWhile these things go up other things come down. Warned by the whizzing\nsound, I look up from my book and see some tall pine, hewn on far\nnorthern hills, which has winged its way over the Green Mountains and\nthe Connecticut, shot like an arrow through the township within ten\nminutes, and scarce another eye beholds it; going\n\n     \u201cto be the mast\n     Of some great ammiral.\u201d\n\nAnd hark! here comes the cattle-train bearing the cattle of a thousand\nhills, sheepcots, stables, and cow-yards in the air, drovers with their\nsticks, and shepherd boys in the midst of their flocks, all but the\nmountain pastures, whirled along like leaves blown from the mountains\nby the September gales. The air is filled with the bleating of calves\nand sheep, and the hustling of oxen, as if a pastoral valley were going\nby. When the old bell-wether at the head rattles his bell, the\nmountains do indeed skip like rams and the little hills like lambs. A\ncar-load of drovers, too, in the midst, on a level with their droves\nnow, their vocation gone, but still clinging to their useless sticks as\ntheir badge of office. But their dogs, where are they? It is a stampede\nto them; they are quite thrown out; they have lost the scent. Methinks\nI hear them barking behind the Peterboro\u2019 Hills, or panting up the\nwestern slope of the Green Mountains. They will not be in at the death.\nTheir vocation, too, is gone. Their fidelity and sagacity are below par\nnow. They will slink back to their kennels in disgrace, or perchance\nrun wild and strike a league with the wolf and the fox. So is your\npastoral life whirled past and away. But the bell rings, and I must get\noff the track and let the cars go by;\u2014\n\n     What\u2019s the railroad to me?\n     I never go to see\n     Where it ends.\n     It fills a few hollows,\n     And makes banks for the swallows,\n     It sets the sand a-blowing,\n     And the blackberries a-growing,\n\nbut I cross it like a cart-path in the woods. I will not have my eyes\nput out and my ears spoiled by its smoke and steam and hissing.\n\n\n\nNow that the cars are gone by and all the restless world with them, and\nthe fishes in the pond no longer feel their rumbling, I am more alone\nthan ever. For the rest of the long afternoon, perhaps, my meditations\nare interrupted only by the faint rattle of a carriage or team along\nthe distant highway.\n\nSometimes, on Sundays, I heard the bells, the Lincoln, Acton, Bedford,\nor Concord bell, when the wind was favorable, a faint, sweet, and, as\nit were, natural melody, worth importing into the wilderness. At a\nsufficient distance over the woods this sound acquires a certain\nvibratory hum, as if the pine needles in the horizon were the strings\nof a harp which it swept. All sound heard at the greatest possible\ndistance produces one and the same effect, a vibration of the universal\nlyre, just as the intervening atmosphere makes a distant ridge of earth\ninteresting to our eyes by the azure tint it imparts to it. There came\nto me in this case a melody which the air had strained, and which had\nconversed with every leaf and needle of the wood, that portion of the\nsound which the elements had taken up and modulated and echoed from\nvale to vale. The echo is, to some extent, an original sound, and\ntherein is the magic and charm of it. It is not merely a repetition of\nwhat was worth repeating in the bell, but partly the voice of the wood;\nthe same trivial words and notes sung by a wood-nymph.\n\nAt evening, the distant lowing of some cow in the horizon beyond the\nwoods sounded sweet and melodious, and at first I would mistake it for\nthe voices of certain minstrels by whom I was sometimes serenaded, who\nmight be straying over hill and dale; but soon I was not unpleasantly\ndisappointed when it was prolonged into the cheap and natural music of\nthe cow. I do not mean to be satirical, but to express my appreciation\nof those youths\u2019 singing, when I state that I perceived clearly that it\nwas akin to the music of the cow, and they were at length one\narticulation of Nature.\n\nRegularly at half past seven, in one part of the summer, after the\nevening train had gone by, the whippoorwills chanted their vespers for\nhalf an hour, sitting on a stump by my door, or upon the ridge pole of\nthe house. They would begin to sing almost with as much precision as a\nclock, within five minutes of a particular time, referred to the\nsetting of the sun, every evening. I had a rare opportunity to become\nacquainted with their habits. Sometimes I heard four or five at once in\ndifferent parts of the wood, by accident one a bar behind another, and\nso near me that I distinguished not only the cluck after each note, but\noften that singular buzzing sound like a fly in a spider\u2019s web, only\nproportionally louder. Sometimes one would circle round and round me in\nthe woods a few feet distant as if tethered by a string, when probably\nI was near its eggs. They sang at intervals throughout the night, and\nwere again as musical as ever just before and about dawn.\n\nWhen other birds are still the screech owls take up the strain, like\nmourning women their ancient u-lu-lu. Their dismal scream is truly Ben\nJonsonian. Wise midnight hags! It is no honest and blunt tu-whit tu-who\nof the poets, but, without jesting, a most solemn graveyard ditty, the\nmutual consolations of suicide lovers remembering the pangs and the\ndelights of supernal love in the infernal groves. Yet I love to hear\ntheir wailing, their doleful responses, trilled along the wood-side;\nreminding me sometimes of music and singing birds; as if it were the\ndark and tearful side of music, the regrets and sighs that would fain\nbe sung. They are the spirits, the low spirits and melancholy\nforebodings, of fallen souls that once in human shape night-walked the\nearth and did the deeds of darkness, now expiating their sins with\ntheir wailing hymns or threnodies in the scenery of their\ntransgressions. They give me a new sense of the variety and capacity of\nthat nature which is our common dwelling. _Oh-o-o-o-o that I never had\nbeen bor-r-r-r-n!_ sighs one on this side of the pond, and circles with\nthe restlessness of despair to some new perch on the gray oaks.\nThen\u2014_that I never had been bor-r-r-r-n!_ echoes another on the farther\nside with tremulous sincerity, and\u2014_bor-r-r-r-n!_ comes faintly from\nfar in the Lincoln woods.\n\nI was also serenaded by a hooting owl. Near at hand you could fancy it\nthe most melancholy sound in Nature, as if she meant by this to\nstereotype and make permanent in her choir the dying moans of a human\nbeing,\u2014some poor weak relic of mortality who has left hope behind, and\nhowls like an animal, yet with human sobs, on entering the dark valley,\nmade more awful by a certain gurgling melodiousness,\u2014I find myself\nbeginning with the letters gl when I try to imitate it,\u2014expressive of a\nmind which has reached the gelatinous mildewy stage in the\nmortification of all healthy and courageous thought. It reminded me of\nghouls and idiots and insane howlings. But now one answers from far\nwoods in a strain made really melodious by distance,\u2014_Hoo hoo hoo,\nhoorer hoo_; and indeed for the most part it suggested only pleasing\nassociations, whether heard by day or night, summer or winter.\n\nI rejoice that there are owls. Let them do the idiotic and maniacal\nhooting for men. It is a sound admirably suited to swamps and twilight\nwoods which no day illustrates, suggesting a vast and undeveloped\nnature which men have not recognized. They represent the stark twilight\nand unsatisfied thoughts which all have. All day the sun has shone on\nthe surface of some savage swamp, where the single spruce stands hung\nwith usnea lichens, and small hawks circulate above, and the chickadee\nlisps amid the evergreens, and the partridge and rabbit skulk beneath;\nbut now a more dismal and fitting day dawns, and a different race of\ncreatures awakes to express the meaning of Nature there.\n\nLate in the evening I heard the distant rumbling of wagons over\nbridges,\u2014a sound heard farther than almost any other at night,\u2014the\nbaying of dogs, and sometimes again the lowing of some disconsolate cow\nin a distant barn-yard. In the mean while all the shore rang with the\ntrump of bullfrogs, the sturdy spirits of ancient wine-bibbers and\nwassailers, still unrepentant, trying to sing a catch in their Stygian\nlake,\u2014if the Walden nymphs will pardon the comparison, for though there\nare almost no weeds, there are frogs there,\u2014who would fain keep up the\nhilarious rules of their old festal tables, though their voices have\nwaxed hoarse and solemnly grave, mocking at mirth, and the wine has\nlost its flavor, and become only liquor to distend their paunches, and\nsweet intoxication never comes to drown the memory of the past, but\nmere saturation and waterloggedness and distention. The most\naldermanic, with his chin upon a heart-leaf, which serves for a napkin\nto his drooling chaps, under this northern shore quaffs a deep draught\nof the once scorned water, and passes round the cup with the\nejaculation _tr-r-r-oonk, tr-r-r-oonk, tr-r-r-oonk!_ and straightway\ncomes over the water from some distant cove the same password repeated,\nwhere the next in seniority and girth has gulped down to his mark; and\nwhen this observance has made the circuit of the shores, then\nejaculates the master of ceremonies, with satisfaction, _tr-r-r-oonk!_\nand each in his turn repeats the same down to the least distended,\nleakiest, and flabbiest paunched, that there be no mistake; and then\nthe bowl goes round again and again, until the sun disperses the\nmorning mist, and only the patriarch is not under the pond, but vainly\nbellowing _troonk_ from time to time, and pausing for a reply.\n\nI am not sure that I ever heard the sound of cock-crowing from my\nclearing, and I thought that it might be worth the while to keep a\ncockerel for his music merely, as a singing bird. The note of this once\nwild Indian pheasant is certainly the most remarkable of any bird\u2019s,\nand if they could be naturalized without being domesticated, it would\nsoon become the most famous sound in our woods, surpassing the clangor\nof the goose and the hooting of the owl; and then imagine the cackling\nof the hens to fill the pauses when their lords\u2019 clarions rested! No\nwonder that man added this bird to his tame stock,\u2014to say nothing of\nthe eggs and drumsticks. To walk in a winter morning in a wood where\nthese birds abounded, their native woods, and hear the wild cockerels\ncrow on the trees, clear and shrill for miles over the resounding\nearth, drowning the feebler notes of other birds,\u2014think of it! It would\nput nations on the alert. Who would not be early to rise, and rise\nearlier and earlier every successive day of his life, till he became\nunspeakably healthy, wealthy, and wise? This foreign bird\u2019s note is\ncelebrated by the poets of all countries along with the notes of their\nnative songsters. All climates agree with brave Chanticleer. He is more\nindigenous even than the natives. His health is ever good, his lungs\nare sound, his spirits never flag. Even the sailor on the Atlantic and\nPacific is awakened by his voice; but its shrill sound never roused me\nfrom my slumbers. I kept neither dog, cat, cow, pig, nor hens, so that\nyou would have said there was a deficiency of domestic sounds; neither\nthe churn, nor the spinning wheel, nor even the singing of the kettle,\nnor the hissing of the urn, nor children crying, to comfort one. An\nold-fashioned man would have lost his senses or died of ennui before\nthis. Not even rats in the wall, for they were starved out, or rather\nwere never baited in,\u2014only squirrels on the roof and under the floor, a\nwhippoorwill on the ridge pole, a blue-jay screaming beneath the\nwindow, a hare or woodchuck under the house, a screech-owl or a cat-owl\nbehind it, a flock of wild geese or a laughing loon on the pond, and a\nfox to bark in the night. Not even a lark or an oriole, those mild\nplantation birds, ever visited my clearing. No cockerels to crow nor\nhens to cackle in the yard. No yard! but unfenced Nature reaching up to\nyour very sills. A young forest growing up under your meadows, and wild\nsumachs and blackberry vines breaking through into your cellar; sturdy\npitch pines rubbing and creaking against the shingles for want of room,\ntheir roots reaching quite under the house. Instead of a scuttle or a\nblind blown off in the gale,\u2014a pine tree snapped off or torn up by the\nroots behind your house for fuel. Instead of no path to the front-yard\ngate in the Great Snow,\u2014no gate,\u2014no front-yard,\u2014and no path to the\ncivilized world!\n\n\nSolitude\n\nThis is a delicious evening, when the whole body is one sense, and\nimbibes delight through every pore. I go and come with a strange\nliberty in Nature, a part of herself. As I walk along the stony shore\nof the pond in my shirt sleeves, though it is cool as well as cloudy\nand windy, and I see nothing special to attract me, all the elements\nare unusually congenial to me. The bullfrogs trump to usher in the\nnight, and the note of the whippoorwill is borne on the rippling wind\nfrom over the water. Sympathy with the fluttering alder and poplar\nleaves almost takes away my breath; yet, like the lake, my serenity is\nrippled but not ruffled. These small waves raised by the evening wind\nare as remote from storm as the smooth reflecting surface. Though it is\nnow dark, the wind still blows and roars in the wood, the waves still\ndash, and some creatures lull the rest with their notes. The repose is\nnever complete. The wildest animals do not repose, but seek their prey\nnow; the fox, and skunk, and rabbit, now roam the fields and woods\nwithout fear. They are Nature\u2019s watchmen,\u2014links which connect the days\nof animated life.\n\nWhen I return to my house I find that visitors have been there and left\ntheir cards, either a bunch of flowers, or a wreath of evergreen, or a\nname in pencil on a yellow walnut leaf or a chip. They who come rarely\nto the woods take some little piece of the forest into their hands to\nplay with by the way, which they leave, either intentionally or\naccidentally. One has peeled a willow wand, woven it into a ring, and\ndropped it on my table. I could always tell if visitors had called in\nmy absence, either by the bended twigs or grass, or the print of their\nshoes, and generally of what sex or age or quality they were by some\nslight trace left, as a flower dropped, or a bunch of grass plucked and\nthrown away, even as far off as the railroad, half a mile distant, or\nby the lingering odor of a cigar or pipe. Nay, I was frequently\nnotified of the passage of a traveller along the highway sixty rods off\nby the scent of his pipe.\n\nThere is commonly sufficient space about us. Our horizon is never quite\nat our elbows. The thick wood is not just at our door, nor the pond,\nbut somewhat is always clearing, familiar and worn by us, appropriated\nand fenced in some way, and reclaimed from Nature. For what reason have\nI this vast range and circuit, some square miles of unfrequented\nforest, for my privacy, abandoned to me by men? My nearest neighbor is\na mile distant, and no house is visible from any place but the\nhill-tops within half a mile of my own. I have my horizon bounded by\nwoods all to myself; a distant view of the railroad where it touches\nthe pond on the one hand, and of the fence which skirts the woodland\nroad on the other. But for the most part it is as solitary where I live\nas on the prairies. It is as much Asia or Africa as New England. I\nhave, as it were, my own sun and moon and stars, and a little world all\nto myself. At night there was never a traveller passed my house, or\nknocked at my door, more than if I were the first or last man; unless\nit were in the spring, when at long intervals some came from the\nvillage to fish for pouts,\u2014they plainly fished much more in the Walden\nPond of their own natures, and baited their hooks with darkness,\u2014but\nthey soon retreated, usually with light baskets, and left \u201cthe world to\ndarkness and to me,\u201d and the black kernel of the night was never\nprofaned by any human neighborhood. I believe that men are generally\nstill a little afraid of the dark, though the witches are all hung, and\nChristianity and candles have been introduced.\n\nYet I experienced sometimes that the most sweet and tender, the most\ninnocent and encouraging society may be found in any natural object,\neven for the poor misanthrope and most melancholy man. There can be no\nvery black melancholy to him who lives in the midst of Nature and has\nhis senses still. There was never yet such a storm but it was \u00c6olian\nmusic to a healthy and innocent ear. Nothing can rightly compel a\nsimple and brave man to a vulgar sadness. While I enjoy the friendship\nof the seasons I trust that nothing can make life a burden to me. The\ngentle rain which waters my beans and keeps me in the house to-day is\nnot drear and melancholy, but good for me too. Though it prevents my\nhoeing them, it is of far more worth than my hoeing. If it should\ncontinue so long as to cause the seeds to rot in the ground and destroy\nthe potatoes in the low lands, it would still be good for the grass on\nthe uplands, and, being good for the grass, it would be good for me.\nSometimes, when I compare myself with other men, it seems as if I were\nmore favored by the gods than they, beyond any deserts that I am\nconscious of; as if I had a warrant and surety at their hands which my\nfellows have not, and were especially guided and guarded. I do not\nflatter myself, but if it be possible they flatter me. I have never\nfelt lonesome, or in the least oppressed by a sense of solitude, but\nonce, and that was a few weeks after I came to the woods, when, for an\nhour, I doubted if the near neighborhood of man was not essential to a\nserene and healthy life. To be alone was something unpleasant. But I\nwas at the same time conscious of a slight insanity in my mood, and\nseemed to foresee my recovery. In the midst of a gentle rain while\nthese thoughts prevailed, I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and\nbeneficent society in Nature, in the very pattering of the drops, and\nin every sound and sight around my house, an infinite and unaccountable\nfriendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the\nfancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have\nnever thought of them since. Every little pine needle expanded and\nswelled with sympathy and befriended me. I was so distinctly made aware\nof the presence of something kindred to me, even in scenes which we are\naccustomed to call wild and dreary, and also that the nearest of blood\nto me and humanest was not a person nor a villager, that I thought no\nplace could ever be strange to me again.\u2014\n\n     \u201cMourning untimely consumes the sad;\n     Few are their days in the land of the living,\n     Beautiful daughter of Toscar.\u201d\n\nSome of my pleasantest hours were during the long rain storms in the\nspring or fall, which confined me to the house for the afternoon as\nwell as the forenoon, soothed by their ceaseless roar and pelting; when\nan early twilight ushered in a long evening in which many thoughts had\ntime to take root and unfold themselves. In those driving north-east\nrains which tried the village houses so, when the maids stood ready\nwith mop and pail in front entries to keep the deluge out, I sat behind\nmy door in my little house, which was all entry, and thoroughly enjoyed\nits protection. In one heavy thunder shower the lightning struck a\nlarge pitch-pine across the pond, making a very conspicuous and\nperfectly regular spiral groove from top to bottom, an inch or more\ndeep, and four or five inches wide, as you would groove a\nwalking-stick. I passed it again the other day, and was struck with awe\non looking up and beholding that mark, now more distinct than ever,\nwhere a terrific and resistless bolt came down out of the harmless sky\neight years ago. Men frequently say to me, \u201cI should think you would\nfeel lonesome down there, and want to be nearer to folks, rainy and\nsnowy days and nights especially.\u201d I am tempted to reply to such,\u2014This\nwhole earth which we inhabit is but a point in space. How far apart,\nthink you, dwell the two most distant inhabitants of yonder star, the\nbreadth of whose disk cannot be appreciated by our instruments? Why\nshould I feel lonely? is not our planet in the Milky Way? This which\nyou put seems to me not to be the most important question. What sort of\nspace is that which separates a man from his fellows and makes him\nsolitary? I have found that no exertion of the legs can bring two minds\nmuch nearer to one another. What do we want most to dwell near to? Not\nto many men surely, the depot, the post-office, the bar-room, the\nmeeting-house, the school-house, the grocery, Beacon Hill, or the Five\nPoints, where men most congregate, but to the perennial source of our\nlife, whence in all our experience we have found that to issue, as the\nwillow stands near the water and sends out its roots in that direction.\nThis will vary with different natures, but this is the place where a\nwise man will dig his cellar.... I one evening overtook one of my\ntownsmen, who has accumulated what is called \u201ca handsome\nproperty,\u201d\u2014though I never got a _fair_ view of it,\u2014on the Walden road,\ndriving a pair of cattle to market, who inquired of me how I could\nbring my mind to give up so many of the comforts of life. I answered\nthat I was very sure I liked it passably well; I was not joking. And so\nI went home to my bed, and left him to pick his way through the\ndarkness and the mud to Brighton,\u2014or Bright-town,\u2014which place he would\nreach some time in the morning.\n\nAny prospect of awakening or coming to life to a dead man makes\nindifferent all times and places. The place where that may occur is\nalways the same, and indescribably pleasant to all our senses. For the\nmost part we allow only outlying and transient circumstances to make\nour occasions. They are, in fact, the cause of our distraction. Nearest\nto all things is that power which fashions their being. _Next_ to us\nthe grandest laws are continually being executed. _Next_ to us is not\nthe workman whom we have hired, with whom we love so well to talk, but\nthe workman whose work we are.\n\n\u201cHow vast and profound is the influence of the subtile powers of Heaven\nand of Earth!\u201d\n\n\u201cWe seek to perceive them, and we do not see them; we seek to hear\nthem, and we do not hear them; identified with the substance of things,\nthey cannot be separated from them.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey cause that in all the universe men purify and sanctify their\nhearts, and clothe themselves in their holiday garments to offer\nsacrifices and oblations to their ancestors. It is an ocean of subtile\nintelligences. They are every where, above us, on our left, on our\nright; they environ us on all sides.\u201d\n\nWe are the subjects of an experiment which is not a little interesting\nto me. Can we not do without the society of our gossips a little while\nunder these circumstances,\u2014have our own thoughts to cheer us? Confucius\nsays truly, \u201cVirtue does not remain as an abandoned orphan; it must of\nnecessity have neighbors.\u201d\n\nWith thinking we may be beside ourselves in a sane sense. By a\nconscious effort of the mind we can stand aloof from actions and their\nconsequences; and all things, good and bad, go by us like a torrent. We\nare not wholly involved in Nature. I may be either the drift-wood in\nthe stream, or Indra in the sky looking down on it. I _may_ be affected\nby a theatrical exhibition; on the other hand, I _may not_ be affected\nby an actual event which appears to concern me much more. I only know\nmyself as a human entity; the scene, so to speak, of thoughts and\naffections; and am sensible of a certain doubleness by which I can\nstand as remote from myself as from another. However intense my\nexperience, I am conscious of the presence and criticism of a part of\nme, which, as it were, is not a part of me, but spectator, sharing no\nexperience, but taking note of it; and that is no more I than it is\nyou. When the play, it may be the tragedy, of life is over, the\nspectator goes his way. It was a kind of fiction, a work of the\nimagination only, so far as he was concerned. This doubleness may\neasily make us poor neighbors and friends sometimes.\n\nI find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. To be in\ncompany, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love\nto be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as\nsolitude. We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among\nmen than when we stay in our chambers. A man thinking or working is\nalways alone, let him be where he will. Solitude is not measured by the\nmiles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows. The really\ndiligent student in one of the crowded hives of Cambridge College is as\nsolitary as a dervish in the desert. The farmer can work alone in the\nfield or the woods all day, hoeing or chopping, and not feel lonesome,\nbecause he is employed; but when he comes home at night he cannot sit\ndown in a room alone, at the mercy of his thoughts, but must be where\nhe can \u201csee the folks,\u201d and recreate, and as he thinks remunerate\nhimself for his day\u2019s solitude; and hence he wonders how the student\ncan sit alone in the house all night and most of the day without ennui\nand \u201cthe blues;\u201d but he does not realize that the student, though in\nthe house, is still at work in _his_ field, and chopping in _his_\nwoods, as the farmer in his, and in turn seeks the same recreation and\nsociety that the latter does, though it may be a more condensed form of\nit.\n\nSociety is commonly too cheap. We meet at very short intervals, not\nhaving had time to acquire any new value for each other. We meet at\nmeals three times a day, and give each other a new taste of that old\nmusty cheese that we are. We have had to agree on a certain set of\nrules, called etiquette and politeness, to make this frequent meeting\ntolerable and that we need not come to open war. We meet at the\npost-office, and at the sociable, and about the fireside every night;\nwe live thick and are in each other\u2019s way, and stumble over one\nanother, and I think that we thus lose some respect for one another.\nCertainly less frequency would suffice for all important and hearty\ncommunications. Consider the girls in a factory,\u2014never alone, hardly in\ntheir dreams. It would be better if there were but one inhabitant to a\nsquare mile, as where I live. The value of a man is not in his skin,\nthat we should touch him.\n\nI have heard of a man lost in the woods and dying of famine and\nexhaustion at the foot of a tree, whose loneliness was relieved by the\ngrotesque visions with which, owing to bodily weakness, his diseased\nimagination surrounded him, and which he believed to be real. So also,\nowing to bodily and mental health and strength, we may be continually\ncheered by a like but more normal and natural society, and come to know\nthat we are never alone.\n\nI have a great deal of company in my house; especially in the morning,\nwhen nobody calls. Let me suggest a few comparisons, that some one may\nconvey an idea of my situation. I am no more lonely than the loon in\nthe pond that laughs so loud, or than Walden Pond itself. What company\nhas that lonely lake, I pray? And yet it has not the blue devils, but\nthe blue angels in it, in the azure tint of its waters. The sun is\nalone, except in thick weather, when there sometimes appear to be two,\nbut one is a mock sun. God is alone,\u2014but the devil, he is far from\nbeing alone; he sees a great deal of company; he is legion. I am no\nmore lonely than a single mullein or dandelion in a pasture, or a bean\nleaf, or sorrel, or a horse-fly, or a bumble-bee. I am no more lonely\nthan the Mill Brook, or a weathercock, or the north star, or the south\nwind, or an April shower, or a January thaw, or the first spider in a\nnew house.\n\nI have occasional visits in the long winter evenings, when the snow\nfalls fast and the wind howls in the wood, from an old settler and\noriginal proprietor, who is reported to have dug Walden Pond, and\nstoned it, and fringed it with pine woods; who tells me stories of old\ntime and of new eternity; and between us we manage to pass a cheerful\nevening with social mirth and pleasant views of things, even without\napples or cider,\u2014a most wise and humorous friend, whom I love much, who\nkeeps himself more secret than ever did Goffe or Whalley; and though he\nis thought to be dead, none can show where he is buried. An elderly\ndame, too, dwells in my neighborhood, invisible to most persons, in\nwhose odorous herb garden I love to stroll sometimes, gathering simples\nand listening to her fables; for she has a genius of unequalled\nfertility, and her memory runs back farther than mythology, and she can\ntell me the original of every fable, and on what fact every one is\nfounded, for the incidents occurred when she was young. A ruddy and\nlusty old dame, who delights in all weathers and seasons, and is likely\nto outlive all her children yet.\n\nThe indescribable innocence and beneficence of Nature,\u2014of sun and wind\nand rain, of summer and winter,\u2014such health, such cheer, they afford\nforever! and such sympathy have they ever with our race, that all\nNature would be affected, and the sun\u2019s brightness fade, and the winds\nwould sigh humanely, and the clouds rain tears, and the woods shed\ntheir leaves and put on mourning in midsummer, if any man should ever\nfor a just cause grieve. Shall I not have intelligence with the earth?\nAm I not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself?\n\nWhat is the pill which will keep us well, serene, contented? Not my or\nthy great-grandfather\u2019s, but our great-grandmother Nature\u2019s universal,\nvegetable, botanic medicines, by which she has kept herself young\nalways, outlived so many old Parrs in her day, and fed her health with\ntheir decaying fatness. For my panacea, instead of one of those quack\nvials of a mixture dipped from Acheron and the Dead Sea, which come out\nof those long shallow black-schooner looking wagons which we sometimes\nsee made to carry bottles, let me have a draught of undiluted morning\nair. Morning air! If men will not drink of this at the fountain-head of\nthe day, why, then, we must even bottle up some and sell it in the\nshops, for the benefit of those who have lost their subscription ticket\nto morning time in this world. But remember, it will not keep quite\ntill noon-day even in the coolest cellar, but drive out the stopples\nlong ere that and follow westward the steps of Aurora. I am no\nworshipper of Hygeia, who was the daughter of that old herb-doctor\n\u00c6sculapius, and who is represented on monuments holding a serpent in\none hand, and in the other a cup out of which the serpent sometimes\ndrinks; but rather of Hebe, cupbearer to Jupiter, who was the daughter\nof Juno and wild lettuce, and who had the power of restoring gods and\nmen to the vigor of youth. She was probably the only thoroughly\nsound-conditioned, healthy, and robust young lady that ever walked the\nglobe, and wherever she came it was spring.\n\n\nVisitors\n\nI think that I love society as much as most, and am ready enough to\nfasten myself like a bloodsucker for the time to any full-blooded man\nthat comes in my way. I am naturally no hermit, but might possibly sit\nout the sturdiest frequenter of the bar-room, if my business called me\nthither.\n\nI had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship,\nthree for society. When visitors came in larger and unexpected numbers\nthere was but the third chair for them all, but they generally\neconomized the room by standing up. It is surprising how many great men\nand women a small house will contain. I have had twenty-five or thirty\nsouls, with their bodies, at once under my roof, and yet we often\nparted without being aware that we had come very near to one another.\nMany of our houses, both public and private, with their almost\ninnumerable apartments, their huge halls and their cellars for the\nstorage of wines and other munitions of peace, appear to me\nextravagantly large for their inhabitants. They are so vast and\nmagnificent that the latter seem to be only vermin which infest them. I\nam surprised when the herald blows his summons before some Tremont or\nAstor or Middlesex House, to see come creeping out over the piazza for\nall inhabitants a ridiculous mouse, which soon again slinks into some\nhole in the pavement.\n\nOne inconvenience I sometimes experienced in so small a house, the\ndifficulty of getting to a sufficient distance from my guest when we\nbegan to utter the big thoughts in big words. You want room for your\nthoughts to get into sailing trim and run a course or two before they\nmake their port. The bullet of your thought must have overcome its\nlateral and ricochet motion and fallen into its last and steady course\nbefore it reaches the ear of the hearer, else it may plough out again\nthrough the side of his head. Also, our sentences wanted room to unfold\nand form their columns in the interval. Individuals, like nations, must\nhave suitable broad and natural boundaries, even a considerable neutral\nground, between them. I have found it a singular luxury to talk across\nthe pond to a companion on the opposite side. In my house we were so\nnear that we could not begin to hear,\u2014we could not speak low enough to\nbe heard; as when you throw two stones into calm water so near that\nthey break each other\u2019s undulations. If we are merely loquacious and\nloud talkers, then we can afford to stand very near together, cheek by\njowl, and feel each other\u2019s breath; but if we speak reservedly and\nthoughtfully, we want to be farther apart, that all animal heat and\nmoisture may have a chance to evaporate. If we would enjoy the most\nintimate society with that in each of us which is without, or above,\nbeing spoken to, we must not only be silent, but commonly so far apart\nbodily that we cannot possibly hear each other\u2019s voice in any case.\nReferred to this standard, speech is for the convenience of those who\nare hard of hearing; but there are many fine things which we cannot say\nif we have to shout. As the conversation began to assume a loftier and\ngrander tone, we gradually shoved our chairs farther apart till they\ntouched the wall in opposite corners, and then commonly there was not\nroom enough.\n\nMy \u201cbest\u201d room, however, my withdrawing room, always ready for company,\non whose carpet the sun rarely fell, was the pine wood behind my house.\nThither in summer days, when distinguished guests came, I took them,\nand a priceless domestic swept the floor and dusted the furniture and\nkept the things in order.\n\nIf one guest came he sometimes partook of my frugal meal, and it was no\ninterruption to conversation to be stirring a hasty-pudding, or\nwatching the rising and maturing of a loaf of bread in the ashes, in\nthe mean while. But if twenty came and sat in my house there was\nnothing said about dinner, though there might be bread enough for two,\nmore than if eating were a forsaken habit; but we naturally practised\nabstinence; and this was never felt to be an offence against\nhospitality, but the most proper and considerate course. The waste and\ndecay of physical life, which so often needs repair, seemed\nmiraculously retarded in such a case, and the vital vigor stood its\nground. I could entertain thus a thousand as well as twenty; and if any\never went away disappointed or hungry from my house when they found me\nat home, they may depend upon it that I sympathized with them at least.\nSo easy is it, though many housekeepers doubt it, to establish new and\nbetter customs in the place of the old. You need not rest your\nreputation on the dinners you give. For my own part, I was never so\neffectually deterred from frequenting a man\u2019s house, by any kind of\nCerberus whatever, as by the parade one made about dining me, which I\ntook to be a very polite and roundabout hint never to trouble him so\nagain. I think I shall never revisit those scenes. I should be proud to\nhave for the motto of my cabin those lines of Spenser which one of my\nvisitors inscribed on a yellow walnut leaf for a card:\u2014\n\n     \u201cArriv\u00e9d there, the little house they fill,\n         Ne looke for entertainment where none was;\n     Rest is their feast, and all things at their will:\n         The noblest mind the best contentment has.\u201d\n\nWhen Winslow, afterward governor of the Plymouth Colony, went with a\ncompanion on a visit of ceremony to Massasoit on foot through the\nwoods, and arrived tired and hungry at his lodge, they were well\nreceived by the king, but nothing was said about eating that day. When\nthe night arrived, to quote their own words,\u2014\u201cHe laid us on the bed\nwith himself and his wife, they at the one end and we at the other, it\nbeing only planks laid a foot from the ground, and a thin mat upon\nthem. Two more of his chief men, for want of room, pressed by and upon\nus; so that we were worse weary of our lodging than of our journey.\u201d At\none o\u2019clock the next day Massasoit \u201cbrought two fishes that he had\nshot,\u201d about thrice as big as a bream; \u201cthese being boiled, there were\nat least forty looked for a share in them. The most ate of them. This\nmeal only we had in two nights and a day; and had not one of us bought\na partridge, we had taken our journey fasting.\u201d Fearing that they would\nbe light-headed for want of food and also sleep, owing to \u201cthe savages\u2019\nbarbarous singing, (for they used to sing themselves asleep,)\u201d and that\nthey might get home while they had strength to travel, they departed.\nAs for lodging, it is true they were but poorly entertained, though\nwhat they found an inconvenience was no doubt intended for an honor;\nbut as far as eating was concerned, I do not see how the Indians could\nhave done better. They had nothing to eat themselves, and they were\nwiser than to think that apologies could supply the place of food to\ntheir guests; so they drew their belts tighter and said nothing about\nit. Another time when Winslow visited them, it being a season of plenty\nwith them, there was no deficiency in this respect.\n\nAs for men, they will hardly fail one any where. I had more visitors\nwhile I lived in the woods than at any other period in my life; I mean\nthat I had some. I met several there under more favorable circumstances\nthan I could any where else. But fewer came to see me on trivial\nbusiness. In this respect, my company was winnowed by my mere distance\nfrom town. I had withdrawn so far within the great ocean of solitude,\ninto which the rivers of society empty, that for the most part, so far\nas my needs were concerned, only the finest sediment was deposited\naround me. Beside, there were wafted to me evidences of unexplored and\nuncultivated continents on the other side.\n\nWho should come to my lodge this morning but a true Homeric or\nPaphlagonian man,\u2014he had so suitable and poetic a name that I am sorry\nI cannot print it here,\u2014a Canadian, a woodchopper and post-maker, who\ncan hole fifty posts in a day, who made his last supper on a woodchuck\nwhich his dog caught. He, too, has heard of Homer, and, \u201cif it were not\nfor books,\u201d would \u201cnot know what to do rainy days,\u201d though perhaps he\nhas not read one wholly through for many rainy seasons. Some priest who\ncould pronounce the Greek itself taught him to read his verse in the\ntestament in his native parish far away; and now I must translate to\nhim, while he holds the book, Achilles\u2019 reproof to Patroclus for his\nsad countenance.\u2014\u201cWhy are you in tears, Patroclus, like a young girl?\u201d\u2014\n\n     \u201cOr have you alone heard some news from Phthia?\n     They say that Men\u0153tius lives yet, son of Actor,\n     And Peleus lives, son of \u00c6acus, among the Myrmidons,\n     Either of whom having died, we should greatly grieve.\u201d\n\nHe says, \u201cThat\u2019s good.\u201d He has a great bundle of white-oak bark under\nhis arm for a sick man, gathered this Sunday morning. \u201cI suppose\nthere\u2019s no harm in going after such a thing to-day,\u201d says he. To him\nHomer was a great writer, though what his writing was about he did not\nknow. A more simple and natural man it would be hard to find. Vice and\ndisease, which cast such a sombre moral hue over the world, seemed to\nhave hardly any existence for him. He was about twenty-eight years old,\nand had left Canada and his father\u2019s house a dozen years before to work\nin the States, and earn money to buy a farm with at last, perhaps in\nhis native country. He was cast in the coarsest mould; a stout but\nsluggish body, yet gracefully carried, with a thick sunburnt neck, dark\nbushy hair, and dull sleepy blue eyes, which were occasionally lit up\nwith expression. He wore a flat gray cloth cap, a dingy wool-colored\ngreatcoat, and cowhide boots. He was a great consumer of meat, usually\ncarrying his dinner to his work a couple of miles past my house,\u2014for he\nchopped all summer,\u2014in a tin pail; cold meats, often cold woodchucks,\nand coffee in a stone bottle which dangled by a string from his belt;\nand sometimes he offered me a drink. He came along early, crossing my\nbean-field, though without anxiety or haste to get to his work, such as\nYankees exhibit. He wasn\u2019t a-going to hurt himself. He didn\u2019t care if\nhe only earned his board. Frequently he would leave his dinner in the\nbushes, when his dog had caught a woodchuck by the way, and go back a\nmile and a half to dress it and leave it in the cellar of the house\nwhere he boarded, after deliberating first for half an hour whether he\ncould not sink it in the pond safely till nightfall,\u2014loving to dwell\nlong upon these themes. He would say, as he went by in the morning,\n\u201cHow thick the pigeons are! If working every day were not my trade, I\ncould get all the meat I should want by hunting,\u2014pigeons, woodchucks,\nrabbits, partridges,\u2014by gosh! I could get all I should want for a week\nin one day.\u201d\n\nHe was a skilful chopper, and indulged in some flourishes and ornaments\nin his art. He cut his trees level and close to the ground, that the\nsprouts which came up afterward might be more vigorous and a sled might\nslide over the stumps; and instead of leaving a whole tree to support\nhis corded wood, he would pare it away to a slender stake or splinter\nwhich you could break off with your hand at last.\n\nHe interested me because he was so quiet and solitary and so happy\nwithal; a well of good humor and contentment which overflowed at his\neyes. His mirth was without alloy. Sometimes I saw him at his work in\nthe woods, felling trees, and he would greet me with a laugh of\ninexpressible satisfaction, and a salutation in Canadian French, though\nhe spoke English as well. When I approached him he would suspend his\nwork, and with half-suppressed mirth lie along the trunk of a pine\nwhich he had felled, and, peeling off the inner bark, roll it up into a\nball and chew it while he laughed and talked. Such an exuberance of\nanimal spirits had he that he sometimes tumbled down and rolled on the\nground with laughter at any thing which made him think and tickled him.\nLooking round upon the trees he would exclaim,\u2014\u201cBy George! I can enjoy\nmyself well enough here chopping; I want no better sport.\u201d Sometimes,\nwhen at leisure, he amused himself all day in the woods with a pocket\npistol, firing salutes to himself at regular intervals as he walked. In\nthe winter he had a fire by which at noon he warmed his coffee in a\nkettle; and as he sat on a log to eat his dinner the chickadees would\nsometimes come round and alight on his arm and peck at the potato in\nhis fingers; and he said that he \u201cliked to have the little _fellers_\nabout him.\u201d\n\nIn him the animal man chiefly was developed. In physical endurance and\ncontentment he was cousin to the pine and the rock. I asked him once if\nhe was not sometimes tired at night, after working all day; and he\nanswered, with a sincere and serious look, \u201cGorrappit, I never was\ntired in my life.\u201d But the intellectual and what is called spiritual\nman in him were slumbering as in an infant. He had been instructed only\nin that innocent and ineffectual way in which the Catholic priests\nteach the aborigines, by which the pupil is never educated to the\ndegree of consciousness, but only to the degree of trust and reverence,\nand a child is not made a man, but kept a child. When Nature made him,\nshe gave him a strong body and contentment for his portion, and propped\nhim on every side with reverence and reliance, that he might live out\nhis threescore years and ten a child. He was so genuine and\nunsophisticated that no introduction would serve to introduce him, more\nthan if you introduced a woodchuck to your neighbor. He had got to find\nhim out as you did. He would not play any part. Men paid him wages for\nwork, and so helped to feed and clothe him; but he never exchanged\nopinions with them. He was so simply and naturally humble\u2014if he can be\ncalled humble who never aspires\u2014that humility was no distinct quality\nin him, nor could he conceive of it. Wiser men were demigods to him. If\nyou told him that such a one was coming, he did as if he thought that\nany thing so grand would expect nothing of himself, but take all the\nresponsibility on itself, and let him be forgotten still. He never\nheard the sound of praise. He particularly reverenced the writer and\nthe preacher. Their performances were miracles. When I told him that I\nwrote considerably, he thought for a long time that it was merely the\nhandwriting which I meant, for he could write a remarkably good hand\nhimself. I sometimes found the name of his native parish handsomely\nwritten in the snow by the highway, with the proper French accent, and\nknew that he had passed. I asked him if he ever wished to write his\nthoughts. He said that he had read and written letters for those who\ncould not, but he never tried to write thoughts,\u2014no, he could not, he\ncould not tell what to put first, it would kill him, and then there was\nspelling to be attended to at the same time!\n\nI heard that a distinguished wise man and reformer asked him if he did\nnot want the world to be changed; but he answered with a chuckle of\nsurprise in his Canadian accent, not knowing that the question had ever\nbeen entertained before, \u201cNo, I like it well enough.\u201d It would have\nsuggested many things to a philosopher to have dealings with him. To a\nstranger he appeared to know nothing of things in general; yet I\nsometimes saw in him a man whom I had not seen before, and I did not\nknow whether he was as wise as Shakespeare or as simply ignorant as a\nchild, whether to suspect him of a fine poetic consciousness or of\nstupidity. A townsman told me that when he met him sauntering through\nthe village in his small close-fitting cap, and whistling to himself,\nhe reminded him of a prince in disguise.\n\nHis only books were an almanac and an arithmetic, in which last he was\nconsiderably expert. The former was a sort of cyclop\u00e6dia to him, which\nhe supposed to contain an abstract of human knowledge, as indeed it\ndoes to a considerable extent. I loved to sound him on the various\nreforms of the day, and he never failed to look at them in the most\nsimple and practical light. He had never heard of such things before.\nCould he do without factories? I asked. He had worn the home-made\nVermont gray, he said, and that was good. Could he dispense with tea\nand coffee? Did this country afford any beverage beside water? He had\nsoaked hemlock leaves in water and drank it, and thought that was\nbetter than water in warm weather. When I asked him if he could do\nwithout money, he showed the convenience of money in such a way as to\nsuggest and coincide with the most philosophical accounts of the origin\nof this institution, and the very derivation of the word _pecunia_. If\nan ox were his property, and he wished to get needles and thread at the\nstore, he thought it would be inconvenient and impossible soon to go on\nmortgaging some portion of the creature each time to that amount. He\ncould defend many institutions better than any philosopher, because, in\ndescribing them as they concerned him, he gave the true reason for\ntheir prevalence, and speculation had not suggested to him any other.\nAt another time, hearing Plato\u2019s definition of a man,\u2014a biped without\nfeathers,\u2014and that one exhibited a cock plucked and called it Plato\u2019s\nman, he thought it an important difference that the _knees_ bent the\nwrong way. He would sometimes exclaim, \u201cHow I love to talk! By George,\nI could talk all day!\u201d I asked him once, when I had not seen him for\nmany months, if he had got a new idea this summer. \u201cGood Lord,\u201d said\nhe, \u201ca man that has to work as I do, if he does not forget the ideas he\nhas had, he will do well. May be the man you hoe with is inclined to\nrace; then, by gorry, your mind must be there; you think of weeds.\u201d He\nwould sometimes ask me first on such occasions, if I had made any\nimprovement. One winter day I asked him if he was always satisfied with\nhimself, wishing to suggest a substitute within him for the priest\nwithout, and some higher motive for living. \u201cSatisfied!\u201d said he; \u201csome\nmen are satisfied with one thing, and some with another. One man,\nperhaps, if he has got enough, will be satisfied to sit all day with\nhis back to the fire and his belly to the table, by George!\u201d Yet I\nnever, by any man\u0153uvring, could get him to take the spiritual view of\nthings; the highest that he appeared to conceive of was a simple\nexpediency, such as you might expect an animal to appreciate; and this,\npractically, is true of most men. If I suggested any improvement in his\nmode of life, he merely answered, without expressing any regret, that\nit was too late. Yet he thoroughly believed in honesty and the like\nvirtues.\n\nThere was a certain positive originality, however slight, to be\ndetected in him, and I occasionally observed that he was thinking for\nhimself and expressing his own opinion, a phenomenon so rare that I\nwould any day walk ten miles to observe it, and it amounted to the\nre-origination of many of the institutions of society. Though he\nhesitated, and perhaps failed to express himself distinctly, he always\nhad a presentable thought behind. Yet his thinking was so primitive and\nimmersed in his animal life, that, though more promising than a merely\nlearned man\u2019s, it rarely ripened to any thing which can be reported. He\nsuggested that there might be men of genius in the lowest grades of\nlife, however permanently humble and illiterate, who take their own\nview always, or do not pretend to see at all; who are as bottomless\neven as Walden Pond was thought to be, though they may be dark and\nmuddy.\n\n\n\nMany a traveller came out of his way to see me and the inside of my\nhouse, and, as an excuse for calling, asked for a glass of water. I\ntold them that I drank at the pond, and pointed thither, offering to\nlend them a dipper. Far off as I lived, I was not exempted from the\nannual visitation which occurs, methinks, about the first of April,\nwhen every body is on the move; and I had my share of good luck, though\nthere were some curious specimens among my visitors. Half-witted men\nfrom the almshouse and elsewhere came to see me; but I endeavored to\nmake them exercise all the wit they had, and make their confessions to\nme; in such cases making wit the theme of our conversation; and so was\ncompensated. Indeed, I found some of them to be wiser than the so\ncalled _overseers_ of the poor and selectmen of the town, and thought\nit was time that the tables were turned. With respect to wit, I learned\nthat there was not much difference between the half and the whole. One\nday, in particular, an inoffensive, simple-minded pauper, whom with\nothers I had often seen used as fencing stuff, standing or sitting on a\nbushel in the fields to keep cattle and himself from straying, visited\nme, and expressed a wish to live as I did. He told me, with the utmost\nsimplicity and truth, quite superior, or rather _inferior_, to any\nthing that is called humility, that he was \u201cdeficient in intellect.\u201d\nThese were his words. The Lord had made him so, yet he supposed the\nLord cared as much for him as for another. \u201cI have always been so,\u201d\nsaid he, \u201cfrom my childhood; I never had much mind; I was not like\nother children; I am weak in the head. It was the Lord\u2019s will, I\nsuppose.\u201d And there he was to prove the truth of his words. He was a\nmetaphysical puzzle to me. I have rarely met a fellow-man on such\npromising ground,\u2014it was so simple and sincere and so true all that he\nsaid. And, true enough, in proportion as he appeared to humble himself\nwas he exalted. I did not know at first but it was the result of a wise\npolicy. It seemed that from such a basis of truth and frankness as the\npoor weak-headed pauper had laid, our intercourse might go forward to\nsomething better than the intercourse of sages.\n\nI had some guests from those not reckoned commonly among the town\u2019s\npoor, but who should be; who are among the world\u2019s poor, at any rate;\nguests who appeal, not to your hospitality, but to your\n_hospitalality_; who earnestly wish to be helped, and preface their\nappeal with the information that they are resolved, for one thing,\nnever to help themselves. I require of a visitor that he be not\nactually starving, though he may have the very best appetite in the\nworld, however he got it. Objects of charity are not guests. Men who\ndid not know when their visit had terminated, though I went about my\nbusiness again, answering them from greater and greater remoteness. Men\nof almost every degree of wit called on me in the migrating season.\nSome who had more wits than they knew what to do with; runaway slaves\nwith plantation manners, who listened from time to time, like the fox\nin the fable, as if they heard the hounds a-baying on their track, and\nlooked at me beseechingly, as much as to say,\u2014\n\n     \u201cO Christian, will you send me back?\u201d\n\nOne real runaway slave, among the rest, whom I helped to forward toward\nthe northstar. Men of one idea, like a hen with one chicken, and that a\nduckling; men of a thousand ideas, and unkempt heads, like those hens\nwhich are made to take charge of a hundred chickens, all in pursuit of\none bug, a score of them lost in every morning\u2019s dew,\u2014and become\nfrizzled and mangy in consequence; men of ideas instead of legs, a sort\nof intellectual centipede that made you crawl all over. One man\nproposed a book in which visitors should write their names, as at the\nWhite Mountains; but, alas! I have too good a memory to make that\nnecessary.\n\nI could not but notice some of the peculiarities of my visitors. Girls\nand boys and young women generally seemed glad to be in the woods. They\nlooked in the pond and at the flowers, and improved their time. Men of\nbusiness, even farmers, thought only of solitude and employment, and of\nthe great distance at which I dwelt from something or other; and though\nthey said that they loved a ramble in the woods occasionally, it was\nobvious that they did not. Restless committed men, whose time was all\ntaken up in getting a living or keeping it; ministers who spoke of God\nas if they enjoyed a monopoly of the subject, who could not bear all\nkinds of opinions; doctors, lawyers, uneasy housekeepers who pried into\nmy cupboard and bed when I was out,\u2014how came Mrs. \u2014\u2014 to know that my\nsheets were not as clean as hers?\u2014young men who had ceased to be young,\nand had concluded that it was safest to follow the beaten track of the\nprofessions,\u2014all these generally said that it was not possible to do so\nmuch good in my position. Ay! there was the rub. The old and infirm and\nthe timid, of whatever age or sex, thought most of sickness, and sudden\naccident and death; to them life seemed full of danger,\u2014what danger is\nthere if you don\u2019t think of any?\u2014and they thought that a prudent man\nwould carefully select the safest position, where Dr. B. might be on\nhand at a moment\u2019s warning. To them the village was literally a\n_com-munity_, a league for mutual defence, and you would suppose that\nthey would not go a-huckleberrying without a medicine chest. The amount\nof it is, if a man is alive, there is always _danger_ that he may die,\nthough the danger must be allowed to be less in proportion as he is\ndead-and-alive to begin with. A man sits as many risks as he runs.\nFinally, there were the self-styled reformers, the greatest bores of\nall, who thought that I was forever singing,\u2014\n\n     This is the house that I built;\n     This is the man that lives in the house that I built;\n\nbut they did not know that the third line was,\u2014\n\n     These are the folks that worry the man\n     That lives in the house that I built.\n\nI did not fear the hen-harriers, for I kept no chickens; but I feared\nthe men-harriers rather.\n\nI had more cheering visitors than the last. Children come a-berrying,\nrailroad men taking a Sunday morning walk in clean shirts, fishermen\nand hunters, poets and philosophers; in short, all honest pilgrims, who\ncame out to the woods for freedom\u2019s sake, and really left the village\nbehind, I was ready to greet with,\u2014\u201cWelcome, Englishmen! welcome,\nEnglishmen!\u201d for I had had communication with that race.\n\n\nThe Bean-Field\n\nMeanwhile my beans, the length of whose rows, added together, was seven\nmiles already planted, were impatient to be hoed, for the earliest had\ngrown considerably before the latest were in the ground; indeed they\nwere not easily to be put off. What was the meaning of this so steady\nand self-respecting, this small Herculean labor, I knew not. I came to\nlove my rows, my beans, though so many more than I wanted. They\nattached me to the earth, and so I got strength like Ant\u00e6us. But why\nshould I raise them? Only Heaven knows. This was my curious labor all\nsummer,\u2014to make this portion of the earth\u2019s surface, which had yielded\nonly cinquefoil, blackberries, johnswort, and the like, before, sweet\nwild fruits and pleasant flowers, produce instead this pulse. What\nshall I learn of beans or beans of me? I cherish them, I hoe them,\nearly and late I have an eye to them; and this is my day\u2019s work. It is\na fine broad leaf to look on. My auxiliaries are the dews and rains\nwhich water this dry soil, and what fertility is in the soil itself,\nwhich for the most part is lean and effete. My enemies are worms, cool\ndays, and most of all woodchucks. The last have nibbled for me a\nquarter of an acre clean. But what right had I to oust johnswort and\nthe rest, and break up their ancient herb garden? Soon, however, the\nremaining beans will be too tough for them, and go forward to meet new\nfoes.\n\nWhen I was four years old, as I well remember, I was brought from\nBoston to this my native town, through these very woods and this field,\nto the pond. It is one of the oldest scenes stamped on my memory. And\nnow to-night my flute has waked the echoes over that very water. The\npines still stand here older than I; or, if some have fallen, I have\ncooked my supper with their stumps, and a new growth is rising all\naround, preparing another aspect for new infant eyes. Almost the same\njohnswort springs from the same perennial root in this pasture, and\neven I have at length helped to clothe that fabulous landscape of my\ninfant dreams, and one of the results of my presence and influence is\nseen in these bean leaves, corn blades, and potato vines.\n\nI planted about two acres and a half of upland; and as it was only\nabout fifteen years since the land was cleared, and I myself had got\nout two or three cords of stumps, I did not give it any manure; but in\nthe course of the summer it appeared by the arrowheads which I turned\nup in hoeing, that an extinct nation had anciently dwelt here and\nplanted corn and beans ere white men came to clear the land, and so, to\nsome extent, had exhausted the soil for this very crop.\n\nBefore yet any woodchuck or squirrel had run across the road, or the\nsun had got above the shrub oaks, while all the dew was on, though the\nfarmers warned me against it,\u2014I would advise you to do all your work if\npossible while the dew is on,\u2014I began to level the ranks of haughty\nweeds in my bean-field and throw dust upon their heads. Early in the\nmorning I worked barefooted, dabbling like a plastic artist in the dewy\nand crumbling sand, but later in the day the sun blistered my feet.\nThere the sun lighted me to hoe beans, pacing slowly backward and\nforward over that yellow gravelly upland, between the long green rows,\nfifteen rods, the one end terminating in a shrub oak copse where I\ncould rest in the shade, the other in a blackberry field where the\ngreen berries deepened their tints by the time I had made another bout.\nRemoving the weeds, putting fresh soil about the bean stems, and\nencouraging this weed which I had sown, making the yellow soil express\nits summer thought in bean leaves and blossoms rather than in wormwood\nand piper and millet grass, making the earth say beans instead of\ngrass,\u2014this was my daily work. As I had little aid from horses or\ncattle, or hired men or boys, or improved implements of husbandry, I\nwas much slower, and became much more intimate with my beans than\nusual. But labor of the hands, even when pursued to the verge of\ndrudgery, is perhaps never the worst form of idleness. It has a\nconstant and imperishable moral, and to the scholar it yields a classic\nresult. A very _agricola laboriosus_ was I to travellers bound westward\nthrough Lincoln and Wayland to nobody knows where; they sitting at\ntheir ease in gigs, with elbows on knees, and reins loosely hanging in\nfestoons; I the home-staying, laborious native of the soil. But soon my\nhomestead was out of their sight and thought. It was the only open and\ncultivated field for a great distance on either side of the road; so\nthey made the most of it; and sometimes the man in the field heard more\nof travellers\u2019 gossip and comment than was meant for his ear: \u201cBeans so\nlate! peas so late!\u201d\u2014for I continued to plant when others had begun to\nhoe,\u2014the ministerial husbandman had not suspected it. \u201cCorn, my boy,\nfor fodder; corn for fodder.\u201d \u201cDoes he _live_ there?\u201d asks the black\nbonnet of the gray coat; and the hard-featured farmer reins up his\ngrateful dobbin to inquire what you are doing where he sees no manure\nin the furrow, and recommends a little chip dirt, or any little waste\nstuff, or it may be ashes or plaster. But here were two acres and a\nhalf of furrows, and only a hoe for cart and two hands to draw\nit,\u2014there being an aversion to other carts and horses,\u2014and chip dirt\nfar away. Fellow-travellers as they rattled by compared it aloud with\nthe fields which they had passed, so that I came to know how I stood in\nthe agricultural world. This was one field not in Mr. Coleman\u2019s report.\nAnd, by the way, who estimates the value of the crop which nature\nyields in the still wilder fields unimproved by man? The crop of\n_English_ hay is carefully weighed, the moisture calculated, the\nsilicates and the potash; but in all dells and pond holes in the woods\nand pastures and swamps grows a rich and various crop only unreaped by\nman. Mine was, as it were, the connecting link between wild and\ncultivated fields; as some states are civilized, and others\nhalf-civilized, and others savage or barbarous, so my field was, though\nnot in a bad sense, a half-cultivated field. They were beans cheerfully\nreturning to their wild and primitive state that I cultivated, and my\nhoe played the _Ranz des Vaches_ for them.\n\nNear at hand, upon the topmost spray of a birch, sings the\nbrown-thrasher\u2014or red mavis, as some love to call him\u2014all the morning,\nglad of your society, that would find out another farmer\u2019s field if\nyours were not here. While you are planting the seed, he cries,\u2014\u201cDrop\nit, drop it,\u2014cover it up, cover it up,\u2014pull it up, pull it up, pull it\nup.\u201d But this was not corn, and so it was safe from such enemies as he.\nYou may wonder what his rigmarole, his amateur Paganini performances on\none string or on twenty, have to do with your planting, and yet prefer\nit to leached ashes or plaster. It was a cheap sort of top dressing in\nwhich I had entire faith.\n\nAs I drew a still fresher soil about the rows with my hoe, I disturbed\nthe ashes of unchronicled nations who in primeval years lived under\nthese heavens, and their small implements of war and hunting were\nbrought to the light of this modern day. They lay mingled with other\nnatural stones, some of which bore the marks of having been burned by\nIndian fires, and some by the sun, and also bits of pottery and glass\nbrought hither by the recent cultivators of the soil. When my hoe\ntinkled against the stones, that music echoed to the woods and the sky,\nand was an accompaniment to my labor which yielded an instant and\nimmeasurable crop. It was no longer beans that I hoed, nor I that hoed\nbeans; and I remembered with as much pity as pride, if I remembered at\nall, my acquaintances who had gone to the city to attend the oratorios.\nThe night-hawk circled overhead in the sunny afternoons\u2014for I sometimes\nmade a day of it\u2014like a mote in the eye, or in heaven\u2019s eye, falling\nfrom time to time with a swoop and a sound as if the heavens were rent,\ntorn at last to very rags and tatters, and yet a seamless cope\nremained; small imps that fill the air and lay their eggs on the ground\non bare sand or rocks on the tops of hills, where few have found them;\ngraceful and slender like ripples caught up from the pond, as leaves\nare raised by the wind to float in the heavens; such kindredship is in\nNature. The hawk is aerial brother of the wave which he sails over and\nsurveys, those his perfect air-inflated wings answering to the\nelemental unfledged pinions of the sea. Or sometimes I watched a pair\nof hen-hawks circling high in the sky, alternately soaring and\ndescending, approaching, and leaving one another, as if they were the\nembodiment of my own thoughts. Or I was attracted by the passage of\nwild pigeons from this wood to that, with a slight quivering winnowing\nsound and carrier haste; or from under a rotten stump my hoe turned up\na sluggish portentous and outlandish spotted salamander, a trace of\nEgypt and the Nile, yet our contemporary. When I paused to lean on my\nhoe, these sounds and sights I heard and saw anywhere in the row, a\npart of the inexhaustible entertainment which the country offers.\n\nOn gala days the town fires its great guns, which echo like popguns to\nthese woods, and some waifs of martial music occasionally penetrate\nthus far. To me, away there in my bean-field at the other end of the\ntown, the big guns sounded as if a puffball had burst; and when there\nwas a military turnout of which I was ignorant, I have sometimes had a\nvague sense all the day of some sort of itching and disease in the\nhorizon, as if some eruption would break out there soon, either\nscarlatina or canker-rash, until at length some more favorable puff of\nwind, making haste over the fields and up the Wayland road, brought me\ninformation of the \u201ctrainers.\u201d It seemed by the distant hum as if\nsomebody\u2019s bees had swarmed, and that the neighbors, according to\nVirgil\u2019s advice, by a faint _tintinnabulum_ upon the most sonorous of\ntheir domestic utensils, were endeavoring to call them down into the\nhive again. And when the sound died quite away, and the hum had ceased,\nand the most favorable breezes told no tale, I knew that they had got\nthe last drone of them all safely into the Middlesex hive, and that now\ntheir minds were bent on the honey with which it was smeared.\n\nI felt proud to know that the liberties of Massachusetts and of our\nfatherland were in such safe keeping; and as I turned to my hoeing\nagain I was filled with an inexpressible confidence, and pursued my\nlabor cheerfully with a calm trust in the future.\n\nWhen there were several bands of musicians, it sounded as if all the\nvillage was a vast bellows, and all the buildings expanded and\ncollapsed alternately with a din. But sometimes it was a really noble\nand inspiring strain that reached these woods, and the trumpet that\nsings of fame, and I felt as if I could spit a Mexican with a good\nrelish,\u2014for why should we always stand for trifles?\u2014and looked round\nfor a woodchuck or a skunk to exercise my chivalry upon. These martial\nstrains seemed as far away as Palestine, and reminded me of a march of\ncrusaders in the horizon, with a slight tantivy and tremulous motion of\nthe elm-tree tops which overhang the village. This was one of the\n_great_ days; though the sky had from my clearing only the same\neverlastingly great look that it wears daily, and I saw no difference\nin it.\n\nIt was a singular experience that long acquaintance which I cultivated\nwith beans, what with planting, and hoeing, and harvesting, and\nthreshing, and picking over and selling them,\u2014the last was the hardest\nof all,\u2014I might add eating, for I did taste. I was determined to know\nbeans. When they were growing, I used to hoe from five o\u2019clock in the\nmorning till noon, and commonly spent the rest of the day about other\naffairs. Consider the intimate and curious acquaintance one makes with\nvarious kinds of weeds,\u2014it will bear some iteration in the account, for\nthere was no little iteration in the labor,\u2014disturbing their delicate\norganizations so ruthlessly, and making such invidious distinctions\nwith his hoe, levelling whole ranks of one species, and sedulously\ncultivating another. That\u2019s Roman wormwood,\u2014that\u2019s pigweed,\u2014that\u2019s\nsorrel,\u2014that\u2019s piper-grass,\u2014have at him, chop him up, turn his roots\nupward to the sun, don\u2019t let him have a fibre in the shade, if you do\nhe\u2019ll turn himself t\u2019other side up and be as green as a leek in two\ndays. A long war, not with cranes, but with weeds, those Trojans who\nhad sun and rain and dews on their side. Daily the beans saw me come to\ntheir rescue armed with a hoe, and thin the ranks of their enemies,\nfilling up the trenches with weedy dead. Many a lusty crest-waving\nHector, that towered a whole foot above his crowding comrades, fell\nbefore my weapon and rolled in the dust.\n\nThose summer days which some of my contemporaries devoted to the fine\narts in Boston or Rome, and others to contemplation in India, and\nothers to trade in London or New York, I thus, with the other farmers\nof New England, devoted to husbandry. Not that I wanted beans to eat,\nfor I am by nature a Pythagorean, so far as beans are concerned,\nwhether they mean porridge or voting, and exchanged them for rice; but,\nperchance, as some must work in fields if only for the sake of tropes\nand expression, to serve a parable-maker one day. It was on the whole a\nrare amusement, which, continued too long, might have become a\ndissipation. Though I gave them no manure, and did not hoe them all\nonce, I hoed them unusually well as far as I went, and was paid for it\nin the end, \u201cthere being in truth,\u201d as Evelyn says, \u201cno compost or\nl\u00e6tation whatsoever comparable to this continual motion, repastination,\nand turning of the mould with the spade.\u201d \u201cThe earth,\u201d he adds\nelsewhere, \u201cespecially if fresh, has a certain magnetism in it, by\nwhich it attracts the salt, power, or virtue (call it either) which\ngives it life, and is the logic of all the labor and stir we keep about\nit, to sustain us; all dungings and other sordid temperings being but\nthe vicars succedaneous to this improvement.\u201d Moreover, this being one\nof those \u201cworn-out and exhausted lay fields which enjoy their sabbath,\u201d\nhad perchance, as Sir Kenelm Digby thinks likely, attracted \u201cvital\nspirits\u201d from the air. I harvested twelve bushels of beans.\n\nBut to be more particular, for it is complained that Mr. Coleman has\nreported chiefly the expensive experiments of gentlemen farmers, my\noutgoes were,\u2014\n\n\n    For a hoe,.................................. $ 0.54\n    Ploughing, harrowing, and furrowing,.........  7.50  Too much.\n    Beans for seed,..............................  3.12\u00bd\n    Potatoes for seed,...........................  1.33\n    Peas for seed,...............................  0.40\n    Turnip seed,.................................  0.06\n    White line for crow fence,...................  0.02\n    Horse cultivator and boy three hours,........  1.00\n    Horse and cart to get crop,..................  0.75\n                                                \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n        In all,................................. $14.72\u00bd\n\nMy income was (patrem familias vendacem, non emacem esse oportet),\nfrom\n\n    Nine bushels and twelve quarts of beans sold,. $16.94\n    Five    \"    large potatoes,.................... 2.50\n    Nine    \"    small,............................. 2.25\n    Grass,.......................................... 1.00\n    Stalks,......................................... 0.75\n                                                  \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n        In all,................................... $23.44\n    Leaving a pecuniary profit,\n        as I have elsewhere said, of..............  $8.71\u00bd.\n\nThis is the result of my experience in raising beans. Plant the common\nsmall white bush bean about the first of June, in rows three feet by\neighteen inches apart, being careful to select fresh round and unmixed\nseed. First look out for worms, and supply vacancies by planting anew.\nThen look out for woodchucks, if it is an exposed place, for they will\nnibble off the earliest tender leaves almost clean as they go; and\nagain, when the young tendrils make their appearance, they have notice\nof it, and will shear them off with both buds and young pods, sitting\nerect like a squirrel. But above all harvest as early as possible, if\nyou would escape frosts and have a fair and salable crop; you may save\nmuch loss by this means.\n\nThis further experience also I gained. I said to myself, I will not\nplant beans and corn with so much industry another summer, but such\nseeds, if the seed is not lost, as sincerity, truth, simplicity, faith,\ninnocence, and the like, and see if they will not grow in this soil,\neven with less toil and manurance, and sustain me, for surely it has\nnot been exhausted for these crops. Alas! I said this to myself; but\nnow another summer is gone, and another, and another, and I am obliged\nto say to you, Reader, that the seeds which I planted, if indeed they\n_were_ the seeds of those virtues, were wormeaten or had lost their\nvitality, and so did not come up. Commonly men will only be brave as\ntheir fathers were brave, or timid. This generation is very sure to\nplant corn and beans each new year precisely as the Indians did\ncenturies ago and taught the first settlers to do, as if there were a\nfate in it. I saw an old man the other day, to my astonishment, making\nthe holes with a hoe for the seventieth time at least, and not for\nhimself to lie down in! But why should not the New Englander try new\nadventures, and not lay so much stress on his grain, his potato and\ngrass crop, and his orchards,\u2014raise other crops than these? Why concern\nourselves so much about our beans for seed, and not be concerned at all\nabout a new generation of men? We should really be fed and cheered if\nwhen we met a man we were sure to see that some of the qualities which\nI have named, which we all prize more than those other productions, but\nwhich are for the most part broadcast and floating in the air, had\ntaken root and grown in him. Here comes such a subtile and ineffable\nquality, for instance, as truth or justice, though the slightest amount\nor new variety of it, along the road. Our ambassadors should be\ninstructed to send home such seeds as these, and Congress help to\ndistribute them over all the land. We should never stand upon ceremony\nwith sincerity. We should never cheat and insult and banish one another\nby our meanness, if there were present the kernel of worth and\nfriendliness. We should not meet thus in haste. Most men I do not meet\nat all, for they seem not to have time; they are busy about their\nbeans. We would not deal with a man thus plodding ever, leaning on a\nhoe or a spade as a staff between his work, not as a mushroom, but\npartially risen out of the earth, something more than erect, like\nswallows alighted and walking on the ground:\u2014\n\n     \u201cAnd as he spake, his wings would now and then\n     Spread, as he meant to fly, then close again,\u201d\n\nso that we should suspect that we might be conversing with an angel.\nBread may not always nourish us; but it always does us good, it even\ntakes stiffness out of our joints, and makes us supple and buoyant,\nwhen we knew not what ailed us, to recognize any generosity in man or\nNature, to share any unmixed and heroic joy.\n\nAncient poetry and mythology suggest, at least, that husbandry was once\na sacred art; but it is pursued with irreverent haste and heedlessness\nby us, our object being to have large farms and large crops merely. We\nhave no festival, nor procession, nor ceremony, not excepting our\nCattle-shows and so called Thanksgivings, by which the farmer expresses\na sense of the sacredness of his calling, or is reminded of its sacred\norigin. It is the premium and the feast which tempt him. He sacrifices\nnot to Ceres and the Terrestrial Jove, but to the infernal Plutus\nrather. By avarice and selfishness, and a grovelling habit, from which\nnone of us is free, of regarding the soil as property, or the means of\nacquiring property chiefly, the landscape is deformed, husbandry is\ndegraded with us, and the farmer leads the meanest of lives. He knows\nNature but as a robber. Cato says that the profits of agriculture are\nparticularly pious or just, (_maximeque pius qu\u00e6stus_), and according\nto Varro the old Romans \u201ccalled the same earth Mother and Ceres, and\nthought that they who cultivated it led a pious and useful life, and\nthat they alone were left of the race of King Saturn.\u201d\n\nWe are wont to forget that the sun looks on our cultivated fields and\non the prairies and forests without distinction. They all reflect and\nabsorb his rays alike, and the former make but a small part of the\nglorious picture which he beholds in his daily course. In his view the\nearth is all equally cultivated like a garden. Therefore we should\nreceive the benefit of his light and heat with a corresponding trust\nand magnanimity. What though I value the seed of these beans, and\nharvest that in the fall of the year? This broad field which I have\nlooked at so long looks not to me as the principal cultivator, but away\nfrom me to influences more genial to it, which water and make it green.\nThese beans have results which are not harvested by me. Do they not\ngrow for woodchucks partly? The ear of wheat (in Latin _spica_,\nobsoletely _speca_, from _spe_, hope) should not be the only hope of\nthe husbandman; its kernel or grain (_granum_ from _gerendo_, bearing)\nis not all that it bears. How, then, can our harvest fail? Shall I not\nrejoice also at the abundance of the weeds whose seeds are the granary\nof the birds? It matters little comparatively whether the fields fill\nthe farmer\u2019s barns. The true husbandman will cease from anxiety, as the\nsquirrels manifest no concern whether the woods will bear chestnuts\nthis year or not, and finish his labor with every day, relinquishing\nall claim to the produce of his fields, and sacrificing in his mind not\nonly his first but his last fruits also.\n\n\nThe Village\n\nAfter hoeing, or perhaps reading and writing, in the forenoon, I\nusually bathed again in the pond, swimming across one of its coves for\na stint, and washed the dust of labor from my person, or smoothed out\nthe last wrinkle which study had made, and for the afternoon was\nabsolutely free. Every day or two I strolled to the village to hear\nsome of the gossip which is incessantly going on there, circulating\neither from mouth to mouth, or from newspaper to newspaper, and which,\ntaken in hom\u0153opathic doses, was really as refreshing in its way as the\nrustle of leaves and the peeping of frogs. As I walked in the woods to\nsee the birds and squirrels, so I walked in the village to see the men\nand boys; instead of the wind among the pines I heard the carts rattle.\nIn one direction from my house there was a colony of muskrats in the\nriver meadows; under the grove of elms and buttonwoods in the other\nhorizon was a village of busy men, as curious to me as if they had been\nprairie dogs, each sitting at the mouth of its burrow, or running over\nto a neighbor\u2019s to gossip. I went there frequently to observe their\nhabits. The village appeared to me a great news room; and on one side,\nto support it, as once at Redding & Company\u2019s on State Street, they\nkept nuts and raisins, or salt and meal and other groceries. Some have\nsuch a vast appetite for the former commodity, that is, the news, and\nsuch sound digestive organs, that they can sit forever in public\navenues without stirring, and let it simmer and whisper through them\nlike the Etesian winds, or as if inhaling ether, it only producing\nnumbness and insensibility to pain,\u2014otherwise it would often be painful\nto hear,\u2014without affecting the consciousness. I hardly ever failed,\nwhen I rambled through the village, to see a row of such worthies,\neither sitting on a ladder sunning themselves, with their bodies\ninclined forward and their eyes glancing along the line this way and\nthat, from time to time, with a voluptuous expression, or else leaning\nagainst a barn with their hands in their pockets, like caryatides, as\nif to prop it up. They, being commonly out of doors, heard whatever was\nin the wind. These are the coarsest mills, in which all gossip is first\nrudely digested or cracked up before it is emptied into finer and more\ndelicate hoppers within doors. I observed that the vitals of the\nvillage were the grocery, the bar-room, the post-office, and the bank;\nand, as a necessary part of the machinery, they kept a bell, a big gun,\nand a fire-engine, at convenient places; and the houses were so\narranged as to make the most of mankind, in lanes and fronting one\nanother, so that every traveller had to run the gantlet, and every man,\nwoman, and child might get a lick at him. Of course, those who were\nstationed nearest to the head of the line, where they could most see\nand be seen, and have the first blow at him, paid the highest prices\nfor their places; and the few straggling inhabitants in the outskirts,\nwhere long gaps in the line began to occur, and the traveller could get\nover walls or turn aside into cow paths, and so escape, paid a very\nslight ground or window tax. Signs were hung out on all sides to allure\nhim; some to catch him by the appetite, as the tavern and victualling\ncellar; some by the fancy, as the dry goods store and the jeweller\u2019s;\nand others by the hair or the feet or the skirts, as the barber, the\nshoemaker, or the tailor. Besides, there was a still more terrible\nstanding invitation to call at every one of these houses, and company\nexpected about these times. For the most part I escaped wonderfully\nfrom these dangers, either by proceeding at once boldly and without\ndeliberation to the goal, as is recommended to those who run the\ngantlet, or by keeping my thoughts on high things, like Orpheus, who,\n\u201cloudly singing the praises of the gods to his lyre, drowned the voices\nof the Sirens, and kept out of danger.\u201d Sometimes I bolted suddenly,\nand nobody could tell my whereabouts, for I did not stand much about\ngracefulness, and never hesitated at a gap in a fence. I was even\naccustomed to make an irruption into some houses, where I was well\nentertained, and after learning the kernels and very last sieve-ful of\nnews, what had subsided, the prospects of war and peace, and whether\nthe world was likely to hold together much longer, I was let out\nthrough the rear avenues, and so escaped to the woods again.\n\nIt was very pleasant, when I stayed late in town, to launch myself into\nthe night, especially if it was dark and tempestuous, and set sail from\nsome bright village parlor or lecture room, with a bag of rye or Indian\nmeal upon my shoulder, for my snug harbor in the woods, having made all\ntight without and withdrawn under hatches with a merry crew of\nthoughts, leaving only my outer man at the helm, or even tying up the\nhelm when it was plain sailing. I had many a genial thought by the\ncabin fire \u201cas I sailed.\u201d I was never cast away nor distressed in any\nweather, though I encountered some severe storms. It is darker in the\nwoods, even in common nights, than most suppose. I frequently had to\nlook up at the opening between the trees above the path in order to\nlearn my route, and, where there was no cart-path, to feel with my feet\nthe faint track which I had worn, or steer by the known relation of\nparticular trees which I felt with my hands, passing between two pines\nfor instance, not more than eighteen inches apart, in the midst of the\nwoods, invariably, in the darkest night. Sometimes, after coming home\nthus late in a dark and muggy night, when my feet felt the path which\nmy eyes could not see, dreaming and absent-minded all the way, until I\nwas aroused by having to raise my hand to lift the latch, I have not\nbeen able to recall a single step of my walk, and I have thought that\nperhaps my body would find its way home if its master should forsake\nit, as the hand finds its way to the mouth without assistance. Several\ntimes, when a visitor chanced to stay into evening, and it proved a\ndark night, I was obliged to conduct him to the cart-path in the rear\nof the house, and then point out to him the direction he was to pursue,\nand in keeping which he was to be guided rather by his feet than his\neyes. One very dark night I directed thus on their way two young men\nwho had been fishing in the pond. They lived about a mile off through\nthe woods, and were quite used to the route. A day or two after one of\nthem told me that they wandered about the greater part of the night,\nclose by their own premises, and did not get home till toward morning,\nby which time, as there had been several heavy showers in the mean\nwhile, and the leaves were very wet, they were drenched to their skins.\nI have heard of many going astray even in the village streets, when the\ndarkness was so thick that you could cut it with a knife, as the saying\nis. Some who live in the outskirts, having come to town a-shopping in\ntheir wagons, have been obliged to put up for the night; and gentlemen\nand ladies making a call have gone half a mile out of their way,\nfeeling the sidewalk only with their feet, and not knowing when they\nturned. It is a surprising and memorable, as well as valuable\nexperience, to be lost in the woods any time. Often in a snow storm,\neven by day, one will come out upon a well-known road and yet find it\nimpossible to tell which way leads to the village. Though he knows that\nhe has travelled it a thousand times, he cannot recognize a feature in\nit, but it is as strange to him as if it were a road in Siberia. By\nnight, of course, the perplexity is infinitely greater. In our most\ntrivial walks, we are constantly, though unconsciously, steering like\npilots by certain well-known beacons and headlands, and if we go beyond\nour usual course we still carry in our minds the bearing of some\nneighboring cape; and not till we are completely lost, or turned\nround,\u2014for a man needs only to be turned round once with his eyes shut\nin this world to be lost,\u2014do we appreciate the vastness and strangeness\nof Nature. Every man has to learn the points of compass again as often\nas he awakes, whether from sleep or any abstraction. Not till we are\nlost, in other words not till we have lost the world, do we begin to\nfind ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our\nrelations.\n\nOne afternoon, near the end of the first summer, when I went to the\nvillage to get a shoe from the cobbler\u2019s, I was seized and put into\njail, because, as I have elsewhere related, I did not pay a tax to, or\nrecognize the authority of, the state which buys and sells men, women,\nand children, like cattle at the door of its senate-house. I had gone\ndown to the woods for other purposes. But, wherever a man goes, men\nwill pursue and paw him with their dirty institutions, and, if they\ncan, constrain him to belong to their desperate odd-fellow society. It\nis true, I might have resisted forcibly with more or less effect, might\nhave run \u201camok\u201d against society; but I preferred that society should\nrun \u201camok\u201d against me, it being the desperate party. However, I was\nreleased the next day, obtained my mended shoe, and returned to the\nwoods in season to get my dinner of huckleberries on Fair-Haven Hill. I\nwas never molested by any person but those who represented the state. I\nhad no lock nor bolt but for the desk which held my papers, not even a\nnail to put over my latch or windows. I never fastened my door night or\nday, though I was to be absent several days; not even when the next\nfall I spent a fortnight in the woods of Maine. And yet my house was\nmore respected than if it had been surrounded by a file of soldiers.\nThe tired rambler could rest and warm himself by my fire, the literary\namuse himself with the few books on my table, or the curious, by\nopening my closet door, see what was left of my dinner, and what\nprospect I had of a supper. Yet, though many people of every class came\nthis way to the pond, I suffered no serious inconvenience from these\nsources, and I never missed anything but one small book, a volume of\nHomer, which perhaps was improperly gilded, and this I trust a soldier\nof our camp has found by this time. I am convinced, that if all men\nwere to live as simply as I then did, thieving and robbery would be\nunknown. These take place only in communities where some have got more\nthan is sufficient while others have not enough. The Pope\u2019s Homers\nwould soon get properly distributed.\u2014\n\n                     \u201cNec bella fuerunt,\n     Faginus astabat dum scyphus ante dapes.\u201d\n\n                     \u201cNor wars did men molest,\n     When only beechen bowls were in request.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou who govern public affairs, what need have you to employ\npunishments? Love virtue, and the people will be virtuous. The virtues\nof a superior man are like the wind; the virtues of a common man are\nlike the grass; the grass, when the wind passes over it, bends.\u201d\n\n\nThe Ponds\n\nSometimes, having had a surfeit of human society and gossip, and worn\nout all my village friends, I rambled still farther westward than I\nhabitually dwell, into yet more unfrequented parts of the town, \u201cto\nfresh woods and pastures new,\u201d or, while the sun was setting, made my\nsupper of huckleberries and blueberries on Fair Haven Hill, and laid up\na store for several days. The fruits do not yield their true flavor to\nthe purchaser of them, nor to him who raises them for the market. There\nis but one way to obtain it, yet few take that way. If you would know\nthe flavor of huckleberries, ask the cow-boy or the partridge. It is a\nvulgar error to suppose that you have tasted huckleberries who never\nplucked them. A huckleberry never reaches Boston; they have not been\nknown there since they grew on her three hills. The ambrosial and\nessential part of the fruit is lost with the bloom which is rubbed off\nin the market cart, and they become mere provender. As long as Eternal\nJustice reigns, not one innocent huckleberry can be transported thither\nfrom the country\u2019s hills.\n\nOccasionally, after my hoeing was done for the day, I joined some\nimpatient companion who had been fishing on the pond since morning, as\nsilent and motionless as a duck or a floating leaf, and, after\npractising various kinds of philosophy, had concluded commonly, by the\ntime I arrived, that he belonged to the ancient sect of C\u0153nobites.\nThere was one older man, an excellent fisher and skilled in all kinds\nof woodcraft, who was pleased to look upon my house as a building\nerected for the convenience of fishermen; and I was equally pleased\nwhen he sat in my doorway to arrange his lines. Once in a while we sat\ntogether on the pond, he at one end of the boat, and I at the other;\nbut not many words passed between us, for he had grown deaf in his\nlater years, but he occasionally hummed a psalm, which harmonized well\nenough with my philosophy. Our intercourse was thus altogether one of\nunbroken harmony, far more pleasing to remember than if it had been\ncarried on by speech. When, as was commonly the case, I had none to\ncommune with, I used to raise the echoes by striking with a paddle on\nthe side of my boat, filling the surrounding woods with circling and\ndilating sound, stirring them up as the keeper of a menagerie his wild\nbeasts, until I elicited a growl from every wooded vale and hill-side.\n\nIn warm evenings I frequently sat in the boat playing the flute, and\nsaw the perch, which I seemed to have charmed, hovering around me, and\nthe moon travelling over the ribbed bottom, which was strewed with the\nwrecks of the forest. Formerly I had come to this pond adventurously,\nfrom time to time, in dark summer nights, with a companion, and making\na fire close to the water\u2019s edge, which we thought attracted the\nfishes, we caught pouts with a bunch of worms strung on a thread; and\nwhen we had done, far in the night, threw the burning brands high into\nthe air like skyrockets, which, coming down into the pond, were\nquenched with a loud hissing, and we were suddenly groping in total\ndarkness. Through this, whistling a tune, we took our way to the haunts\nof men again. But now I had made my home by the shore.\n\nSometimes, after staying in a village parlor till the family had all\nretired, I have returned to the woods, and, partly with a view to the\nnext day\u2019s dinner, spent the hours of midnight fishing from a boat by\nmoonlight, serenaded by owls and foxes, and hearing, from time to time,\nthe creaking note of some unknown bird close at hand. These experiences\nwere very memorable and valuable to me,\u2014anchored in forty feet of\nwater, and twenty or thirty rods from the shore, surrounded sometimes\nby thousands of small perch and shiners, dimpling the surface with\ntheir tails in the moonlight, and communicating by a long flaxen line\nwith mysterious nocturnal fishes which had their dwelling forty feet\nbelow, or sometimes dragging sixty feet of line about the pond as I\ndrifted in the gentle night breeze, now and then feeling a slight\nvibration along it, indicative of some life prowling about its\nextremity, of dull uncertain blundering purpose there, and slow to make\nup its mind. At length you slowly raise, pulling hand over hand, some\nhorned pout squeaking and squirming to the upper air. It was very\nqueer, especially in dark nights, when your thoughts had wandered to\nvast and cosmogonal themes in other spheres, to feel this faint jerk,\nwhich came to interrupt your dreams and link you to Nature again. It\nseemed as if I might next cast my line upward into the air, as well as\ndownward into this element, which was scarcely more dense. Thus I\ncaught two fishes as it were with one hook.\n\n\n\nThe scenery of Walden is on a humble scale, and, though very beautiful,\ndoes not approach to grandeur, nor can it much concern one who has not\nlong frequented it or lived by its shore; yet this pond is so\nremarkable for its depth and purity as to merit a particular\ndescription. It is a clear and deep green well, half a mile long and a\nmile and three quarters in circumference, and contains about sixty-one\nand a half acres; a perennial spring in the midst of pine and oak\nwoods, without any visible inlet or outlet except by the clouds and\nevaporation. The surrounding hills rise abruptly from the water to the\nheight of forty to eighty feet, though on the south-east and east they\nattain to about one hundred and one hundred and fifty feet\nrespectively, within a quarter and a third of a mile. They are\nexclusively woodland. All our Concord waters have two colors at least;\none when viewed at a distance, and another, more proper, close at hand.\nThe first depends more on the light, and follows the sky. In clear\nweather, in summer, they appear blue at a little distance, especially\nif agitated, and at a great distance all appear alike. In stormy\nweather they are sometimes of a dark slate color. The sea, however, is\nsaid to be blue one day and green another without any perceptible\nchange in the atmosphere. I have seen our river, when, the landscape\nbeing covered with snow, both water and ice were almost as green as\ngrass. Some consider blue \u201cto be the color of pure water, whether\nliquid or solid.\u201d But, looking directly down into our waters from a\nboat, they are seen to be of very different colors. Walden is blue at\none time and green at another, even from the same point of view. Lying\nbetween the earth and the heavens, it partakes of the color of both.\nViewed from a hill-top it reflects the color of the sky; but near at\nhand it is of a yellowish tint next the shore where you can see the\nsand, then a light green, which gradually deepens to a uniform dark\ngreen in the body of the pond. In some lights, viewed even from a\nhill-top, it is of a vivid green next the shore. Some have referred\nthis to the reflection of the verdure; but it is equally green there\nagainst the railroad sand-bank, and in the spring, before the leaves\nare expanded, and it may be simply the result of the prevailing blue\nmixed with the yellow of the sand. Such is the color of its iris. This\nis that portion, also, where in the spring, the ice being warmed by the\nheat of the sun reflected from the bottom, and also transmitted through\nthe earth, melts first and forms a narrow canal about the still frozen\nmiddle. Like the rest of our waters, when much agitated, in clear\nweather, so that the surface of the waves may reflect the sky at the\nright angle, or because there is more light mixed with it, it appears\nat a little distance of a darker blue than the sky itself; and at such\na time, being on its surface, and looking with divided vision, so as to\nsee the reflection, I have discerned a matchless and indescribable\nlight blue, such as watered or changeable silks and sword blades\nsuggest, more cerulean than the sky itself, alternating with the\noriginal dark green on the opposite sides of the waves, which last\nappeared but muddy in comparison. It is a vitreous greenish blue, as I\nremember it, like those patches of the winter sky seen through cloud\nvistas in the west before sundown. Yet a single glass of its water held\nup to the light is as colorless as an equal quantity of air. It is well\nknown that a large plate of glass will have a green tint, owing, as the\nmakers say, to its \u201cbody,\u201d but a small piece of the same will be\ncolorless. How large a body of Walden water would be required to\nreflect a green tint I have never proved. The water of our river is\nblack or a very dark brown to one looking directly down on it, and,\nlike that of most ponds, imparts to the body of one bathing in it a\nyellowish tinge; but this water is of such crystalline purity that the\nbody of the bather appears of an alabaster whiteness, still more\nunnatural, which, as the limbs are magnified and distorted withal,\nproduces a monstrous effect, making fit studies for a Michael Angelo.\n\nThe water is so transparent that the bottom can easily be discerned at\nthe depth of twenty-five or thirty feet. Paddling over it, you may see,\nmany feet beneath the surface the schools of perch and shiners, perhaps\nonly an inch long, yet the former easily distinguished by their\ntransverse bars, and you think that they must be ascetic fish that find\na subsistence there. Once, in the winter, many years ago, when I had\nbeen cutting holes through the ice in order to catch pickerel, as I\nstepped ashore I tossed my axe back on to the ice, but, as if some evil\ngenius had directed it, it slid four or five rods directly into one of\nthe holes, where the water was twenty-five feet deep. Out of curiosity,\nI lay down on the ice and looked through the hole, until I saw the axe\na little on one side, standing on its head, with its helve erect and\ngently swaying to and fro with the pulse of the pond; and there it\nmight have stood erect and swaying till in the course of time the\nhandle rotted off, if I had not disturbed it. Making another hole\ndirectly over it with an ice chisel which I had, and cutting down the\nlongest birch which I could find in the neighborhood with my knife, I\nmade a slip-noose, which I attached to its end, and, letting it down\ncarefully, passed it over the knob of the handle, and drew it by a line\nalong the birch, and so pulled the axe out again.\n\nThe shore is composed of a belt of smooth rounded white stones like\npaving stones, excepting one or two short sand beaches, and is so steep\nthat in many places a single leap will carry you into water over your\nhead; and were it not for its remarkable transparency, that would be\nthe last to be seen of its bottom till it rose on the opposite side.\nSome think it is bottomless. It is nowhere muddy, and a casual observer\nwould say that there were no weeds at all in it; and of noticeable\nplants, except in the little meadows recently overflowed, which do not\nproperly belong to it, a closer scrutiny does not detect a flag nor a\nbulrush, nor even a lily, yellow or white, but only a few small\nheart-leaves and potamogetons, and perhaps a water-target or two; all\nwhich however a bather might not perceive; and these plants are clean\nand bright like the element they grow in. The stones extend a rod or\ntwo into the water, and then the bottom is pure sand, except in the\ndeepest parts, where there is usually a little sediment, probably from\nthe decay of the leaves which have been wafted on to it so many\nsuccessive falls, and a bright green weed is brought up on anchors even\nin midwinter.\n\nWe have one other pond just like this, White Pond, in Nine Acre Corner,\nabout two and a half miles westerly; but, though I am acquainted with\nmost of the ponds within a dozen miles of this centre I do not know a\nthird of this pure and well-like character. Successive nations\nperchance have drank at, admired, and fathomed it, and passed away, and\nstill its water is green and pellucid as ever. Not an intermitting\nspring! Perhaps on that spring morning when Adam and Eve were driven\nout of Eden Walden Pond was already in existence, and even then\nbreaking up in a gentle spring rain accompanied with mist and a\nsoutherly wind, and covered with myriads of ducks and geese, which had\nnot heard of the fall, when still such pure lakes sufficed them. Even\nthen it had commenced to rise and fall, and had clarified its waters\nand colored them of the hue they now wear, and obtained a patent of\nheaven to be the only Walden Pond in the world and distiller of\ncelestial dews. Who knows in how many unremembered nations\u2019 literatures\nthis has been the Castalian Fountain? or what nymphs presided over it\nin the Golden Age? It is a gem of the first water which Concord wears\nin her coronet.\n\nYet perchance the first who came to this well have left some trace of\ntheir footsteps. I have been surprised to detect encircling the pond,\neven where a thick wood has just been cut down on the shore, a narrow\nshelf-like path in the steep hill-side, alternately rising and falling,\napproaching and receding from the water\u2019s edge, as old probably as the\nrace of man here, worn by the feet of aboriginal hunters, and still\nfrom time to time unwittingly trodden by the present occupants of the\nland. This is particularly distinct to one standing on the middle of\nthe pond in winter, just after a light snow has fallen, appearing as a\nclear undulating white line, unobscured by weeds and twigs, and very\nobvious a quarter of a mile off in many places where in summer it is\nhardly distinguishable close at hand. The snow reprints it, as it were,\nin clear white type alto-relievo. The ornamented grounds of villas\nwhich will one day be built here may still preserve some trace of this.\n\nThe pond rises and falls, but whether regularly or not, and within what\nperiod, nobody knows, though, as usual, many pretend to know. It is\ncommonly higher in the winter and lower in the summer, though not\ncorresponding to the general wet and dryness. I can remember when it\nwas a foot or two lower, and also when it was at least five feet\nhigher, than when I lived by it. There is a narrow sand-bar running\ninto it, with very deep water on one side, on which I helped boil a\nkettle of chowder, some six rods from the main shore, about the year\n1824, which it has not been possible to do for twenty-five years; and\non the other hand, my friends used to listen with incredulity when I\ntold them, that a few years later I was accustomed to fish from a boat\nin a secluded cove in the woods, fifteen rods from the only shore they\nknew, which place was long since converted into a meadow. But the pond\nhas risen steadily for two years, and now, in the summer of \u201952, is\njust five feet higher than when I lived there, or as high as it was\nthirty years ago, and fishing goes on again in the meadow. This makes a\ndifference of level, at the outside, of six or seven feet; and yet the\nwater shed by the surrounding hills is insignificant in amount, and\nthis overflow must be referred to causes which affect the deep springs.\nThis same summer the pond has begun to fall again. It is remarkable\nthat this fluctuation, whether periodical or not, appears thus to\nrequire many years for its accomplishment. I have observed one rise and\na part of two falls, and I expect that a dozen or fifteen years hence\nthe water will again be as low as I have ever known it. Flint\u2019s Pond, a\nmile eastward, allowing for the disturbance occasioned by its inlets\nand outlets, and the smaller intermediate ponds also, sympathize with\nWalden, and recently attained their greatest height at the same time\nwith the latter. The same is true, as far as my observation goes, of\nWhite Pond.\n\nThis rise and fall of Walden at long intervals serves this use at\nleast; the water standing at this great height for a year or more,\nthough it makes it difficult to walk round it, kills the shrubs and\ntrees which have sprung up about its edge since the last rise,\npitch-pines, birches, alders, aspens, and others, and, falling again,\nleaves an unobstructed shore; for, unlike many ponds and all waters\nwhich are subject to a daily tide, its shore is cleanest when the water\nis lowest. On the side of the pond next my house, a row of pitch pines\nfifteen feet high has been killed and tipped over as if by a lever, and\nthus a stop put to their encroachments; and their size indicates how\nmany years have elapsed since the last rise to this height. By this\nfluctuation the pond asserts its title to a shore, and thus the _shore_\nis _shorn_, and the trees cannot hold it by right of possession. These\nare the lips of the lake on which no beard grows. It licks its chaps\nfrom time to time. When the water is at its height, the alders,\nwillows, and maples send forth a mass of fibrous red roots several feet\nlong from all sides of their stems in the water, and to the height of\nthree or four feet from the ground, in the effort to maintain\nthemselves; and I have known the high-blueberry bushes about the shore,\nwhich commonly produce no fruit, bear an abundant crop under these\ncircumstances.\n\nSome have been puzzled to tell how the shore became so regularly paved.\nMy townsmen have all heard the tradition, the oldest people tell me\nthat they heard it in their youth, that anciently the Indians were\nholding a pow-wow upon a hill here, which rose as high into the heavens\nas the pond now sinks deep into the earth, and they used much\nprofanity, as the story goes, though this vice is one of which the\nIndians were never guilty, and while they were thus engaged the hill\nshook and suddenly sank, and only one old squaw, named Walden, escaped,\nand from her the pond was named. It has been conjectured that when the\nhill shook these stones rolled down its side and became the present\nshore. It is very certain, at any rate, that once there was no pond\nhere, and now there is one; and this Indian fable does not in any\nrespect conflict with the account of that ancient settler whom I have\nmentioned, who remembers so well when he first came here with his\ndivining rod, saw a thin vapor rising from the sward, and the hazel\npointed steadily downward, and he concluded to dig a well here. As for\nthe stones, many still think that they are hardly to be accounted for\nby the action of the waves on these hills; but I observe that the\nsurrounding hills are remarkably full of the same kind of stones, so\nthat they have been obliged to pile them up in walls on both sides of\nthe railroad cut nearest the pond; and, moreover, there are most stones\nwhere the shore is most abrupt; so that, unfortunately, it is no longer\na mystery to me. I detect the paver. If the name was not derived from\nthat of some English locality,\u2014Saffron Walden, for instance,\u2014one might\nsuppose that it was called originally _Walled-in_ Pond.\n\nThe pond was my well ready dug. For four months in the year its water\nis as cold as it is pure at all times; and I think that it is then as\ngood as any, if not the best, in the town. In the winter, all water\nwhich is exposed to the air is colder than springs and wells which are\nprotected from it. The temperature of the pond water which had stood in\nthe room where I sat from five o\u2019clock in the afternoon till noon the\nnext day, the sixth of March, 1846, the thermometer having been up to\n65\u00b0 or 70\u00b0 some of the time, owing partly to the sun on the roof, was\n42\u00b0, or one degree colder than the water of one of the coldest wells in\nthe village just drawn. The temperature of the Boiling Spring the same\nday was 45\u00b0, or the warmest of any water tried, though it is the\ncoldest that I know of in summer, when, beside, shallow and stagnant\nsurface water is not mingled with it. Moreover, in summer, Walden never\nbecomes so warm as most water which is exposed to the sun, on account\nof its depth. In the warmest weather I usually placed a pailful in my\ncellar, where it became cool in the night, and remained so during the\nday; though I also resorted to a spring in the neighborhood. It was as\ngood when a week old as the day it was dipped, and had no taste of the\npump. Whoever camps for a week in summer by the shore of a pond, needs\nonly bury a pail of water a few feet deep in the shade of his camp to\nbe independent of the luxury of ice.\n\nThere have been caught in Walden pickerel, one weighing seven pounds,\nto say nothing of another which carried off a reel with great velocity,\nwhich the fisherman safely set down at eight pounds because he did not\nsee him, perch and pouts, some of each weighing over two pounds,\nshiners, chivins or roach (_Leuciscus pulchellus_), a very few breams,\nand a couple of eels, one weighing four pounds,\u2014I am thus particular\nbecause the weight of a fish is commonly its only title to fame, and\nthese are the only eels I have heard of here;\u2014also, I have a faint\nrecollection of a little fish some five inches long, with silvery sides\nand a greenish back, somewhat dace-like in its character, which I\nmention here chiefly to link my facts to fable. Nevertheless, this pond\nis not very fertile in fish. Its pickerel, though not abundant, are its\nchief boast. I have seen at one time lying on the ice pickerel of at\nleast three different kinds; a long and shallow one, steel-colored,\nmost like those caught in the river; a bright golden kind, with\ngreenish reflections and remarkably deep, which is the most common\nhere; and another, golden-colored, and shaped like the last, but\npeppered on the sides with small dark brown or black spots, intermixed\nwith a few faint blood-red ones, very much like a trout. The specific\nname _reticulatus_ would not apply to this; it should be _guttatus_\nrather. These are all very firm fish, and weigh more than their size\npromises. The shiners, pouts, and perch also, and indeed all the fishes\nwhich inhabit this pond, are much cleaner, handsomer, and firmer\nfleshed than those in the river and most other ponds, as the water is\npurer, and they can easily be distinguished from them. Probably many\nichthyologists would make new varieties of some of them. There are also\na clean race of frogs and tortoises, and a few muscels in it; muskrats\nand minks leave their traces about it, and occasionally a travelling\nmud-turtle visits it. Sometimes, when I pushed off my boat in the\nmorning, I disturbed a great mud-turtle which had secreted himself\nunder the boat in the night. Ducks and geese frequent it in the spring\nand fall, the white-bellied swallows (_Hirundo bicolor_) skim over it,\nand the peetweets (_Totanus macularius_) \u201cteter\u201d along its stony shores\nall summer. I have sometimes disturbed a fishhawk sitting on a\nwhite-pine over the water; but I doubt if it is ever profaned by the\nwing of a gull, like Fair Haven. At most, it tolerates one annual loon.\nThese are all the animals of consequence which frequent it now.\n\nYou may see from a boat, in calm weather, near the sandy eastern shore,\nwhere the water is eight or ten feet deep, and also in some other parts\nof the pond, some circular heaps half a dozen feet in diameter by a\nfoot in height, consisting of small stones less than a hen\u2019s egg in\nsize, where all around is bare sand. At first you wonder if the Indians\ncould have formed them on the ice for any purpose, and so, when the ice\nmelted, they sank to the bottom; but they are too regular and some of\nthem plainly too fresh for that. They are similar to those found in\nrivers; but as there are no suckers nor lampreys here, I know not by\nwhat fish they could be made. Perhaps they are the nests of the chivin.\nThese lend a pleasing mystery to the bottom.\n\nThe shore is irregular enough not to be monotonous. I have in my mind\u2019s\neye the western indented with deep bays, the bolder northern, and the\nbeautifully scalloped southern shore, where successive capes overlap\neach other and suggest unexplored coves between. The forest has never\nso good a setting, nor is so distinctly beautiful, as when seen from\nthe middle of a small lake amid hills which rise from the water\u2019s edge;\nfor the water in which it is reflected not only makes the best\nforeground in such a case, but, with its winding shore, the most\nnatural and agreeable boundary to it. There is no rawness nor\nimperfection in its edge there, as where the axe has cleared a part, or\na cultivated field abuts on it. The trees have ample room to expand on\nthe water side, and each sends forth its most vigorous branch in that\ndirection. There Nature has woven a natural selvage, and the eye rises\nby just gradations from the low shrubs of the shore to the highest\ntrees. There are few traces of man\u2019s hand to be seen. The water laves\nthe shore as it did a thousand years ago.\n\nA lake is the landscape\u2019s most beautiful and expressive feature. It is\nearth\u2019s eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his\nown nature. The fluviatile trees next the shore are the slender\neyelashes which fringe it, and the wooded hills and cliffs around are\nits overhanging brows.\n\nStanding on the smooth sandy beach at the east end of the pond, in a\ncalm September afternoon, when a slight haze makes the opposite shore\nline indistinct, I have seen whence came the expression, \u201cthe glassy\nsurface of a lake.\u201d When you invert your head, it looks like a thread\nof finest gossamer stretched across the valley, and gleaming against\nthe distant pine woods, separating one stratum of the atmosphere from\nanother. You would think that you could walk dry under it to the\nopposite hills, and that the swallows which skim over might perch on\nit. Indeed, they sometimes dive below this line, as it were by mistake,\nand are undeceived. As you look over the pond westward you are obliged\nto employ both your hands to defend your eyes against the reflected as\nwell as the true sun, for they are equally bright; and if, between the\ntwo, you survey its surface critically, it is literally as smooth as\nglass, except where the skater insects, at equal intervals scattered\nover its whole extent, by their motions in the sun produce the finest\nimaginable sparkle on it, or, perchance, a duck plumes itself, or, as I\nhave said, a swallow skims so low as to touch it. It may be that in the\ndistance a fish describes an arc of three or four feet in the air, and\nthere is one bright flash where it emerges, and another where it\nstrikes the water; sometimes the whole silvery arc is revealed; or here\nand there, perhaps, is a thistle-down floating on its surface, which\nthe fishes dart at and so dimple it again. It is like molten glass\ncooled but not congealed, and the few motes in it are pure and\nbeautiful like the imperfections in glass. You may often detect a yet\nsmoother and darker water, separated from the rest as if by an\ninvisible cobweb, boom of the water nymphs, resting on it. From a\nhill-top you can see a fish leap in almost any part; for not a pickerel\nor shiner picks an insect from this smooth surface but it manifestly\ndisturbs the equilibrium of the whole lake. It is wonderful with what\nelaborateness this simple fact is advertised,\u2014this piscine murder will\nout,\u2014and from my distant perch I distinguish the circling undulations\nwhen they are half a dozen rods in diameter. You can even detect a\nwater-bug (_Gyrinus_) ceaselessly progressing over the smooth surface a\nquarter of a mile off; for they furrow the water slightly, making a\nconspicuous ripple bounded by two diverging lines, but the skaters\nglide over it without rippling it perceptibly. When the surface is\nconsiderably agitated there are no skaters nor water-bugs on it, but\napparently, in calm days, they leave their havens and adventurously\nglide forth from the shore by short impulses till they completely cover\nit. It is a soothing employment, on one of those fine days in the fall\nwhen all the warmth of the sun is fully appreciated, to sit on a stump\non such a height as this, overlooking the pond, and study the dimpling\ncircles which are incessantly inscribed on its otherwise invisible\nsurface amid the reflected skies and trees. Over this great expanse\nthere is no disturbance but it is thus at once gently smoothed away and\nassuaged, as, when a vase of water is jarred, the trembling circles\nseek the shore and all is smooth again. Not a fish can leap or an\ninsect fall on the pond but it is thus reported in circling dimples, in\nlines of beauty, as it were the constant welling up of its fountain,\nthe gentle pulsing of its life, the heaving of its breast. The thrills\nof joy and thrills of pain are undistinguishable. How peaceful the\nphenomena of the lake! Again the works of man shine as in the spring.\nAy, every leaf and twig and stone and cobweb sparkles now at\nmid-afternoon as when covered with dew in a spring morning. Every\nmotion of an oar or an insect produces a flash of light; and if an oar\nfalls, how sweet the echo!\n\nIn such a day, in September or October, Walden is a perfect forest\nmirror, set round with stones as precious to my eye as if fewer or\nrarer. Nothing so fair, so pure, and at the same time so large, as a\nlake, perchance, lies on the surface of the earth. Sky water. It needs\nno fence. Nations come and go without defiling it. It is a mirror which\nno stone can crack, whose quicksilver will never wear off, whose\ngilding Nature continually repairs; no storms, no dust, can dim its\nsurface ever fresh;\u2014a mirror in which all impurity presented to it\nsinks, swept and dusted by the sun\u2019s hazy brush,\u2014this the light\ndust-cloth,\u2014which retains no breath that is breathed on it, but sends\nits own to float as clouds high above its surface, and be reflected in\nits bosom still.\n\nA field of water betrays the spirit that is in the air. It is\ncontinually receiving new life and motion from above. It is\nintermediate in its nature between land and sky. On land only the grass\nand trees wave, but the water itself is rippled by the wind. I see\nwhere the breeze dashes across it by the streaks or flakes of light. It\nis remarkable that we can look down on its surface. We shall, perhaps,\nlook down thus on the surface of air at length, and mark where a still\nsubtler spirit sweeps over it.\n\nThe skaters and water-bugs finally disappear in the latter part of\nOctober, when the severe frosts have come; and then and in November,\nusually, in a calm day, there is absolutely nothing to ripple the\nsurface. One November afternoon, in the calm at the end of a rain storm\nof several days\u2019 duration, when the sky was still completely overcast\nand the air was full of mist, I observed that the pond was remarkably\nsmooth, so that it was difficult to distinguish its surface; though it\nno longer reflected the bright tints of October, but the sombre\nNovember colors of the surrounding hills. Though I passed over it as\ngently as possible, the slight undulations produced by my boat extended\nalmost as far as I could see, and gave a ribbed appearance to the\nreflections. But, as I was looking over the surface, I saw here and\nthere at a distance a faint glimmer, as if some skater insects which\nhad escaped the frosts might be collected there, or, perchance, the\nsurface, being so smooth, betrayed where a spring welled up from the\nbottom. Paddling gently to one of these places, I was surprised to find\nmyself surrounded by myriads of small perch, about five inches long, of\na rich bronze color in the green water, sporting there, and constantly\nrising to the surface and dimpling it, sometimes leaving bubbles on it.\nIn such transparent and seemingly bottomless water, reflecting the\nclouds, I seemed to be floating through the air as in a balloon, and\ntheir swimming impressed me as a kind of flight or hovering, as if they\nwere a compact flock of birds passing just beneath my level on the\nright or left, their fins, like sails, set all around them. There were\nmany such schools in the pond, apparently improving the short season\nbefore winter would draw an icy shutter over their broad skylight,\nsometimes giving to the surface an appearance as if a slight breeze\nstruck it, or a few rain-drops fell there. When I approached carelessly\nand alarmed them, they made a sudden splash and rippling with their\ntails, as if one had struck the water with a brushy bough, and\ninstantly took refuge in the depths. At length the wind rose, the mist\nincreased, and the waves began to run, and the perch leaped much higher\nthan before, half out of water, a hundred black points, three inches\nlong, at once above the surface. Even as late as the fifth of December,\none year, I saw some dimples on the surface, and thinking it was going\nto rain hard immediately, the air being full of mist, I made haste to\ntake my place at the oars and row homeward; already the rain seemed\nrapidly increasing, though I felt none on my cheek, and I anticipated a\nthorough soaking. But suddenly the dimples ceased, for they were\nproduced by the perch, which the noise of my oars had seared into the\ndepths, and I saw their schools dimly disappearing; so I spent a dry\nafternoon after all.\n\nAn old man who used to frequent this pond nearly sixty years ago, when\nit was dark with surrounding forests, tells me that in those days he\nsometimes saw it all alive with ducks and other water fowl, and that\nthere were many eagles about it. He came here a-fishing, and used an\nold log canoe which he found on the shore. It was made of two\nwhite-pine logs dug out and pinned together, and was cut off square at\nthe ends. It was very clumsy, but lasted a great many years before it\nbecame water-logged and perhaps sank to the bottom. He did not know\nwhose it was; it belonged to the pond. He used to make a cable for his\nanchor of strips of hickory bark tied together. An old man, a potter,\nwho lived by the pond before the Revolution, told him once that there\nwas an iron chest at the bottom, and that he had seen it. Sometimes it\nwould come floating up to the shore; but when you went toward it, it\nwould go back into deep water and disappear. I was pleased to hear of\nthe old log canoe, which took the place of an Indian one of the same\nmaterial but more graceful construction, which perchance had first been\na tree on the bank, and then, as it were, fell into the water, to float\nthere for a generation, the most proper vessel for the lake. I remember\nthat when I first looked into these depths there were many large trunks\nto be seen indistinctly lying on the bottom, which had either been\nblown over formerly, or left on the ice at the last cutting, when wood\nwas cheaper; but now they have mostly disappeared.\n\nWhen I first paddled a boat on Walden, it was completely surrounded by\nthick and lofty pine and oak woods, and in some of its coves grape\nvines had run over the trees next the water and formed bowers under\nwhich a boat could pass. The hills which form its shores are so steep,\nand the woods on them were then so high, that, as you looked down from\nthe west end, it had the appearance of an amphitheatre for some kind of\nsylvan spectacle. I have spent many an hour, when I was younger,\nfloating over its surface as the zephyr willed, having paddled my boat\nto the middle, and lying on my back across the seats, in a summer\nforenoon, dreaming awake, until I was aroused by the boat touching the\nsand, and I arose to see what shore my fates had impelled me to; days\nwhen idleness was the most attractive and productive industry. Many a\nforenoon have I stolen away, preferring to spend thus the most valued\npart of the day; for I was rich, if not in money, in sunny hours and\nsummer days, and spent them lavishly; nor do I regret that I did not\nwaste more of them in the workshop or the teacher\u2019s desk. But since I\nleft those shores the woodchoppers have still further laid them waste,\nand now for many a year there will be no more rambling through the\naisles of the wood, with occasional vistas through which you see the\nwater. My Muse may be excused if she is silent henceforth. How can you\nexpect the birds to sing when their groves are cut down?\n\nNow the trunks of trees on the bottom, and the old log canoe, and the\ndark surrounding woods, are gone, and the villagers, who scarcely know\nwhere it lies, instead of going to the pond to bathe or drink, are\nthinking to bring its water, which should be as sacred as the Ganges at\nleast, to the village in a pipe, to wash their dishes with!\u2014to earn\ntheir Walden by the turning of a cock or drawing of a plug! That\ndevilish Iron Horse, whose ear-rending neigh is heard throughout the\ntown, has muddied the Boiling Spring with his foot, and he it is that\nhas browsed off all the woods on Walden shore, that Trojan horse, with\na thousand men in his belly, introduced by mercenary Greeks! Where is\nthe country\u2019s champion, the Moore of Moore Hill, to meet him at the\nDeep Cut and thrust an avenging lance between the ribs of the bloated\npest?\n\nNevertheless, of all the characters I have known, perhaps Walden wears\nbest, and best preserves its purity. Many men have been likened to it,\nbut few deserve that honor. Though the woodchoppers have laid bare\nfirst this shore and then that, and the Irish have built their sties by\nit, and the railroad has infringed on its border, and the ice-men have\nskimmed it once, it is itself unchanged, the same water which my\nyouthful eyes fell on; all the change is in me. It has not acquired one\npermanent wrinkle after all its ripples. It is perennially young, and I\nmay stand and see a swallow dip apparently to pick an insect from its\nsurface as of yore. It struck me again tonight, as if I had not seen it\nalmost daily for more than twenty years,\u2014Why, here is Walden, the same\nwoodland lake that I discovered so many years ago; where a forest was\ncut down last winter another is springing up by its shore as lustily as\never; the same thought is welling up to its surface that was then; it\nis the same liquid joy and happiness to itself and its Maker, ay, and\nit _may_ be to me. It is the work of a brave man surely, in whom there\nwas no guile! He rounded this water with his hand, deepened and\nclarified it in his thought, and in his will bequeathed it to Concord.\nI see by its face that it is visited by the same reflection; and I can\nalmost say, Walden, is it you?\n\n     It is no dream of mine,\n     To ornament a line;\n     I cannot come nearer to God and Heaven\n     Than I live to Walden even.\n     I am its stony shore,\n     And the breeze that passes o\u2019er;\n     In the hollow of my hand\n     Are its water and its sand,\n     And its deepest resort\n     Lies high in my thought.\n\nThe cars never pause to look at it; yet I fancy that the engineers and\nfiremen and brakemen, and those passengers who have a season ticket and\nsee it often, are better men for the sight. The engineer does not\nforget at night, or his nature does not, that he has beheld this vision\nof serenity and purity once at least during the day. Though seen but\nonce, it helps to wash out State-street and the engine\u2019s soot. One\nproposes that it be called \u201cGod\u2019s Drop.\u201d\n\nI have said that Walden has no visible inlet nor outlet, but it is on\nthe one hand distantly and indirectly related to Flint\u2019s Pond, which is\nmore elevated, by a chain of small ponds coming from that quarter, and\non the other directly and manifestly to Concord River, which is lower,\nby a similar chain of ponds through which in some other geological\nperiod it may have flowed, and by a little digging, which God forbid,\nit can be made to flow thither again. If by living thus reserved and\naustere, like a hermit in the woods, so long, it has acquired such\nwonderful purity, who would not regret that the comparatively impure\nwaters of Flint\u2019s Pond should be mingled with it, or itself should ever\ngo to waste its sweetness in the ocean wave?\n\n\n\nFlint\u2019s, or Sandy Pond, in Lincoln, our greatest lake and inland sea,\nlies about a mile east of Walden. It is much larger, being said to\ncontain one hundred and ninety-seven acres, and is more fertile in\nfish; but it is comparatively shallow, and not remarkably pure. A walk\nthrough the woods thither was often my recreation. It was worth the\nwhile, if only to feel the wind blow on your cheek freely, and see the\nwaves run, and remember the life of mariners. I went a-chestnutting\nthere in the fall, on windy days, when the nuts were dropping into the\nwater and were washed to my feet; and one day, as I crept along its\nsedgy shore, the fresh spray blowing in my face, I came upon the\nmouldering wreck of a boat, the sides gone, and hardly more than the\nimpression of its flat bottom left amid the rushes; yet its model was\nsharply defined, as if it were a large decayed pad, with its veins. It\nwas as impressive a wreck as one could imagine on the sea-shore, and\nhad as good a moral. It is by this time mere vegetable mould and\nundistinguishable pond shore, through which rushes and flags have\npushed up. I used to admire the ripple marks on the sandy bottom, at\nthe north end of this pond, made firm and hard to the feet of the wader\nby the pressure of the water, and the rushes which grew in Indian file,\nin waving lines, corresponding to these marks, rank behind rank, as if\nthe waves had planted them. There also I have found, in considerable\nquantities, curious balls, composed apparently of fine grass or roots,\nof pipewort perhaps, from half an inch to four inches in diameter, and\nperfectly spherical. These wash back and forth in shallow water on a\nsandy bottom, and are sometimes cast on the shore. They are either\nsolid grass, or have a little sand in the middle. At first you would\nsay that they were formed by the action of the waves, like a pebble;\nyet the smallest are made of equally coarse materials, half an inch\nlong, and they are produced only at one season of the year. Moreover,\nthe waves, I suspect, do not so much construct as wear down a material\nwhich has already acquired consistency. They preserve their form when\ndry for an indefinite period.\n\n_Flint\u2019s Pond!_ Such is the poverty of our nomenclature. What right had\nthe unclean and stupid farmer, whose farm abutted on this sky water,\nwhose shores he has ruthlessly laid bare, to give his name to it? Some\nskin-flint, who loved better the reflecting surface of a dollar, or a\nbright cent, in which he could see his own brazen face; who regarded\neven the wild ducks which settled in it as trespassers; his fingers\ngrown into crooked and horny talons from the long habit of grasping\nharpy-like;\u2014so it is not named for me. I go not there to see him nor to\nhear of him; who never _saw_ it, who never bathed in it, who never\nloved it, who never protected it, who never spoke a good word for it,\nnor thanked God that he had made it. Rather let it be named from the\nfishes that swim in it, the wild fowl or quadrupeds which frequent it,\nthe wild flowers which grow by its shores, or some wild man or child\nthe thread of whose history is interwoven with its own; not from him\nwho could show no title to it but the deed which a like-minded neighbor\nor legislature gave him,\u2014him who thought only of its money value; whose\npresence perchance cursed all the shore; who exhausted the land around\nit, and would fain have exhausted the waters within it; who regretted\nonly that it was not English hay or cranberry meadow,\u2014there was nothing\nto redeem it, forsooth, in his eyes,\u2014and would have drained and sold it\nfor the mud at its bottom. It did not turn his mill, and it was no\n_privilege_ to him to behold it. I respect not his labors, his farm\nwhere every thing has its price; who would carry the landscape, who\nwould carry his God, to market, if he could get any thing for him; who\ngoes to market _for_ his god as it is; on whose farm nothing grows\nfree, whose fields bear no crops, whose meadows no flowers, whose trees\nno fruits, but dollars; who loves not the beauty of his fruits, whose\nfruits are not ripe for him till they are turned to dollars. Give me\nthe poverty that enjoys true wealth. Farmers are respectable and\ninteresting to me in proportion as they are poor,\u2014poor farmers. A model\nfarm! where the house stands like a fungus in a muck-heap, chambers for\nmen, horses, oxen, and swine, cleansed and uncleansed, all contiguous\nto one another! Stocked with men! A great grease-spot, redolent of\nmanures and buttermilk! Under a high state of cultivation, being\nmanured with the hearts and brains of men! As if you were to raise your\npotatoes in the church-yard! Such is a model farm.\n\nNo, no; if the fairest features of the landscape are to be named after\nmen, let them be the noblest and worthiest men alone. Let our lakes\nreceive as true names at least as the Icarian Sea, where \u201cstill the\nshore\u201d a \u201cbrave attempt resounds.\u201d\n\n\n\nGoose Pond, of small extent, is on my way to Flint\u2019s; Fair-Haven, an\nexpansion of Concord River, said to contain some seventy acres, is a\nmile south-west; and White Pond, of about forty acres, is a mile and a\nhalf beyond Fair-Haven. This is my lake country. These, with Concord\nRiver, are my water privileges; and night and day, year in year out,\nthey grind such grist as I carry to them.\n\nSince the woodcutters, and the railroad, and I myself have profaned\nWalden, perhaps the most attractive, if not the most beautiful, of all\nour lakes, the gem of the woods, is White Pond;\u2014a poor name from its\ncommonness, whether derived from the remarkable purity of its waters or\nthe color of its sands. In these as in other respects, however, it is a\nlesser twin of Walden. They are so much alike that you would say they\nmust be connected under ground. It has the same stony shore, and its\nwaters are of the same hue. As at Walden, in sultry dog-day weather,\nlooking down through the woods on some of its bays which are not so\ndeep but that the reflection from the bottom tinges them, its waters\nare of a misty bluish-green or glaucous color. Many years since I used\nto go there to collect the sand by cart-loads, to make sand-paper with,\nand I have continued to visit it ever since. One who frequents it\nproposes to call it Virid Lake. Perhaps it might be called Yellow-Pine\nLake, from the following circumstance. About fifteen years ago you\ncould see the top of a pitch-pine, of the kind called yellow-pine\nhereabouts, though it is not a distinct species, projecting above the\nsurface in deep water, many rods from the shore. It was even supposed\nby some that the pond had sunk, and this was one of the primitive\nforest that formerly stood there. I find that even so long ago as 1792,\nin a \u201cTopographical Description of the Town of Concord,\u201d by one of its\ncitizens, in the Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society,\nthe author, after speaking of Walden and White Ponds, adds: \u201cIn the\nmiddle of the latter may be seen, when the water is very low, a tree\nwhich appears as if it grew in the place where it now stands, although\nthe roots are fifty feet below the surface of the water; the top of\nthis tree is broken off, and at that place measures fourteen inches in\ndiameter.\u201d In the spring of \u201949 I talked with the man who lives nearest\nthe pond in Sudbury, who told me that it was he who got out this tree\nten or fifteen years before. As near as he could remember, it stood\ntwelve or fifteen rods from the shore, where the water was thirty or\nforty feet deep. It was in the winter, and he had been getting out ice\nin the forenoon, and had resolved that in the afternoon, with the aid\nof his neighbors, he would take out the old yellow-pine. He sawed a\nchannel in the ice toward the shore, and hauled it over and along and\nout on to the ice with oxen; but, before he had gone far in his work,\nhe was surprised to find that it was wrong end upward, with the stumps\nof the branches pointing down, and the small end firmly fastened in the\nsandy bottom. It was about a foot in diameter at the big end, and he\nhad expected to get a good saw-log, but it was so rotten as to be fit\nonly for fuel, if for that. He had some of it in his shed then. There\nwere marks of an axe and of woodpeckers on the butt. He thought that it\nmight have been a dead tree on the shore, but was finally blown over\ninto the pond, and after the top had become waterlogged, while the\nbutt-end was still dry and light, had drifted out and sunk wrong end\nup. His father, eighty years old, could not remember when it was not\nthere. Several pretty large logs may still be seen lying on the bottom,\nwhere, owing to the undulation of the surface, they look like huge\nwater snakes in motion.\n\nThis pond has rarely been profaned by a boat, for there is little in it\nto tempt a fisherman. Instead of the white lily, which requires mud, or\nthe common sweet flag, the blue flag (_Iris versicolor_) grows thinly\nin the pure water, rising from the stony bottom all around the shore,\nwhere it is visited by humming birds in June; and the color both of its\nbluish blades and its flowers, and especially their reflections, are in\nsingular harmony with the glaucous water.\n\nWhite Pond and Walden are great crystals on the surface of the earth,\nLakes of Light. If they were permanently congealed, and small enough to\nbe clutched, they would, perchance, be carried off by slaves, like\nprecious stones, to adorn the heads of emperors; but being liquid, and\nample, and secured to us and our successors forever, we disregard them,\nand run after the diamond of Kohinoor. They are too pure to have a\nmarket value; they contain no muck. How much more beautiful than our\nlives, how much more transparent than our characters, are they! We\nnever learned meanness of them. How much fairer than the pool before\nthe farmer\u2019s door, in which his ducks swim! Hither the clean wild ducks\ncome. Nature has no human inhabitant who appreciates her. The birds\nwith their plumage and their notes are in harmony with the flowers, but\nwhat youth or maiden conspires with the wild luxuriant beauty of\nNature? She flourishes most alone, far from the towns where they\nreside. Talk of heaven! ye disgrace earth.\n\n\nBaker Farm\n\nSometimes I rambled to pine groves, standing like temples, or like\nfleets at sea, full-rigged, with wavy boughs, and rippling with light,\nso soft and green and shady that the Druids would have forsaken their\noaks to worship in them; or to the cedar wood beyond Flint\u2019s Pond,\nwhere the trees, covered with hoary blue berries, spiring higher and\nhigher, are fit to stand before Valhalla, and the creeping juniper\ncovers the ground with wreaths full of fruit; or to swamps where the\nusnea lichen hangs in festoons from the white-spruce trees, and\ntoad-stools, round tables of the swamp gods, cover the ground, and more\nbeautiful fungi adorn the stumps, like butterflies or shells, vegetable\nwinkles; where the swamp-pink and dogwood grow, the red alder-berry\nglows like eyes of imps, the waxwork grooves and crushes the hardest\nwoods in its folds, and the wild-holly berries make the beholder forget\nhis home with their beauty, and he is dazzled and tempted by nameless\nother wild forbidden fruits, too fair for mortal taste. Instead of\ncalling on some scholar, I paid many a visit to particular trees, of\nkinds which are rare in this neighborhood, standing far away in the\nmiddle of some pasture, or in the depths of a wood or swamp, or on a\nhill-top; such as the black-birch, of which we have some handsome\nspecimens two feet in diameter; its cousin, the yellow birch, with its\nloose golden vest, perfumed like the first; the beech, which has so\nneat a bole and beautifully lichen-painted, perfect in all its details,\nof which, excepting scattered specimens, I know but one small grove of\nsizable trees left in the township, supposed by some to have been\nplanted by the pigeons that were once baited with beech nuts near by;\nit is worth the while to see the silver grain sparkle when you split\nthis wood; the bass; the hornbeam; the _Celtis occidentalis_, or false\nelm, of which we have but one well-grown; some taller mast of a pine, a\nshingle tree, or a more perfect hemlock than usual, standing like a\npagoda in the midst of the woods; and many others I could mention.\nThese were the shrines I visited both summer and winter.\n\nOnce it chanced that I stood in the very abutment of a rainbow\u2019s arch,\nwhich filled the lower stratum of the atmosphere, tinging the grass and\nleaves around, and dazzling me as if I looked through colored crystal.\nIt was a lake of rainbow light, in which, for a short while, I lived\nlike a dolphin. If it had lasted longer it might have tinged my\nemployments and life. As I walked on the railroad causeway, I used to\nwonder at the halo of light around my shadow, and would fain fancy\nmyself one of the elect. One who visited me declared that the shadows\nof some Irishmen before him had no halo about them, that it was only\nnatives that were so distinguished. Benvenuto Cellini tells us in his\nmemoirs, that, after a certain terrible dream or vision which he had\nduring his confinement in the castle of St. Angelo, a resplendent light\nappeared over the shadow of his head at morning and evening, whether he\nwas in Italy or France, and it was particularly conspicuous when the\ngrass was moist with dew. This was probably the same phenomenon to\nwhich I have referred, which is especially observed in the morning, but\nalso at other times, and even by moonlight. Though a constant one, it\nis not commonly noticed, and, in the case of an excitable imagination\nlike Cellini\u2019s, it would be basis enough for superstition. Beside, he\ntells us that he showed it to very few. But are they not indeed\ndistinguished who are conscious that they are regarded at all?\n\n\n\nI set out one afternoon to go a-fishing to Fair-Haven, through the\nwoods, to eke out my scanty fare of vegetables. My way led through\nPleasant Meadow, an adjunct of the Baker Farm, that retreat of which a\npoet has since sung, beginning,\u2014\n\n     \u201cThy entry is a pleasant field,\n     Which some mossy fruit trees yield\n     Partly to a ruddy brook,\n     By gliding musquash undertook,\n     And mercurial trout,\n     Darting about.\u201d\n\nI thought of living there before I went to Walden. I \u201chooked\u201d the\napples, leaped the brook, and scared the musquash and the trout. It was\none of those afternoons which seem indefinitely long before one, in\nwhich many events may happen, a large portion of our natural life,\nthough it was already half spent when I started. By the way there came\nup a shower, which compelled me to stand half an hour under a pine,\npiling boughs over my head, and wearing my handkerchief for a shed; and\nwhen at length I had made one cast over the pickerel-weed, standing up\nto my middle in water, I found myself suddenly in the shadow of a\ncloud, and the thunder began to rumble with such emphasis that I could\ndo no more than listen to it. The gods must be proud, thought I, with\nsuch forked flashes to rout a poor unarmed fisherman. So I made haste\nfor shelter to the nearest hut, which stood half a mile from any road,\nbut so much the nearer to the pond, and had long been uninhabited:\u2014\n\n     \u201cAnd here a poet builded,\n         In the completed years,\n     For behold a trivial cabin\n         That to destruction steers.\u201d\n\nSo the Muse fables. But therein, as I found, dwelt now John Field, an\nIrishman, and his wife, and several children, from the broad-faced boy\nwho assisted his father at his work, and now came running by his side\nfrom the bog to escape the rain, to the wrinkled, sibyl-like,\ncone-headed infant that sat upon its father\u2019s knee as in the palaces of\nnobles, and looked out from its home in the midst of wet and hunger\ninquisitively upon the stranger, with the privilege of infancy, not\nknowing but it was the last of a noble line, and the hope and cynosure\nof the world, instead of John Field\u2019s poor starveling brat. There we\nsat together under that part of the roof which leaked the least, while\nit showered and thundered without. I had sat there many times of old\nbefore the ship was built that floated his family to America. An\nhonest, hard-working, but shiftless man plainly was John Field; and his\nwife, she too was brave to cook so many successive dinners in the\nrecesses of that lofty stove; with round greasy face and bare breast,\nstill thinking to improve her condition one day; with the never absent\nmop in one hand, and yet no effects of it visible anywhere. The\nchickens, which had also taken shelter here from the rain, stalked\nabout the room like members of the family, too humanized methought to\nroast well. They stood and looked in my eye or pecked at my shoe\nsignificantly. Meanwhile my host told me his story, how hard he worked\n\u201cbogging\u201d for a neighboring farmer, turning up a meadow with a spade or\nbog hoe at the rate of ten dollars an acre and the use of the land with\nmanure for one year, and his little broad-faced son worked cheerfully\nat his father\u2019s side the while, not knowing how poor a bargain the\nlatter had made. I tried to help him with my experience, telling him\nthat he was one of my nearest neighbors, and that I too, who came\na-fishing here, and looked like a loafer, was getting my living like\nhimself; that I lived in a tight, light, and clean house, which hardly\ncost more than the annual rent of such a ruin as his commonly amounts\nto; and how, if he chose, he might in a month or two build himself a\npalace of his own; that I did not use tea, nor coffee, nor butter, nor\nmilk, nor fresh meat, and so did not have to work to get them; again,\nas I did not work hard, I did not have to eat hard, and it cost me but\na trifle for my food; but as he began with tea, and coffee, and butter,\nand milk, and beef, he had to work hard to pay for them, and when he\nhad worked hard he had to eat hard again to repair the waste of his\nsystem,\u2014and so it was as broad as it was long, indeed it was broader\nthan it was long, for he was discontented and wasted his life into the\nbargain; and yet he had rated it as a gain in coming to America, that\nhere you could get tea, and coffee, and meat every day. But the only\ntrue America is that country where you are at liberty to pursue such a\nmode of life as may enable you to do without these, and where the state\ndoes not endeavor to compel you to sustain the slavery and war and\nother superfluous expenses which directly or indirectly result from the\nuse of such things. For I purposely talked to him as if he were a\nphilosopher, or desired to be one. I should be glad if all the meadows\non the earth were left in a wild state, if that were the consequence of\nmen\u2019s beginning to redeem themselves. A man will not need to study\nhistory to find out what is best for his own culture. But alas! the\nculture of an Irishman is an enterprise to be undertaken with a sort of\nmoral bog hoe. I told him, that as he worked so hard at bogging, he\nrequired thick boots and stout clothing, which yet were soon soiled and\nworn out, but I wore light shoes and thin clothing, which cost not half\nso much, though he might think that I was dressed like a gentleman,\n(which, however, was not the case,) and in an hour or two, without\nlabor, but as a recreation, I could, if I wished, catch as many fish as\nI should want for two days, or earn enough money to support me a week.\nIf he and his family would live simply, they might all go\na-huckleberrying in the summer for their amusement. John heaved a sigh\nat this, and his wife stared with arms a-kimbo, and both appeared to be\nwondering if they had capital enough to begin such a course with, or\narithmetic enough to carry it through. It was sailing by dead reckoning\nto them, and they saw not clearly how to make their port so; therefore\nI suppose they still take life bravely, after their fashion, face to\nface, giving it tooth and nail, not having skill to split its massive\ncolumns with any fine entering wedge, and rout it in detail;\u2014thinking\nto deal with it roughly, as one should handle a thistle. But they fight\nat an overwhelming disadvantage,\u2014living, John Field, alas! without\narithmetic, and failing so.\n\n\u201cDo you ever fish?\u201d I asked. \u201cOh yes, I catch a mess now and then when\nI am lying by; good perch I catch.\u201d \u201cWhat\u2019s your bait?\u201d \u201cI catch\nshiners with fish-worms, and bait the perch with them.\u201d \u201cYou\u2019d better\ngo now, John,\u201d said his wife, with glistening and hopeful face; but\nJohn demurred.\n\nThe shower was now over, and a rainbow above the eastern woods promised\na fair evening; so I took my departure. When I had got without I asked\nfor a drink, hoping to get a sight of the well bottom, to complete my\nsurvey of the premises; but there, alas! are shallows and quicksands,\nand rope broken withal, and bucket irrecoverable. Meanwhile the right\nculinary vessel was selected, water was seemingly distilled, and after\nconsultation and long delay passed out to the thirsty one,\u2014not yet\nsuffered to cool, not yet to settle. Such gruel sustains life here, I\nthought; so, shutting my eyes, and excluding the motes by a skilfully\ndirected under-current, I drank to genuine hospitality the heartiest\ndraught I could. I am not squeamish in such cases when manners are\nconcerned.\n\nAs I was leaving the Irishman\u2019s roof after the rain, bending my steps\nagain to the pond, my haste to catch pickerel, wading in retired\nmeadows, in sloughs and bog-holes, in forlorn and savage places,\nappeared for an instant trivial to me who had been sent to school and\ncollege; but as I ran down the hill toward the reddening west, with the\nrainbow over my shoulder, and some faint tinkling sounds borne to my\near through the cleansed air, from I know not what quarter, my Good\nGenius seemed to say,\u2014Go fish and hunt far and wide day by day,\u2014farther\nand wider,\u2014and rest thee by many brooks and hearth-sides without\nmisgiving. Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth. Rise free\nfrom care before the dawn, and seek adventures. Let the noon find thee\nby other lakes, and the night overtake thee everywhere at home. There\nare no larger fields than these, no worthier games than may here be\nplayed. Grow wild according to thy nature, like these sedges and\nbrakes, which will never become English hay. Let the thunder rumble;\nwhat if it threaten ruin to farmers\u2019 crops? that is not its errand to\nthee. Take shelter under the cloud, while they flee to carts and sheds.\nLet not to get a living be thy trade, but thy sport. Enjoy the land,\nbut own it not. Through want of enterprise and faith men are where they\nare, buying and selling, and spending their lives like serfs.\n\nO Baker Farm!\n\n     \u201cLandscape where the richest element\n     Is a little sunshine innocent.\u201d * *\n\n     \u201cNo one runs to revel\n     On thy rail-fenced lea.\u201d * *\n\n     \u201cDebate with no man hast thou,\n         With questions art never perplexed,\n     As tame at the first sight as now,\n         In thy plain russet gabardine dressed.\u201d * *\n\n     \u201cCome ye who love,\n         And ye who hate,\n     Children of the Holy Dove,\n         And Guy Faux of the state,\n     And hang conspiracies\n     From the tough rafters of the trees!\u201d\n\nMen come tamely home at night only from the next field or street, where\ntheir household echoes haunt, and their life pines because it breathes\nits own breath over again; their shadows morning and evening reach\nfarther than their daily steps. We should come home from far, from\nadventures, and perils, and discoveries every day, with new experience\nand character.\n\nBefore I had reached the pond some fresh impulse had brought out John\nField, with altered mind, letting go \u201cbogging\u201d ere this sunset. But he,\npoor man, disturbed only a couple of fins while I was catching a fair\nstring, and he said it was his luck; but when we changed seats in the\nboat luck changed seats too. Poor John Field!\u2014I trust he does not read\nthis, unless he will improve by it,\u2014thinking to live by some derivative\nold country mode in this primitive new country,\u2014to catch perch with\nshiners. It is good bait sometimes, I allow. With his horizon all his\nown, yet he a poor man, born to be poor, with his inherited Irish\npoverty or poor life, his Adam\u2019s grandmother and boggy ways, not to\nrise in this world, he nor his posterity, till their wading webbed\nbog-trotting feet get _talaria_ to their heels.\n\n\nHigher Laws\n\nAs I came home through the woods with my string of fish, trailing my\npole, it being now quite dark, I caught a glimpse of a woodchuck\nstealing across my path, and felt a strange thrill of savage delight,\nand was strongly tempted to seize and devour him raw; not that I was\nhungry then, except for that wildness which he represented. Once or\ntwice, however, while I lived at the pond, I found myself ranging the\nwoods, like a half-starved hound, with a strange abandonment, seeking\nsome kind of venison which I might devour, and no morsel could have\nbeen too savage for me. The wildest scenes had become unaccountably\nfamiliar. I found in myself, and still find, an instinct toward a\nhigher, or, as it is named, spiritual life, as do most men, and another\ntoward a primitive rank and savage one, and I reverence them both. I\nlove the wild not less than the good. The wildness and adventure that\nare in fishing still recommended it to me. I like sometimes to take\nrank hold on life and spend my day more as the animals do. Perhaps I\nhave owed to this employment and to hunting, when quite young, my\nclosest acquaintance with Nature. They early introduce us to and detain\nus in scenery with which otherwise, at that age, we should have little\nacquaintance. Fishermen, hunters, woodchoppers, and others, spending\ntheir lives in the fields and woods, in a peculiar sense a part of\nNature themselves, are often in a more favorable mood for observing\nher, in the intervals of their pursuits, than philosophers or poets\neven, who approach her with expectation. She is not afraid to exhibit\nherself to them. The traveller on the prairie is naturally a hunter, on\nthe head waters of the Missouri and Columbia a trapper, and at the\nFalls of St. Mary a fisherman. He who is only a traveller learns things\nat second-hand and by the halves, and is poor authority. We are most\ninterested when science reports what those men already know practically\nor instinctively, for that alone is a true _humanity_, or account of\nhuman experience.\n\nThey mistake who assert that the Yankee has few amusements, because he\nhas not so many public holidays, and men and boys do not play so many\ngames as they do in England, for here the more primitive but solitary\namusements of hunting fishing and the like have not yet given place to\nthe former. Almost every New England boy among my contemporaries\nshouldered a fowling piece between the ages of ten and fourteen; and\nhis hunting and fishing grounds were not limited, like the preserves of\nan English nobleman, but were more boundless even than those of a\nsavage. No wonder, then, that he did not oftener stay to play on the\ncommon. But already a change is taking place, owing, not to an\nincreased humanity, but to an increased scarcity of game, for perhaps\nthe hunter is the greatest friend of the animals hunted, not excepting\nthe Humane Society.\n\nMoreover, when at the pond, I wished sometimes to add fish to my fare\nfor variety. I have actually fished from the same kind of necessity\nthat the first fishers did. Whatever humanity I might conjure up\nagainst it was all factitious, and concerned my philosophy more than my\nfeelings. I speak of fishing only now, for I had long felt differently\nabout fowling, and sold my gun before I went to the woods. Not that I\nam less humane than others, but I did not perceive that my feelings\nwere much affected. I did not pity the fishes nor the worms. This was\nhabit. As for fowling, during the last years that I carried a gun my\nexcuse was that I was studying ornithology, and sought only new or rare\nbirds. But I confess that I am now inclined to think that there is a\nfiner way of studying ornithology than this. It requires so much closer\nattention to the habits of the birds, that, if for that reason only, I\nhave been willing to omit the gun. Yet notwithstanding the objection on\nthe score of humanity, I am compelled to doubt if equally valuable\nsports are ever substituted for these; and when some of my friends have\nasked me anxiously about their boys, whether they should let them hunt,\nI have answered, yes,\u2014remembering that it was one of the best parts of\nmy education,\u2014_make_ them hunters, though sportsmen only at first, if\npossible, mighty hunters at last, so that they shall not find game\nlarge enough for them in this or any vegetable wilderness,\u2014hunters as\nwell as fishers of men. Thus far I am of the opinion of Chaucer\u2019s nun,\nwho\n\n     \u201cyave not of the text a pulled hen\n     That saith that hunters ben not holy men.\u201d\n\nThere is a period in the history of the individual, as of the race,\nwhen the hunters are the \u201cbest men,\u201d as the Algonquins called them. We\ncannot but pity the boy who has never fired a gun; he is no more\nhumane, while his education has been sadly neglected. This was my\nanswer with respect to those youths who were bent on this pursuit,\ntrusting that they would soon outgrow it. No humane being, past the\nthoughtless age of boyhood, will wantonly murder any creature which\nholds its life by the same tenure that he does. The hare in its\nextremity cries like a child. I warn you, mothers, that my sympathies\ndo not always make the usual phil-_anthropic_ distinctions.\n\nSuch is oftenest the young man\u2019s introduction to the forest, and the\nmost original part of himself. He goes thither at first as a hunter and\nfisher, until at last, if he has the seeds of a better life in him, he\ndistinguishes his proper objects, as a poet or naturalist it may be,\nand leaves the gun and fish-pole behind. The mass of men are still and\nalways young in this respect. In some countries a hunting parson is no\nuncommon sight. Such a one might make a good shepherd\u2019s dog, but is far\nfrom being the Good Shepherd. I have been surprised to consider that\nthe only obvious employment, except wood-chopping, ice-cutting, or the\nlike business, which ever to my knowledge detained at Walden Pond for a\nwhole half day any of my fellow-citizens, whether fathers or children\nof the town, with just one exception, was fishing. Commonly they did\nnot think that they were lucky, or well paid for their time, unless\nthey got a long string of fish, though they had the opportunity of\nseeing the pond all the while. They might go there a thousand times\nbefore the sediment of fishing would sink to the bottom and leave their\npurpose pure; but no doubt such a clarifying process would be going on\nall the while. The governor and his council faintly remember the pond,\nfor they went a-fishing there when they were boys; but now they are too\nold and dignified to go a-fishing, and so they know it no more forever.\nYet even they expect to go to heaven at last. If the legislature\nregards it, it is chiefly to regulate the number of hooks to be used\nthere; but they know nothing about the hook of hooks with which to\nangle for the pond itself, impaling the legislature for a bait. Thus,\neven in civilized communities, the embryo man passes through the hunter\nstage of development.\n\nI have found repeatedly, of late years, that I cannot fish without\nfalling a little in self-respect. I have tried it again and again. I\nhave skill at it, and, like many of my fellows, a certain instinct for\nit, which revives from time to time, but always when I have done I feel\nthat it would have been better if I had not fished. I think that I do\nnot mistake. It is a faint intimation, yet so are the first streaks of\nmorning. There is unquestionably this instinct in me which belongs to\nthe lower orders of creation; yet with every year I am less a\nfisherman, though without more humanity or even wisdom; at present I am\nno fisherman at all. But I see that if I were to live in a wilderness I\nshould again be tempted to become a fisher and hunter in earnest.\nBeside, there is something essentially unclean about this diet and all\nflesh, and I began to see where housework commences, and whence the\nendeavor, which costs so much, to wear a tidy and respectable\nappearance each day, to keep the house sweet and free from all ill\nodors and sights. Having been my own butcher and scullion and cook, as\nwell as the gentleman for whom the dishes were served up, I can speak\nfrom an unusually complete experience. The practical objection to\nanimal food in my case was its uncleanness; and, besides, when I had\ncaught and cleaned and cooked and eaten my fish, they seemed not to\nhave fed me essentially. It was insignificant and unnecessary, and cost\nmore than it came to. A little bread or a few potatoes would have done\nas well, with less trouble and filth. Like many of my contemporaries, I\nhad rarely for many years used animal food, or tea, or coffee, &c.; not\nso much because of any ill effects which I had traced to them, as\nbecause they were not agreeable to my imagination. The repugnance to\nanimal food is not the effect of experience, but is an instinct. It\nappeared more beautiful to live low and fare hard in many respects; and\nthough I never did so, I went far enough to please my imagination. I\nbelieve that every man who has ever been earnest to preserve his higher\nor poetic faculties in the best condition has been particularly\ninclined to abstain from animal food, and from much food of any kind.\nIt is a significant fact, stated by entomologists, I find it in Kirby\nand Spence, that \u201csome insects in their perfect state, though furnished\nwith organs of feeding, make no use of them;\u201d and they lay it down as\n\u201ca general rule, that almost all insects in this state eat much less\nthan in that of larv\u00e6. The voracious caterpillar when transformed into\na butterfly,\u201d . . \u201cand the gluttonous maggot when become a fly,\u201d\ncontent themselves with a drop or two of honey or some other sweet\nliquid. The abdomen under the wings of the butterfly still represents\nthe larva. This is the tid-bit which tempts his insectivorous fate. The\ngross feeder is a man in the larva state; and there are whole nations\nin that condition, nations without fancy or imagination, whose vast\nabdomens betray them.\n\nIt is hard to provide and cook so simple and clean a diet as will not\noffend the imagination; but this, I think, is to be fed when we feed\nthe body; they should both sit down at the same table. Yet perhaps this\nmay be done. The fruits eaten temperately need not make us ashamed of\nour appetites, nor interrupt the worthiest pursuits. But put an extra\ncondiment into your dish, and it will poison you. It is not worth the\nwhile to live by rich cookery. Most men would feel shame if caught\npreparing with their own hands precisely such a dinner, whether of\nanimal or vegetable food, as is every day prepared for them by others.\nYet till this is otherwise we are not civilized, and, if gentlemen and\nladies, are not true men and women. This certainly suggests what change\nis to be made. It may be vain to ask why the imagination will not be\nreconciled to flesh and fat. I am satisfied that it is not. Is it not a\nreproach that man is a carnivorous animal? True, he can and does live,\nin a great measure, by preying on other animals; but this is a\nmiserable way,\u2014as any one who will go to snaring rabbits, or\nslaughtering lambs, may learn,\u2014and he will be regarded as a benefactor\nof his race who shall teach man to confine himself to a more innocent\nand wholesome diet. Whatever my own practice may be, I have no doubt\nthat it is a part of the destiny of the human race, in its gradual\nimprovement, to leave off eating animals, as surely as the savage\ntribes have left off eating each other when they came in contact with\nthe more civilized.\n\nIf one listens to the faintest but constant suggestions of his genius,\nwhich are certainly true, he sees not to what extremes, or even\ninsanity, it may lead him; and yet that way, as he grows more resolute\nand faithful, his road lies. The faintest assured objection which one\nhealthy man feels will at length prevail over the arguments and customs\nof mankind. No man ever followed his genius till it misled him. Though\nthe result were bodily weakness, yet perhaps no one can say that the\nconsequences were to be regretted, for these were a life in conformity\nto higher principles. If the day and the night are such that you greet\nthem with joy, and life emits a fragrance like flowers and\nsweet-scented herbs, is more elastic, more starry, more immortal,\u2014that\nis your success. All nature is your congratulation, and you have cause\nmomentarily to bless yourself. The greatest gains and values are\nfarthest from being appreciated. We easily come to doubt if they exist.\nWe soon forget them. They are the highest reality. Perhaps the facts\nmost astounding and most real are never communicated by man to man. The\ntrue harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and\nindescribable as the tints of morning or evening. It is a little\nstar-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched.\n\nYet, for my part, I was never unusually squeamish; I could sometimes\neat a fried rat with a good relish, if it were necessary. I am glad to\nhave drunk water so long, for the same reason that I prefer the natural\nsky to an opium-eater\u2019s heaven. I would fain keep sober always; and\nthere are infinite degrees of drunkenness. I believe that water is the\nonly drink for a wise man; wine is not so noble a liquor; and think of\ndashing the hopes of a morning with a cup of warm coffee, or of an\nevening with a dish of tea! Ah, how low I fall when I am tempted by\nthem! Even music may be intoxicating. Such apparently slight causes\ndestroyed Greece and Rome, and will destroy England and America. Of all\nebriosity, who does not prefer to be intoxicated by the air he\nbreathes? I have found it to be the most serious objection to coarse\nlabors long continued, that they compelled me to eat and drink coarsely\nalso. But to tell the truth, I find myself at present somewhat less\nparticular in these respects. I carry less religion to the table, ask\nno blessing; not because I am wiser than I was, but, I am obliged to\nconfess, because, however much it is to be regretted, with years I have\ngrown more coarse and indifferent. Perhaps these questions are\nentertained only in youth, as most believe of poetry. My practice is\n\u201cnowhere,\u201d my opinion is here. Nevertheless I am far from regarding\nmyself as one of those privileged ones to whom the Ved refers when it\nsays, that \u201che who has true faith in the Omnipresent Supreme Being may\neat all that exists,\u201d that is, is not bound to inquire what is his\nfood, or who prepares it; and even in their case it is to be observed,\nas a Hindoo commentator has remarked, that the Vedant limits this\nprivilege to \u201cthe time of distress.\u201d\n\nWho has not sometimes derived an inexpressible satisfaction from his\nfood in which appetite had no share? I have been thrilled to think that\nI owed a mental perception to the commonly gross sense of taste, that I\nhave been inspired through the palate, that some berries which I had\neaten on a hill-side had fed my genius. \u201cThe soul not being mistress of\nherself,\u201d says Thseng-tseu, \u201cone looks, and one does not see; one\nlistens, and one does not hear; one eats, and one does not know the\nsavor of food.\u201d He who distinguishes the true savor of his food can\nnever be a glutton; he who does not cannot be otherwise. A puritan may\ngo to his brown-bread crust with as gross an appetite as ever an\nalderman to his turtle. Not that food which entereth into the mouth\ndefileth a man, but the appetite with which it is eaten. It is neither\nthe quality nor the quantity, but the devotion to sensual savors; when\nthat which is eaten is not a viand to sustain our animal, or inspire\nour spiritual life, but food for the worms that possess us. If the\nhunter has a taste for mud-turtles, muskrats, and other such savage\ntid-bits, the fine lady indulges a taste for jelly made of a calf\u2019s\nfoot, or for sardines from over the sea, and they are even. He goes to\nthe mill-pond, she to her preserve-pot. The wonder is how they, how you\nand I, can live this slimy, beastly life, eating and drinking.\n\nOur whole life is startlingly moral. There is never an instant\u2019s truce\nbetween virtue and vice. Goodness is the only investment that never\nfails. In the music of the harp which trembles round the world it is\nthe insisting on this which thrills us. The harp is the travelling\npatterer for the Universe\u2019s Insurance Company, recommending its laws,\nand our little goodness is all the assessment that we pay. Though the\nyouth at last grows indifferent, the laws of the universe are not\nindifferent, but are forever on the side of the most sensitive. Listen\nto every zephyr for some reproof, for it is surely there, and he is\nunfortunate who does not hear it. We cannot touch a string or move a\nstop but the charming moral transfixes us. Many an irksome noise, go a\nlong way off, is heard as music, a proud sweet satire on the meanness\nof our lives.\n\nWe are conscious of an animal in us, which awakens in proportion as our\nhigher nature slumbers. It is reptile and sensual, and perhaps cannot\nbe wholly expelled; like the worms which, even in life and health,\noccupy our bodies. Possibly we may withdraw from it, but never change\nits nature. I fear that it may enjoy a certain health of its own; that\nwe may be well, yet not pure. The other day I picked up the lower jaw\nof a hog, with white and sound teeth and tusks, which suggested that\nthere was an animal health and vigor distinct from the spiritual. This\ncreature succeeded by other means than temperance and purity. \u201cThat in\nwhich men differ from brute beasts,\u201d says Mencius, \u201cis a thing very\ninconsiderable; the common herd lose it very soon; superior men\npreserve it carefully.\u201d Who knows what sort of life would result if we\nhad attained to purity? If I knew so wise a man as could teach me\npurity I would go to seek him forthwith. \u201cA command over our passions,\nand over the external senses of the body, and good acts, are declared\nby the Ved to be indispensable in the mind\u2019s approximation to God.\u201d Yet\nthe spirit can for the time pervade and control every member and\nfunction of the body, and transmute what in form is the grossest\nsensuality into purity and devotion. The generative energy, which, when\nwe are loose, dissipates and makes us unclean, when we are continent\ninvigorates and inspires us. Chastity is the flowering of man; and what\nare called Genius, Heroism, Holiness, and the like, are but various\nfruits which succeed it. Man flows at once to God when the channel of\npurity is open. By turns our purity inspires and our impurity casts us\ndown. He is blessed who is assured that the animal is dying out in him\nday by day, and the divine being established. Perhaps there is none but\nhas cause for shame on account of the inferior and brutish nature to\nwhich he is allied. I fear that we are such gods or demigods only as\nfauns and satyrs, the divine allied to beasts, the creatures of\nappetite, and that, to some extent, our very life is our disgrace.\u2014\n\n     \u201cHow happy\u2019s he who hath due place assigned\n     To his beasts and disafforested his mind!\n                *    *    *    *    *\n     Can use this horse, goat, wolf, and ev\u2019ry beast,\n     And is not ass himself to all the rest!\n     Else man not only is the herd of swine,\n     But he\u2019s those devils too which did incline\n     Them to a headlong rage, and made them worse.\u201d\n\nAll sensuality is one, though it takes many forms; all purity is one.\nIt is the same whether a man eat, or drink, or cohabit, or sleep\nsensually. They are but one appetite, and we only need to see a person\ndo any one of these things to know how great a sensualist he is. The\nimpure can neither stand nor sit with purity. When the reptile is\nattacked at one mouth of his burrow, he shows himself at another. If\nyou would be chaste, you must be temperate. What is chastity? How shall\na man know if he is chaste? He shall not know it. We have heard of this\nvirtue, but we know not what it is. We speak conformably to the rumor\nwhich we have heard. From exertion come wisdom and purity; from sloth\nignorance and sensuality. In the student sensuality is a sluggish habit\nof mind. An unclean person is universally a slothful one, one who sits\nby a stove, whom the sun shines on prostrate, who reposes without being\nfatigued. If you would avoid uncleanness, and all the sins, work\nearnestly, though it be at cleaning a stable. Nature is hard to be\novercome, but she must be overcome. What avails it that you are\nChristian, if you are not purer than the heathen, if you deny yourself\nno more, if you are not more religious? I know of many systems of\nreligion esteemed heathenish whose precepts fill the reader with shame,\nand provoke him to new endeavors, though it be to the performance of\nrites merely.\n\nI hesitate to say these things, but it is not because of the subject,\u2014I\ncare not how obscene my _words_ are,\u2014but because I cannot speak of them\nwithout betraying my impurity. We discourse freely without shame of one\nform of sensuality, and are silent about another. We are so degraded\nthat we cannot speak simply of the necessary functions of human nature.\nIn earlier ages, in some countries, every function was reverently\nspoken of and regulated by law. Nothing was too trivial for the Hindoo\nlawgiver, however offensive it may be to modern taste. He teaches how\nto eat, drink, cohabit, void excrement and urine, and the like,\nelevating what is mean, and does not falsely excuse himself by calling\nthese things trifles.\n\nEvery man is the builder of a temple, called his body, to the god he\nworships, after a style purely his own, nor can he get off by hammering\nmarble instead. We are all sculptors and painters, and our material is\nour own flesh and blood and bones. Any nobleness begins at once to\nrefine a man\u2019s features, any meanness or sensuality to imbrute them.\n\nJohn Farmer sat at his door one September evening, after a hard day\u2019s\nwork, his mind still running on his labor more or less. Having bathed,\nhe sat down to re-create his intellectual man. It was a rather cool\nevening, and some of his neighbors were apprehending a frost. He had\nnot attended to the train of his thoughts long when he heard some one\nplaying on a flute, and that sound harmonized with his mood. Still he\nthought of his work; but the burden of his thought was, that though\nthis kept running in his head, and he found himself planning and\ncontriving it against his will, yet it concerned him very little. It\nwas no more than the scurf of his skin, which was constantly shuffled\noff. But the notes of the flute came home to his ears out of a\ndifferent sphere from that he worked in, and suggested work for certain\nfaculties which slumbered in him. They gently did away with the street,\nand the village, and the state in which he lived. A voice said to\nhim,\u2014Why do you stay here and live this mean moiling life, when a\nglorious existence is possible for you? Those same stars twinkle over\nother fields than these.\u2014But how to come out of this condition and\nactually migrate thither? All that he could think of was to practise\nsome new austerity, to let his mind descend into his body and redeem\nit, and treat himself with ever increasing respect.\n\n\nBrute Neighbors\n\nSometimes I had a companion in my fishing, who came through the village\nto my house from the other side of the town, and the catching of the\ndinner was as much a social exercise as the eating of it.\n\n_Hermit._ I wonder what the world is doing now. I have not heard so\nmuch as a locust over the sweet-fern these three hours. The pigeons are\nall asleep upon their roosts,\u2014no flutter from them. Was that a farmer\u2019s\nnoon horn which sounded from beyond the woods just now? The hands are\ncoming in to boiled salt beef and cider and Indian bread. Why will men\nworry themselves so? He that does not eat need not work. I wonder how\nmuch they have reaped. Who would live there where a body can never\nthink for the barking of Bose? And O, the housekeeping! to keep bright\nthe devil\u2019s door-knobs, and scour his tubs this bright day! Better not\nkeep a house. Say, some hollow tree; and then for morning calls and\ndinner-parties! Only a woodpecker tapping. O, they swarm; the sun is\ntoo warm there; they are born too far into life for me. I have water\nfrom the spring, and a loaf of brown bread on the shelf.\u2014Hark! I hear a\nrustling of the leaves. Is it some ill-fed village hound yielding to\nthe instinct of the chase? or the lost pig which is said to be in these\nwoods, whose tracks I saw after the rain? It comes on apace; my sumachs\nand sweet-briers tremble.\u2014Eh, Mr. Poet, is it you? How do you like the\nworld to-day?\n\n_Poet._ See those clouds; how they hang! That\u2019s the greatest thing I\nhave seen to-day. There\u2019s nothing like it in old paintings, nothing\nlike it in foreign lands,\u2014unless when we were off the coast of Spain.\nThat\u2019s a true Mediterranean sky. I thought, as I have my living to get,\nand have not eaten to-day, that I might go a-fishing. That\u2019s the true\nindustry for poets. It is the only trade I have learned. Come, let\u2019s\nalong.\n\n_Hermit._ I cannot resist. My brown bread will soon be gone. I will go\nwith you gladly soon, but I am just concluding a serious meditation. I\nthink that I am near the end of it. Leave me alone, then, for a while.\nBut that we may not be delayed, you shall be digging the bait\nmeanwhile. Angle-worms are rarely to be met with in these parts, where\nthe soil was never fattened with manure; the race is nearly extinct.\nThe sport of digging the bait is nearly equal to that of catching the\nfish, when one\u2019s appetite is not too keen; and this you may have all to\nyourself to-day. I would advise you to set in the spade down yonder\namong the ground-nuts, where you see the johnswort waving. I think that\nI may warrant you one worm to every three sods you turn up, if you look\nwell in among the roots of the grass, as if you were weeding. Or, if\nyou choose to go farther, it will not be unwise, for I have found the\nincrease of fair bait to be very nearly as the squares of the\ndistances.\n\n_Hermit alone._ Let me see; where was I? Methinks I was nearly in this\nframe of mind; the world lay about at this angle. Shall I go to heaven\nor a-fishing? If I should soon bring this meditation to an end, would\nanother so sweet occasion be likely to offer? I was as near being\nresolved into the essence of things as ever I was in my life. I fear my\nthoughts will not come back to me. If it would do any good, I would\nwhistle for them. When they make us an offer, is it wise to say, We\nwill think of it? My thoughts have left no track, and I cannot find the\npath again. What was it that I was thinking of? It was a very hazy day.\nI will just try these three sentences of Con-fut-see; they may fetch\nthat state about again. I know not whether it was the dumps or a\nbudding ecstasy. Mem. There never is but one opportunity of a kind.\n\n_Poet._ How now, Hermit, is it too soon? I have got just thirteen whole\nones, beside several which are imperfect or undersized; but they will\ndo for the smaller fry; they do not cover up the hook so much. Those\nvillage worms are quite too large; a shiner may make a meal off one\nwithout finding the skewer.\n\n_Hermit._ Well, then, let\u2019s be off. Shall we to the Concord? There\u2019s\ngood sport there if the water be not too high.\n\n\n\nWhy do precisely these objects which we behold make a world? Why has\nman just these species of animals for his neighbors; as if nothing but\na mouse could have filled this crevice? I suspect that Pilpay & Co.\nhave put animals to their best use, for they are all beasts of burden,\nin a sense, made to carry some portion of our thoughts.\n\nThe mice which haunted my house were not the common ones, which are\nsaid to have been introduced into the country, but a wild native kind\nnot found in the village. I sent one to a distinguished naturalist, and\nit interested him much. When I was building, one of these had its nest\nunderneath the house, and before I had laid the second floor, and swept\nout the shavings, would come out regularly at lunch time and pick up\nthe crumbs at my feet. It probably had never seen a man before; and it\nsoon became quite familiar, and would run over my shoes and up my\nclothes. It could readily ascend the sides of the room by short\nimpulses, like a squirrel, which it resembled in its motions. At\nlength, as I leaned with my elbow on the bench one day, it ran up my\nclothes, and along my sleeve, and round and round the paper which held\nmy dinner, while I kept the latter close, and dodged and played at\nbopeep with it; and when at last I held still a piece of cheese between\nmy thumb and finger, it came and nibbled it, sitting in my hand, and\nafterward cleaned its face and paws, like a fly, and walked away.\n\nA ph\u0153be soon built in my shed, and a robin for protection in a pine\nwhich grew against the house. In June the partridge (_Tetrao\numbellus_,) which is so shy a bird, led her brood past my windows, from\nthe woods in the rear to the front of my house, clucking and calling to\nthem like a hen, and in all her behavior proving herself the hen of the\nwoods. The young suddenly disperse on your approach, at a signal from\nthe mother, as if a whirlwind had swept them away, and they so exactly\nresemble the dried leaves and twigs that many a traveler has placed his\nfoot in the midst of a brood, and heard the whir of the old bird as she\nflew off, and her anxious calls and mewing, or seen her trail her wings\nto attract his attention, without suspecting their neighborhood. The\nparent will sometimes roll and spin round before you in such a\ndishabille, that you cannot, for a few moments, detect what kind of\ncreature it is. The young squat still and flat, often running their\nheads under a leaf, and mind only their mother\u2019s directions given from\na distance, nor will your approach make them run again and betray\nthemselves. You may even tread on them, or have your eyes on them for a\nminute, without discovering them. I have held them in my open hand at\nsuch a time, and still their only care, obedient to their mother and\ntheir instinct, was to squat there without fear or trembling. So\nperfect is this instinct, that once, when I had laid them on the leaves\nagain, and one accidentally fell on its side, it was found with the\nrest in exactly the same position ten minutes afterward. They are not\ncallow like the young of most birds, but more perfectly developed and\nprecocious even than chickens. The remarkably adult yet innocent\nexpression of their open and serene eyes is very memorable. All\nintelligence seems reflected in them. They suggest not merely the\npurity of infancy, but a wisdom clarified by experience. Such an eye\nwas not born when the bird was, but is coeval with the sky it reflects.\nThe woods do not yield another such a gem. The traveller does not often\nlook into such a limpid well. The ignorant or reckless sportsman often\nshoots the parent at such a time, and leaves these innocents to fall a\nprey to some prowling beast or bird, or gradually mingle with the\ndecaying leaves which they so much resemble. It is said that when\nhatched by a hen they will directly disperse on some alarm, and so are\nlost, for they never hear the mother\u2019s call which gathers them again.\nThese were my hens and chickens.\n\nIt is remarkable how many creatures live wild and free though secret in\nthe woods, and still sustain themselves in the neighborhood of towns,\nsuspected by hunters only. How retired the otter manages to live here!\nHe grows to be four feet long, as big as a small boy, perhaps without\nany human being getting a glimpse of him. I formerly saw the raccoon in\nthe woods behind where my house is built, and probably still heard\ntheir whinnering at night. Commonly I rested an hour or two in the\nshade at noon, after planting, and ate my lunch, and read a little by a\nspring which was the source of a swamp and of a brook, oozing from\nunder Brister\u2019s Hill, half a mile from my field. The approach to this\nwas through a succession of descending grassy hollows, full of young\npitch-pines, into a larger wood about the swamp. There, in a very\nsecluded and shaded spot, under a spreading white-pine, there was yet a\nclean, firm sward to sit on. I had dug out the spring and made a well\nof clear gray water, where I could dip up a pailful without roiling it,\nand thither I went for this purpose almost every day in midsummer, when\nthe pond was warmest. Thither, too, the wood-cock led her brood, to\nprobe the mud for worms, flying but a foot above them down the bank,\nwhile they ran in a troop beneath; but at last, spying me, she would\nleave her young and circle round and round me, nearer and nearer till\nwithin four or five feet, pretending broken wings and legs, to attract\nmy attention, and get off her young, who would already have taken up\ntheir march, with faint wiry peep, single file through the swamp, as\nshe directed. Or I heard the peep of the young when I could not see the\nparent bird. There too the turtle-doves sat over the spring, or\nfluttered from bough to bough of the soft white-pines over my head; or\nthe red squirrel, coursing down the nearest bough, was particularly\nfamiliar and inquisitive. You only need sit still long enough in some\nattractive spot in the woods that all its inhabitants may exhibit\nthemselves to you by turns.\n\nI was witness to events of a less peaceful character. One day when I\nwent out to my wood-pile, or rather my pile of stumps, I observed two\nlarge ants, the one red, the other much larger, nearly half an inch\nlong, and black, fiercely contending with one another. Having once got\nhold they never let go, but struggled and wrestled and rolled on the\nchips incessantly. Looking farther, I was surprised to find that the\nchips were covered with such combatants, that it was not a _duellum_,\nbut a _bellum_, a war between two races of ants, the red always pitted\nagainst the black, and frequently two red ones to one black. The\nlegions of these Myrmidons covered all the hills and vales in my\nwood-yard, and the ground was already strewn with the dead and dying,\nboth red and black. It was the only battle which I have ever witnessed,\nthe only battle-field I ever trod while the battle was raging;\ninternecine war; the red republicans on the one hand, and the black\nimperialists on the other. On every side they were engaged in deadly\ncombat, yet without any noise that I could hear, and human soldiers\nnever fought so resolutely. I watched a couple that were fast locked in\neach other\u2019s embraces, in a little sunny valley amid the chips, now at\nnoon-day prepared to fight till the sun went down, or life went out.\nThe smaller red champion had fastened himself like a vice to his\nadversary\u2019s front, and through all the tumblings on that field never\nfor an instant ceased to gnaw at one of his feelers near the root,\nhaving already caused the other to go by the board; while the stronger\nblack one dashed him from side to side, and, as I saw on looking\nnearer, had already divested him of several of his members. They fought\nwith more pertinacity than bull-dogs. Neither manifested the least\ndisposition to retreat. It was evident that their battle-cry was\nConquer or die. In the mean while there came along a single red ant on\nthe hill-side of this valley, evidently full of excitement, who either\nhad despatched his foe, or had not yet taken part in the battle;\nprobably the latter, for he had lost none of his limbs; whose mother\nhad charged him to return with his shield or upon it. Or perchance he\nwas some Achilles, who had nourished his wrath apart, and had now come\nto avenge or rescue his Patroclus. He saw this unequal combat from\nafar,\u2014for the blacks were nearly twice the size of the red,\u2014he drew\nnear with rapid pace till he stood on his guard within half an inch of\nthe combatants; then, watching his opportunity, he sprang upon the\nblack warrior, and commenced his operations near the root of his right\nfore-leg, leaving the foe to select among his own members; and so there\nwere three united for life, as if a new kind of attraction had been\ninvented which put all other locks and cements to shame. I should not\nhave wondered by this time to find that they had their respective\nmusical bands stationed on some eminent chip, and playing their\nnational airs the while, to excite the slow and cheer the dying\ncombatants. I was myself excited somewhat even as if they had been men.\nThe more you think of it, the less the difference. And certainly there\nis not the fight recorded in Concord history, at least, if in the\nhistory of America, that will bear a moment\u2019s comparison with this,\nwhether for the numbers engaged in it, or for the patriotism and\nheroism displayed. For numbers and for carnage it was an Austerlitz or\nDresden. Concord Fight! Two killed on the patriots\u2019 side, and Luther\nBlanchard wounded! Why here every ant was a Buttrick,\u2014\u201cFire! for God\u2019s\nsake fire!\u201d\u2014and thousands shared the fate of Davis and Hosmer. There\nwas not one hireling there. I have no doubt that it was a principle\nthey fought for, as much as our ancestors, and not to avoid a\nthree-penny tax on their tea; and the results of this battle will be as\nimportant and memorable to those whom it concerns as those of the\nbattle of Bunker Hill, at least.\n\nI took up the chip on which the three I have particularly described\nwere struggling, carried it into my house, and placed it under a\ntumbler on my window-sill, in order to see the issue. Holding a\nmicroscope to the first-mentioned red ant, I saw that, though he was\nassiduously gnawing at the near fore-leg of his enemy, having severed\nhis remaining feeler, his own breast was all torn away, exposing what\nvitals he had there to the jaws of the black warrior, whose breastplate\nwas apparently too thick for him to pierce; and the dark carbuncles of\nthe sufferer\u2019s eyes shone with ferocity such as war only could excite.\nThey struggled half an hour longer under the tumbler, and when I looked\nagain the black soldier had severed the heads of his foes from their\nbodies, and the still living heads were hanging on either side of him\nlike ghastly trophies at his saddle-bow, still apparently as firmly\nfastened as ever, and he was endeavoring with feeble struggles, being\nwithout feelers and with only the remnant of a leg, and I know not how\nmany other wounds, to divest himself of them; which at length, after\nhalf an hour more, he accomplished. I raised the glass, and he went off\nover the window-sill in that crippled state. Whether he finally\nsurvived that combat, and spent the remainder of his days in some Hotel\ndes Invalides, I do not know; but I thought that his industry would not\nbe worth much thereafter. I never learned which party was victorious,\nnor the cause of the war; but I felt for the rest of that day as if I\nhad had my feelings excited and harrowed by witnessing the struggle,\nthe ferocity and carnage, of a human battle before my door.\n\nKirby and Spence tell us that the battles of ants have long been\ncelebrated and the date of them recorded, though they say that Huber is\nthe only modern author who appears to have witnessed them. \u201c\u00c6neas\nSylvius,\u201d say they, \u201cafter giving a very circumstantial account of one\ncontested with great obstinacy by a great and small species on the\ntrunk of a pear tree,\u201d adds that \u201c\u2018This action was fought in the\npontificate of Eugenius the Fourth, in the presence of Nicholas\nPistoriensis, an eminent lawyer, who related the whole history of the\nbattle with the greatest fidelity.\u2019 A similar engagement between great\nand small ants is recorded by Olaus Magnus, in which the small ones,\nbeing victorious, are said to have buried the bodies of their own\nsoldiers, but left those of their giant enemies a prey to the birds.\nThis event happened previous to the expulsion of the tyrant Christiern\nthe Second from Sweden.\u201d The battle which I witnessed took place in the\nPresidency of Polk, five years before the passage of Webster\u2019s\nFugitive-Slave Bill.\n\nMany a village Bose, fit only to course a mud-turtle in a victualling\ncellar, sported his heavy quarters in the woods, without the knowledge\nof his master, and ineffectually smelled at old fox burrows and\nwoodchucks\u2019 holes; led perchance by some slight cur which nimbly\nthreaded the wood, and might still inspire a natural terror in its\ndenizens;\u2014now far behind his guide, barking like a canine bull toward\nsome small squirrel which had treed itself for scrutiny, then,\ncantering off, bending the bushes with his weight, imagining that he is\non the track of some stray member of the jerbilla family. Once I was\nsurprised to see a cat walking along the stony shore of the pond, for\nthey rarely wander so far from home. The surprise was mutual.\nNevertheless the most domestic cat, which has lain on a rug all her\ndays, appears quite at home in the woods, and, by her sly and stealthy\nbehavior, proves herself more native there than the regular\ninhabitants. Once, when berrying, I met with a cat with young kittens\nin the woods, quite wild, and they all, like their mother, had their\nbacks up and were fiercely spitting at me. A few years before I lived\nin the woods there was what was called a \u201cwinged cat\u201d in one of the\nfarm-houses in Lincoln nearest the pond, Mr. Gilian Baker\u2019s. When I\ncalled to see her in June, 1842, she was gone a-hunting in the woods,\nas was her wont, (I am not sure whether it was a male or female, and so\nuse the more common pronoun,) but her mistress told me that she came\ninto the neighborhood a little more than a year before, in April, and\nwas finally taken into their house; that she was of a dark\nbrownish-gray color, with a white spot on her throat, and white feet,\nand had a large bushy tail like a fox; that in the winter the fur grew\nthick and flatted out along her sides, forming stripes ten or twelve\ninches long by two and a half wide, and under her chin like a muff, the\nupper side loose, the under matted like felt, and in the spring these\nappendages dropped off. They gave me a pair of her \u201cwings,\u201d which I\nkeep still. There is no appearance of a membrane about them. Some\nthought it was part flying-squirrel or some other wild animal, which is\nnot impossible, for, according to naturalists, prolific hybrids have\nbeen produced by the union of the marten and domestic cat. This would\nhave been the right kind of cat for me to keep, if I had kept any; for\nwhy should not a poet\u2019s cat be winged as well as his horse?\n\nIn the fall the loon (_Colymbus glacialis_) came, as usual, to moult\nand bathe in the pond, making the woods ring with his wild laughter\nbefore I had risen. At rumor of his arrival all the Mill-dam sportsmen\nare on the alert, in gigs and on foot, two by two and three by three,\nwith patent rifles and conical balls and spy-glasses. They come\nrustling through the woods like autumn leaves, at least ten men to one\nloon. Some station themselves on this side of the pond, some on that,\nfor the poor bird cannot be omnipresent; if he dive here he must come\nup there. But now the kind October wind rises, rustling the leaves and\nrippling the surface of the water, so that no loon can be heard or\nseen, though his foes sweep the pond with spy-glasses, and make the\nwoods resound with their discharges. The waves generously rise and dash\nangrily, taking sides with all water-fowl, and our sportsmen must beat\na retreat to town and shop and unfinished jobs. But they were too often\nsuccessful. When I went to get a pail of water early in the morning I\nfrequently saw this stately bird sailing out of my cove within a few\nrods. If I endeavored to overtake him in a boat, in order to see how he\nwould man\u0153uvre, he would dive and be completely lost, so that I did not\ndiscover him again, sometimes, till the latter part of the day. But I\nwas more than a match for him on the surface. He commonly went off in a\nrain.\n\nAs I was paddling along the north shore one very calm October\nafternoon, for such days especially they settle on to the lakes, like\nthe milkweed down, having looked in vain over the pond for a loon,\nsuddenly one, sailing out from the shore toward the middle a few rods\nin front of me, set up his wild laugh and betrayed himself. I pursued\nwith a paddle and he dived, but when he came up I was nearer than\nbefore. He dived again, but I miscalculated the direction he would\ntake, and we were fifty rods apart when he came to the surface this\ntime, for I had helped to widen the interval; and again he laughed long\nand loud, and with more reason than before. He man\u0153uvred so cunningly\nthat I could not get within half a dozen rods of him. Each time, when\nhe came to the surface, turning his head this way and that, he cooly\nsurveyed the water and the land, and apparently chose his course so\nthat he might come up where there was the widest expanse of water and\nat the greatest distance from the boat. It was surprising how quickly\nhe made up his mind and put his resolve into execution. He led me at\nonce to the widest part of the pond, and could not be driven from it.\nWhile he was thinking one thing in his brain, I was endeavoring to\ndivine his thought in mine. It was a pretty game, played on the smooth\nsurface of the pond, a man against a loon. Suddenly your adversary\u2019s\nchecker disappears beneath the board, and the problem is to place yours\nnearest to where his will appear again. Sometimes he would come up\nunexpectedly on the opposite side of me, having apparently passed\ndirectly under the boat. So long-winded was he and so unweariable, that\nwhen he had swum farthest he would immediately plunge again,\nnevertheless; and then no wit could divine where in the deep pond,\nbeneath the smooth surface, he might be speeding his way like a fish,\nfor he had time and ability to visit the bottom of the pond in its\ndeepest part. It is said that loons have been caught in the New York\nlakes eighty feet beneath the surface, with hooks set for trout,\u2014though\nWalden is deeper than that. How surprised must the fishes be to see\nthis ungainly visitor from another sphere speeding his way amid their\nschools! Yet he appeared to know his course as surely under water as on\nthe surface, and swam much faster there. Once or twice I saw a ripple\nwhere he approached the surface, just put his head out to reconnoitre,\nand instantly dived again. I found that it was as well for me to rest\non my oars and wait his reappearing as to endeavor to calculate where\nhe would rise; for again and again, when I was straining my eyes over\nthe surface one way, I would suddenly be startled by his unearthly\nlaugh behind me. But why, after displaying so much cunning, did he\ninvariably betray himself the moment he came up by that loud laugh? Did\nnot his white breast enough betray him? He was indeed a silly loon, I\nthought. I could commonly hear the splash of the water when he came up,\nand so also detected him. But after an hour he seemed as fresh as ever,\ndived as willingly and swam yet farther than at first. It was\nsurprising to see how serenely he sailed off with unruffled breast when\nhe came to the surface, doing all the work with his webbed feet\nbeneath. His usual note was this demoniac laughter, yet somewhat like\nthat of a water-fowl; but occasionally, when he had balked me most\nsuccessfully and come up a long way off, he uttered a long-drawn\nunearthly howl, probably more like that of a wolf than any bird; as\nwhen a beast puts his muzzle to the ground and deliberately howls. This\nwas his looning,\u2014perhaps the wildest sound that is ever heard here,\nmaking the woods ring far and wide. I concluded that he laughed in\nderision of my efforts, confident of his own resources. Though the sky\nwas by this time overcast, the pond was so smooth that I could see\nwhere he broke the surface when I did not hear him. His white breast,\nthe stillness of the air, and the smoothness of the water were all\nagainst him. At length, having come up fifty rods off, he uttered one\nof those prolonged howls, as if calling on the god of loons to aid him,\nand immediately there came a wind from the east and rippled the\nsurface, and filled the whole air with misty rain, and I was impressed\nas if it were the prayer of the loon answered, and his god was angry\nwith me; and so I left him disappearing far away on the tumultuous\nsurface.\n\nFor hours, in fall days, I watched the ducks cunningly tack and veer\nand hold the middle of the pond, far from the sportsman; tricks which\nthey will have less need to practise in Louisiana bayous. When\ncompelled to rise they would sometimes circle round and round and over\nthe pond at a considerable height, from which they could easily see to\nother ponds and the river, like black motes in the sky; and, when I\nthought they had gone off thither long since, they would settle down by\na slanting flight of a quarter of a mile on to a distant part which was\nleft free; but what beside safety they got by sailing in the middle of\nWalden I do not know, unless they love its water for the same reason\nthat I do.\n\n\nHouse-Warming\n\nIn October I went a-graping to the river meadows, and loaded myself\nwith clusters more precious for their beauty and fragrance than for\nfood. There too I admired, though I did not gather, the cranberries,\nsmall waxen gems, pendants of the meadow grass, pearly and red, which\nthe farmer plucks with an ugly rake, leaving the smooth meadow in a\nsnarl, heedlessly measuring them by the bushel and the dollar only, and\nsells the spoils of the meads to Boston and New York; destined to be\n_jammed_, to satisfy the tastes of lovers of Nature there. So butchers\nrake the tongues of bison out of the prairie grass, regardless of the\ntorn and drooping plant. The barberry\u2019s brilliant fruit was likewise\nfood for my eyes merely; but I collected a small store of wild apples\nfor coddling, which the proprietor and travellers had overlooked. When\nchestnuts were ripe I laid up half a bushel for winter. It was very\nexciting at that season to roam the then boundless chestnut woods of\nLincoln,\u2014they now sleep their long sleep under the railroad,\u2014with a bag\non my shoulder, and a stick to open burrs with in my hand, for I did\nnot always wait for the frost, amid the rustling of leaves and the loud\nreproofs of the red-squirrels and the jays, whose half-consumed nuts I\nsometimes stole, for the burrs which they had selected were sure to\ncontain sound ones. Occasionally I climbed and shook the trees. They\ngrew also behind my house, and one large tree, which almost\novershadowed it, was, when in flower, a bouquet which scented the whole\nneighborhood, but the squirrels and the jays got most of its fruit; the\nlast coming in flocks early in the morning and picking the nuts out of\nthe burrs before they fell. I relinquished these trees to them and\nvisited the more distant woods composed wholly of chestnut. These nuts,\nas far as they went, were a good substitute for bread. Many other\nsubstitutes might, perhaps, be found. Digging one day for fish-worms, I\ndiscovered the ground-nut (_Apios tuberosa_) on its string, the potato\nof the aborigines, a sort of fabulous fruit, which I had begun to doubt\nif I had ever dug and eaten in childhood, as I had told, and had not\ndreamed it. I had often since seen its crimpled red velvety blossom\nsupported by the stems of other plants without knowing it to be the\nsame. Cultivation has well nigh exterminated it. It has a sweetish\ntaste, much like that of a frostbitten potato, and I found it better\nboiled than roasted. This tuber seemed like a faint promise of Nature\nto rear her own children and feed them simply here at some future\nperiod. In these days of fatted cattle and waving grain-fields this\nhumble root, which was once the _totem_ of an Indian tribe, is quite\nforgotten, or known only by its flowering vine; but let wild Nature\nreign here once more, and the tender and luxurious English grains will\nprobably disappear before a myriad of foes, and without the care of man\nthe crow may carry back even the last seed of corn to the great\ncornfield of the Indian\u2019s God in the south-west, whence he is said to\nhave brought it; but the now almost exterminated ground-nut will\nperhaps revive and flourish in spite of frosts and wildness, prove\nitself indigenous, and resume its ancient importance and dignity as the\ndiet of the hunter tribe. Some Indian Ceres or Minerva must have been\nthe inventor and bestower of it; and when the reign of poetry commences\nhere, its leaves and string of nuts may be represented on our works of\nart.\n\nAlready, by the first of September, I had seen two or three small\nmaples turned scarlet across the pond, beneath where the white stems of\nthree aspens diverged, at the point of a promontory, next the water.\nAh, many a tale their color told! And gradually from week to week the\ncharacter of each tree came out, and it admired itself reflected in the\nsmooth mirror of the lake. Each morning the manager of this gallery\nsubstituted some new picture, distinguished by more brilliant or\nharmonious coloring, for the old upon the walls.\n\nThe wasps came by thousands to my lodge in October, as to winter\nquarters, and settled on my windows within and on the walls over-head,\nsometimes deterring visitors from entering. Each morning, when they\nwere numbed with cold, I swept some of them out, but I did not trouble\nmyself much to get rid of them; I even felt complimented by their\nregarding my house as a desirable shelter. They never molested me\nseriously, though they bedded with me; and they gradually disappeared,\ninto what crevices I do not know, avoiding winter and unspeakable cold.\n\nLike the wasps, before I finally went into winter quarters in November,\nI used to resort to the north-east side of Walden, which the sun,\nreflected from the pitch-pine woods and the stony shore, made the\nfire-side of the pond; it is so much pleasanter and wholesomer to be\nwarmed by the sun while you can be, than by an artificial fire. I thus\nwarmed myself by the still glowing embers which the summer, like a\ndeparted hunter, had left.\n\n\n\nWhen I came to build my chimney I studied masonry. My bricks being\nsecond-hand ones required to be cleaned with a trowel, so that I\nlearned more than usual of the qualities of bricks and trowels. The\nmortar on them was fifty years old, and was said to be still growing\nharder; but this is one of those sayings which men love to repeat\nwhether they are true or not. Such sayings themselves grow harder and\nadhere more firmly with age, and it would take many blows with a trowel\nto clean an old wiseacre of them. Many of the villages of Mesopotamia\nare built of second-hand bricks of a very good quality, obtained from\nthe ruins of Babylon, and the cement on them is older and probably\nharder still. However that may be, I was struck by the peculiar\ntoughness of the steel which bore so many violent blows without being\nworn out. As my bricks had been in a chimney before, though I did not\nread the name of Nebuchadnezzar on them, I picked out as many\nfire-place bricks as I could find, to save work and waste, and I filled\nthe spaces between the bricks about the fire-place with stones from the\npond shore, and also made my mortar with the white sand from the same\nplace. I lingered most about the fireplace, as the most vital part of\nthe house. Indeed, I worked so deliberately, that though I commenced at\nthe ground in the morning, a course of bricks raised a few inches above\nthe floor served for my pillow at night; yet I did not get a stiff neck\nfor it that I remember; my stiff neck is of older date. I took a poet\nto board for a fortnight about those times, which caused me to be put\nto it for room. He brought his own knife, though I had two, and we used\nto scour them by thrusting them into the earth. He shared with me the\nlabors of cooking. I was pleased to see my work rising so square and\nsolid by degrees, and reflected, that, if it proceeded slowly, it was\ncalculated to endure a long time. The chimney is to some extent an\nindependent structure, standing on the ground and rising through the\nhouse to the heavens; even after the house is burned it still stands\nsometimes, and its importance and independence are apparent. This was\ntoward the end of summer. It was now November.\n\n\n\nThe north wind had already begun to cool the pond, though it took many\nweeks of steady blowing to accomplish it, it is so deep. When I began\nto have a fire at evening, before I plastered my house, the chimney\ncarried smoke particularly well, because of the numerous chinks between\nthe boards. Yet I passed some cheerful evenings in that cool and airy\napartment, surrounded by the rough brown boards full of knots, and\nrafters with the bark on high overhead. My house never pleased my eye\nso much after it was plastered, though I was obliged to confess that it\nwas more comfortable. Should not every apartment in which man dwells be\nlofty enough to create some obscurity over-head, where flickering\nshadows may play at evening about the rafters? These forms are more\nagreeable to the fancy and imagination than fresco paintings or other\nthe most expensive furniture. I now first began to inhabit my house, I\nmay say, when I began to use it for warmth as well as shelter. I had\ngot a couple of old fire-dogs to keep the wood from the hearth, and it\ndid me good to see the soot form on the back of the chimney which I had\nbuilt, and I poked the fire with more right and more satisfaction than\nusual. My dwelling was small, and I could hardly entertain an echo in\nit; but it seemed larger for being a single apartment and remote from\nneighbors. All the attractions of a house were concentrated in one\nroom; it was kitchen, chamber, parlor, and keeping-room; and whatever\nsatisfaction parent or child, master or servant, derive from living in\na house, I enjoyed it all. Cato says, the master of a family\n(_patremfamilias_) must have in his rustic villa \u201ccellam oleariam,\nvinariam, dolia multa, uti lubeat caritatem expectare, et rei, et\nvirtuti, et glori\u00e6 erit,\u201d that is, \u201can oil and wine cellar, many casks,\nso that it may be pleasant to expect hard times; it will be for his\nadvantage, and virtue, and glory.\u201d I had in my cellar a firkin of\npotatoes, about two quarts of peas with the weevil in them, and on my\nshelf a little rice, a jug of molasses, and of rye and Indian meal a\npeck each.\n\nI sometimes dream of a larger and more populous house, standing in a\ngolden age, of enduring materials, and without ginger-bread work, which\nshall still consist of only one room, a vast, rude, substantial,\nprimitive hall, without ceiling or plastering, with bare rafters and\npurlins supporting a sort of lower heaven over one\u2019s head,\u2014useful to\nkeep off rain and snow; where the king and queen posts stand out to\nreceive your homage, when you have done reverence to the prostrate\nSaturn of an older dynasty on stepping over the sill; a cavernous\nhouse, wherein you must reach up a torch upon a pole to see the roof;\nwhere some may live in the fire-place, some in the recess of a window,\nand some on settles, some at one end of the hall, some at another, and\nsome aloft on rafters with the spiders, if they choose; a house which\nyou have got into when you have opened the outside door, and the\nceremony is over; where the weary traveller may wash, and eat, and\nconverse, and sleep, without further journey; such a shelter as you\nwould be glad to reach in a tempestuous night, containing all the\nessentials of a house, and nothing for house-keeping; where you can see\nall the treasures of the house at one view, and every thing hangs upon\nits peg, that a man should use; at once kitchen, pantry, parlor,\nchamber, store-house, and garret; where you can see so necessary a\nthing as a barrel or a ladder, so convenient a thing as a cupboard, and\nhear the pot boil, and pay your respects to the fire that cooks your\ndinner and the oven that bakes your bread, and the necessary furniture\nand utensils are the chief ornaments; where the washing is not put out,\nnor the fire, nor the mistress, and perhaps you are sometimes requested\nto move from off the trap-door, when the cook would descend into the\ncellar, and so learn whether the ground is solid or hollow beneath you\nwithout stamping. A house whose inside is as open and manifest as a\nbird\u2019s nest, and you cannot go in at the front door and out at the back\nwithout seeing some of its inhabitants; where to be a guest is to be\npresented with the freedom of the house, and not to be carefully\nexcluded from seven eighths of it, shut up in a particular cell, and\ntold to make yourself at home there,\u2014in solitary confinement. Nowadays\nthe host does not admit you to _his_ hearth, but has got the mason to\nbuild one for yourself somewhere in his alley, and hospitality is the\nart of _keeping_ you at the greatest distance. There is as much secrecy\nabout the cooking as if he had a design to poison you. I am aware that\nI have been on many a man\u2019s premises, and might have been legally\nordered off, but I am not aware that I have been in many men\u2019s houses.\nI might visit in my old clothes a king and queen who lived simply in\nsuch a house as I have described, if I were going their way; but\nbacking out of a modern palace will be all that I shall desire to\nlearn, if ever I am caught in one.\n\nIt would seem as if the very language of our parlors would lose all its\nnerve and degenerate into _palaver_ wholly, our lives pass at such\nremoteness from its symbols, and its metaphors and tropes are\nnecessarily so far fetched, through slides and dumb-waiters, as it\nwere; in other words, the parlor is so far from the kitchen and\nworkshop. The dinner even is only the parable of a dinner, commonly. As\nif only the savage dwelt near enough to Nature and Truth to borrow a\ntrope from them. How can the scholar, who dwells away in the North West\nTerritory or the Isle of Man, tell what is parliamentary in the\nkitchen?\n\nHowever, only one or two of my guests were ever bold enough to stay and\neat a hasty-pudding with me; but when they saw that crisis approaching\nthey beat a hasty retreat rather, as if it would shake the house to its\nfoundations. Nevertheless, it stood through a great many\nhasty-puddings.\n\nI did not plaster till it was freezing weather. I brought over some\nwhiter and cleaner sand for this purpose from the opposite shore of the\npond in a boat, a sort of conveyance which would have tempted me to go\nmuch farther if necessary. My house had in the mean while been shingled\ndown to the ground on every side. In lathing I was pleased to be able\nto send home each nail with a single blow of the hammer, and it was my\nambition to transfer the plaster from the board to the wall neatly and\nrapidly. I remembered the story of a conceited fellow, who, in fine\nclothes, was wont to lounge about the village once, giving advice to\nworkmen. Venturing one day to substitute deeds for words, he turned up\nhis cuffs, seized a plasterer\u2019s board, and having loaded his trowel\nwithout mishap, with a complacent look toward the lathing overhead,\nmade a bold gesture thitherward; and straightway, to his complete\ndiscomfiture, received the whole contents in his ruffled bosom. I\nadmired anew the economy and convenience of plastering, which so\neffectually shuts out the cold and takes a handsome finish, and I\nlearned the various casualties to which the plasterer is liable. I was\nsurprised to see how thirsty the bricks were which drank up all the\nmoisture in my plaster before I had smoothed it, and how many pailfuls\nof water it takes to christen a new hearth. I had the previous winter\nmade a small quantity of lime by burning the shells of the _Unio\nfluviatilis_, which our river affords, for the sake of the experiment;\nso that I knew where my materials came from. I might have got good\nlimestone within a mile or two and burned it myself, if I had cared to\ndo so.\n\n\n\nThe pond had in the mean while skimmed over in the shadiest and\nshallowest coves, some days or even weeks before the general freezing.\nThe first ice is especially interesting and perfect, being hard, dark,\nand transparent, and affords the best opportunity that ever offers for\nexamining the bottom where it is shallow; for you can lie at your\nlength on ice only an inch thick, like a skater insect on the surface\nof the water, and study the bottom at your leisure, only two or three\ninches distant, like a picture behind a glass, and the water is\nnecessarily always smooth then. There are many furrows in the sand\nwhere some creature has travelled about and doubled on its tracks; and,\nfor wrecks, it is strewn with the cases of cadis worms made of minute\ngrains of white quartz. Perhaps these have creased it, for you find\nsome of their cases in the furrows, though they are deep and broad for\nthem to make. But the ice itself is the object of most interest, though\nyou must improve the earliest opportunity to study it. If you examine\nit closely the morning after it freezes, you find that the greater part\nof the bubbles, which at first appeared to be within it, are against\nits under surface, and that more are continually rising from the\nbottom; while the ice is as yet comparatively solid and dark, that is,\nyou see the water through it. These bubbles are from an eightieth to an\neighth of an inch in diameter, very clear and beautiful, and you see\nyour face reflected in them through the ice. There may be thirty or\nforty of them to a square inch. There are also already within the ice\nnarrow oblong perpendicular bubbles about half an inch long, sharp\ncones with the apex upward; or oftener, if the ice is quite fresh,\nminute spherical bubbles one directly above another, like a string of\nbeads. But these within the ice are not so numerous nor obvious as\nthose beneath. I sometimes used to cast on stones to try the strength\nof the ice, and those which broke through carried in air with them,\nwhich formed very large and conspicuous white bubbles beneath. One day\nwhen I came to the same place forty-eight hours afterward, I found that\nthose large bubbles were still perfect, though an inch more of ice had\nformed, as I could see distinctly by the seam in the edge of a cake.\nBut as the last two days had been very warm, like an Indian summer, the\nice was not now transparent, showing the dark green color of the water,\nand the bottom, but opaque and whitish or gray, and though twice as\nthick was hardly stronger than before, for the air bubbles had greatly\nexpanded under this heat and run together, and lost their regularity;\nthey were no longer one directly over another, but often like silvery\ncoins poured from a bag, one overlapping another, or in thin flakes, as\nif occupying slight cleavages. The beauty of the ice was gone, and it\nwas too late to study the bottom. Being curious to know what position\nmy great bubbles occupied with regard to the new ice, I broke out a\ncake containing a middling sized one, and turned it bottom upward. The\nnew ice had formed around and under the bubble, so that it was included\nbetween the two ices. It was wholly in the lower ice, but close against\nthe upper, and was flattish, or perhaps slightly lenticular, with a\nrounded edge, a quarter of an inch deep by four inches in diameter; and\nI was surprised to find that directly under the bubble the ice was\nmelted with great regularity in the form of a saucer reversed, to the\nheight of five eighths of an inch in the middle, leaving a thin\npartition there between the water and the bubble, hardly an eighth of\nan inch thick; and in many places the small bubbles in this partition\nhad burst out downward, and probably there was no ice at all under the\nlargest bubbles, which were a foot in diameter. I inferred that the\ninfinite number of minute bubbles which I had first seen against the\nunder surface of the ice were now frozen in likewise, and that each, in\nits degree, had operated like a burning glass on the ice beneath to\nmelt and rot it. These are the little air-guns which contribute to make\nthe ice crack and whoop.\n\n\n\nAt length the winter set in in good earnest, just as I had finished\nplastering, and the wind began to howl around the house as if it had\nnot had permission to do so till then. Night after night the geese came\nlumbering in in the dark with a clangor and a whistling of wings, even\nafter the ground was covered with snow, some to alight in Walden, and\nsome flying low over the woods toward Fair Haven, bound for Mexico.\nSeveral times, when returning from the village at ten or eleven o\u2019clock\nat night, I heard the tread of a flock of geese, or else ducks, on the\ndry leaves in the woods by a pond-hole behind my dwelling, where they\nhad come up to feed, and the faint honk or quack of their leader as\nthey hurried off. In 1845 Walden froze entirely over for the first time\non the night of the 22d of December, Flint\u2019s and other shallower ponds\nand the river having been frozen ten days or more; in \u201946, the 16th; in\n\u201949, about the 31st; and in \u201950, about the 27th of December; in \u201952,\nthe 5th of January; in \u201953, the 31st of December. The snow had already\ncovered the ground since the 25th of November, and surrounded me\nsuddenly with the scenery of winter. I withdrew yet farther into my\nshell, and endeavored to keep a bright fire both within my house and\nwithin my breast. My employment out of doors now was to collect the\ndead wood in the forest, bringing it in my hands or on my shoulders, or\nsometimes trailing a dead pine tree under each arm to my shed. An old\nforest fence which had seen its best days was a great haul for me. I\nsacrificed it to Vulcan, for it was past serving the god Terminus. How\nmuch more interesting an event is that man\u2019s supper who has just been\nforth in the snow to hunt, nay, you might say, steal, the fuel to cook\nit with! His bread and meat are sweet. There are enough fagots and\nwaste wood of all kinds in the forests of most of our towns to support\nmany fires, but which at present warm none, and, some think, hinder the\ngrowth of the young wood. There was also the drift-wood of the pond. In\nthe course of the summer I had discovered a raft of pitch-pine logs\nwith the bark on, pinned together by the Irish when the railroad was\nbuilt. This I hauled up partly on the shore. After soaking two years\nand then lying high six months it was perfectly sound, though\nwaterlogged past drying. I amused myself one winter day with sliding\nthis piecemeal across the pond, nearly half a mile, skating behind with\none end of a log fifteen feet long on my shoulder, and the other on the\nice; or I tied several logs together with a birch withe, and then, with\na longer birch or alder which had a hook at the end, dragged them\nacross. Though completely waterlogged and almost as heavy as lead, they\nnot only burned long, but made a very hot fire; nay, I thought that\nthey burned better for the soaking, as if the pitch, being confined by\nthe water, burned longer, as in a lamp.\n\nGilpin, in his account of the forest borderers of England, says that\n\u201cthe encroachments of trespassers, and the houses and fences thus\nraised on the borders of the forest,\u201d were \u201cconsidered as great\nnuisances by the old forest law, and were severely punished under the\nname of _purprestures_, as tending _ad terrorem ferarum\u2014ad nocumentum\nforest\u00e6_, &c.,\u201d to the frightening of the game and the detriment of the\nforest. But I was interested in the preservation of the venison and the\nvert more than the hunters or woodchoppers, and as much as though I had\nbeen the Lord Warden himself; and if any part was burned, though I\nburned it myself by accident, I grieved with a grief that lasted longer\nand was more inconsolable than that of the proprietors; nay, I grieved\nwhen it was cut down by the proprietors themselves. I would that our\nfarmers when they cut down a forest felt some of that awe which the old\nRomans did when they came to thin, or let in the light to, a\nconsecrated grove (_lucum conlucare_), that is, would believe that it\nis sacred to some god. The Roman made an expiatory offering, and\nprayed, Whatever god or goddess thou art to whom this grove is sacred,\nbe propitious to me, my family, and children, &c.\n\nIt is remarkable what a value is still put upon wood even in this age\nand in this new country, a value more permanent and universal than that\nof gold. After all our discoveries and inventions no man will go by a\npile of wood. It is as precious to us as it was to our Saxon and Norman\nancestors. If they made their bows of it, we make our gun-stocks of it.\nMichaux, more than thirty years ago, says that the price of wood for\nfuel in New York and Philadelphia \u201cnearly equals, and sometimes\nexceeds, that of the best wood in Paris, though this immense capital\nannually requires more than three hundred thousand cords, and is\nsurrounded to the distance of three hundred miles by cultivated\nplains.\u201d In this town the price of wood rises almost steadily, and the\nonly question is, how much higher it is to be this year than it was the\nlast. Mechanics and tradesmen who come in person to the forest on no\nother errand, are sure to attend the wood auction, and even pay a high\nprice for the privilege of gleaning after the woodchopper. It is now\nmany years that men have resorted to the forest for fuel and the\nmaterials of the arts; the New Englander and the New Hollander, the\nParisian and the Celt, the farmer and Robinhood, Goody Blake and Harry\nGill, in most parts of the world the prince and the peasant, the\nscholar and the savage, equally require still a few sticks from the\nforest to warm them and cook their food. Neither could I do without\nthem.\n\nEvery man looks at his wood-pile with a kind of affection. I love to\nhave mine before my window, and the more chips the better to remind me\nof my pleasing work. I had an old axe which nobody claimed, with which\nby spells in winter days, on the sunny side of the house, I played\nabout the stumps which I had got out of my bean-field. As my driver\nprophesied when I was ploughing, they warmed me twice, once while I was\nsplitting them, and again when they were on the fire, so that no fuel\ncould give out more heat. As for the axe, I was advised to get the\nvillage blacksmith to \u201cjump\u201d it; but I jumped him, and, putting a\nhickory helve from the woods into it, made it do. If it was dull, it\nwas at least hung true.\n\nA few pieces of fat pine were a great treasure. It is interesting to\nremember how much of this food for fire is still concealed in the\nbowels of the earth. In previous years I had often gone \u201cprospecting\u201d\nover some bare hill-side, where a pitch-pine wood had formerly stood,\nand got out the fat pine roots. They are almost indestructible. Stumps\nthirty or forty years old, at least, will still be sound at the core,\nthough the sapwood has all become vegetable mould, as appears by the\nscales of the thick bark forming a ring level with the earth four or\nfive inches distant from the heart. With axe and shovel you explore\nthis mine, and follow the marrowy store, yellow as beef tallow, or as\nif you had struck on a vein of gold, deep into the earth. But commonly\nI kindled my fire with the dry leaves of the forest, which I had stored\nup in my shed before the snow came. Green hickory finely split makes\nthe woodchopper\u2019s kindlings, when he has a camp in the woods. Once in a\nwhile I got a little of this. When the villagers were lighting their\nfires beyond the horizon, I too gave notice to the various wild\ninhabitants of Walden vale, by a smoky streamer from my chimney, that I\nwas awake.\u2014\n\n     Light-winged Smoke, Icarian bird,\n     Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,\n     Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,\n     Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;\n     Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form\n     Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;\n     By night star-veiling, and by day\n     Darkening the light and blotting out the sun;\n     Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,\n     And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.\n\nHard green wood just cut, though I used but little of that, answered my\npurpose better than any other. I sometimes left a good fire when I went\nto take a walk in a winter afternoon; and when I returned, three or\nfour hours afterward, it would be still alive and glowing. My house was\nnot empty though I was gone. It was as if I had left a cheerful\nhousekeeper behind. It was I and Fire that lived there; and commonly my\nhousekeeper proved trustworthy. One day, however, as I was splitting\nwood, I thought that I would just look in at the window and see if the\nhouse was not on fire; it was the only time I remember to have been\nparticularly anxious on this score; so I looked and saw that a spark\nhad caught my bed, and I went in and extinguished it when it had burned\na place as big as my hand. But my house occupied so sunny and sheltered\na position, and its roof was so low, that I could afford to let the\nfire go out in the middle of almost any winter day.\n\nThe moles nested in my cellar, nibbling every third potato, and making\na snug bed even there of some hair left after plastering and of brown\npaper; for even the wildest animals love comfort and warmth as well as\nman, and they survive the winter only because they are so careful to\nsecure them. Some of my friends spoke as if I was coming to the woods\non purpose to freeze myself. The animal merely makes a bed, which he\nwarms with his body, in a sheltered place; but man, having discovered\nfire, boxes up some air in a spacious apartment, and warms that,\ninstead of robbing himself, makes that his bed, in which he can move\nabout divested of more cumbrous clothing, maintain a kind of summer in\nthe midst of winter, and by means of windows even admit the light, and\nwith a lamp lengthen out the day. Thus he goes a step or two beyond\ninstinct, and saves a little time for the fine arts. Though, when I had\nbeen exposed to the rudest blasts a long time, my whole body began to\ngrow torpid, when I reached the genial atmosphere of my house I soon\nrecovered my faculties and prolonged my life. But the most luxuriously\nhoused has little to boast of in this respect, nor need we trouble\nourselves to speculate how the human race may be at last destroyed. It\nwould be easy to cut their threads any time with a little sharper blast\nfrom the north. We go on dating from Cold Fridays and Great Snows; but\na little colder Friday, or greater snow, would put a period to man\u2019s\nexistence on the globe.\n\nThe next winter I used a small cooking-stove for economy, since I did\nnot own the forest; but it did not keep fire so well as the open\nfire-place. Cooking was then, for the most part, no longer a poetic,\nbut merely a chemic process. It will soon be forgotten, in these days\nof stoves, that we used to roast potatoes in the ashes, after the\nIndian fashion. The stove not only took up room and scented the house,\nbut it concealed the fire, and I felt as if I had lost a companion. You\ncan always see a face in the fire. The laborer, looking into it at\nevening, purifies his thoughts of the dross and earthiness which they\nhave accumulated during the day. But I could no longer sit and look\ninto the fire, and the pertinent words of a poet recurred to me with\nnew force.\u2014\n\n     \u201cNever, bright flame, may be denied to me\n     Thy dear, life imaging, close sympathy.\n     What but my hopes shot upward e\u2019er so bright?\n     What but my fortunes sunk so low in night?\n\n     Why art thou banished from our hearth and hall,\n     Thou who art welcomed and beloved by all?\n     Was thy existence then too fanciful\n     For our life\u2019s common light, who are so dull?\n     Did thy bright gleam mysterious converse hold\n     With our congenial souls? secrets too bold?\n     Well, we are safe and strong, for now we sit\n     Beside a hearth where no dim shadows flit,\n     Where nothing cheers nor saddens, but a fire\n     Warms feet and hands\u2014nor does to more aspire;\n     By whose compact utilitarian heap\n     The present may sit down and go to sleep,\n     Nor fear the ghosts who from the dim past walked,\n     And with us by the unequal light of the old wood fire talked.\u201d\n\n\n\nFormer Inhabitants and Winter Visitors\n\nI weathered some merry snow storms, and spent some cheerful winter\nevenings by my fire-side, while the snow whirled wildly without, and\neven the hooting of the owl was hushed. For many weeks I met no one in\nmy walks but those who came occasionally to cut wood and sled it to the\nvillage. The elements, however, abetted me in making a path through the\ndeepest snow in the woods, for when I had once gone through the wind\nblew the oak leaves into my tracks, where they lodged, and by absorbing\nthe rays of the sun melted the snow, and so not only made a dry bed for\nmy feet, but in the night their dark line was my guide. For human\nsociety I was obliged to conjure up the former occupants of these\nwoods. Within the memory of many of my townsmen the road near which my\nhouse stands resounded with the laugh and gossip of inhabitants, and\nthe woods which border it were notched and dotted here and there with\ntheir little gardens and dwellings, though it was then much more shut\nin by the forest than now. In some places, within my own remembrance,\nthe pines would scrape both sides of a chaise at once, and women and\nchildren who were compelled to go this way to Lincoln alone and on foot\ndid it with fear, and often ran a good part of the distance. Though\nmainly but a humble route to neighboring villages, or for the woodman\u2019s\nteam, it once amused the traveller more than now by its variety, and\nlingered longer in his memory. Where now firm open fields stretch from\nthe village to the woods, it then ran through a maple swamp on a\nfoundation of logs, the remnants of which, doubtless, still underlie\nthe present dusty highway, from the Stratton, now the Alms House, Farm,\nto Brister\u2019s Hill.\n\nEast of my bean-field, across the road, lived Cato Ingraham, slave of\nDuncan Ingraham, Esquire, gentleman, of Concord village, who built his\nslave a house, and gave him permission to live in Walden Woods;\u2014Cato,\nnot Uticensis, but Concordiensis. Some say that he was a Guinea Negro.\nThere are a few who remember his little patch among the walnuts, which\nhe let grow up till he should be old and need them; but a younger and\nwhiter speculator got them at last. He too, however, occupies an\nequally narrow house at present. Cato\u2019s half-obliterated cellar hole\nstill remains, though known to few, being concealed from the traveller\nby a fringe of pines. It is now filled with the smooth sumach (_Rhus\nglabra_,) and one of the earliest species of golden-rod (_Solidago\nstricta_) grows there luxuriantly.\n\nHere, by the very corner of my field, still nearer to town, Zilpha, a\ncolored woman, had her little house, where she spun linen for the\ntownsfolk, making the Walden Woods ring with her shrill singing, for\nshe had a loud and notable voice. At length, in the war of 1812, her\ndwelling was set on fire by English soldiers, prisoners on parole, when\nshe was away, and her cat and dog and hens were all burned up together.\nShe led a hard life, and somewhat inhumane. One old frequenter of these\nwoods remembers, that as he passed her house one noon he heard her\nmuttering to herself over her gurgling pot,\u2014\u201cYe are all bones, bones!\u201d\nI have seen bricks amid the oak copse there.\n\nDown the road, on the right hand, on Brister\u2019s Hill, lived Brister\nFreeman, \u201ca handy Negro,\u201d slave of Squire Cummings once,\u2014there where\ngrow still the apple-trees which Brister planted and tended; large old\ntrees now, but their fruit still wild and ciderish to my taste. Not\nlong since I read his epitaph in the old Lincoln burying-ground, a\nlittle on one side, near the unmarked graves of some British grenadiers\nwho fell in the retreat from Concord,\u2014where he is styled \u201cSippio\nBrister,\u201d\u2014Scipio Africanus he had some title to be called,\u2014\u201ca man of\ncolor,\u201d as if he were discolored. It also told me, with staring\nemphasis, when he died; which was but an indirect way of informing me\nthat he ever lived. With him dwelt Fenda, his hospitable wife, who told\nfortunes, yet pleasantly,\u2014large, round, and black, blacker than any of\nthe children of night, such a dusky orb as never rose on Concord before\nor since.\n\nFarther down the hill, on the left, on the old road in the woods, are\nmarks of some homestead of the Stratton family; whose orchard once\ncovered all the slope of Brister\u2019s Hill, but was long since killed out\nby pitch pines, excepting a few stumps, whose old roots furnish still\nthe wild stocks of many a thrifty village tree.\n\nNearer yet to town, you come to Breed\u2019s location, on the other side of\nthe way, just on the edge of the wood; ground famous for the pranks of\na demon not distinctly named in old mythology, who has acted a\nprominent and astounding part in our New England life, and deserves, as\nmuch as any mythological character, to have his biography written one\nday; who first comes in the guise of a friend or hired man, and then\nrobs and murders the whole family,\u2014New-England Rum. But history must\nnot yet tell the tragedies enacted here; let time intervene in some\nmeasure to assuage and lend an azure tint to them. Here the most\nindistinct and dubious tradition says that once a tavern stood; the\nwell the same, which tempered the traveller\u2019s beverage and refreshed\nhis steed. Here then men saluted one another, and heard and told the\nnews, and went their ways again.\n\nBreed\u2019s hut was standing only a dozen years ago, though it had long\nbeen unoccupied. It was about the size of mine. It was set on fire by\nmischievous boys, one Election night, if I do not mistake. I lived on\nthe edge of the village then, and had just lost myself over Davenant\u2019s\nGondibert, that winter that I labored with a lethargy,\u2014which, by the\nway, I never knew whether to regard as a family complaint, having an\nuncle who goes to sleep shaving himself, and is obliged to sprout\npotatoes in a cellar Sundays, in order to keep awake and keep the\nSabbath, or as the consequence of my attempt to read Chalmers\u2019\ncollection of English poetry without skipping. It fairly overcame my\nNervii. I had just sunk my head on this when the bells rung fire, and\nin hot haste the engines rolled that way, led by a straggling troop of\nmen and boys, and I among the foremost, for I had leaped the brook. We\nthought it was far south over the woods,\u2014we who had run to fires\nbefore,\u2014barn, shop, or dwelling-house, or all together. \u201cIt\u2019s Baker\u2019s\nbarn,\u201d cried one. \u201cIt is the Codman place,\u201d affirmed another. And then\nfresh sparks went up above the wood, as if the roof fell in, and we all\nshouted \u201cConcord to the rescue!\u201d Wagons shot past with furious speed\nand crushing loads, bearing, perchance, among the rest, the agent of\nthe Insurance Company, who was bound to go however far; and ever and\nanon the engine bell tinkled behind, more slow and sure; and rearmost\nof all, as it was afterward whispered, came they who set the fire and\ngave the alarm. Thus we kept on like true idealists, rejecting the\nevidence of our senses, until at a turn in the road we heard the\ncrackling and actually felt the heat of the fire from over the wall,\nand realized, alas! that we were there. The very nearness of the fire\nbut cooled our ardor. At first we thought to throw a frog-pond on to\nit; but concluded to let it burn, it was so far gone and so worthless.\nSo we stood round our engine, jostled one another, expressed our\nsentiments through speaking-trumpets, or in lower tone referred to the\ngreat conflagrations which the world has witnessed, including Bascom\u2019s\nshop, and, between ourselves, we thought that, were we there in season\nwith our \u201ctub,\u201d and a full frog-pond by, we could turn that threatened\nlast and universal one into another flood. We finally retreated without\ndoing any mischief,\u2014returned to sleep and Gondibert. But as for\nGondibert, I would except that passage in the preface about wit being\nthe soul\u2019s powder,\u2014\u201cbut most of mankind are strangers to wit, as\nIndians are to powder.\u201d\n\nIt chanced that I walked that way across the fields the following\nnight, about the same hour, and hearing a low moaning at this spot, I\ndrew near in the dark, and discovered the only survivor of the family\nthat I know, the heir of both its virtues and its vices, who alone was\ninterested in this burning, lying on his stomach and looking over the\ncellar wall at the still smouldering cinders beneath, muttering to\nhimself, as is his wont. He had been working far off in the river\nmeadows all day, and had improved the first moments that he could call\nhis own to visit the home of his fathers and his youth. He gazed into\nthe cellar from all sides and points of view by turns, always lying\ndown to it, as if there was some treasure, which he remembered,\nconcealed between the stones, where there was absolutely nothing but a\nheap of bricks and ashes. The house being gone, he looked at what there\nwas left. He was soothed by the sympathy which my mere presence\nimplied, and showed me, as well as the darkness permitted, where the\nwell was covered up; which, thank Heaven, could never be burned; and he\ngroped long about the wall to find the well-sweep which his father had\ncut and mounted, feeling for the iron hook or staple by which a burden\nhad been fastened to the heavy end,\u2014all that he could now cling to,\u2014to\nconvince me that it was no common \u201crider.\u201d I felt it, and still remark\nit almost daily in my walks, for by it hangs the history of a family.\n\nOnce more, on the left, where are seen the well and lilac bushes by the\nwall, in the now open field, lived Nutting and Le Grosse. But to return\ntoward Lincoln.\n\nFarther in the woods than any of these, where the road approaches\nnearest to the pond, Wyman the potter squatted, and furnished his\ntownsmen with earthen ware, and left descendants to succeed him.\nNeither were they rich in worldly goods, holding the land by sufferance\nwhile they lived; and there often the sheriff came in vain to collect\nthe taxes, and \u201cattached a chip,\u201d for form\u2019s sake, as I have read in\nhis accounts, there being nothing else that he could lay his hands on.\nOne day in midsummer, when I was hoeing, a man who was carrying a load\nof pottery to market stopped his horse against my field and inquired\nconcerning Wyman the younger. He had long ago bought a potter\u2019s wheel\nof him, and wished to know what had become of him. I had read of the\npotter\u2019s clay and wheel in Scripture, but it had never occurred to me\nthat the pots we use were not such as had come down unbroken from those\ndays, or grown on trees like gourds somewhere, and I was pleased to\nhear that so fictile an art was ever practiced in my neighborhood.\n\nThe last inhabitant of these woods before me was an Irishman, Hugh\nQuoil (if I have spelt his name with coil enough,) who occupied Wyman\u2019s\ntenement,\u2014Col. Quoil, he was called. Rumor said that he had been a\nsoldier at Waterloo. If he had lived I should have made him fight his\nbattles over again. His trade here was that of a ditcher. Napoleon went\nto St. Helena; Quoil came to Walden Woods. All I know of him is tragic.\nHe was a man of manners, like one who had seen the world, and was\ncapable of more civil speech than you could well attend to. He wore a\ngreat coat in mid-summer, being affected with the trembling delirium,\nand his face was the color of carmine. He died in the road at the foot\nof Brister\u2019s Hill shortly after I came to the woods, so that I have not\nremembered him as a neighbor. Before his house was pulled down, when\nhis comrades avoided it as \u201can unlucky castle,\u201d I visited it. There lay\nhis old clothes curled up by use, as if they were himself, upon his\nraised plank bed. His pipe lay broken on the hearth, instead of a bowl\nbroken at the fountain. The last could never have been the symbol of\nhis death, for he confessed to me that, though he had heard of\nBrister\u2019s Spring, he had never seen it; and soiled cards, kings of\ndiamonds spades and hearts, were scattered over the floor. One black\nchicken which the administrator could not catch, black as night and as\nsilent, not even croaking, awaiting Reynard, still went to roost in the\nnext apartment. In the rear there was the dim outline of a garden,\nwhich had been planted but had never received its first hoeing, owing\nto those terrible shaking fits, though it was now harvest time. It was\nover-run with Roman wormwood and beggar-ticks, which last stuck to my\nclothes for all fruit. The skin of a woodchuck was freshly stretched\nupon the back of the house, a trophy of his last Waterloo; but no warm\ncap or mittens would he want more.\n\nNow only a dent in the earth marks the site of these dwellings, with\nburied cellar stones, and strawberries, raspberries, thimble-berries,\nhazel-bushes, and sumachs growing in the sunny sward there; some\npitch-pine or gnarled oak occupies what was the chimney nook, and a\nsweet-scented black-birch, perhaps, waves where the door-stone was.\nSometimes the well dent is visible, where once a spring oozed; now dry\nand tearless grass; or it was covered deep,\u2014not to be discovered till\nsome late day,\u2014with a flat stone under the sod, when the last of the\nrace departed. What a sorrowful act must that be,\u2014the covering up of\nwells! coincident with the opening of wells of tears. These cellar\ndents, like deserted fox burrows, old holes, are all that is left where\nonce were the stir and bustle of human life, and \u201cfate, free-will,\nforeknowledge absolute,\u201d in some form and dialect or other were by\nturns discussed. But all I can learn of their conclusions amounts to\njust this, that \u201cCato and Brister pulled wool;\u201d which is about as\nedifying as the history of more famous schools of philosophy.\n\nStill grows the vivacious lilac a generation after the door and lintel\nand the sill are gone, unfolding its sweet-scented flowers each spring,\nto be plucked by the musing traveller; planted and tended once by\nchildren\u2019s hands, in front-yard plots,\u2014now standing by wall-sides in\nretired pastures, and giving place to new-rising forests;\u2014the last of\nthat stirp, sole survivor of that family. Little did the dusky children\nthink that the puny slip with its two eyes only, which they stuck in\nthe ground in the shadow of the house and daily watered, would root\nitself so, and outlive them, and house itself in the rear that shaded\nit, and grown man\u2019s garden and orchard, and tell their story faintly to\nthe lone wanderer a half century after they had grown up and\ndied,\u2014blossoming as fair, and smelling as sweet, as in that first\nspring. I mark its still tender, civil, cheerful, lilac colors.\n\nBut this small village, germ of something more, why did it fail while\nConcord keeps its ground? Were there no natural advantages,\u2014no water\nprivileges, forsooth? Ay, the deep Walden Pond and cool Brister\u2019s\nSpring,\u2014privilege to drink long and healthy draughts at these, all\nunimproved by these men but to dilute their glass. They were\nuniversally a thirsty race. Might not the basket, stable-broom,\nmat-making, corn-parching, linen-spinning, and pottery business have\nthrived here, making the wilderness to blossom like the rose, and a\nnumerous posterity have inherited the land of their fathers? The\nsterile soil would at least have been proof against a low-land\ndegeneracy. Alas! how little does the memory of these human inhabitants\nenhance the beauty of the landscape! Again, perhaps, Nature will try,\nwith me for a first settler, and my house raised last spring to be the\noldest in the hamlet.\n\nI am not aware that any man has ever built on the spot which I occupy.\nDeliver me from a city built on the site of a more ancient city, whose\nmaterials are ruins, whose gardens cemeteries. The soil is blanched and\naccursed there, and before that becomes necessary the earth itself will\nbe destroyed. With such reminiscences I repeopled the woods and lulled\nmyself asleep.\n\n\n\nAt this season I seldom had a visitor. When the snow lay deepest no\nwanderer ventured near my house for a week or fortnight at a time, but\nthere I lived as snug as a meadow mouse, or as cattle and poultry which\nare said to have survived for a long time buried in drifts, even\nwithout food; or like that early settler\u2019s family in the town of\nSutton, in this state, whose cottage was completely covered by the\ngreat snow of 1717 when he was absent, and an Indian found it only by\nthe hole which the chimney\u2019s breath made in the drift, and so relieved\nthe family. But no friendly Indian concerned himself about me; nor\nneeded he, for the master of the house was at home. The Great Snow! How\ncheerful it is to hear of! When the farmers could not get to the woods\nand swamps with their teams, and were obliged to cut down the shade\ntrees before their houses, and when the crust was harder, cut off the\ntrees in the swamps, ten feet from the ground, as it appeared the next\nspring.\n\nIn the deepest snows, the path which I used from the highway to my\nhouse, about half a mile long, might have been represented by a\nmeandering dotted line, with wide intervals between the dots. For a\nweek of even weather I took exactly the same number of steps, and of\nthe same length, coming and going, stepping deliberately and with the\nprecision of a pair of dividers in my own deep tracks,\u2014to such routine\nthe winter reduces us,\u2014yet often they were filled with heaven\u2019s own\nblue. But no weather interfered fatally with my walks, or rather my\ngoing abroad, for I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the\ndeepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech-tree, or a\nyellow-birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines; when the ice and\nsnow causing their limbs to droop, and so sharpening their tops, had\nchanged the pines into fir-trees; wading to the tops of the highest\nhills when the snow was nearly two feet deep on a level, and shaking\ndown another snow-storm on my head at every step; or sometimes creeping\nand floundering thither on my hands and knees, when the hunters had\ngone into winter quarters. One afternoon I amused myself by watching a\nbarred owl (_Strix nebulosa_) sitting on one of the lower dead limbs of\na white-pine, close to the trunk, in broad daylight, I standing within\na rod of him. He could hear me when I moved and cronched the snow with\nmy feet, but could not plainly see me. When I made most noise he would\nstretch out his neck, and erect his neck feathers, and open his eyes\nwide; but their lids soon fell again, and he began to nod. I too felt a\nslumberous influence after watching him half an hour, as he sat thus\nwith his eyes half open, like a cat, winged brother of the cat. There\nwas only a narrow slit left between their lids, by which he preserved a\npeninsular relation to me; thus, with half-shut eyes, looking out from\nthe land of dreams, and endeavoring to realize me, vague object or mote\nthat interrupted his visions. At length, on some louder noise or my\nnearer approach, he would grow uneasy and sluggishly turn about on his\nperch, as if impatient at having his dreams disturbed; and when he\nlaunched himself off and flapped through the pines, spreading his wings\nto unexpected breadth, I could not hear the slightest sound from them.\nThus, guided amid the pine boughs rather by a delicate sense of their\nneighborhood than by sight, feeling his twilight way as it were with\nhis sensitive pinions, he found a new perch, where he might in peace\nawait the dawning of his day.\n\nAs I walked over the long causeway made for the railroad through the\nmeadows, I encountered many a blustering and nipping wind, for nowhere\nhas it freer play; and when the frost had smitten me on one cheek,\nheathen as I was, I turned to it the other also. Nor was it much better\nby the carriage road from Brister\u2019s Hill. For I came to town still,\nlike a friendly Indian, when the contents of the broad open fields were\nall piled up between the walls of the Walden road, and half an hour\nsufficed to obliterate the tracks of the last traveller. And when I\nreturned new drifts would have formed, through which I floundered,\nwhere the busy north-west wind had been depositing the powdery snow\nround a sharp angle in the road, and not a rabbit\u2019s track, nor even the\nfine print, the small type, of a meadow mouse was to be seen. Yet I\nrarely failed to find, even in mid-winter, some warm and springly swamp\nwhere the grass and the skunk-cabbage still put forth with perennial\nverdure, and some hardier bird occasionally awaited the return of\nspring.\n\nSometimes, notwithstanding the snow, when I returned from my walk at\nevening I crossed the deep tracks of a woodchopper leading from my\ndoor, and found his pile of whittlings on the hearth, and my house\nfilled with the odor of his pipe. Or on a Sunday afternoon, if I\nchanced to be at home, I heard the cronching of the snow made by the\nstep of a long-headed farmer, who from far through the woods sought my\nhouse, to have a social \u201ccrack;\u201d one of the few of his vocation who are\n\u201cmen on their farms;\u201d who donned a frock instead of a professor\u2019s gown,\nand is as ready to extract the moral out of church or state as to haul\na load of manure from his barn-yard. We talked of rude and simple\ntimes, when men sat about large fires in cold bracing weather, with\nclear heads; and when other dessert failed, we tried our teeth on many\na nut which wise squirrels have long since abandoned, for those which\nhave the thickest shells are commonly empty.\n\nThe one who came from farthest to my lodge, through deepest snows and\nmost dismal tempests, was a poet. A farmer, a hunter, a soldier, a\nreporter, even a philosopher, may be daunted; but nothing can deter a\npoet, for he is actuated by pure love. Who can predict his comings and\ngoings? His business calls him out at all hours, even when doctors\nsleep. We made that small house ring with boisterous mirth and resound\nwith the murmur of much sober talk, making amends then to Walden vale\nfor the long silences. Broadway was still and deserted in comparison.\nAt suitable intervals there were regular salutes of laughter, which\nmight have been referred indifferently to the last uttered or the\nforth-coming jest. We made many a \u201cbran new\u201d theory of life over a thin\ndish of gruel, which combined the advantages of conviviality with the\nclear-headedness which philosophy requires.\n\nI should not forget that during my last winter at the pond there was\nanother welcome visitor, who at one time came through the village,\nthrough snow and rain and darkness, till he saw my lamp through the\ntrees, and shared with me some long winter evenings. One of the last of\nthe philosophers,\u2014Connecticut gave him to the world,\u2014he peddled first\nher wares, afterwards, as he declares, his brains. These he peddles\nstill, prompting God and disgracing man, bearing for fruit his brain\nonly, like the nut its kernel. I think that he must be the man of the\nmost faith of any alive. His words and attitude always suppose a better\nstate of things than other men are acquainted with, and he will be the\nlast man to be disappointed as the ages revolve. He has no venture in\nthe present. But though comparatively disregarded now, when his day\ncomes, laws unsuspected by most will take effect, and masters of\nfamilies and rulers will come to him for advice.\u2014\n\n     \u201cHow blind that cannot see serenity!\u201d\n\n\nA true friend of man; almost the only friend of human progress. An Old\nMortality, say rather an Immortality, with unwearied patience and faith\nmaking plain the image engraven in men\u2019s bodies, the God of whom they\nare but defaced and leaning monuments. With his hospitable intellect he\nembraces children, beggars, insane, and scholars, and entertains the\nthought of all, adding to it commonly some breadth and elegance. I\nthink that he should keep a caravansary on the world\u2019s highway, where\nphilosophers of all nations might put up, and on his sign should be\nprinted, \u201cEntertainment for man, but not for his beast. Enter ye that\nhave leisure and a quiet mind, who earnestly seek the right road.\u201d He\nis perhaps the sanest man and has the fewest crotchets of any I chance\nto know; the same yesterday and tomorrow. Of yore we had sauntered and\ntalked, and effectually put the world behind us; for he was pledged to\nno institution in it, freeborn, _ingenuus_. Whichever way we turned, it\nseemed that the heavens and the earth had met together, since he\nenhanced the beauty of the landscape. A blue-robed man, whose fittest\nroof is the overarching sky which reflects his serenity. I do not see\nhow he can ever die; Nature cannot spare him.\n\nHaving each some shingles of thought well dried, we sat and whittled\nthem, trying our knives, and admiring the clear yellowish grain of the\npumpkin pine. We waded so gently and reverently, or we pulled together\nso smoothly, that the fishes of thought were not scared from the\nstream, nor feared any angler on the bank, but came and went grandly,\nlike the clouds which float through the western sky, and the\nmother-o\u2019-pearl flocks which sometimes form and dissolve there. There\nwe worked, revising mythology, rounding a fable here and there, and\nbuilding castles in the air for which earth offered no worthy\nfoundation. Great Looker! Great Expecter! to converse with whom was a\nNew England Night\u2019s Entertainment. Ah! such discourse we had, hermit\nand philosopher, and the old settler I have spoken of,\u2014we three,\u2014it\nexpanded and racked my little house; I should not dare to say how many\npounds\u2019 weight there was above the atmospheric pressure on every\ncircular inch; it opened its seams so that they had to be calked with\nmuch dulness thereafter to stop the consequent leak;\u2014but I had enough\nof that kind of oakum already picked.\n\nThere was one other with whom I had \u201csolid seasons,\u201d long to be\nremembered, at his house in the village, and who looked in upon me from\ntime to time; but I had no more for society there.\n\nThere too, as every where, I sometimes expected the Visitor who never\ncomes. The Vishnu Purana says, \u201cThe house-holder is to remain at\neventide in his court-yard as long as it takes to milk a cow, or longer\nif he pleases, to await the arrival of a guest.\u201d I often performed this\nduty of hospitality, waited long enough to milk a whole herd of cows,\nbut did not see the man approaching from the town.\n\n\nWinter Animals\n\nWhen the ponds were firmly frozen, they afforded not only new and\nshorter routes to many points, but new views from their surfaces of the\nfamiliar landscape around them. When I crossed Flint\u2019s Pond, after it\nwas covered with snow, though I had often paddled about and skated over\nit, it was so unexpectedly wide and so strange that I could think of\nnothing but Baffin\u2019s Bay. The Lincoln hills rose up around me at the\nextremity of a snowy plain, in which I did not remember to have stood\nbefore; and the fishermen, at an indeterminable distance over the ice,\nmoving slowly about with their wolfish dogs, passed for sealers or\nEsquimaux, or in misty weather loomed like fabulous creatures, and I\ndid not know whether they were giants or pygmies. I took this course\nwhen I went to lecture in Lincoln in the evening, travelling in no road\nand passing no house between my own hut and the lecture room. In Goose\nPond, which lay in my way, a colony of muskrats dwelt, and raised their\ncabins high above the ice, though none could be seen abroad when I\ncrossed it. Walden, being like the rest usually bare of snow, or with\nonly shallow and interrupted drifts on it, was my yard, where I could\nwalk freely when the snow was nearly two feet deep on a level elsewhere\nand the villagers were confined to their streets. There, far from the\nvillage street, and except at very long intervals, from the jingle of\nsleigh-bells, I slid and skated, as in a vast moose-yard well trodden,\noverhung by oak woods and solemn pines bent down with snow or bristling\nwith icicles.\n\nFor sounds in winter nights, and often in winter days, I heard the\nforlorn but melodious note of a hooting owl indefinitely far; such a\nsound as the frozen earth would yield if struck with a suitable\nplectrum, the very _lingua vernacula_ of Walden Wood, and quite\nfamiliar to me at last, though I never saw the bird while it was making\nit. I seldom opened my door in a winter evening without hearing it;\n_Hoo hoo hoo, hoorer, hoo,_ sounded sonorously, and the first three\nsyllables accented somewhat like _how der do_; or sometimes _hoo hoo_\nonly. One night in the beginning of winter, before the pond froze over,\nabout nine o\u2019clock, I was startled by the loud honking of a goose, and,\nstepping to the door, heard the sound of their wings like a tempest in\nthe woods as they flew low over my house. They passed over the pond\ntoward Fair Haven, seemingly deterred from settling by my light, their\ncommodore honking all the while with a regular beat. Suddenly an\nunmistakable cat-owl from very near me, with the most harsh and\ntremendous voice I ever heard from any inhabitant of the woods,\nresponded at regular intervals to the goose, as if determined to expose\nand disgrace this intruder from Hudson\u2019s Bay by exhibiting a greater\ncompass and volume of voice in a native, and _boo-hoo_ him out of\nConcord horizon. What do you mean by alarming the citadel at this time\nof night consecrated to me? Do you think I am ever caught napping at\nsuch an hour, and that I have not got lungs and a larynx as well as\nyourself? _Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, boo-hoo!_ It was one of the most thrilling\ndiscords I ever heard. And yet, if you had a discriminating ear, there\nwere in it the elements of a concord such as these plains never saw nor\nheard.\n\nI also heard the whooping of the ice in the pond, my great bed-fellow\nin that part of Concord, as if it were restless in its bed and would\nfain turn over, were troubled with flatulency and had dreams; or I was\nwaked by the cracking of the ground by the frost, as if some one had\ndriven a team against my door, and in the morning would find a crack in\nthe earth a quarter of a mile long and a third of an inch wide.\n\nSometimes I heard the foxes as they ranged over the snow crust, in\nmoonlight nights, in search of a partridge or other game, barking\nraggedly and demoniacally like forest dogs, as if laboring with some\nanxiety, or seeking expression, struggling for light and to be dogs\noutright and run freely in the streets; for if we take the ages into\nour account, may there not be a civilization going on among brutes as\nwell as men? They seemed to me to be rudimental, burrowing men, still\nstanding on their defence, awaiting their transformation. Sometimes one\ncame near to my window, attracted by my light, barked a vulpine curse\nat me, and then retreated.\n\nUsually the red squirrel (_Sciurus Hudsonius_) waked me in the dawn,\ncoursing over the roof and up and down the sides of the house, as if\nsent out of the woods for this purpose. In the course of the winter I\nthrew out half a bushel of ears of sweet-corn, which had not got ripe,\non to the snow crust by my door, and was amused by watching the motions\nof the various animals which were baited by it. In the twilight and the\nnight the rabbits came regularly and made a hearty meal. All day long\nthe red squirrels came and went, and afforded me much entertainment by\ntheir man\u0153uvres. One would approach at first warily through the\nshrub-oaks, running over the snow crust by fits and starts like a leaf\nblown by the wind, now a few paces this way, with wonderful speed and\nwaste of energy, making inconceivable haste with his \u201ctrotters,\u201d as if\nit were for a wager, and now as many paces that way, but never getting\non more than half a rod at a time; and then suddenly pausing with a\nludicrous expression and a gratuitous somerset, as if all the eyes in\nthe universe were fixed on him,\u2014for all the motions of a squirrel, even\nin the most solitary recesses of the forest, imply spectators as much\nas those of a dancing girl,\u2014wasting more time in delay and\ncircumspection than would have sufficed to walk the whole distance,\u2014I\nnever saw one walk,\u2014and then suddenly, before you could say Jack\nRobinson, he would be in the top of a young pitch-pine, winding up his\nclock and chiding all imaginary spectators, soliloquizing and talking\nto all the universe at the same time,\u2014for no reason that I could ever\ndetect, or he himself was aware of, I suspect. At length he would reach\nthe corn, and selecting a suitable ear, frisk about in the same\nuncertain trigonometrical way to the top-most stick of my wood-pile,\nbefore my window, where he looked me in the face, and there sit for\nhours, supplying himself with a new ear from time to time, nibbling at\nfirst voraciously and throwing the half-naked cobs about; till at\nlength he grew more dainty still and played with his food, tasting only\nthe inside of the kernel, and the ear, which was held balanced over the\nstick by one paw, slipped from his careless grasp and fell to the\nground, when he would look over at it with a ludicrous expression of\nuncertainty, as if suspecting that it had life, with a mind not made up\nwhether to get it again, or a new one, or be off; now thinking of corn,\nthen listening to hear what was in the wind. So the little impudent\nfellow would waste many an ear in a forenoon; till at last, seizing\nsome longer and plumper one, considerably bigger than himself, and\nskilfully balancing it, he would set out with it to the woods, like a\ntiger with a buffalo, by the same zig-zag course and frequent pauses,\nscratching along with it as if it were too heavy for him and falling\nall the while, making its fall a diagonal between a perpendicular and\nhorizontal, being determined to put it through at any rate;\u2014a\nsingularly frivolous and whimsical fellow;\u2014and so he would get off with\nit to where he lived, perhaps carry it to the top of a pine tree forty\nor fifty rods distant, and I would afterwards find the cobs strewn\nabout the woods in various directions.\n\nAt length the jays arrive, whose discordant screams were heard long\nbefore, as they were warily making their approach an eighth of a mile\noff, and in a stealthy and sneaking manner they flit from tree to tree,\nnearer and nearer, and pick up the kernels which the squirrels have\ndropped. Then, sitting on a pitch-pine bough, they attempt to swallow\nin their haste a kernel which is too big for their throats and chokes\nthem; and after great labor they disgorge it, and spend an hour in the\nendeavor to crack it by repeated blows with their bills. They were\nmanifestly thieves, and I had not much respect for them; but the\nsquirrels, though at first shy, went to work as if they were taking\nwhat was their own.\n\nMeanwhile also came the chickadees in flocks, which, picking up the\ncrumbs the squirrels had dropped, flew to the nearest twig, and,\nplacing them under their claws, hammered away at them with their little\nbills, as if it were an insect in the bark, till they were sufficiently\nreduced for their slender throats. A little flock of these tit-mice\ncame daily to pick a dinner out of my wood-pile, or the crumbs at my\ndoor, with faint flitting lisping notes, like the tinkling of icicles\nin the grass, or else with sprightly _day day day_, or more rarely, in\nspring-like days, a wiry summery _phe-be_ from the wood-side. They were\nso familiar that at length one alighted on an armful of wood which I\nwas carrying in, and pecked at the sticks without fear. I once had a\nsparrow alight upon my shoulder for a moment while I was hoeing in a\nvillage garden, and I felt that I was more distinguished by that\ncircumstance than I should have been by any epaulet I could have worn.\nThe squirrels also grew at last to be quite familiar, and occasionally\nstepped upon my shoe, when that was the nearest way.\n\nWhen the ground was not yet quite covered, and again near the end of\nwinter, when the snow was melted on my south hill-side and about my\nwood-pile, the partridges came out of the woods morning and evening to\nfeed there. Whichever side you walk in the woods the partridge bursts\naway on whirring wings, jarring the snow from the dry leaves and twigs\non high, which comes sifting down in the sun-beams like golden dust;\nfor this brave bird is not to be scared by winter. It is frequently\ncovered up by drifts, and, it is said, \u201csometimes plunges from on wing\ninto the soft snow, where it remains concealed for a day or two.\u201d I\nused to start them in the open land also, where they had come out of\nthe woods at sunset to \u201cbud\u201d the wild apple-trees. They will come\nregularly every evening to particular trees, where the cunning\nsportsman lies in wait for them, and the distant orchards next the\nwoods suffer thus not a little. I am glad that the partridge gets fed,\nat any rate. It is Nature\u2019s own bird which lives on buds and\ndiet-drink.\n\nIn dark winter mornings, or in short winter afternoons, I sometimes\nheard a pack of hounds threading all the woods with hounding cry and\nyelp, unable to resist the instinct of the chase, and the note of the\nhunting horn at intervals, proving that man was in the rear. The woods\nring again, and yet no fox bursts forth on to the open level of the\npond, nor following pack pursuing their Act\u00e6on. And perhaps at evening\nI see the hunters returning with a single brush trailing from their\nsleigh for a trophy, seeking their inn. They tell me that if the fox\nwould remain in the bosom of the frozen earth he would be safe, or if\nhe would run in a straight line away no fox-hound could overtake him;\nbut, having left his pursuers far behind, he stops to rest and listen\ntill they come up, and when he runs he circles round to his old haunts,\nwhere the hunters await him. Sometimes, however, he will run upon a\nwall many rods, and then leap off far to one side, and he appears to\nknow that water will not retain his scent. A hunter told me that he\nonce saw a fox pursued by hounds burst out on to Walden when the ice\nwas covered with shallow puddles, run part way across, and then return\nto the same shore. Ere long the hounds arrived, but here they lost the\nscent. Sometimes a pack hunting by themselves would pass my door, and\ncircle round my house, and yelp and hound without regarding me, as if\nafflicted by a species of madness, so that nothing could divert them\nfrom the pursuit. Thus they circle until they fall upon the recent\ntrail of a fox, for a wise hound will forsake every thing else for\nthis. One day a man came to my hut from Lexington to inquire after his\nhound that made a large track, and had been hunting for a week by\nhimself. But I fear that he was not the wiser for all I told him, for\nevery time I attempted to answer his questions he interrupted me by\nasking, \u201cWhat do you do here?\u201d He had lost a dog, but found a man.\n\nOne old hunter who has a dry tongue, who used to come to bathe in\nWalden once every year when the water was warmest, and at such times\nlooked in upon me, told me that many years ago he took his gun one\nafternoon and went out for a cruise in Walden Wood; and as he walked\nthe Wayland road he heard the cry of hounds approaching, and ere long a\nfox leaped the wall into the road, and as quick as thought leaped the\nother wall out of the road, and his swift bullet had not touched him.\nSome way behind came an old hound and her three pups in full pursuit,\nhunting on their own account, and disappeared again in the woods. Late\nin the afternoon, as he was resting in the thick woods south of Walden,\nhe heard the voice of the hounds far over toward Fair Haven still\npursuing the fox; and on they came, their hounding cry which made all\nthe woods ring sounding nearer and nearer, now from Well-Meadow, now\nfrom the Baker Farm. For a long time he stood still and listened to\ntheir music, so sweet to a hunter\u2019s ear, when suddenly the fox\nappeared, threading the solemn aisles with an easy coursing pace, whose\nsound was concealed by a sympathetic rustle of the leaves, swift and\nstill, keeping the ground, leaving his pursuers far behind; and,\nleaping upon a rock amid the woods, he sat erect and listening, with\nhis back to the hunter. For a moment compassion restrained the latter\u2019s\narm; but that was a short-lived mood, and as quick as thought can\nfollow thought his piece was levelled, and _whang!_\u2014the fox rolling\nover the rock lay dead on the ground. The hunter still kept his place\nand listened to the hounds. Still on they came, and now the near woods\nresounded through all their aisles with their demoniac cry. At length\nthe old hound burst into view with muzzle to the ground, and snapping\nthe air as if possessed, and ran directly to the rock; but spying the\ndead fox she suddenly ceased her hounding as if struck dumb with\namazement, and walked round and round him in silence; and one by one\nher pups arrived, and, like their mother, were sobered into silence by\nthe mystery. Then the hunter came forward and stood in their midst, and\nthe mystery was solved. They waited in silence while he skinned the\nfox, then followed the brush a while, and at length turned off into the\nwoods again. That evening a Weston Squire came to the Concord hunter\u2019s\ncottage to inquire for his hounds, and told how for a week they had\nbeen hunting on their own account from Weston woods. The Concord hunter\ntold him what he knew and offered him the skin; but the other declined\nit and departed. He did not find his hounds that night, but the next\nday learned that they had crossed the river and put up at a farm-house\nfor the night, whence, having been well fed, they took their departure\nearly in the morning.\n\nThe hunter who told me this could remember one Sam Nutting, who used to\nhunt bears on Fair Haven Ledges, and exchange their skins for rum in\nConcord village; who told him, even, that he had seen a moose there.\nNutting had a famous fox-hound named Burgoyne,\u2014he pronounced it\nBugine,\u2014which my informant used to borrow. In the \u201cWast Book\u201d of an old\ntrader of this town, who was also a captain, town-clerk, and\nrepresentative, I find the following entry. Jan. 18th, 1742\u20133, \u201cJohn\nMelven Cr. by 1 Grey Fox 0\u20142\u20143;\u201d they are not now found here; and in\nhis ledger, Feb. 7th, 1743, Hezekiah Stratton has credit \u201cby \u00bd a Catt\nskin 0\u20141\u20144\u00bd;\u201d of course, a wild-cat, for Stratton was a sergeant in the\nold French war, and would not have got credit for hunting less noble\ngame. Credit is given for deer skins also, and they were daily sold.\nOne man still preserves the horns of the last deer that was killed in\nthis vicinity, and another has told me the particulars of the hunt in\nwhich his uncle was engaged. The hunters were formerly a numerous and\nmerry crew here. I remember well one gaunt Nimrod who would catch up a\nleaf by the road-side and play a strain on it wilder and more\nmelodious, if my memory serves me, than any hunting-horn.\n\nAt midnight, when there was a moon, I sometimes met with hounds in my\npath prowling about the woods, which would skulk out of my way, as if\nafraid, and stand silent amid the bushes till I had passed.\n\nSquirrels and wild mice disputed for my store of nuts. There were\nscores of pitch-pines around my house, from one to four inches in\ndiameter, which had been gnawed by mice the previous winter,\u2014a\nNorwegian winter for them, for the snow lay long and deep, and they\nwere obliged to mix a large proportion of pine bark with their other\ndiet. These trees were alive and apparently flourishing at mid-summer,\nand many of them had grown a foot, though completely girdled; but after\nanother winter such were without exception dead. It is remarkable that\na single mouse should thus be allowed a whole pine tree for its dinner,\ngnawing round instead of up and down it; but perhaps it is necessary in\norder to thin these trees, which are wont to grow up densely.\n\nThe hares (_Lepus Americanus_) were very familiar. One had her form\nunder my house all winter, separated from me only by the flooring, and\nshe startled me each morning by her hasty departure when I began to\nstir,\u2014thump, thump, thump, striking her head against the floor timbers\nin her hurry. They used to come round my door at dusk to nibble the\npotato parings which I had thrown out, and were so nearly the color of\nthe ground that they could hardly be distinguished when still.\nSometimes in the twilight I alternately lost and recovered sight of one\nsitting motionless under my window. When I opened my door in the\nevening, off they would go with a squeak and a bounce. Near at hand\nthey only excited my pity. One evening one sat by my door two paces\nfrom me, at first trembling with fear, yet unwilling to move; a poor\nwee thing, lean and bony, with ragged ears and sharp nose, scant tail\nand slender paws. It looked as if Nature no longer contained the breed\nof nobler bloods, but stood on her last toes. Its large eyes appeared\nyoung and unhealthy, almost dropsical. I took a step, and lo, away it\nscud with an elastic spring over the snow crust, straightening its body\nand its limbs into graceful length, and soon put the forest between me\nand itself,\u2014the wild free venison, asserting its vigor and the dignity\nof Nature. Not without reason was its slenderness. Such then was its\nnature. (_Lepus_, _levipes_, light-foot, some think.)\n\nWhat is a country without rabbits and partridges? They are among the\nmost simple and indigenous animal products; ancient and venerable\nfamilies known to antiquity as to modern times; of the very hue and\nsubstance of Nature, nearest allied to leaves and to the ground,\u2014and to\none another; it is either winged or it is legged. It is hardly as if\nyou had seen a wild creature when a rabbit or a partridge bursts away,\nonly a natural one, as much to be expected as rustling leaves. The\npartridge and the rabbit are still sure to thrive, like true natives of\nthe soil, whatever revolutions occur. If the forest is cut off, the\nsprouts and bushes which spring up afford them concealment, and they\nbecome more numerous than ever. That must be a poor country indeed that\ndoes not support a hare. Our woods teem with them both, and around\nevery swamp may be seen the partridge or rabbit walk, beset with twiggy\nfences and horse-hair snares, which some cow-boy tends.\n\n\nThe Pond in Winter\n\nAfter a still winter night I awoke with the impression that some\nquestion had been put to me, which I had been endeavoring in vain to\nanswer in my sleep, as what\u2014how\u2014when\u2014where? But there was dawning\nNature, in whom all creatures live, looking in at my broad windows with\nserene and satisfied face, and no question on _her_ lips. I awoke to an\nanswered question, to Nature and daylight. The snow lying deep on the\nearth dotted with young pines, and the very slope of the hill on which\nmy house is placed, seemed to say, Forward! Nature puts no question and\nanswers none which we mortals ask. She has long ago taken her\nresolution. \u201cO Prince, our eyes contemplate with admiration and\ntransmit to the soul the wonderful and varied spectacle of this\nuniverse. The night veils without doubt a part of this glorious\ncreation; but day comes to reveal to us this great work, which extends\nfrom earth even into the plains of the ether.\u201d\n\nThen to my morning work. First I take an axe and pail and go in search\nof water, if that be not a dream. After a cold and snowy night it\nneeded a divining rod to find it. Every winter the liquid and trembling\nsurface of the pond, which was so sensitive to every breath, and\nreflected every light and shadow, becomes solid to the depth of a foot\nor a foot and a half, so that it will support the heaviest teams, and\nperchance the snow covers it to an equal depth, and it is not to be\ndistinguished from any level field. Like the marmots in the surrounding\nhills, it closes its eye-lids and becomes dormant for three months or\nmore. Standing on the snow-covered plain, as if in a pasture amid the\nhills, I cut my way first through a foot of snow, and then a foot of\nice, and open a window under my feet, where, kneeling to drink, I look\ndown into the quiet parlor of the fishes, pervaded by a softened light\nas through a window of ground glass, with its bright sanded floor the\nsame as in summer; there a perennial waveless serenity reigns as in the\namber twilight sky, corresponding to the cool and even temperament of\nthe inhabitants. Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads.\n\nEarly in the morning, while all things are crisp with frost, men come\nwith fishing reels and slender lunch, and let down their fine lines\nthrough the snowy field to take pickerel and perch; wild men, who\ninstinctively follow other fashions and trust other authorities than\ntheir townsmen, and by their goings and comings stitch towns together\nin parts where else they would be ripped. They sit and eat their\nluncheon in stout fear-naughts on the dry oak leaves on the shore, as\nwise in natural lore as the citizen is in artificial. They never\nconsulted with books, and know and can tell much less than they have\ndone. The things which they practise are said not yet to be known. Here\nis one fishing for pickerel with grown perch for bait. You look into\nhis pail with wonder as into a summer pond, as if he kept summer locked\nup at home, or knew where she had retreated. How, pray, did he get\nthese in mid-winter? O, he got worms out of rotten logs since the\nground froze, and so he caught them. His life itself passes deeper in\nNature than the studies of the naturalist penetrate; himself a subject\nfor the naturalist. The latter raises the moss and bark gently with his\nknife in search of insects; the former lays open logs to their core\nwith his axe, and moss and bark fly far and wide. He gets his living by\nbarking trees. Such a man has some right to fish, and I love to see\nNature carried out in him. The perch swallows the grub-worm, the\npickerel swallows the perch, and the fisher-man swallows the pickerel;\nand so all the chinks in the scale of being are filled.\n\nWhen I strolled around the pond in misty weather I was sometimes amused\nby the primitive mode which some ruder fisherman had adopted. He would\nperhaps have placed alder branches over the narrow holes in the ice,\nwhich were four or five rods apart and an equal distance from the\nshore, and having fastened the end of the line to a stick to prevent\nits being pulled through, have passed the slack line over a twig of the\nalder, a foot or more above the ice, and tied a dry oak leaf to it,\nwhich, being pulled down, would show when he had a bite. These alders\nloomed through the mist at regular intervals as you walked half way\nround the pond.\n\nAh, the pickerel of Walden! when I see them lying on the ice, or in the\nwell which the fisherman cuts in the ice, making a little hole to admit\nthe water, I am always surprised by their rare beauty, as if they were\nfabulous fishes, they are so foreign to the streets, even to the woods,\nforeign as Arabia to our Concord life. They possess a quite dazzling\nand transcendent beauty which separates them by a wide interval from\nthe cadaverous cod and haddock whose fame is trumpeted in our streets.\nThey are not green like the pines, nor gray like the stones, nor blue\nlike the sky; but they have, to my eyes, if possible, yet rarer colors,\nlike flowers and precious stones, as if they were the pearls, the\nanimalized _nuclei_ or crystals of the Walden water. They, of course,\nare Walden all over and all through; are themselves small Waldens in\nthe animal kingdom, Waldenses. It is surprising that they are caught\nhere,\u2014that in this deep and capacious spring, far beneath the rattling\nteams and chaises and tinkling sleighs that travel the Walden road,\nthis great gold and emerald fish swims. I never chanced to see its kind\nin any market; it would be the cynosure of all eyes there. Easily, with\na few convulsive quirks, they give up their watery ghosts, like a\nmortal translated before his time to the thin air of heaven.\n\n\n\nwalden_pond_map\n\n\n\nAs I was desirous to recover the long lost bottom of Walden Pond, I\nsurveyed it carefully, before the ice broke up, early in \u201946, with\ncompass and chain and sounding line. There have been many stories told\nabout the bottom, or rather no bottom, of this pond, which certainly\nhad no foundation for themselves. It is remarkable how long men will\nbelieve in the bottomlessness of a pond without taking the trouble to\nsound it. I have visited two such Bottomless Ponds in one walk in this\nneighborhood. Many have believed that Walden reached quite through to\nthe other side of the globe. Some who have lain flat on the ice for a\nlong time, looking down through the illusive medium, perchance with\nwatery eyes into the bargain, and driven to hasty conclusions by the\nfear of catching cold in their breasts, have seen vast holes \u201cinto\nwhich a load of hay might be driven,\u201d if there were any body to drive\nit, the undoubted source of the Styx and entrance to the Infernal\nRegions from these parts. Others have gone down from the village with a\n\u201cfifty-six\u201d and a wagon load of inch rope, but yet have failed to find\nany bottom; for while the \u201cfifty-six\u201d was resting by the way, they were\npaying out the rope in the vain attempt to fathom their truly\nimmeasurable capacity for marvellousness. But I can assure my readers\nthat Walden has a reasonably tight bottom at a not unreasonable, though\nat an unusual, depth. I fathomed it easily with a cod-line and a stone\nweighing about a pound and a half, and could tell accurately when the\nstone left the bottom, by having to pull so much harder before the\nwater got underneath to help me. The greatest depth was exactly one\nhundred and two feet; to which may be added the five feet which it has\nrisen since, making one hundred and seven. This is a remarkable depth\nfor so small an area; yet not an inch of it can be spared by the\nimagination. What if all ponds were shallow? Would it not react on the\nminds of men? I am thankful that this pond was made deep and pure for a\nsymbol. While men believe in the infinite some ponds will be thought to\nbe bottomless.\n\nA factory owner, hearing what depth I had found, thought that it could\nnot be true, for, judging from his acquaintance with dams, sand would\nnot lie at so steep an angle. But the deepest ponds are not so deep in\nproportion to their area as most suppose, and, if drained, would not\nleave very remarkable valleys. They are not like cups between the\nhills; for this one, which is so unusually deep for its area, appears\nin a vertical section through its centre not deeper than a shallow\nplate. Most ponds, emptied, would leave a meadow no more hollow than we\nfrequently see. William Gilpin, who is so admirable in all that relates\nto landscapes, and usually so correct, standing at the head of Loch\nFyne, in Scotland, which he describes as \u201ca bay of salt water, sixty or\nseventy fathoms deep, four miles in breadth,\u201d and about fifty miles\nlong, surrounded by mountains, observes, \u201cIf we could have seen it\nimmediately after the diluvian crash, or whatever convulsion of Nature\noccasioned it, before the waters gushed in, what a horrid chasm must it\nhave appeared!\n\n     So high as heaved the tumid hills, so low\n     Down sunk a hollow bottom broad and deep,\n     Capacious bed of waters\u2014.\u201d\n\nBut if, using the shortest diameter of Loch Fyne, we apply these\nproportions to Walden, which, as we have seen, appears already in a\nvertical section only like a shallow plate, it will appear four times\nas shallow. So much for the _increased_ horrors of the chasm of Loch\nFyne when emptied. No doubt many a smiling valley with its stretching\ncornfields occupies exactly such a \u201chorrid chasm,\u201d from which the\nwaters have receded, though it requires the insight and the far sight\nof the geologist to convince the unsuspecting inhabitants of this fact.\nOften an inquisitive eye may detect the shores of a primitive lake in\nthe low horizon hills, and no subsequent elevation of the plain has\nbeen necessary to conceal their history. But it is easiest, as they who\nwork on the highways know, to find the hollows by the puddles after a\nshower. The amount of it is, the imagination give it the least license,\ndives deeper and soars higher than Nature goes. So, probably, the depth\nof the ocean will be found to be very inconsiderable compared with its\nbreadth.\n\nAs I sounded through the ice I could determine the shape of the bottom\nwith greater accuracy than is possible in surveying harbors which do\nnot freeze over, and I was surprised at its general regularity. In the\ndeepest part there are several acres more level than almost any field\nwhich is exposed to the sun wind and plough. In one instance, on a line\narbitrarily chosen, the depth did not vary more than one foot in thirty\nrods; and generally, near the middle, I could calculate the variation\nfor each one hundred feet in any direction beforehand within three or\nfour inches. Some are accustomed to speak of deep and dangerous holes\neven in quiet sandy ponds like this, but the effect of water under\nthese circumstances is to level all inequalities. The regularity of the\nbottom and its conformity to the shores and the range of the\nneighboring hills were so perfect that a distant promontory betrayed\nitself in the soundings quite across the pond, and its direction could\nbe determined by observing the opposite shore. Cape becomes bar, and\nplain shoal, and valley and gorge deep water and channel.\n\nWhen I had mapped the pond by the scale of ten rods to an inch, and put\ndown the soundings, more than a hundred in all, I observed this\nremarkable coincidence. Having noticed that the number indicating the\ngreatest depth was apparently in the centre of the map, I laid a rule\non the map lengthwise, and then breadthwise, and found, to my surprise,\nthat the line of greatest length intersected the line of greatest\nbreadth _exactly_ at the point of greatest depth, notwithstanding that\nthe middle is so nearly level, the outline of the pond far from\nregular, and the extreme length and breadth were got by measuring into\nthe coves; and I said to myself, Who knows but this hint would conduct\nto the deepest part of the ocean as well as of a pond or puddle? Is not\nthis the rule also for the height of mountains, regarded as the\nopposite of valleys? We know that a hill is not highest at its\nnarrowest part.\n\nOf five coves, three, or all which had been sounded, were observed to\nhave a bar quite across their mouths and deeper water within, so that\nthe bay tended to be an expansion of water within the land not only\nhorizontally but vertically, and to form a basin or independent pond,\nthe direction of the two capes showing the course of the bar. Every\nharbor on the sea-coast, also, has its bar at its entrance. In\nproportion as the mouth of the cove was wider compared with its length,\nthe water over the bar was deeper compared with that in the basin.\nGiven, then, the length and breadth of the cove, and the character of\nthe surrounding shore, and you have almost elements enough to make out\na formula for all cases.\n\nIn order to see how nearly I could guess, with this experience, at the\ndeepest point in a pond, by observing the outlines of its surface and\nthe character of its shores alone, I made a plan of White Pond, which\ncontains about forty-one acres, and, like this, has no island in it,\nnor any visible inlet or outlet; and as the line of greatest breadth\nfell very near the line of least breadth, where two opposite capes\napproached each other and two opposite bays receded, I ventured to mark\na point a short distance from the latter line, but still on the line of\ngreatest length, as the deepest. The deepest part was found to be\nwithin one hundred feet of this, still farther in the direction to\nwhich I had inclined, and was only one foot deeper, namely, sixty feet.\nOf course, a stream running through, or an island in the pond, would\nmake the problem much more complicated.\n\nIf we knew all the laws of Nature, we should need only one fact, or the\ndescription of one actual phenomenon, to infer all the particular\nresults at that point. Now we know only a few laws, and our result is\nvitiated, not, of course, by any confusion or irregularity in Nature,\nbut by our ignorance of essential elements in the calculation. Our\nnotions of law and harmony are commonly confined to those instances\nwhich we detect; but the harmony which results from a far greater\nnumber of seemingly conflicting, but really concurring, laws, which we\nhave not detected, is still more wonderful. The particular laws are as\nour points of view, as, to the traveller, a mountain outline varies\nwith every step, and it has an infinite number of profiles, though\nabsolutely but one form. Even when cleft or bored through it is not\ncomprehended in its entireness.\n\nWhat I have observed of the pond is no less true in ethics. It is the\nlaw of average. Such a rule of the two diameters not only guides us\ntoward the sun in the system and the heart in man, but draw lines\nthrough the length and breadth of the aggregate of a man\u2019s particular\ndaily behaviors and waves of life into his coves and inlets, and where\nthey intersect will be the height or depth of his character. Perhaps we\nneed only to know how his shores trend and his adjacent country or\ncircumstances, to infer his depth and concealed bottom. If he is\nsurrounded by mountainous circumstances, an Achillean shore, whose\npeaks overshadow and are reflected in his bosom, they suggest a\ncorresponding depth in him. But a low and smooth shore proves him\nshallow on that side. In our bodies, a bold projecting brow falls off\nto and indicates a corresponding depth of thought. Also there is a bar\nacross the entrance of our every cove, or particular inclination; each\nis our harbor for a season, in which we are detained and partially\nland-locked. These inclinations are not whimsical usually, but their\nform, size, and direction are determined by the promontories of the\nshore, the ancient axes of elevation. When this bar is gradually\nincreased by storms, tides, or currents, or there is a subsidence of\nthe waters, so that it reaches to the surface, that which was at first\nbut an inclination in the shore in which a thought was harbored becomes\nan individual lake, cut off from the ocean, wherein the thought secures\nits own conditions, changes, perhaps, from salt to fresh, becomes a\nsweet sea, dead sea, or a marsh. At the advent of each individual into\nthis life, may we not suppose that such a bar has risen to the surface\nsomewhere? It is true, we are such poor navigators that our thoughts,\nfor the most part, stand off and on upon a harborless coast, are\nconversant only with the bights of the bays of poesy, or steer for the\npublic ports of entry, and go into the dry docks of science, where they\nmerely refit for this world, and no natural currents concur to\nindividualize them.\n\nAs for the inlet or outlet of Walden, I have not discovered any but\nrain and snow and evaporation, though perhaps, with a thermometer and a\nline, such places may be found, for where the water flows into the pond\nit will probably be coldest in summer and warmest in winter. When the\nice-men were at work here in \u201946\u20137, the cakes sent to the shore were\none day rejected by those who were stacking them up there, not being\nthick enough to lie side by side with the rest; and the cutters thus\ndiscovered that the ice over a small space was two or three inches\nthinner than elsewhere, which made them think that there was an inlet\nthere. They also showed me in another place what they thought was a\n\u201cleach hole,\u201d through which the pond leaked out under a hill into a\nneighboring meadow, pushing me out on a cake of ice to see it. It was a\nsmall cavity under ten feet of water; but I think that I can warrant\nthe pond not to need soldering till they find a worse leak than that.\nOne has suggested, that if such a \u201cleach hole\u201d should be found, its\nconnection with the meadow, if any existed, might be proved by\nconveying some colored powder or sawdust to the mouth of the hole, and\nthen putting a strainer over the spring in the meadow, which would\ncatch some of the particles carried through by the current.\n\nWhile I was surveying, the ice, which was sixteen inches thick,\nundulated under a slight wind like water. It is well known that a level\ncannot be used on ice. At one rod from the shore its greatest\nfluctuation, when observed by means of a level on land directed toward\na graduated staff on the ice, was three quarters of an inch, though the\nice appeared firmly attached to the shore. It was probably greater in\nthe middle. Who knows but if our instruments were delicate enough we\nmight detect an undulation in the crust of the earth? When two legs of\nmy level were on the shore and the third on the ice, and the sights\nwere directed over the latter, a rise or fall of the ice of an almost\ninfinitesimal amount made a difference of several feet on a tree across\nthe pond. When I began to cut holes for sounding, there were three or\nfour inches of water on the ice under a deep snow which had sunk it\nthus far; but the water began immediately to run into these holes, and\ncontinued to run for two days in deep streams, which wore away the ice\non every side, and contributed essentially, if not mainly, to dry the\nsurface of the pond; for, as the water ran in, it raised and floated\nthe ice. This was somewhat like cutting a hole in the bottom of a ship\nto let the water out. When such holes freeze, and a rain succeeds, and\nfinally a new freezing forms a fresh smooth ice over all, it is\nbeautifully mottled internally by dark figures, shaped somewhat like a\nspider\u2019s web, what you may call ice rosettes, produced by the channels\nworn by the water flowing from all sides to a centre. Sometimes, also,\nwhen the ice was covered with shallow puddles, I saw a double shadow of\nmyself, one standing on the head of the other, one on the ice, the\nother on the trees or hill-side.\n\n\n\nWhile yet it is cold January, and snow and ice are thick and solid, the\nprudent landlord comes from the village to get ice to cool his summer\ndrink; impressively, even pathetically wise, to foresee the heat and\nthirst of July now in January,\u2014wearing a thick coat and mittens! when\nso many things are not provided for. It may be that he lays up no\ntreasures in this world which will cool his summer drink in the next.\nHe cuts and saws the solid pond, unroofs the house of fishes, and carts\noff their very element and air, held fast by chains and stakes like\ncorded wood, through the favoring winter air, to wintry cellars, to\nunderlie the summer there. It looks like solidified azure, as, far off,\nit is drawn through the streets. These ice-cutters are a merry race,\nfull of jest and sport, and when I went among them they were wont to\ninvite me to saw pit-fashion with them, I standing underneath.\n\nIn the winter of \u201946\u20137 there came a hundred men of Hyperborean\nextraction swoop down on to our pond one morning, with many car-loads\nof ungainly-looking farming tools, sleds, ploughs, drill-barrows,\nturf-knives, spades, saws, rakes, and each man was armed with a\ndouble-pointed pike-staff, such as is not described in the New-England\nFarmer or the Cultivator. I did not know whether they had come to sow a\ncrop of winter rye, or some other kind of grain recently introduced\nfrom Iceland. As I saw no manure, I judged that they meant to skim the\nland, as I had done, thinking the soil was deep and had lain fallow\nlong enough. They said that a gentleman farmer, who was behind the\nscenes, wanted to double his money, which, as I understood, amounted to\nhalf a million already; but in order to cover each one of his dollars\nwith another, he took off the only coat, ay, the skin itself, of Walden\nPond in the midst of a hard winter. They went to work at once,\nploughing, harrowing, rolling, furrowing, in admirable order, as if\nthey were bent on making this a model farm; but when I was looking\nsharp to see what kind of seed they dropped into the furrow, a gang of\nfellows by my side suddenly began to hook up the virgin mould itself,\nwith a peculiar jerk, clean down to the sand, or rather the water,\u2014for\nit was a very springy soil,\u2014indeed all the _terra firma_ there was,\u2014and\nhaul it away on sleds, and then I guessed that they must be cutting\npeat in a bog. So they came and went every day, with a peculiar shriek\nfrom the locomotive, from and to some point of the polar regions, as it\nseemed to me, like a flock of arctic snow-birds. But sometimes Squaw\nWalden had her revenge, and a hired man, walking behind his team,\nslipped through a crack in the ground down toward Tartarus, and he who\nwas so brave before suddenly became but the ninth part of a man, almost\ngave up his animal heat, and was glad to take refuge in my house, and\nacknowledged that there was some virtue in a stove; or sometimes the\nfrozen soil took a piece of steel out of a ploughshare, or a plough got\nset in the furrow and had to be cut out.\n\nTo speak literally, a hundred Irishmen, with Yankee overseers, came\nfrom Cambridge every day to get out the ice. They divided it into cakes\nby methods too well known to require description, and these, being\nsledded to the shore, were rapidly hauled off on to an ice platform,\nand raised by grappling irons and block and tackle, worked by horses,\non to a stack, as surely as so many barrels of flour, and there placed\nevenly side by side, and row upon row, as if they formed the solid base\nof an obelisk designed to pierce the clouds. They told me that in a\ngood day they could get out a thousand tons, which was the yield of\nabout one acre. Deep ruts and \u201ccradle holes\u201d were worn in the ice, as\non _terra firma_, by the passage of the sleds over the same track, and\nthe horses invariably ate their oats out of cakes of ice hollowed out\nlike buckets. They stacked up the cakes thus in the open air in a pile\nthirty-five feet high on one side and six or seven rods square, putting\nhay between the outside layers to exclude the air; for when the wind,\nthough never so cold, finds a passage through, it will wear large\ncavities, leaving slight supports or studs only here and there, and\nfinally topple it down. At first it looked like a vast blue fort or\nValhalla; but when they began to tuck the coarse meadow hay into the\ncrevices, and this became covered with rime and icicles, it looked like\na venerable moss-grown and hoary ruin, built of azure-tinted marble,\nthe abode of Winter, that old man we see in the almanac,\u2014his shanty, as\nif he had a design to estivate with us. They calculated that not\ntwenty-five per cent of this would reach its destination, and that two\nor three per cent would be wasted in the cars. However, a still greater\npart of this heap had a different destiny from what was intended; for,\neither because the ice was found not to keep so well as was expected,\ncontaining more air than usual, or for some other reason, it never got\nto market. This heap, made in the winter of \u201946\u20137 and estimated to\ncontain ten thousand tons, was finally covered with hay and boards; and\nthough it was unroofed the following July, and a part of it carried\noff, the rest remaining exposed to the sun, it stood over that summer\nand the next winter, and was not quite melted till September 1848. Thus\nthe pond recovered the greater part.\n\nLike the water, the Walden ice, seen near at hand, has a green tint,\nbut at a distance is beautifully blue, and you can easily tell it from\nthe white ice of the river, or the merely greenish ice of some ponds, a\nquarter of a mile off. Sometimes one of those great cakes slips from\nthe ice-man\u2019s sled into the village street, and lies there for a week\nlike a great emerald, an object of interest to all passers. I have\nnoticed that a portion of Walden which in the state of water was green\nwill often, when frozen, appear from the same point of view blue. So\nthe hollows about this pond will, sometimes, in the winter, be filled\nwith a greenish water somewhat like its own, but the next day will have\nfrozen blue. Perhaps the blue color of water and ice is due to the\nlight and air they contain, and the most transparent is the bluest. Ice\nis an interesting subject for contemplation. They told me that they had\nsome in the ice-houses at Fresh Pond five years old which was as good\nas ever. Why is it that a bucket of water soon becomes putrid, but\nfrozen remains sweet forever? It is commonly said that this is the\ndifference between the affections and the intellect.\n\nThus for sixteen days I saw from my window a hundred men at work like\nbusy husbandmen, with teams and horses and apparently all the\nimplements of farming, such a picture as we see on the first page of\nthe almanac; and as often as I looked out I was reminded of the fable\nof the lark and the reapers, or the parable of the sower, and the like;\nand now they are all gone, and in thirty days more, probably, I shall\nlook from the same window on the pure sea-green Walden water there,\nreflecting the clouds and the trees, and sending up its evaporations in\nsolitude, and no traces will appear that a man has ever stood there.\nPerhaps I shall hear a solitary loon laugh as he dives and plumes\nhimself, or shall see a lonely fisher in his boat, like a floating\nleaf, beholding his form reflected in the waves, where lately a hundred\nmen securely labored.\n\nThus it appears that the sweltering inhabitants of Charleston and New\nOrleans, of Madras and Bombay and Calcutta, drink at my well. In the\nmorning I bathe my intellect in the stupendous and cosmogonal\nphilosophy of the Bhagvat Geeta, since whose composition years of the\ngods have elapsed, and in comparison with which our modern world and\nits literature seem puny and trivial; and I doubt if that philosophy is\nnot to be referred to a previous state of existence, so remote is its\nsublimity from our conceptions. I lay down the book and go to my well\nfor water, and lo! there I meet the servant of the Bramin, priest of\nBrahma and Vishnu and Indra, who still sits in his temple on the Ganges\nreading the Vedas, or dwells at the root of a tree with his crust and\nwater jug. I meet his servant come to draw water for his master, and\nour buckets as it were grate together in the same well. The pure Walden\nwater is mingled with the sacred water of the Ganges. With favoring\nwinds it is wafted past the site of the fabulous islands of Atlantis\nand the Hesperides, makes the periplus of Hanno, and, floating by\nTernate and Tidore and the mouth of the Persian Gulf, melts in the\ntropic gales of the Indian seas, and is landed in ports of which\nAlexander only heard the names.\n\n\nSpring\n\nThe opening of large tracts by the ice-cutters commonly causes a pond\nto break up earlier; for the water, agitated by the wind, even in cold\nweather, wears away the surrounding ice. But such was not the effect on\nWalden that year, for she had soon got a thick new garment to take the\nplace of the old. This pond never breaks up so soon as the others in\nthis neighborhood, on account both of its greater depth and its having\nno stream passing through it to melt or wear away the ice. I never knew\nit to open in the course of a winter, not excepting that of \u201952\u20133,\nwhich gave the ponds so severe a trial. It commonly opens about the\nfirst of April, a week or ten days later than Flint\u2019s Pond and\nFair-Haven, beginning to melt on the north side and in the shallower\nparts where it began to freeze. It indicates better than any water\nhereabouts the absolute progress of the season, being least affected by\ntransient changes of temperature. A severe cold of a few days\u2019 duration\nin March may very much retard the opening of the former ponds, while\nthe temperature of Walden increases almost uninterruptedly. A\nthermometer thrust into the middle of Walden on the 6th of March, 1847,\nstood at 32\u00b0, or freezing point; near the shore at 33\u00b0; in the middle\nof Flint\u2019s Pond, the same day, at 32\u00bd\u00b0; at a dozen rods from the shore,\nin shallow water, under ice a foot thick, at 36\u00b0. This difference of\nthree and a half degrees between the temperature of the deep water and\nthe shallow in the latter pond, and the fact that a great proportion of\nit is comparatively shallow, show why it should break up so much sooner\nthan Walden. The ice in the shallowest part was at this time several\ninches thinner than in the middle. In mid-winter the middle had been\nthe warmest and the ice thinnest there. So, also, every one who has\nwaded about the shores of the pond in summer must have perceived how\nmuch warmer the water is close to the shore, where only three or four\ninches deep, than a little distance out, and on the surface where it is\ndeep, than near the bottom. In spring the sun not only exerts an\ninfluence through the increased temperature of the air and earth, but\nits heat passes through ice a foot or more thick, and is reflected from\nthe bottom in shallow water, and so also warms the water and melts the\nunder side of the ice, at the same time that it is melting it more\ndirectly above, making it uneven, and causing the air bubbles which it\ncontains to extend themselves upward and downward until it is\ncompletely honeycombed, and at last disappears suddenly in a single\nspring rain. Ice has its grain as well as wood, and when a cake begins\nto rot or \u201ccomb,\u201d that is, assume the appearance of honey-comb,\nwhatever may be its position, the air cells are at right angles with\nwhat was the water surface. Where there is a rock or a log rising near\nto the surface the ice over it is much thinner, and is frequently quite\ndissolved by this reflected heat; and I have been told that in the\nexperiment at Cambridge to freeze water in a shallow wooden pond,\nthough the cold air circulated underneath, and so had access to both\nsides, the reflection of the sun from the bottom more than\ncounterbalanced this advantage. When a warm rain in the middle of the\nwinter melts off the snow-ice from Walden, and leaves a hard dark or\ntransparent ice on the middle, there will be a strip of rotten though\nthicker white ice, a rod or more wide, about the shores, created by\nthis reflected heat. Also, as I have said, the bubbles themselves\nwithin the ice operate as burning-glasses to melt the ice beneath.\n\nThe phenomena of the year take place every day in a pond on a small\nscale. Every morning, generally speaking, the shallow water is being\nwarmed more rapidly than the deep, though it may not be made so warm\nafter all, and every evening it is being cooled more rapidly until the\nmorning. The day is an epitome of the year. The night is the winter,\nthe morning and evening are the spring and fall, and the noon is the\nsummer. The cracking and booming of the ice indicate a change of\ntemperature. One pleasant morning after a cold night, February 24th,\n1850, having gone to Flint\u2019s Pond to spend the day, I noticed with\nsurprise, that when I struck the ice with the head of my axe, it\nresounded like a gong for many rods around, or as if I had struck on a\ntight drum-head. The pond began to boom about an hour after sunrise,\nwhen it felt the influence of the sun\u2019s rays slanted upon it from over\nthe hills; it stretched itself and yawned like a waking man with a\ngradually increasing tumult, which was kept up three or four hours. It\ntook a short siesta at noon, and boomed once more toward night, as the\nsun was withdrawing his influence. In the right stage of the weather a\npond fires its evening gun with great regularity. But in the middle of\nthe day, being full of cracks, and the air also being less elastic, it\nhad completely lost its resonance, and probably fishes and muskrats\ncould not then have been stunned by a blow on it. The fishermen say\nthat the \u201cthundering of the pond\u201d scares the fishes and prevents their\nbiting. The pond does not thunder every evening, and I cannot tell\nsurely when to expect its thundering; but though I may perceive no\ndifference in the weather, it does. Who would have suspected so large\nand cold and thick-skinned a thing to be so sensitive? Yet it has its\nlaw to which it thunders obedience when it should as surely as the buds\nexpand in the spring. The earth is all alive and covered with papill\u00e6.\nThe largest pond is as sensitive to atmospheric changes as the globule\nof mercury in its tube.\n\n\n\nOne attraction in coming to the woods to live was that I should have\nleisure and opportunity to see the spring come in. The ice in the pond\nat length begins to be honey-combed, and I can set my heel in it as I\nwalk. Fogs and rains and warmer suns are gradually melting the snow;\nthe days have grown sensibly longer; and I see how I shall get through\nthe winter without adding to my wood-pile, for large fires are no\nlonger necessary. I am on the alert for the first signs of spring, to\nhear the chance note of some arriving bird, or the striped squirrel\u2019s\nchirp, for his stores must be now nearly exhausted, or see the\nwoodchuck venture out of his winter quarters. On the 13th of March,\nafter I had heard the bluebird, song-sparrow, and red-wing, the ice was\nstill nearly a foot thick. As the weather grew warmer it was not\nsensibly worn away by the water, nor broken up and floated off as in\nrivers, but, though it was completely melted for half a rod in width\nabout the shore, the middle was merely honey-combed and saturated with\nwater, so that you could put your foot through it when six inches\nthick; but by the next day evening, perhaps, after a warm rain followed\nby fog, it would have wholly disappeared, all gone off with the fog,\nspirited away. One year I went across the middle only five days before\nit disappeared entirely. In 1845 Walden was first completely open on\nthe 1st of April; in \u201946, the 25th of March; in \u201947, the 8th of April;\nin \u201951, the 28th of March; in \u201952, the 18th of April; in \u201953, the 23d\nof March; in \u201954, about the 7th of April.\n\nEvery incident connected with the breaking up of the rivers and ponds\nand the settling of the weather is particularly interesting to us who\nlive in a climate of so great extremes. When the warmer days come, they\nwho dwell near the river hear the ice crack at night with a startling\nwhoop as loud as artillery, as if its icy fetters were rent from end to\nend, and within a few days see it rapidly going out. So the alligator\ncomes out of the mud with quakings of the earth. One old man, who has\nbeen a close observer of Nature, and seems as thoroughly wise in regard\nto all her operations as if she had been put upon the stocks when he\nwas a boy, and he had helped to lay her keel,\u2014who has come to his\ngrowth, and can hardly acquire more of natural lore if he should live\nto the age of Methuselah,\u2014told me, and I was surprised to hear him\nexpress wonder at any of Nature\u2019s operations, for I thought that there\nwere no secrets between them, that one spring day he took his gun and\nboat, and thought that he would have a little sport with the ducks.\nThere was ice still on the meadows, but it was all gone out of the\nriver, and he dropped down without obstruction from Sudbury, where he\nlived, to Fair-Haven Pond, which he found, unexpectedly, covered for\nthe most part with a firm field of ice. It was a warm day, and he was\nsurprised to see so great a body of ice remaining. Not seeing any\nducks, he hid his boat on the north or back side of an island in the\npond, and then concealed himself in the bushes on the south side, to\nawait them. The ice was melted for three or four rods from the shore,\nand there was a smooth and warm sheet of water, with a muddy bottom,\nsuch as the ducks love, within, and he thought it likely that some\nwould be along pretty soon. After he had lain still there about an hour\nhe heard a low and seemingly very distant sound, but singularly grand\nand impressive, unlike any thing he had ever heard, gradually swelling\nand increasing as if it would have a universal and memorable ending, a\nsullen rush and roar, which seemed to him all at once like the sound of\na vast body of fowl coming in to settle there, and, seizing his gun, he\nstarted up in haste and excited; but he found, to his surprise, that\nthe whole body of the ice had started while he lay there, and drifted\nin to the shore, and the sound he had heard was made by its edge\ngrating on the shore,\u2014at first gently nibbled and crumbled off, but at\nlength heaving up and scattering its wrecks along the island to a\nconsiderable height before it came to a stand still.\n\nAt length the sun\u2019s rays have attained the right angle, and warm winds\nblow up mist and rain and melt the snow banks, and the sun dispersing\nthe mist smiles on a checkered landscape of russet and white smoking\nwith incense, through which the traveller picks his way from islet to\nislet, cheered by the music of a thousand tinkling rills and rivulets\nwhose veins are filled with the blood of winter which they are bearing\noff.\n\nFew phenomena gave me more delight than to observe the forms which\nthawing sand and clay assume in flowing down the sides of a deep cut on\nthe railroad through which I passed on my way to the village, a\nphenomenon not very common on so large a scale, though the number of\nfreshly exposed banks of the right material must have been greatly\nmultiplied since railroads were invented. The material was sand of\nevery degree of fineness and of various rich colors, commonly mixed\nwith a little clay. When the frost comes out in the spring, and even in\na thawing day in the winter, the sand begins to flow down the slopes\nlike lava, sometimes bursting out through the snow and overflowing it\nwhere no sand was to be seen before. Innumerable little streams overlap\nand interlace one with another, exhibiting a sort of hybrid product,\nwhich obeys half way the law of currents, and half way that of\nvegetation. As it flows it takes the forms of sappy leaves or vines,\nmaking heaps of pulpy sprays a foot or more in depth, and resembling,\nas you look down on them, the laciniated, lobed, and imbricated\nthalluses of some lichens; or you are reminded of coral, of leopard\u2019s\npaws or birds\u2019 feet, of brains or lungs or bowels, and excrements of\nall kinds. It is a truly _grotesque_ vegetation, whose forms and color\nwe see imitated in bronze, a sort of architectural foliage more ancient\nand typical than acanthus, chiccory, ivy, vine, or any vegetable\nleaves; destined perhaps, under some circumstances, to become a puzzle\nto future geologists. The whole cut impressed me as if it were a cave\nwith its stalactites laid open to the light. The various shades of the\nsand are singularly rich and agreeable, embracing the different iron\ncolors, brown, gray, yellowish, and reddish. When the flowing mass\nreaches the drain at the foot of the bank it spreads out flatter into\n_strands_, the separate streams losing their semi-cylindrical form and\ngradually becoming more flat and broad, running together as they are\nmore moist, till they form an almost flat _sand_, still variously and\nbeautifully shaded, but in which you can trace the original forms of\nvegetation; till at length, in the water itself, they are converted\ninto _banks_, like those formed off the mouths of rivers, and the forms\nof vegetation are lost in the ripple marks on the bottom.\n\nThe whole bank, which is from twenty to forty feet high, is sometimes\noverlaid with a mass of this kind of foliage, or sandy rupture, for a\nquarter of a mile on one or both sides, the produce of one spring day.\nWhat makes this sand foliage remarkable is its springing into existence\nthus suddenly. When I see on the one side the inert bank,\u2014for the sun\nacts on one side first,\u2014and on the other this luxuriant foliage, the\ncreation of an hour, I am affected as if in a peculiar sense I stood in\nthe laboratory of the Artist who made the world and me,\u2014had come to\nwhere he was still at work, sporting on this bank, and with excess of\nenergy strewing his fresh designs about. I feel as if I were nearer to\nthe vitals of the globe, for this sandy overflow is something such a\nfoliaceous mass as the vitals of the animal body. You find thus in the\nvery sands an anticipation of the vegetable leaf. No wonder that the\nearth expresses itself outwardly in leaves, it so labors with the idea\ninwardly. The atoms have already learned this law, and are pregnant by\nit. The overhanging leaf sees here its prototype. _Internally_, whether\nin the globe or animal body, it is a moist thick _lobe_, a word\nespecially applicable to the liver and lungs and the _leaves_ of fat,\n(?e?\u00df?, _labor_, _lapsus_, to flow or slip downward, a lapsing; ??\u00df??,\n_globus_, lobe, globe; also lap, flap, and many other words,)\n_externally_ a dry thin _leaf_, even as the _f_ and _v_ are a pressed\nand dried _b_. The radicals of _lobe_ are _lb_, the soft mass of the\n_b_ (single lobed, or B, double lobed,) with the liquid _l_ behind it\npressing it forward. In globe, _glb_, the guttural _g_ adds to the\nmeaning the capacity of the throat. The feathers and wings of birds are\nstill drier and thinner leaves. Thus, also, you pass from the lumpish\ngrub in the earth to the airy and fluttering butterfly. The very globe\ncontinually transcends and translates itself, and becomes winged in its\norbit. Even ice begins with delicate crystal leaves, as if it had\nflowed into moulds which the fronds of water plants have impressed on\nthe watery mirror. The whole tree itself is but one leaf, and rivers\nare still vaster leaves whose pulp is intervening earth, and towns and\ncities are the ova of insects in their axils.\n\nWhen the sun withdraws the sand ceases to flow, but in the morning the\nstreams will start once more and branch and branch again into a myriad\nof others. You here see perchance how blood vessels are formed. If you\nlook closely you observe that first there pushes forward from the\nthawing mass a stream of softened sand with a drop-like point, like the\nball of the finger, feeling its way slowly and blindly downward, until\nat last with more heat and moisture, as the sun gets higher, the most\nfluid portion, in its effort to obey the law to which the most inert\nalso yields, separates from the latter and forms for itself a\nmeandering channel or artery within that, in which is seen a little\nsilvery stream glancing like lightning from one stage of pulpy leaves\nor branches to another, and ever and anon swallowed up in the sand. It\nis wonderful how rapidly yet perfectly the sand organizes itself as it\nflows, using the best material its mass affords to form the sharp edges\nof its channel. Such are the sources of rivers. In the silicious matter\nwhich the water deposits is perhaps the bony system, and in the still\nfiner soil and organic matter the fleshy fibre or cellular tissue. What\nis man but a mass of thawing clay? The ball of the human finger is but\na drop congealed. The fingers and toes flow to their extent from the\nthawing mass of the body. Who knows what the human body would expand\nand flow out to under a more genial heaven? Is not the hand a spreading\n_palm_ leaf with its lobes and veins? The ear may be regarded,\nfancifully, as a lichen, _umbilicaria_, on the side of the head, with\nits lobe or drop. The lip\u2014_labium_, from _labor_ (?)\u2014laps or lapses\nfrom the sides of the cavernous mouth. The nose is a manifest congealed\ndrop or stalactite. The chin is a still larger drop, the confluent\ndripping of the face. The cheeks are a slide from the brows into the\nvalley of the face, opposed and diffused by the cheek bones. Each\nrounded lobe of the vegetable leaf, too, is a thick and now loitering\ndrop, larger or smaller; the lobes are the fingers of the leaf; and as\nmany lobes as it has, in so many directions it tends to flow, and more\nheat or other genial influences would have caused it to flow yet\nfarther.\n\nThus it seemed that this one hillside illustrated the principle of all\nthe operations of Nature. The Maker of this earth but patented a leaf.\nWhat Champollion will decipher this hieroglyphic for us, that we may\nturn over a new leaf at last? This phenomenon is more exhilarating to\nme than the luxuriance and fertility of vineyards. True, it is somewhat\nexcrementitious in its character, and there is no end to the heaps of\nliver lights and bowels, as if the globe were turned wrong side\noutward; but this suggests at least that Nature has some bowels, and\nthere again is mother of humanity. This is the frost coming out of the\nground; this is Spring. It precedes the green and flowery spring, as\nmythology precedes regular poetry. I know of nothing more purgative of\nwinter fumes and indigestions. It convinces me that Earth is still in\nher swaddling clothes, and stretches forth baby fingers on every side.\nFresh curls spring from the baldest brow. There is nothing inorganic.\nThese foliaceous heaps lie along the bank like the slag of a furnace,\nshowing that Nature is \u201cin full blast\u201d within. The earth is not a mere\nfragment of dead history, stratum upon stratum like the leaves of a\nbook, to be studied by geologists and antiquaries chiefly, but living\npoetry like the leaves of a tree, which precede flowers and fruit,\u2014not\na fossil earth, but a living earth; compared with whose great central\nlife all animal and vegetable life is merely parasitic. Its throes will\nheave our exuvi\u00e6 from their graves. You may melt your metals and cast\nthem into the most beautiful moulds you can; they will never excite me\nlike the forms which this molten earth flows out into. And not only it,\nbut the institutions upon it, are plastic like clay in the hands of the\npotter.\n\n\n\nEre long, not only on these banks, but on every hill and plain and in\nevery hollow, the frost comes out of the ground like a dormant\nquadruped from its burrow, and seeks the sea with music, or migrates to\nother climes in clouds. Thaw with his gentle persuasion is more\npowerful than Thor with his hammer. The one melts, the other but breaks\nin pieces.\n\nWhen the ground was partially bare of snow, and a few warm days had\ndried its surface somewhat, it was pleasant to compare the first tender\nsigns of the infant year just peeping forth with the stately beauty of\nthe withered vegetation which had withstood the\nwinter,\u2014life-everlasting, golden-rods, pinweeds, and graceful wild\ngrasses, more obvious and interesting frequently than in summer even,\nas if their beauty was not ripe till then; even cotton-grass,\ncat-tails, mulleins, johnswort, hard-hack, meadow-sweet, and other\nstrong stemmed plants, those unexhausted granaries which entertain the\nearliest birds,\u2014decent weeds, at least, which widowed Nature wears. I\nam particularly attracted by the arching and sheaf-like top of the\nwool-grass; it brings back the summer to our winter memories, and is\namong the forms which art loves to copy, and which, in the vegetable\nkingdom, have the same relation to types already in the mind of man\nthat astronomy has. It is an antique style older than Greek or\nEgyptian. Many of the phenomena of Winter are suggestive of an\ninexpressible tenderness and fragile delicacy. We are accustomed to\nhear this king described as a rude and boisterous tyrant; but with the\ngentleness of a lover he adorns the tresses of Summer.\n\nAt the approach of spring the red-squirrels got under my house, two at\na time, directly under my feet as I sat reading or writing, and kept up\nthe queerest chuckling and chirruping and vocal pirouetting and\ngurgling sounds that ever were heard; and when I stamped they only\nchirruped the louder, as if past all fear and respect in their mad\npranks, defying humanity to stop them. No you\ndon\u2019t\u2014chickaree\u2014chickaree. They were wholly deaf to my arguments, or\nfailed to perceive their force, and fell into a strain of invective\nthat was irresistible.\n\nThe first sparrow of spring! The year beginning with younger hope than\never! The faint silvery warblings heard over the partially bare and\nmoist fields from the blue-bird, the song-sparrow, and the red-wing, as\nif the last flakes of winter tinkled as they fell! What at such a time\nare histories, chronologies, traditions, and all written revelations?\nThe brooks sing carols and glees to the spring. The marsh-hawk sailing\nlow over the meadow is already seeking the first slimy life that\nawakes. The sinking sound of melting snow is heard in all dells, and\nthe ice dissolves apace in the ponds. The grass flames up on the\nhillsides like a spring fire,\u2014\u201cet primitus oritur herba imbribus\nprimoribus evocata,\u201d\u2014as if the earth sent forth an inward heat to greet\nthe returning sun; not yellow but green is the color of its flame;\u2014the\nsymbol of perpetual youth, the grass-blade, like a long green ribbon,\nstreams from the sod into the summer, checked indeed by the frost, but\nanon pushing on again, lifting its spear of last year\u2019s hay with the\nfresh life below. It grows as steadily as the rill oozes out of the\nground. It is almost identical with that, for in the growing days of\nJune, when the rills are dry, the grass blades are their channels, and\nfrom year to year the herds drink at this perennial green stream, and\nthe mower draws from it betimes their winter supply. So our human life\nbut dies down to its root, and still puts forth its green blade to\neternity.\n\nWalden is melting apace. There is a canal two rods wide along the\nnortherly and westerly sides, and wider still at the east end. A great\nfield of ice has cracked off from the main body. I hear a song-sparrow\nsinging from the bushes on the shore,\u2014_olit_, _olit_, _olit,_\u2014_chip_,\n_chip_, _chip_, _che char_,\u2014_che wiss_, _wiss_, _wiss_. He too is\nhelping to crack it. How handsome the great sweeping curves in the edge\nof the ice, answering somewhat to those of the shore, but more regular!\nIt is unusually hard, owing to the recent severe but transient cold,\nand all watered or waved like a palace floor. But the wind slides\neastward over its opaque surface in vain, till it reaches the living\nsurface beyond. It is glorious to behold this ribbon of water sparkling\nin the sun, the bare face of the pond full of glee and youth, as if it\nspoke the joy of the fishes within it, and of the sands on its shore,\u2014a\nsilvery sheen as from the scales of a _leuciscus_, as it were all one\nactive fish. Such is the contrast between winter and spring. Walden was\ndead and is alive again. But this spring it broke up more steadily, as\nI have said.\n\nThe change from storm and winter to serene and mild weather, from dark\nand sluggish hours to bright and elastic ones, is a memorable crisis\nwhich all things proclaim. It is seemingly instantaneous at last.\nSuddenly an influx of light filled my house, though the evening was at\nhand, and the clouds of winter still overhung it, and the eaves were\ndripping with sleety rain. I looked out the window, and lo! where\nyesterday was cold gray ice there lay the transparent pond already calm\nand full of hope as in a summer evening, reflecting a summer evening\nsky in its bosom, though none was visible overhead, as if it had\nintelligence with some remote horizon. I heard a robin in the distance,\nthe first I had heard for many a thousand years, methought, whose note\nI shall not forget for many a thousand more,\u2014the same sweet and\npowerful song as of yore. O the evening robin, at the end of a New\nEngland summer day! If I could ever find the twig he sits upon! I mean\n_he_; I mean _the twig_. This at least is not the _Turdus migratorius_.\nThe pitch-pines and shrub-oaks about my house, which had so long\ndrooped, suddenly resumed their several characters, looked brighter,\ngreener, and more erect and alive, as if effectually cleansed and\nrestored by the rain. I knew that it would not rain any more. You may\ntell by looking at any twig of the forest, ay, at your very wood-pile,\nwhether its winter is past or not. As it grew darker, I was startled by\nthe _honking_ of geese flying low over the woods, like weary travellers\ngetting in late from southern lakes, and indulging at last in\nunrestrained complaint and mutual consolation. Standing at my door, I\ncould hear the rush of their wings; when, driving toward my house, they\nsuddenly spied my light, and with hushed clamor wheeled and settled in\nthe pond. So I came in, and shut the door, and passed my first spring\nnight in the woods.\n\nIn the morning I watched the geese from the door through the mist,\nsailing in the middle of the pond, fifty rods off, so large and\ntumultuous that Walden appeared like an artificial pond for their\namusement. But when I stood on the shore they at once rose up with a\ngreat flapping of wings at the signal of their commander, and when they\nhad got into rank circled about over my head, twenty-nine of them, and\nthen steered straight to Canada, with a regular _honk_ from the leader\nat intervals, trusting to break their fast in muddier pools. A \u201cplump\u201d\nof ducks rose at the same time and took the route to the north in the\nwake of their noisier cousins.\n\nFor a week I heard the circling, groping clangor of some solitary goose\nin the foggy mornings, seeking its companion, and still peopling the\nwoods with the sound of a larger life than they could sustain. In April\nthe pigeons were seen again flying express in small flocks, and in due\ntime I heard the martins twittering over my clearing, though it had not\nseemed that the township contained so many that it could afford me any,\nand I fancied that they were peculiarly of the ancient race that dwelt\nin hollow trees ere white men came. In almost all climes the tortoise\nand the frog are among the precursors and heralds of this season, and\nbirds fly with song and glancing plumage, and plants spring and bloom,\nand winds blow, to correct this slight oscillation of the poles and\npreserve the equilibrium of Nature.\n\nAs every season seems best to us in its turn, so the coming in of\nspring is like the creation of Cosmos out of Chaos and the realization\nof the Golden Age.\u2014\n\n     \u201cEurus ad Auroram Nabath\u00e6aque regna recessit,\n     Persidaque, et radiis juga subdita matutinis.\u201d\n\n     \u201cThe East-Wind withdrew to Aurora and the Nabath\u00e6an kingdom,\n     And the Persian, and the ridges placed under the morning rays\n\n            *    *    *    *\n\n     Man was born.  Whether that Artificer of things,\n     The origin of a better world, made him from the divine seed;\n     Or the earth, being recent and lately sundered from the high\n     Ether, retained some seeds of cognate heaven.\u201d\n\nA single gentle rain makes the grass many shades greener. So our\nprospects brighten on the influx of better thoughts. We should be\nblessed if we lived in the present always, and took advantage of every\naccident that befell us, like the grass which confesses the influence\nof the slightest dew that falls on it; and did not spend our time in\natoning for the neglect of past opportunities, which we call doing our\nduty. We loiter in winter while it is already spring. In a pleasant\nspring morning all men\u2019s sins are forgiven. Such a day is a truce to\nvice. While such a sun holds out to burn, the vilest sinner may return.\nThrough our own recovered innocence we discern the innocence of our\nneighbors. You may have known your neighbor yesterday for a thief, a\ndrunkard, or a sensualist, and merely pitied or despised him, and\ndespaired of the world; but the sun shines bright and warm this first\nspring morning, re-creating the world, and you meet him at some serene\nwork, and see how his exhausted and debauched veins expand with still\njoy and bless the new day, feel the spring influence with the innocence\nof infancy, and all his faults are forgotten. There is not only an\natmosphere of good will about him, but even a savor of holiness groping\nfor expression, blindly and ineffectually perhaps, like a new-born\ninstinct, and for a short hour the south hill-side echoes to no vulgar\njest. You see some innocent fair shoots preparing to burst from his\ngnarled rind and try another year\u2019s life, tender and fresh as the\nyoungest plant. Even he has entered into the joy of his Lord. Why the\njailer does not leave open his prison doors,\u2014why the judge does not\ndismis his case,\u2014why the preacher does not dismiss his congregation! It\nis because they do not obey the hint which God gives them, nor accept\nthe pardon which he freely offers to all.\n\n\u201cA return to goodness produced each day in the tranquil and beneficent\nbreath of the morning, causes that in respect to the love of virtue and\nthe hatred of vice, one approaches a little the primitive nature of\nman, as the sprouts of the forest which has been felled. In like manner\nthe evil which one does in the interval of a day prevents the germs of\nvirtues which began to spring up again from developing themselves and\ndestroys them.\n\n\u201cAfter the germs of virtue have thus been prevented many times from\ndeveloping themselves, then the beneficent breath of evening does not\nsuffice to preserve them. As soon as the breath of evening does not\nsuffice longer to preserve them, then the nature of man does not differ\nmuch from that of the brute. Men seeing the nature of this man like\nthat of the brute, think that he has never possessed the innate faculty\nof reason. Are those the true and natural sentiments of man?\u201d\n\n     \u201cThe Golden Age was first created, which without any avenger\n     Spontaneously without law cherished fidelity and rectitude.\n     Punishment and fear were not; nor were threatening words read\n     On suspended brass; nor did the suppliant crowd fear\n     The words of their judge; but were safe without an avenger.\n     Not yet the pine felled on its mountains had descended\n     To the liquid waves that it might see a foreign world,\n     And mortals knew no shores but their own.\n            *    *    *    *\n     There was eternal spring, and placid zephyrs with warm\n     Blasts soothed the flowers born without seed.\u201d\n\nOn the 29th of April, as I was fishing from the bank of the river near\nthe Nine-Acre-Corner bridge, standing on the quaking grass and willow\nroots, where the muskrats lurk, I heard a singular rattling sound,\nsomewhat like that of the sticks which boys play with their fingers,\nwhen, looking up, I observed a very slight and graceful hawk, like a\nnight-hawk, alternately soaring like a ripple and tumbling a rod or two\nover and over, showing the underside of its wings, which gleamed like a\nsatin ribbon in the sun, or like the pearly inside of a shell. This\nsight reminded me of falconry and what nobleness and poetry are\nassociated with that sport. The Merlin it seemed to me it might be\ncalled: but I care not for its name. It was the most ethereal flight I\nhad ever witnessed. It did not simply flutter like a butterfly, nor\nsoar like the larger hawks, but it sported with proud reliance in the\nfields of air; mounting again and again with its strange chuckle, it\nrepeated its free and beautiful fall, turning over and over like a\nkite, and then recovering from its lofty tumbling, as if it had never\nset its foot on _terra firma_. It appeared to have no companion in the\nuniverse,\u2014sporting there alone,\u2014and to need none but the morning and\nthe ether with which it played. It was not lonely, but made all the\nearth lonely beneath it. Where was the parent which hatched it, its\nkindred, and its father in the heavens? The tenant of the air, it\nseemed related to the earth but by an egg hatched some time in the\ncrevice of a crag;\u2014or was its native nest made in the angle of a cloud,\nwoven of the rainbow\u2019s trimmings and the sunset sky, and lined with\nsome soft midsummer haze caught up from earth? Its eyry now some cliffy\ncloud.\n\nBeside this I got a rare mess of golden and silver and bright cupreous\nfishes, which looked like a string of jewels. Ah! I have penetrated to\nthose meadows on the morning of many a first spring day, jumping from\nhummock to hummock, from willow root to willow root, when the wild\nriver valley and the woods were bathed in so pure and bright a light as\nwould have waked the dead, if they had been slumbering in their graves,\nas some suppose. There needs no stronger proof of immortality. All\nthings must live in such a light. O Death, where was thy sting? O\nGrave, where was thy victory, then?\n\nOur village life would stagnate if it were not for the unexplored\nforests and meadows which surround it. We need the tonic of\nwildness,\u2014to wade sometimes in marshes where the bittern and the\nmeadow-hen lurk, and hear the booming of the snipe; to smell the\nwhispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary fowl builds\nher nest, and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground. At\nthe same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we\nrequire that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and\nsea be infinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because\nunfathomable. We can never have enough of Nature. We must be refreshed\nby the sight of inexhaustible vigor, vast and Titanic features, the\nsea-coast with its wrecks, the wilderness with its living and its\ndecaying trees, the thunder cloud, and the rain which lasts three weeks\nand produces freshets. We need to witness our own limits transgressed,\nand some life pasturing freely where we never wander. We are cheered\nwhen we observe the vulture feeding on the carrion which disgusts and\ndisheartens us and deriving health and strength from the repast. There\nwas a dead horse in the hollow by the path to my house, which compelled\nme sometimes to go out of my way, especially in the night when the air\nwas heavy, but the assurance it gave me of the strong appetite and\ninviolable health of Nature was my compensation for this. I love to see\nthat Nature is so rife with life that myriads can be afforded to be\nsacrificed and suffered to prey on one another; that tender\norganizations can be so serenely squashed out of existence like\npulp,\u2014tadpoles which herons gobble up, and tortoises and toads run over\nin the road; and that sometimes it has rained flesh and blood! With the\nliability to accident, we must see how little account is to be made of\nit. The impression made on a wise man is that of universal innocence.\nPoison is not poisonous after all, nor are any wounds fatal. Compassion\nis a very untenable ground. It must be expeditious. Its pleadings will\nnot bear to be stereotyped.\n\nEarly in May, the oaks, hickories, maples, and other trees, just\nputting out amidst the pine woods around the pond, imparted a\nbrightness like sunshine to the landscape, especially in cloudy days,\nas if the sun were breaking through mists and shining faintly on the\nhill-sides here and there. On the third or fourth of May I saw a loon\nin the pond, and during the first week of the month I heard the\nwhippoorwill, the brown-thrasher, the veery, the wood-pewee, the\nchewink, and other birds. I had heard the wood-thrush long before. The\nph\u0153be had already come once more and looked in at my door and window,\nto see if my house was cavern-like enough for her, sustaining herself\non humming wings with clinched talons, as if she held by the air, while\nshe surveyed the premises. The sulphur-like pollen of the pitch-pine\nsoon covered the pond and the stones and rotten wood along the shore,\nso that you could have collected a barrel-ful. This is the \u201csulphur\nshowers\u201d we hear of. Even in Calidas\u2019 drama of Sacontala, we read of\n\u201crills dyed yellow with the golden dust of the lotus.\u201d And so the\nseasons went rolling on into summer, as one rambles into higher and\nhigher grass.\n\nThus was my first year\u2019s life in the woods completed; and the second\nyear was similar to it. I finally left Walden September 6th, 1847.\n\n\nConclusion\n\nTo the sick the doctors wisely recommend a change of air and scenery.\nThank Heaven, here is not all the world. The buck-eye does not grow in\nNew England, and the mocking-bird is rarely heard here. The wild-goose\nis more of a cosmopolite than we; he breaks his fast in Canada, takes a\nluncheon in the Ohio, and plumes himself for the night in a southern\nbayou. Even the bison, to some extent, keeps pace with the seasons,\ncropping the pastures of the Colorado only till a greener and sweeter\ngrass awaits him by the Yellowstone. Yet we think that if rail-fences\nare pulled down, and stone-walls piled up on our farms, bounds are\nhenceforth set to our lives and our fates decided. If you are chosen\ntown-clerk, forsooth, you cannot go to Tierra del Fuego this summer:\nbut you may go to the land of infernal fire nevertheless. The universe\nis wider than our views of it.\n\nYet we should oftener look over the tafferel of our craft, like curious\npassengers, and not make the voyage like stupid sailors picking oakum.\nThe other side of the globe is but the home of our correspondent. Our\nvoyaging is only great-circle sailing, and the doctors prescribe for\ndiseases of the skin merely. One hastens to Southern Africa to chase\nthe giraffe; but surely that is not the game he would be after. How\nlong, pray, would a man hunt giraffes if he could? Snipes and woodcocks\nalso may afford rare sport; but I trust it would be nobler game to\nshoot one\u2019s self.\u2014\n\n     \u201cDirect your eye right inward, and you\u2019ll find\n     A thousand regions in your mind\n     Yet undiscovered. Travel them, and be\n     Expert in home-cosmography.\u201d\n\nWhat does Africa,\u2014what does the West stand for? Is not our own interior\nwhite on the chart? black though it may prove, like the coast, when\ndiscovered. Is it the source of the Nile, or the Niger, or the\nMississippi, or a North-West Passage around this continent, that we\nwould find? Are these the problems which most concern mankind? Is\nFranklin the only man who is lost, that his wife should be so earnest\nto find him? Does Mr. Grinnell know where he himself is? Be rather the\nMungo Park, the Lewis and Clarke and Frobisher, of your own streams and\noceans; explore your own higher latitudes,\u2014with shiploads of preserved\nmeats to support you, if they be necessary; and pile the empty cans\nsky-high for a sign. Were preserved meats invented to preserve meat\nmerely? Nay, be a Columbus to whole new continents and worlds within\nyou, opening new channels, not of trade, but of thought. Every man is\nthe lord of a realm beside which the earthly empire of the Czar is but\na petty state, a hummock left by the ice. Yet some can be patriotic who\nhave no _self_-respect, and sacrifice the greater to the less. They\nlove the soil which makes their graves, but have no sympathy with the\nspirit which may still animate their clay. Patriotism is a maggot in\ntheir heads. What was the meaning of that South-Sea Exploring\nExpedition, with all its parade and expense, but an indirect\nrecognition of the fact, that there are continents and seas in the\nmoral world to which every man is an isthmus or an inlet, yet\nunexplored by him, but that it is easier to sail many thousand miles\nthrough cold and storm and cannibals, in a government ship, with five\nhundred men and boys to assist one, than it is to explore the private\nsea, the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean of one\u2019s being alone.\u2014\n\n     \u201cErret, et extremos alter scrutetur Iberos.\n     Plus habet hic vit\u00e6, plus habet ille vi\u00e6.\u201d\n\n     Let them wander and scrutinize the outlandish Australians.\n     I have more of God, they more of the road.\n\nIt is not worth the while to go round the world to count the cats in\nZanzibar. Yet do this even till you can do better, and you may perhaps\nfind some \u201cSymmes\u2019 Hole\u201d by which to get at the inside at last. England\nand France, Spain and Portugal, Gold Coast and Slave Coast, all front\non this private sea; but no bark from them has ventured out of sight of\nland, though it is without doubt the direct way to India. If you would\nlearn to speak all tongues and conform to the customs of all nations,\nif you would travel farther than all travellers, be naturalized in all\nclimes, and cause the Sphinx to dash her head against a stone, even\nobey the precept of the old philosopher, and Explore thyself. Herein\nare demanded the eye and the nerve. Only the defeated and deserters go\nto the wars, cowards that run away and enlist. Start now on that\nfarthest western way, which does not pause at the Mississippi or the\nPacific, nor conduct toward a worn-out China or Japan, but leads on\ndirect a tangent to this sphere, summer and winter, day and night, sun\ndown, moon down, and at last earth down too.\n\nIt is said that Mirabeau took to highway robbery \u201cto ascertain what\ndegree of resolution was necessary in order to place one\u2019s self in\nformal opposition to the most sacred laws of society.\u201d He declared that\n\u201ca soldier who fights in the ranks does not require half so much\ncourage as a foot-pad,\u201d\u2014\u201cthat honor and religion have never stood in\nthe way of a well-considered and a firm resolve.\u201d This was manly, as\nthe world goes; and yet it was idle, if not desperate. A saner man\nwould have found himself often enough \u201cin formal opposition\u201d to what\nare deemed \u201cthe most sacred laws of society,\u201d through obedience to yet\nmore sacred laws, and so have tested his resolution without going out\nof his way. It is not for a man to put himself in such an attitude to\nsociety, but to maintain himself in whatever attitude he find himself\nthrough obedience to the laws of his being, which will never be one of\nopposition to a just government, if he should chance to meet with such.\n\nI left the woods for as good a reason as I went there. Perhaps it\nseemed to me that I had several more lives to live, and could not spare\nany more time for that one. It is remarkable how easily and insensibly\nwe fall into a particular route, and make a beaten track for ourselves.\nI had not lived there a week before my feet wore a path from my door to\nthe pond-side; and though it is five or six years since I trod it, it\nis still quite distinct. It is true, I fear that others may have fallen\ninto it, and so helped to keep it open. The surface of the earth is\nsoft and impressible by the feet of men; and so with the paths which\nthe mind travels. How worn and dusty, then, must be the highways of the\nworld, how deep the ruts of tradition and conformity! I did not wish to\ntake a cabin passage, but rather to go before the mast and on the deck\nof the world, for there I could best see the moonlight amid the\nmountains. I do not wish to go below now.\n\nI learned this, at least, by my experiment; that if one advances\nconfidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the\nlife which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in\ncommon hours. He will put some things behind, will pass an invisible\nboundary; new, universal, and more liberal laws will begin to establish\nthemselves around and within him; or the old laws be expanded, and\ninterpreted in his favor in a more liberal sense, and he will live with\nthe license of a higher order of beings. In proportion as he simplifies\nhis life, the laws of the universe will appear less complex, and\nsolitude will not be solitude, nor poverty poverty, nor weakness\nweakness. If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be\nlost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.\n\nIt is a ridiculous demand which England and America make, that you\nshall speak so that they can understand you. Neither men nor\ntoad-stools grow so. As if that were important, and there were not\nenough to understand you without them. As if Nature could support but\none order of understandings, could not sustain birds as well as\nquadrupeds, flying as well as creeping things, and _hush_ and _who_,\nwhich Bright can understand, were the best English. As if there were\nsafety in stupidity alone. I fear chiefly lest my expression may not be\n_extra-vagant_ enough, may not wander far enough beyond the narrow\nlimits of my daily experience, so as to be adequate to the truth of\nwhich I have been convinced. _Extra vagance!_ it depends on how you are\nyarded. The migrating buffalo, which seeks new pastures in another\nlatitude, is not extravagant like the cow which kicks over the pail,\nleaps the cow-yard fence, and runs after her calf, in milking time. I\ndesire to speak somewhere _without_ bounds; like a man in a waking\nmoment, to men in their waking moments; for I am convinced that I\ncannot exaggerate enough even to lay the foundation of a true\nexpression. Who that has heard a strain of music feared then lest he\nshould speak extravagantly any more forever? In view of the future or\npossible, we should live quite laxly and undefined in front, our\noutlines dim and misty on that side; as our shadows reveal an\ninsensible perspiration toward the sun. The volatile truth of our words\nshould continually betray the inadequacy of the residual statement.\nTheir truth is instantly _translated_; its literal monument alone\nremains. The words which express our faith and piety are not definite;\nyet they are significant and fragrant like frankincense to superior\nnatures.\n\nWhy level downward to our dullest perception always, and praise that as\ncommon sense? The commonest sense is the sense of men asleep, which\nthey express by snoring. Sometimes we are inclined to class those who\nare once-and-a-half-witted with the half-witted, because we appreciate\nonly a third part of their wit. Some would find fault with the\nmorning-red, if they ever got up early enough. \u201cThey pretend,\u201d as I\nhear, \u201cthat the verses of Kabir have four different senses; illusion,\nspirit, intellect, and the exoteric doctrine of the Vedas;\u201d but in this\npart of the world it is considered a ground for complaint if a man\u2019s\nwritings admit of more than one interpretation. While England endeavors\nto cure the potato-rot, will not any endeavor to cure the brain-rot,\nwhich prevails so much more widely and fatally?\n\nI do not suppose that I have attained to obscurity, but I should be\nproud if no more fatal fault were found with my pages on this score\nthan was found with the Walden ice. Southern customers objected to its\nblue color, which is the evidence of its purity, as if it were muddy,\nand preferred the Cambridge ice, which is white, but tastes of weeds.\nThe purity men love is like the mists which envelop the earth, and not\nlike the azure ether beyond.\n\nSome are dinning in our ears that we Americans, and moderns generally,\nare intellectual dwarfs compared with the ancients, or even the\nElizabethan men. But what is that to the purpose? A living dog is\nbetter than a dead lion. Shall a man go and hang himself because he\nbelongs to the race of pygmies, and not be the biggest pygmy that he\ncan? Let every one mind his own business, and endeavor to be what he\nwas made.\n\nWhy should we be in such desperate haste to succeed, and in such\ndesperate enterprises? If a man does not keep pace with his companions,\nperhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the\nmusic which he hears, however measured or far away. It is not important\nthat he should mature as soon as an apple-tree or an oak. Shall he turn\nhis spring into summer? If the condition of things which we were made\nfor is not yet, what were any reality which we can substitute? We will\nnot be shipwrecked on a vain reality. Shall we with pains erect a\nheaven of blue glass over ourselves, though when it is done we shall be\nsure to gaze still at the true ethereal heaven far above, as if the\nformer were not?\n\nThere was an artist in the city of Kouroo who was disposed to strive\nafter perfection. One day it came into his mind to make a staff. Having\nconsidered that in an imperfect work time is an ingredient, but into a\nperfect work time does not enter, he said to himself, It shall be\nperfect in all respects, though I should do nothing else in my life. He\nproceeded instantly to the forest for wood, being resolved that it\nshould not be made of unsuitable material; and as he searched for and\nrejected stick after stick, his friends gradually deserted him, for\nthey grew old in their works and died, but he grew not older by a\nmoment. His singleness of purpose and resolution, and his elevated\npiety, endowed him, without his knowledge, with perennial youth. As he\nmade no compromise with Time, Time kept out of his way, and only sighed\nat a distance because he could not overcome him. Before he had found a\nstock in all respects suitable the city of Kouroo was a hoary ruin, and\nhe sat on one of its mounds to peel the stick. Before he had given it\nthe proper shape the dynasty of the Candahars was at an end, and with\nthe point of the stick he wrote the name of the last of that race in\nthe sand, and then resumed his work. By the time he had smoothed and\npolished the staff Kalpa was no longer the pole-star; and ere he had\nput on the ferrule and the head adorned with precious stones, Brahma\nhad awoke and slumbered many times. But why do I stay to mention these\nthings? When the finishing stroke was put to his work, it suddenly\nexpanded before the eyes of the astonished artist into the fairest of\nall the creations of Brahma. He had made a new system in making a\nstaff, a world with full and fair proportions; in which, though the old\ncities and dynasties had passed away, fairer and more glorious ones had\ntaken their places. And now he saw by the heap of shavings still fresh\nat his feet, that, for him and his work, the former lapse of time had\nbeen an illusion, and that no more time had elapsed than is required\nfor a single scintillation from the brain of Brahma to fall on and\ninflame the tinder of a mortal brain. The material was pure, and his\nart was pure; how could the result be other than wonderful?\n\nNo face which we can give to a matter will stead us so well at last as\nthe truth. This alone wears well. For the most part, we are not where\nwe are, but in a false position. Through an infirmity of our natures,\nwe suppose a case, and put ourselves into it, and hence are in two\ncases at the same time, and it is doubly difficult to get out. In sane\nmoments we regard only the facts, the case that is. Say what you have\nto say, not what you ought. Any truth is better than make-believe. Tom\nHyde, the tinker, standing on the gallows, was asked if he had anything\nto say. \u201cTell the tailors,\u201d said he, \u201cto remember to make a knot in\ntheir thread before they take the first stitch.\u201d His companion\u2019s prayer\nis forgotten.\n\nHowever mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call\nit hard names. It is not so bad as you are. It looks poorest when you\nare richest. The fault-finder will find faults even in paradise. Love\nyour life, poor as it is. You may perhaps have some pleasant,\nthrilling, glorious hours, even in a poor-house. The setting sun is\nreflected from the windows of the alms-house as brightly as from the\nrich man\u2019s abode; the snow melts before its door as early in the\nspring. I do not see but a quiet mind may live as contentedly there,\nand have as cheering thoughts, as in a palace. The town\u2019s poor seem to\nme often to live the most independent lives of any. May be they are\nsimply great enough to receive without misgiving. Most think that they\nare above being supported by the town; but it oftener happens that they\nare not above supporting themselves by dishonest means, which should be\nmore disreputable. Cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage. Do\nnot trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or\nfriends. Turn the old; return to them. Things do not change; we change.\nSell your clothes and keep your thoughts. God will see that you do not\nwant society. If I were confined to a corner of a garret all my days,\nlike a spider, the world would be just as large to me while I had my\nthoughts about me. The philosopher said: \u201cFrom an army of three\ndivisions one can take away its general, and put it in disorder; from\nthe man the most abject and vulgar one cannot take away his thought.\u201d\nDo not seek so anxiously to be developed, to subject yourself to many\ninfluences to be played on; it is all dissipation. Humility like\ndarkness reveals the heavenly lights. The shadows of poverty and\nmeanness gather around us, \u201cand lo! creation widens to our view.\u201d We\nare often reminded that if there were bestowed on us the wealth of\nCr\u0153sus, our aims must still be the same, and our means essentially the\nsame. Moreover, if you are restricted in your range by poverty, if you\ncannot buy books and newspapers, for instance, you are but confined to\nthe most significant and vital experiences; you are compelled to deal\nwith the material which yields the most sugar and the most starch. It\nis life near the bone where it is sweetest. You are defended from being\na trifler. No man loses ever on a lower level by magnanimity on a\nhigher. Superfluous wealth can buy superfluities only. Money is not\nrequired to buy one necessary of the soul.\n\nI live in the angle of a leaden wall, into whose composition was poured\na little alloy of bell metal. Often, in the repose of my mid-day, there\nreaches my ears a confused _tintinnabulum_ from without. It is the\nnoise of my contemporaries. My neighbors tell me of their adventures\nwith famous gentlemen and ladies, what notabilities they met at the\ndinner-table; but I am no more interested in such things than in the\ncontents of the Daily Times. The interest and the conversation are\nabout costume and manners chiefly; but a goose is a goose still, dress\nit as you will. They tell me of California and Texas, of England and\nthe Indies, of the Hon. Mr. \u2014\u2014 of Georgia or of Massachusetts, all\ntransient and fleeting phenomena, till I am ready to leap from their\ncourt-yard like the Mameluke bey. I delight to come to my bearings,\u2014not\nwalk in procession with pomp and parade, in a conspicuous place, but to\nwalk even with the Builder of the universe, if I may,\u2014not to live in\nthis restless, nervous, bustling, trivial Nineteenth Century, but stand\nor sit thoughtfully while it goes by. What are men celebrating? They\nare all on a committee of arrangements, and hourly expect a speech from\nsomebody. God is only the president of the day, and Webster is his\norator. I love to weigh, to settle, to gravitate toward that which most\nstrongly and rightfully attracts me;\u2014not hang by the beam of the scale\nand try to weigh less,\u2014not suppose a case, but take the case that is;\nto travel the only path I can, and that on which no power can resist\nme. It affords me no satisfaction to commence to spring an arch before\nI have got a solid foundation. Let us not play at kittly-benders. There\nis a solid bottom every where. We read that the traveller asked the boy\nif the swamp before him had a hard bottom. The boy replied that it had.\nBut presently the traveller\u2019s horse sank in up to the girths, and he\nobserved to the boy, \u201cI thought you said that this bog had a hard\nbottom.\u201d \u201cSo it has,\u201d answered the latter, \u201cbut you have not got half\nway to it yet.\u201d So it is with the bogs and quicksands of society; but\nhe is an old boy that knows it. Only what is thought, said, or done at a\ncertain rare coincidence is good. I would not be one of those who will\nfoolishly drive a nail into mere lath and plastering; such a deed would\nkeep me awake nights. Give me a hammer, and let me feel for the\nfurring. Do not depend on the putty. Drive a nail home and clinch it so\nfaithfully that you can wake up in the night and think of your work\nwith satisfaction,\u2014a work at which you would not be ashamed to invoke\nthe Muse. So will help you God, and so only. Every nail driven should\nbe as another rivet in the machine of the universe, you carrying on the\nwork.\n\nRather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth. I sat at a\ntable where were rich food and wine in abundance, and obsequious\nattendance, but sincerity and truth were not; and I went away hungry\nfrom the inhospitable board. The hospitality was as cold as the ices. I\nthought that there was no need of ice to freeze them. They talked to me\nof the age of the wine and the fame of the vintage; but I thought of an\nolder, a newer, and purer wine, of a more glorious vintage, which they\nhad not got, and could not buy. The style, the house and grounds and\n\u201centertainment\u201d pass for nothing with me. I called on the king, but he\nmade me wait in his hall, and conducted like a man incapacitated for\nhospitality. There was a man in my neighborhood who lived in a hollow\ntree. His manners were truly regal. I should have done better had I\ncalled on him.\n\nHow long shall we sit in our porticoes practising idle and musty\nvirtues, which any work would make impertinent? As if one were to begin\nthe day with long-suffering, and hire a man to hoe his potatoes; and in\nthe afternoon go forth to practise Christian meekness and charity with\ngoodness aforethought! Consider the China pride and stagnant\nself-complacency of mankind. This generation inclines a little to\ncongratulate itself on being the last of an illustrious line; and in\nBoston and London and Paris and Rome, thinking of its long descent, it\nspeaks of its progress in art and science and literature with\nsatisfaction. There are the Records of the Philosophical Societies, and\nthe public Eulogies of _Great Men!_ It is the good Adam contemplating\nhis own virtue. \u201cYes, we have done great deeds, and sung divine songs,\nwhich shall never die,\u201d\u2014that is, as long as _we_ can remember them. The\nlearned societies and great men of Assyria,\u2014where are they? What\nyouthful philosophers and experimentalists we are! There is not one of\nmy readers who has yet lived a whole human life. These may be but the\nspring months in the life of the race. If we have had the seven-years\u2019\nitch, we have not seen the seventeen-year locust yet in Concord. We are\nacquainted with a mere pellicle of the globe on which we live. Most\nhave not delved six feet beneath the surface, nor leaped as many above\nit. We know not where we are. Beside, we are sound asleep nearly half\nour time. Yet we esteem ourselves wise, and have an established order\non the surface. Truly, we are deep thinkers, we are ambitious spirits!\nAs I stand over the insect crawling amid the pine needles on the forest\nfloor, and endeavoring to conceal itself from my sight, and ask myself\nwhy it will cherish those humble thoughts, and hide its head from me\nwho might, perhaps, be its benefactor, and impart to its race some\ncheering information, I am reminded of the greater Benefactor and\nIntelligence that stands over me the human insect.\n\nThere is an incessant influx of novelty into the world, and yet we\ntolerate incredible dulness. I need only suggest what kind of sermons\nare still listened to in the most enlightened countries. There are such\nwords as joy and sorrow, but they are only the burden of a psalm, sung\nwith a nasal twang, while we believe in the ordinary and mean. We think\nthat we can change our clothes only. It is said that the British Empire\nis very large and respectable, and that the United States are a\nfirst-rate power. We do not believe that a tide rises and falls behind\nevery man which can float the British Empire like a chip, if he should\never harbor it in his mind. Who knows what sort of seventeen-year\nlocust will next come out of the ground? The government of the world I\nlive in was not framed, like that of Britain, in after-dinner\nconversations over the wine.\n\nThe life in us is like the water in the river. It may rise this year\nhigher than man has ever known it, and flood the parched uplands; even\nthis may be the eventful year, which will drown out all our muskrats.\nIt was not always dry land where we dwell. I see far inland the banks\nwhich the stream anciently washed, before science began to record its\nfreshets. Every one has heard the story which has gone the rounds of\nNew England, of a strong and beautiful bug which came out of the dry\nleaf of an old table of apple-tree wood, which had stood in a farmer\u2019s\nkitchen for sixty years, first in Connecticut, and afterward in\nMassachusetts,\u2014from an egg deposited in the living tree many years\nearlier still, as appeared by counting the annual layers beyond it;\nwhich was heard gnawing out for several weeks, hatched perchance by the\nheat of an urn. Who does not feel his faith in a resurrection and\nimmortality strengthened by hearing of this? Who knows what beautiful\nand winged life, whose egg has been buried for ages under many\nconcentric layers of woodenness in the dead dry life of society,\ndeposited at first in the alburnum of the green and living tree, which\nhas been gradually converted into the semblance of its well-seasoned\ntomb,\u2014heard perchance gnawing out now for years by the astonished\nfamily of man, as they sat round the festive board,\u2014may unexpectedly\ncome forth from amidst society\u2019s most trivial and handselled furniture,\nto enjoy its perfect summer life at last!\n\nI do not say that John or Jonathan will realize all this; but such is\nthe character of that morrow which mere lapse of time can never make to\ndawn. The light which puts out our eyes is darkness to us. Only that\nday dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is\nbut a morning star.\n\nTHE END\n\n\n\nON THE DUTY OF CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE\n\nI heartily accept the motto,\u2014\u201cThat government is best which governs\nleast;\u201d and I should like to see it acted up to more rapidly and\nsystematically. Carried out, it finally amounts to this, which also I\nbelieve\u2014\u201cThat government is best which governs not at all;\u201d and when\nmen are prepared for it, that will be the kind of government which they\nwill have. Government is at best but an expedient; but most governments\nare usually, and all governments are sometimes, inexpedient. The\nobjections which have been brought against a standing army, and they\nare many and weighty, and deserve to prevail, may also at last be\nbrought against a standing government. The standing army is only an arm\nof the standing government. The government itself, which is only the\nmode which the people have chosen to execute their will, is equally\nliable to be abused and perverted before the people can act through it.\nWitness the present Mexican war, the work of comparatively a few\nindividuals using the standing government as their tool; for, in the\noutset, the people would not have consented to this measure.\n\nThis American government,\u2014what is it but a tradition, though a recent\none, endeavoring to transmit itself unimpaired to posterity, but each\ninstant losing some of its integrity? It has not the vitality and force\nof a single living man; for a single man can bend it to his will. It is\na sort of wooden gun to the people themselves; and, if ever they should\nuse it in earnest as a real one against each other, it will surely\nsplit. But it is not the less necessary for this; for the people must\nhave some complicated machinery or other, and hear its din, to satisfy\nthat idea of government which they have. Governments show thus how\nsuccessfully men can be imposed on, even impose on themselves, for\ntheir own advantage. It is excellent, we must all allow; yet this\ngovernment never of itself furthered any enterprise, but by the\nalacrity with which it got out of its way. _It_ does not keep the\ncountry free. _It_ does not settle the West. _It_ does not educate. The\ncharacter inherent in the American people has done all that has been\naccomplished; and it would have done somewhat more, if the government\nhad not sometimes got in its way. For government is an expedient, by\nwhich men would fain succeed in letting one another alone; and, as has\nbeen said, when it is most expedient, the governed are most let alone\nby it. Trade and commerce, if they were not made of India rubber, would\nnever manage to bounce over obstacles which legislators are continually\nputting in their way; and, if one were to judge these men wholly by the\neffects of their actions, and not partly by their intentions, they\nwould deserve to be classed and punished with those mischievous persons\nwho put obstructions on the railroads.\n\nBut, to speak practically and as a citizen, unlike those who call\nthemselves no-government men, I ask for, not at once no government, but\n_at once_ a better government. Let every man make known what kind of\ngovernment would command his respect, and that will be one step toward\nobtaining it.\n\nAfter all, the practical reason why, when the power is once in the\nhands of the people, a majority are permitted, and for a long period\ncontinue, to rule, is not because they are most likely to be in the\nright, nor because this seems fairest to the minority, but because they\nare physically the strongest. But a government in which the majority\nrule in all cases can not be based on justice, even as far as men\nunderstand it. Can there not be a government in which the majorities do\nnot virtually decide right and wrong, but conscience?\u2014in which\nmajorities decide only those questions to which the rule of expediency\nis applicable? Must the citizen ever for a moment, or in the least\ndegree, resign his conscience to the legislator? Why has every man a\nconscience, then? I think that we should be men first, and subjects\nafterward. It is not desirable to cultivate a respect for the law, so\nmuch as for the right. The only obligation which I have a right to\nassume, is to do at any time what I think right. It is truly enough\nsaid that a corporation has no conscience; but a corporation of\nconscientious men is a corporation _with_ a conscience. Law never made\nmen a whit more just; and, by means of their respect for it, even the\nwell-disposed are daily made the agents of injustice. A common and\nnatural result of an undue respect for the law is, that you may see a\nfile of soldiers, colonel, captain, corporal, privates, powder-monkeys\nand all, marching in admirable order over hill and dale to the wars,\nagainst their wills, aye, against their common sense and consciences,\nwhich makes it very steep marching indeed, and produces a palpitation\nof the heart. They have no doubt that it is a damnable business in\nwhich they are concerned; they are all peaceably inclined. Now, what\nare they? Men at all? or small movable forts and magazines, at the\nservice of some unscrupulous man in power? Visit the Navy Yard, and\nbehold a marine, such a man as an American government can make, or such\nas it can make a man with its black arts, a mere shadow and\nreminiscence of humanity, a man laid out alive and standing, and\nalready, as one may say, buried under arms with funeral accompaniment,\nthough it may be\n\n     \u201cNot a drum was heard, not a funeral note,\n         As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried;\n     Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot\n         O\u2019er the grave where our hero we buried.\u201d\n\nThe mass of men serve the State thus, not as men mainly, but as\nmachines, with their bodies. They are the standing army, and the\nmilitia, jailers, constables, _posse comitatus_, &c. In most cases\nthere is no free exercise whatever of the judgment or of the moral\nsense; but they put themselves on a level with wood and earth and\nstones; and wooden men can perhaps be manufactured that will serve the\npurpose as well. Such command no more respect than men of straw, or a\nlump of dirt. They have the same sort of worth only as horses and dogs.\nYet such as these even are commonly esteemed good citizens. Others, as\nmost legislators, politicians, lawyers, ministers, and office-holders,\nserve the state chiefly with their heads; and, as they rarely make any\nmoral distinctions, they are as likely to serve the devil, without\n_intending_ it, as God. A very few, as heroes, patriots, martyrs,\nreformers in the great sense, and _men_, serve the State with their\nconsciences also, and so necessarily resist it for the most part; and\nthey are commonly treated by it as enemies. A wise man will only be\nuseful as a man, and will not submit to be \u201cclay,\u201d and \u201cstop a hole to\nkeep the wind away,\u201d but leave that office to his dust at least:\n\n     \u201cI am too high-born to be propertied,\n     To be a secondary at control,\n     Or useful serving-man and instrument\n     To any sovereign state throughout the world.\u201d\n\nHe who gives himself entirely to his fellow-men appears to them useless\nand selfish; but he who gives himself partially to them is pronounced a\nbenefactor and philanthropist.\n\nHow does it become a man to behave toward the American government\ntoday? I answer that he cannot without disgrace be associated with it.\nI cannot for an instant recognize that political organization as _my_\ngovernment which is the _slave\u2019s_ government also.\n\nAll men recognize the right of revolution; that is, the right to refuse\nallegiance to and to resist the government, when its tyranny or its\ninefficiency are great and unendurable. But almost all say that such is\nnot the case now. But such was the case, they think, in the Revolution\nof \u201975. If one were to tell me that this was a bad government because\nit taxed certain foreign commodities brought to its ports, it is most\nprobable that I should not make an ado about it, for I can do without\nthem: all machines have their friction; and possibly this does enough\ngood to counter-balance the evil. At any rate, it is a great evil to\nmake a stir about it. But when the friction comes to have its machine,\nand oppression and robbery are organized, I say, let us not have such a\nmachine any longer. In other words, when a sixth of the population of a\nnation which has undertaken to be the refuge of liberty are slaves, and\na whole country is unjustly overrun and conquered by a foreign army,\nand subjected to military law, I think that it is not too soon for\nhonest men to rebel and revolutionize. What makes this duty the more\nurgent is that fact, that the country so overrun is not our own, but\nours is the invading army.\n\nPaley, a common authority with many on moral questions, in his chapter\non the \u201cDuty of Submission to Civil Government,\u201d resolves all civil\nobligation into expediency; and he proceeds to say, \u201cthat so long as\nthe interest of the whole society requires it, that is, so long as the\nestablished government cannot be resisted or changed without public\ninconveniency, it is the will of God that the established government be\nobeyed, and no longer.\u201d\u2014\u201cThis principle being admitted, the justice of\nevery particular case of resistance is reduced to a computation of the\nquantity of the danger and grievance on the one side, and of the\nprobability and expense of redressing it on the other.\u201d Of this, he\nsays, every man shall judge for himself. But Paley appears never to\nhave contemplated those cases to which the rule of expediency does not\napply, in which a people, as well as an individual, must do justice,\ncost what it may. If I have unjustly wrested a plank from a drowning\nman, I must restore it to him though I drown myself. This, according to\nPaley, would be inconvenient. But he that would save his life, in such\na case, shall lose it. This people must cease to hold slaves, and to\nmake war on Mexico, though it cost them their existence as a people.\n\nIn their practice, nations agree with Paley; but does anyone think that\nMassachusetts does exactly what is right at the present crisis?\n\n     \u201cA drab of state, a cloth-o\u2019-silver slut,\n     To have her train borne up, and her soul trail in the dirt.\u201d\n\nPractically speaking, the opponents to a reform in Massachusetts are\nnot a hundred thousand politicians at the South, but a hundred thousand\nmerchants and farmers here, who are more interested in commerce and\nagriculture than they are in humanity, and are not prepared to do\njustice to the slave and to Mexico, _cost what it may_. I quarrel not\nwith far-off foes, but with those who, near at home, co-operate with,\nand do the bidding of those far away, and without whom the latter would\nbe harmless. We are accustomed to say, that the mass of men are\nunprepared; but improvement is slow, because the few are not materially\nwiser or better than the many. It is not so important that many should\nbe as good as you, as that there be some absolute goodness somewhere;\nfor that will leaven the whole lump. There are thousands who are _in\nopinion_ opposed to slavery and to the war, who yet in effect do\nnothing to put an end to them; who, esteeming themselves children of\nWashington and Franklin, sit down with their hands in their pockets,\nand say that they know not what to do, and do nothing; who even\npostpone the question of freedom to the question of free-trade, and\nquietly read the prices-current along with the latest advices from\nMexico, after dinner, and, it may be, fall asleep over them both. What\nis the price-current of an honest man and patriot today? They hesitate,\nand they regret, and sometimes they petition; but they do nothing in\nearnest and with effect. They will wait, well disposed, for others to\nremedy the evil, that they may no longer have it to regret. At most,\nthey give only a cheap vote, and a feeble countenance and Godspeed, to\nthe right, as it goes by them. There are nine hundred and ninety-nine\npatrons of virtue to one virtuous man; but it is easier to deal with\nthe real possessor of a thing than with the temporary guardian of it.\n\nAll voting is a sort of gaming, like chequers or backgammon, with a\nslight moral tinge to it, a playing with right and wrong, with moral\nquestions; and betting naturally accompanies it. The character of the\nvoters is not staked. I cast my vote, perchance, as I think right; but\nI am not vitally concerned that that right should prevail. I am willing\nto leave it to the majority. Its obligation, therefore, never exceeds\nthat of expediency. Even voting _for the right_ is _doing_ nothing for\nit. It is only expressing to men feebly your desire that it should\nprevail. A wise man will not leave the right to the mercy of chance,\nnor wish it to prevail through the power of the majority. There is but\nlittle virtue in the action of masses of men. When the majority shall\nat length vote for the abolition of slavery, it will be because they\nare indifferent to slavery, or because there is but little slavery left\nto be abolished by their vote. _They_ will then be the only slaves.\nOnly _his_ vote can hasten the abolition of slavery who asserts his own\nfreedom by his vote.\n\nI hear of a convention to be held at Baltimore, or elsewhere, for the\nselection of a candidate for the Presidency, made up chiefly of\neditors, and men who are politicians by profession; but I think, what\nis it to any independent, intelligent, and respectable man what\ndecision they may come to, shall we not have the advantage of his\nwisdom and honesty, nevertheless? Can we not count upon some\nindependent votes? Are there not many individuals in the country who do\nnot attend conventions? But no: I find that the respectable man, so\ncalled, has immediately drifted from his position, and despairs of his\ncountry, when his country has more reasons to despair of him. He\nforthwith adopts one of the candidates thus selected as the only\n_available_ one, thus proving that he is himself _available_ for any\npurposes of the demagogue. His vote is of no more worth than that of\nany unprincipled foreigner or hireling native, who may have been\nbought. Oh for a man who is a _man_, and, as my neighbor says, has a\nbone in his back which you cannot pass your hand through! Our\nstatistics are at fault: the population has been returned too large.\nHow many _men_ are there to a square thousand miles in the country?\nHardly one. Does not America offer any inducement for men to settle\nhere? The American has dwindled into an Odd Fellow,\u2014one who may be\nknown by the development of his organ of gregariousness, and a manifest\nlack of intellect and cheerful self-reliance; whose first and chief\nconcern, on coming into the world, is to see that the alms-houses are\nin good repair; and, before yet he has lawfully donned the virile garb,\nto collect a fund for the support of the widows and orphans that may\nbe; who, in short, ventures to live only by the aid of the Mutual\nInsurance company, which has promised to bury him decently.\n\nIt is not a man\u2019s duty, as a matter of course, to devote himself to the\neradication of any, even the most enormous wrong; he may still properly\nhave other concerns to engage him; but it is his duty, at least, to\nwash his hands of it, and, if he gives it no thought longer, not to\ngive it practically his support. If I devote myself to other pursuits\nand contemplations, I must first see, at least, that I do not pursue\nthem sitting upon another man\u2019s shoulders. I must get off him first,\nthat he may pursue his contemplations too. See what gross inconsistency\nis tolerated. I have heard some of my townsmen say, \u201cI should like to\nhave them order me out to help put down an insurrection of the slaves,\nor to march to Mexico,\u2014see if I would go;\u201d and yet these very men have\neach, directly by their allegiance, and so indirectly, at least, by\ntheir money, furnished a substitute. The soldier is applauded who\nrefuses to serve in an unjust war by those who do not refuse to sustain\nthe unjust government which makes the war; is applauded by those whose\nown act and authority he disregards and sets at naught; as if the State\nwere penitent to that degree that it hired one to scourge it while it\nsinned, but not to that degree that it left off sinning for a moment.\nThus, under the name of Order and Civil Government, we are all made at\nlast to pay homage to and support our own meanness. After the first\nblush of sin, comes its indifference; and from immoral it becomes, as\nit were, _un_moral, and not quite unnecessary to that life which we\nhave made.\n\nThe broadest and most prevalent error requires the most disinterested\nvirtue to sustain it. The slight reproach to which the virtue of\npatriotism is commonly liable, the noble are most likely to incur.\nThose who, while they disapprove of the character and measures of a\ngovernment, yield to it their allegiance and support, are undoubtedly\nits most conscientious supporters, and so frequently the most serious\nobstacles to reform. Some are petitioning the State to dissolve the\nUnion, to disregard the requisitions of the President. Why do they not\ndissolve it themselves,\u2014the union between themselves and the State,\u2014and\nrefuse to pay their quota into its treasury? Do not they stand in same\nrelation to the State, that the State does to the Union? And have not\nthe same reasons prevented the State from resisting the Union, which\nhave prevented them from resisting the State?\n\nHow can a man be satisfied to entertain an opinion merely, and enjoy\n_it?_ Is there any enjoyment in it, if his opinion is that he is\naggrieved? If you are cheated out of a single dollar by your neighbor,\nyou do not rest satisfied with knowing you are cheated, or with saying\nthat you are cheated, or even with petitioning him to pay you your due;\nbut you take effectual steps at once to obtain the full amount, and see\nthat you are never cheated again. Action from principle,\u2014the perception\nand the performance of right,\u2014changes things and relations; it is\nessentially revolutionary, and does not consist wholly with anything\nwhich was. It not only divided states and churches, it divides\nfamilies; aye, it divides the _individual_, separating the diabolical\nin him from the divine.\n\nUnjust laws exist: shall we be content to obey them, or shall we\nendeavor to amend them, and obey them until we have succeeded, or shall\nwe transgress them at once? Men generally, under such a government as\nthis, think that they ought to wait until they have persuaded the\nmajority to alter them. They think that, if they should resist, the\nremedy would be worse than the evil. But it is the fault of the\ngovernment itself that the remedy _is_ worse than the evil. _It_ makes\nit worse. Why is it not more apt to anticipate and provide for reform?\nWhy does it not cherish its wise minority? Why does it cry and resist\nbefore it is hurt? Why does it not encourage its citizens to be on the\nalert to point out its faults, and _do_ better than it would have them?\nWhy does it always crucify Christ, and excommunicate Copernicus and\nLuther, and pronounce Washington and Franklin rebels?\n\nOne would think, that a deliberate and practical denial of its\nauthority was the only offence never contemplated by government; else,\nwhy has it not assigned its definite, its suitable and proportionate\npenalty? If a man who has no property refuses but once to earn nine\nshillings for the State, he is put in prison for a period unlimited by\nany law that I know, and determined only by the discretion of those who\nplaced him there; but if he should steal ninety times nine shillings\nfrom the State, he is soon permitted to go at large again.\n\nIf the injustice is part of the necessary friction of the machine of\ngovernment, let it go, let it go: perchance it will wear\nsmooth,\u2014certainly the machine will wear out. If the injustice has a\nspring, or a pulley, or a rope, or a crank, exclusively for itself,\nthen perhaps you may consider whether the remedy will not be worse than\nthe evil; but if it is of such a nature that it requires you to be the\nagent of injustice to another, then, I say, break the law. Let your\nlife be a counter friction to stop the machine. What I have to do is to\nsee, at any rate, that I do not lend myself to the wrong which I\ncondemn.\n\nAs for adopting the ways which the State has provided for remedying the\nevil, I know not of such ways. They take too much time, and a man\u2019s\nlife will be gone. I have other affairs to attend to. I came into this\nworld, not chiefly to make this a good place to live in, but to live in\nit, be it good or bad. A man has not every thing to do, but something;\nand because he cannot do _every thing_, it is not necessary that he\nshould do _something_ wrong. It is not my business to be petitioning\nthe Governor or the Legislature any more than it is theirs to petition\nme; and, if they should not hear my petition, what should I do then?\nBut in this case the State has provided no way: its very Constitution\nis the evil. This may seem to be harsh and stubborn and\nunconcilliatory; but it is to treat with the utmost kindness and\nconsideration the only spirit that can appreciate or deserves it. So is\nall change for the better, like birth and death which convulse the\nbody.\n\nI do not hesitate to say, that those who call themselves abolitionists\nshould at once effectually withdraw their support, both in person and\nproperty, from the government of Massachusetts, and not wait till they\nconstitute a majority of one, before they suffer the right to prevail\nthrough them. I think that it is enough if they have God on their side,\nwithout waiting for that other one. Moreover, any man more right than\nhis neighbors constitutes a majority of one already.\n\nI meet this American government, or its representative, the State\ngovernment, directly, and face to face, once a year, no more, in the\nperson of its tax-gatherer; this is the only mode in which a man\nsituated as I am necessarily meets it; and it then says distinctly,\nRecognize me; and the simplest, the most effectual, and, in the present\nposture of affairs, the indispensablest mode of treating with it on\nthis head, of expressing your little satisfaction with and love for it,\nis to deny it then. My civil neighbor, the tax-gatherer, is the very\nman I have to deal with,\u2014for it is, after all, with men and not with\nparchment that I quarrel,\u2014and he has voluntarily chosen to be an agent\nof the government. How shall he ever know well what he is and does as\nan officer of the government, or as a man, until he is obliged to\nconsider whether he shall treat me, his neighbor, for whom he has\nrespect, as a neighbor and well-disposed man, or as a maniac and\ndisturber of the peace, and see if he can get over this obstruction to\nhis neighborliness without a ruder and more impetuous thought or speech\ncorresponding with his action? I know this well, that if one thousand,\nif one hundred, if ten men whom I could name,\u2014if ten _honest_ men\nonly,\u2014aye, if _one_ HONEST man, in this State of Massachusetts,\n_ceasing to hold slaves_, were actually to withdraw from this\ncopartnership, and be locked up in the county jail therefor, it would\nbe the abolition of slavery in America. For it matters not how small\nthe beginning may seem to be: what is once well done is done for ever.\nBut we love better to talk about it: that we say is our mission. Reform\nkeeps many scores of newspapers in its service, but not one man. If my\nesteemed neighbor, the State\u2019s ambassador, who will devote his days to\nthe settlement of the question of human rights in the Council Chamber,\ninstead of being threatened with the prisons of Carolina, were to sit\ndown the prisoner of Massachusetts, that State which is so anxious to\nfoist the sin of slavery upon her sister,\u2014though at present she can\ndiscover only an act of inhospitality to be the ground of a quarrel\nwith her,\u2014the Legislature would not wholly waive the subject of the\nfollowing winter.\n\nUnder a government which imprisons any unjustly, the true place for a\njust man is also a prison. The proper place today, the only place which\nMassachusetts has provided for her freer and less desponding spirits,\nis in her prisons, to be put out and locked out of the State by her own\nact, as they have already put themselves out by their principles. It is\nthere that the fugitive slave, and the Mexican prisoner on parole, and\nthe Indian come to plead the wrongs of his race, should find them; on\nthat separate, but more free and honorable ground, where the State\nplaces those who are not _with_ her but _against_ her,\u2014the only house\nin a slave-state in which a free man can abide with honor. If any think\nthat their influence would be lost there, and their voices no longer\nafflict the ear of the State, that they would not be as an enemy within\nits walls, they do not know by how much truth is stronger than error,\nnor how much more eloquently and effectively he can combat injustice\nwho has experienced a little in his own person. Cast your whole vote,\nnot a strip of paper merely, but your whole influence. A minority is\npowerless while it conforms to the majority; it is not even a minority\nthen; but it is irresistible when it clogs by its whole weight. If the\nalternative is to keep all just men in prison, or give up war and\nslavery, the State will not hesitate which to choose. If a thousand men\nwere not to pay their tax-bills this year, that would not be a violent\nand bloody measure, as it would be to pay them, and enable the State to\ncommit violence and shed innocent blood. This is, in fact, the\ndefinition of a peaceable revolution, if any such is possible. If the\ntax-gatherer, or any other public officer, asks me, as one has done,\n\u201cBut what shall I do?\u201d my answer is, \u201cIf you really wish to do any\nthing, resign your office.\u201d When the subject has refused allegiance,\nand the officer has resigned his office, then the revolution is\naccomplished. But even suppose blood should flow. Is there not a sort\nof blood shed when the conscience is wounded? Through this wound a\nman\u2019s real manhood and immortality flow out, and he bleeds to an\neverlasting death. I see this blood flowing now.\n\nI have contemplated the imprisonment of the offender, rather than the\nseizure of his goods,\u2014though both will serve the same purpose,\u2014because\nthey who assert the purest right, and consequently are most dangerous\nto a corrupt State, commonly have not spent much time in accumulating\nproperty. To such the State renders comparatively small service, and a\nslight tax is wont to appear exorbitant, particularly if they are\nobliged to earn it by special labor with their hands. If there were one\nwho lived wholly without the use of money, the State itself would\nhesitate to demand it of him. But the rich man\u2014not to make any\ninvidious comparison\u2014is always sold to the institution which makes him\nrich. Absolutely speaking, the more money, the less virtue; for money\ncomes between a man and his objects, and obtains them for him; it was\ncertainly no great virtue to obtain it. It puts to rest many questions\nwhich he would otherwise be taxed to answer; while the only new\nquestion which it puts is the hard but superfluous one, how to spend\nit. Thus his moral ground is taken from under his feet. The\nopportunities of living are diminished in proportion as what are called\nthe \u201cmeans\u201d are increased. The best thing a man can do for his culture\nwhen he is rich is to endeavor to carry out those schemes which he\nentertained when he was poor. Christ answered the Herodians according\nto their condition. \u201cShow me the tribute-money,\u201d said he;\u2014and one took\na penny out of his pocket;\u2014if you use money which has the image of\nC\u00e6sar on it, and which he has made current and valuable, that is, _if\nyou are men of the State_, and gladly enjoy the advantages of C\u00e6sar\u2019s\ngovernment, then pay him back some of his own when he demands it;\n\u201cRender therefore to C\u00e6sar that which is C\u00e6sar\u2019s and to God those\nthings which are God\u2019s,\u201d\u2014leaving them no wiser than before as to which\nwas which; for they did not wish to know.\n\nWhen I converse with the freest of my neighbors, I perceive that,\nwhatever they may say about the magnitude and seriousness of the\nquestion, and their regard for the public tranquillity, the long and\nthe short of the matter is, that they cannot spare the protection of\nthe existing government, and they dread the consequences of\ndisobedience to it to their property and families. For my own part, I\nshould not like to think that I ever rely on the protection of the\nState. But, if I deny the authority of the State when it presents its\ntax-bill, it will soon take and waste all my property, and so harass me\nand my children without end. This is hard. This makes it impossible for\na man to live honestly and at the same time comfortably in outward\nrespects. It will not be worth the while to accumulate property; that\nwould be sure to go again. You must hire or squat somewhere, and raise\nbut a small crop, and eat that soon. You must live within yourself, and\ndepend upon yourself, always tucked up and ready for a start, and not\nhave many affairs. A man may grow rich in Turkey even, if he will be in\nall respects a good subject of the Turkish government. Confucius\nsaid,\u2014\u201cIf a State is governed by the principles of reason, poverty and\nmisery are subjects of shame; if a State is not governed by the\nprinciples of reason, riches and honors are the subjects of shame.\u201d No:\nuntil I want the protection of Massachusetts to be extended to me in\nsome distant southern port, where my liberty is endangered, or until I\nam bent solely on building up an estate at home by peaceful enterprise,\nI can afford to refuse allegiance to Massachusetts, and her right to my\nproperty and life. It costs me less in every sense to incur the penalty\nof disobedience to the State, than it would to obey. I should feel as\nif I were worth less in that case.\n\nSome years ago, the State met me in behalf of the church, and commanded\nme to pay a certain sum toward the support of a clergyman whose\npreaching my father attended, but never I myself. \u201cPay it,\u201d it said,\n\u201cor be locked up in the jail.\u201d I declined to pay. But, unfortunately,\nanother man saw fit to pay it. I did not see why the schoolmaster\nshould be taxed to support the priest, and not the priest the\nschoolmaster; for I was not the State\u2019s schoolmaster, but I supported\nmyself by voluntary subscription. I did not see why the lyceum should\nnot present its tax-bill, and have the State to back its demand, as\nwell as the church. However, at the request of the selectmen, I\ncondescended to make some such statement as this in writing:\u2014\u201cKnow all\nmen by these presents, that I, Henry Thoreau, do not wish to be\nregarded as a member of any incorporated society which I have not\njoined.\u201d This I gave to the town-clerk; and he has it. The State,\nhaving thus learned that I did not wish to be regarded as a member of\nthat church, has never made a like demand on me since; though it said\nthat it must adhere to its original presumption that time. If I had\nknown how to name them, I should then have signed off in detail from\nall the societies which I never signed on to; but I did not know where\nto find such a complete list.\n\nI have paid no poll-tax for six years. I was put into a jail once on\nthis account, for one night; and, as I stood considering the walls of\nsolid stone, two or three feet thick, the door of wood and iron, a foot\nthick, and the iron grating which strained the light, I could not help\nbeing struck with the foolishness of that institution which treated me\nas if I were mere flesh and blood and bones, to be locked up. I\nwondered that it should have concluded at length that this was the best\nuse it could put me to, and had never thought to avail itself of my\nservices in some way. I saw that, if there was a wall of stone between\nme and my townsmen, there was a still more difficult one to climb or\nbreak through, before they could get to be as free as I was. I did nor\nfor a moment feel confined, and the walls seemed a great waste of stone\nand mortar. I felt as if I alone of all my townsmen had paid my tax.\nThey plainly did not know how to treat me, but behaved like persons who\nare underbred. In every threat and in every compliment there was a\nblunder; for they thought that my chief desire was to stand the other\nside of that stone wall. I could not but smile to see how industriously\nthey locked the door on my meditations, which followed them out again\nwithout let or hindrance, and _they_ were really all that was\ndangerous. As they could not reach me, they had resolved to punish my\nbody; just as boys, if they cannot come at some person against whom\nthey have a spite, will abuse his dog. I saw that the State was\nhalf-witted, that it was timid as a lone woman with her silver spoons,\nand that it did not know its friends from its foes, and I lost all my\nremaining respect for it, and pitied it.\n\nThus the state never intentionally confronts a man\u2019s sense,\nintellectual or moral, but only his body, his senses. It is not armed\nwith superior wit or honesty, but with superior physical strength. I\nwas not born to be forced. I will breathe after my own fashion. Let us\nsee who is the strongest. What force has a multitude? They only can\nforce me who obey a higher law than I. They force me to become like\nthemselves. I do not hear of _men_ being _forced_ to live this way or\nthat by masses of men. What sort of life were that to live? When I meet\na government which says to me, \u201cYour money or your life,\u201d why should I\nbe in haste to give it my money? It may be in a great strait, and not\nknow what to do: I cannot help that. It must help itself; do as I do.\nIt is not worth the while to snivel about it. I am not responsible for\nthe successful working of the machinery of society. I am not the son of\nthe engineer. I perceive that, when an acorn and a chestnut fall side\nby side, the one does not remain inert to make way for the other, but\nboth obey their own laws, and spring and grow and flourish as best they\ncan, till one, perchance, overshadows and destroys the other. If a\nplant cannot live according to its nature, it dies; and so a man.\n\n\n\nThe night in prison was novel and interesting enough. The prisoners in\ntheir shirt-sleeves were enjoying a chat and the evening air in the\ndoor-way, when I entered. But the jailer said, \u201cCome, boys, it is time\nto lock up;\u201d and so they dispersed, and I heard the sound of their\nsteps returning into the hollow apartments. My room-mate was introduced\nto me by the jailer as \u201ca first-rate fellow and a clever man.\u201d When the\ndoor was locked, he showed me where to hang my hat, and how he managed\nmatters there. The rooms were whitewashed once a month; and this one,\nat least, was the whitest, most simply furnished, and probably the\nneatest apartment in town. He naturally wanted to know where I came\nfrom, and what brought me there; and, when I had told him, I asked him\nin my turn how he came there, presuming him to be an honest man, of\ncourse; and, as the world goes, I believe he was. \u201cWhy,\u201d said he, \u201cthey\naccuse me of burning a barn; but I never did it.\u201d As near as I could\ndiscover, he had probably gone to bed in a barn when drunk, and smoked\nhis pipe there; and so a barn was burnt. He had the reputation of being\na clever man, had been there some three months waiting for his trial to\ncome on, and would have to wait as much longer; but he was quite\ndomesticated and contented, since he got his board for nothing, and\nthought that he was well treated.\n\nHe occupied one window, and I the other; and I saw, that, if one stayed\nthere long, his principal business would be to look out the window. I\nhad soon read all the tracts that were left there, and examined where\nformer prisoners had broken out, and where a grate had been sawed off,\nand heard the history of the various occupants of that room; for I\nfound that even here there was a history and a gossip which never\ncirculated beyond the walls of the jail. Probably this is the only\nhouse in the town where verses are composed, which are afterward\nprinted in a circular form, but not published. I was shown quite a long\nlist of verses which were composed by some young men who had been\ndetected in an attempt to escape, who avenged themselves by singing\nthem.\n\nI pumped my fellow-prisoner as dry as I could, for fear I should never\nsee him again; but at length he showed me which was my bed, and left me\nto blow out the lamp.\n\nIt was like travelling into a far country, such as I had never expected\nto behold, to lie there for one night. It seemed to me that I never had\nheard the town-clock strike before, nor the evening sounds of the\nvillage; for we slept with the windows open, which were inside the\ngrating. It was to see my native village in the light of the Middle\nAges, and our Concord was turned into a Rhine stream, and visions of\nknights and castles passed before me. They were the voices of old\nburghers that I heard in the streets. I was an involuntary spectator\nand auditor of whatever was done and said in the kitchen of the\nadjacent village-inn\u2014a wholly new and rare experience to me. It was a\ncloser view of my native town. I was fairly inside of it. I never had\nseen its institutions before. This is one of its peculiar institutions;\nfor it is a shire town. I began to comprehend what its inhabitants were\nabout.\n\nIn the morning, our breakfasts were put through the hole in the door,\nin small oblong-square tin pans, made to fit, and holding a pint of\nchocolate, with brown bread, and an iron spoon. When they called for\nthe vessels again, I was green enough to return what bread I had left;\nbut my comrade seized it, and said that I should lay that up for lunch\nor dinner. Soon after, he was let out to work at haying in a\nneighboring field, whither he went every day, and would not be back\ntill noon; so he bade me good-day, saying that he doubted if he should\nsee me again.\n\nWhen I came out of prison,\u2014for some one interfered, and paid the tax,\u2014I\ndid not perceive that great changes had taken place on the common, such\nas he observed who went in a youth, and emerged a gray-headed man; and\nyet a change had to my eyes come over the scene,\u2014the town, and State,\nand country,\u2014greater than any that mere time could effect. I saw yet\nmore distinctly the State in which I lived. I saw to what extent the\npeople among whom I lived could be trusted as good neighbors and\nfriends; that their friendship was for summer weather only; that they\ndid not greatly purpose to do right; that they were a distinct race\nfrom me by their prejudices and superstitions, as the Chinamen and\nMalays are; that, in their sacrifices to humanity they ran no risks,\nnot even to their property; that, after all, they were not so noble but\nthey treated the thief as he had treated them, and hoped, by a certain\noutward observance and a few prayers, and by walking in a particular\nstraight though useless path from time to time, to save their souls.\nThis may be to judge my neighbors harshly; for I believe that most of\nthem are not aware that they have such an institution as the jail in\ntheir village.\n\nIt was formerly the custom in our village, when a poor debtor came out\nof jail, for his acquaintances to salute him, looking through their\nfingers, which were crossed to represent the grating of a jail window,\n\u201cHow do ye do?\u201d My neighbors did not thus salute me, but first looked\nat me, and then at one another, as if I had returned from a long\njourney. I was put into jail as I was going to the shoemaker\u2019s to get a\nshoe which was mended. When I was let out the next morning, I proceeded\nto finish my errand, and, having put on my mended shoe, joined a\nhuckleberry party, who were impatient to put themselves under my\nconduct; and in half an hour,\u2014for the horse was soon tackled,\u2014was in\nthe midst of a huckleberry field, on one of our highest hills, two\nmiles off; and then the State was nowhere to be seen.\n\nThis is the whole history of \u201cMy Prisons.\u201d\n\n\n\nI have never declined paying the highway tax, because I am as desirous\nof being a good neighbor as I am of being a bad subject; and, as for\nsupporting schools, I am doing my part to educate my fellow-countrymen\nnow. It is for no particular item in the tax-bill that I refuse to pay\nit. I simply wish to refuse allegiance to the State, to withdraw and\nstand aloof from it effectually. I do not care to trace the course of\nmy dollar, if I could, till it buys a man, or a musket to shoot one\nwith,\u2014the dollar is innocent,\u2014but I am concerned to trace the effects\nof my allegiance. In fact, I quietly declare war with the State, after\nmy fashion, though I will still make use and get what advantages of her\nI can, as is usual in such cases.\n\nIf others pay the tax which is demanded of me, from a sympathy with the\nState, they do but what they have already done in their own case, or\nrather they abet injustice to a greater extent than the State requires.\nIf they pay the tax from a mistaken interest in the individual taxed,\nto save his property or prevent his going to jail, it is because they\nhave not considered wisely how far they let their private feelings\ninterfere with the public good.\n\nThis, then, is my position at present. But one cannot be too much on\nhis guard in such a case, lest his actions be biassed by obstinacy, or\nan undue regard for the opinions of men. Let him see that he does only\nwhat belongs to himself and to the hour.\n\nI think sometimes, Why, this people mean well; they are only ignorant;\nthey would do better if they knew how: why give your neighbors this\npain to treat you as they are not inclined to? But I think, again, this\nis no reason why I should do as they do, or permit others to suffer\nmuch greater pain of a different kind. Again, I sometimes say to\nmyself, When many millions of men, without heat, without ill-will,\nwithout personal feeling of any kind, demand of you a few shillings\nonly, without the possibility, such is their constitution, of\nretracting or altering their present demand, and without the\npossibility, on your side, of appeal to any other millions, why expose\nyourself to this overwhelming brute force? You do not resist cold and\nhunger, the winds and the waves, thus obstinately; you quietly submit\nto a thousand similar necessities. You do not put your head into the\nfire. But just in proportion as I regard this as not wholly a brute\nforce, but partly a human force, and consider that I have relations to\nthose millions as to so many millions of men, and not of mere brute or\ninanimate things, I see that appeal is possible, first and\ninstantaneously, from them to the Maker of them, and, secondly, from\nthem to themselves. But, if I put my head deliberately into the fire,\nthere is no appeal to fire or to the Maker of fire, and I have only\nmyself to blame. If I could convince myself that I have any right to be\nsatisfied with men as they are, and to treat them accordingly, and not\naccording, in some respects, to my requisitions and expectations of\nwhat they and I ought to be, then, like a good Mussulman and fatalist,\nI should endeavor to be satisfied with things as they are, and say it\nis the will of God. And, above all, there is this difference between\nresisting this and a purely brute or natural force, that I can resist\nthis with some effect; but I cannot expect, like Orpheus, to change the\nnature of the rocks and trees and beasts.\n\nI do not wish to quarrel with any man or nation. I do not wish to split\nhairs, to make fine distinctions, or set myself up as better than my\nneighbors. I seek rather, I may say, even an excuse for conforming to\nthe laws of the land. I am but too ready to conform to them. Indeed I\nhave reason to suspect myself on this head; and each year, as the\ntax-gatherer comes round, I find myself disposed to review the acts and\nposition of the general and state governments, and the spirit of the\npeople to discover a pretext for conformity.\n\n     \u201cWe must affect our country as our parents,\n     And if at any time we alienate\n     Out love of industry from doing it honor,\n     We must respect effects and teach the soul\n     Matter of conscience and religion,\n     And not desire of rule or benefit.\u201d\n\nI believe that the State will soon be able to take all my work of this\nsort out of my hands, and then I shall be no better patriot than my\nfellow-countrymen. Seen from a lower point of view, the Constitution,\nwith all its faults, is very good; the law and the courts are very\nrespectable; even this State and this American government are, in many\nrespects, very admirable, and rare things, to be thankful for, such as\na great many have described them; seen from a higher still, and the\nhighest, who shall say what they are, or that they are worth looking at\nor thinking of at all?\n\nHowever, the government does not concern me much, and I shall bestow\nthe fewest possible thoughts on it. It is not many moments that I live\nunder a government, even in this world. If a man is thought-free,\nfancy-free, imagination-free, that which _is not_ never for a long time\nappearing _to be_ to him, unwise rulers or reformers cannot fatally\ninterrupt him.\n\nI know that most men think differently from myself; but those whose\nlives are by profession devoted to the study of these or kindred\nsubjects content me as little as any. Statesmen and legislators,\nstanding so completely within the institution, never distinctly and\nnakedly behold it. They speak of moving society, but have no\nresting-place without it. They may be men of a certain experience and\ndiscrimination, and have no doubt invented ingenious and even useful\nsystems, for which we sincerely thank them; but all their wit and\nusefulness lie within certain not very wide limits. They are wont to\nforget that the world is not governed by policy and expediency. Webster\nnever goes behind government, and so cannot speak with authority about\nit. His words are wisdom to those legislators who contemplate no\nessential reform in the existing government; but for thinkers, and\nthose who legislate for all time, he never once glances at the subject.\nI know of those whose serene and wise speculations on this theme would\nsoon reveal the limits of his mind\u2019s range and hospitality. Yet,\ncompared with the cheap professions of most reformers, and the still\ncheaper wisdom and eloquence of politicians in general, his are almost\nthe only sensible and valuable words, and we thank Heaven for him.\nComparatively, he is always strong, original, and, above all,\npractical. Still his quality is not wisdom, but prudence. The lawyer\u2019s\ntruth is not Truth, but consistency or a consistent expediency. Truth\nis always in harmony with herself, and is not concerned chiefly to\nreveal the justice that may consist with wrong-doing. He well deserves\nto be called, as he has been called, the Defender of the Constitution.\nThere are really no blows to be given by him but defensive ones. He is\nnot a leader, but a follower. His leaders are the men of \u201987. \u201cI have\nnever made an effort,\u201d he says, \u201cand never propose to make an effort; I\nhave never countenanced an effort, and never mean to countenance an\neffort, to disturb the arrangement as originally made, by which the\nvarious States came into the Union.\u201d Still thinking of the sanction\nwhich the Constitution gives to slavery, he says, \u201cBecause it was part\nof the original compact,\u2014let it stand.\u201d Notwithstanding his special\nacuteness and ability, he is unable to take a fact out of its merely\npolitical relations, and behold it as it lies absolutely to be disposed\nof by the intellect,\u2014what, for instance, it behoves a man to do here in\nAmerica today with regard to slavery, but ventures, or is driven, to\nmake some such desperate answer as the following, while professing to\nspeak absolutely, and as a private man,\u2014from which what new and\nsingular code of social duties might be inferred?\u2014\u201cThe manner,\u201d says\nhe, \u201cin which the governments of those States where slavery exists are\nto regulate it, is for their own consideration, under the\nresponsibility to their constituents, to the general laws of propriety,\nhumanity, and justice, and to God. Associations formed elsewhere,\nspringing from a feeling of humanity, or any other cause, have nothing\nwhatever to do with it. They have never received any encouragement from\nme and they never will.\u201d\n\nThey who know of no purer sources of truth, who have traced up its\nstream no higher, stand, and wisely stand, by the Bible and the\nConstitution, and drink at it there with reverence and humanity; but\nthey who behold where it comes trickling into this lake or that pool,\ngird up their loins once more, and continue their pilgrimage toward its\nfountain-head.\n\nNo man with a genius for legislation has appeared in America. They are\nrare in the history of the world. There are orators, politicians, and\neloquent men, by the thousand; but the speaker has not yet opened his\nmouth to speak who is capable of settling the much-vexed questions of\nthe day. We love eloquence for its own sake, and not for any truth\nwhich it may utter, or any heroism it may inspire. Our legislators have\nnot yet learned the comparative value of free-trade and of freedom, of\nunion, and of rectitude, to a nation. They have no genius or talent for\ncomparatively humble questions of taxation and finance, commerce and\nmanufactures and agriculture. If we were left solely to the wordy wit\nof legislators in Congress for our guidance, uncorrected by the\nseasonable experience and the effectual complaints of the people,\nAmerica would not long retain her rank among the nations. For eighteen\nhundred years, though perchance I have no right to say it, the New\nTestament has been written; yet where is the legislator who has wisdom\nand practical talent enough to avail himself of the light which it\nsheds on the science of legislation.\n\nThe authority of government, even such as I am willing to submit\nto,\u2014for I will cheerfully obey those who know and can do better than I,\nand in many things even those who neither know nor can do so well,\u2014is\nstill an impure one: to be strictly just, it must have the sanction and\nconsent of the governed. It can have no pure right over my person and\nproperty but what I concede to it. The progress from an absolute to a\nlimited monarchy, from a limited monarchy to a democracy, is a progress\ntoward a true respect for the individual. Even the Chinese philosopher\nwas wise enough to regard the individual as the basis of the empire. Is\na democracy, such as we know it, the last improvement possible in\ngovernment? Is it not possible to take a step further towards\nrecognizing and organizing the rights of man? There will never be a\nreally free and enlightened State, until the State comes to recognize\nthe individual as a higher and independent power, from which all its\nown power and authority are derived, and treats him accordingly. I\nplease myself with imagining a State at last which can afford to be\njust to all men, and to treat the individual with respect as a\nneighbor; which even would not think it inconsistent with its own\nrepose, if a few were to live aloof from it, not meddling with it, nor\nembraced by it, who fulfilled all the duties of neighbors and\nfellow-men. A State which bore this kind of fruit, and suffered it to\ndrop off as fast as it ripened, would prepare the way for a still more\nperfect and glorious State, which also I have imagined, but not yet\nanywhere seen.","title":"Walden, and On The Duty Of Civil Disobedience","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":115813}