Latest / Logic Library / 06 - Walden - Henry David Thoreau
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- Chapter two, Where I lived and what I lived. For at a certain season of our lives, we are accustomed to consider every spot as the possible sight of a house. I have thus surveyed the country on every side within a dozen miles of where I live in imagination, I have bought all the farms in succession, for all were to be bought, and I knew their price. I walked over each farmer's premises, tasted his wild apples, discoursed on husbandry with him, took his farm at his price, at any price, mortgaging it to him in my mind, even put a higher price on it. Took everything but a deed of it, took his word for his deed, for I dearly loved to talk, cultivated it, and him too. To some extent. I trust and withdrew when I had enjoyed it long enough, leaving him to carry it on. This experience entitled me to be regarded as a sort of real estate broker by my friends. Wherever I sat, there I might live, and the landscape radiated from me. Accordingly, what is a house but a SED's a seat? Better if a country seat. I discovered many a site for a house not likely to be soon improved, which some might have thought too far from the village. But to my eyes the village was too far from it. Well, there I might live, I said, And there I did live for an hour, a summer and a winter life saw how I could let the year's run off, buffet the winter through, and see the spring come in the future. Inhabitants of this region, wherever they may place their houses, may be sure that they have been anticipated. An afternoon sufficed to lay out the land into orchard, wood, lot and pasture, and to decide what fine oaks or pines should be left to stand before the door, and whence each blasted tree could be seen to the best advantage. And then I let it lie fallow perchance, for a man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone. My imagination carried me so far that I even had the refusal of several farms. The refusal was all I wanted, but I never got my fingers burned by actual possession. The nearest that I came to actual possession was when I bought the hollow Well place, and had begun to sort my seeds and collected materials with which to make a wheelbarrow to carry it on or off with. But before the owner gave me a deed of it, his wife every man has such a wife, changed her mind and wished to keep it, and he offered me ten dollars to release him. Now, to speak the truth, I had but ten cents in the world, and it surpassed my arithmetic to tell if I was that man who had ten cents, or who had a farm, or ten dollars or all together. However, I let him keep the ten dollars and the farm too, for I had carried it far enough. Or rather to be generous, I sold him the farm for just what I gave for it, and as he was not a rich man, made him a present of ten dollars, and still had my ten cents and seeds and materials for a wheelbarrow left. I found thus that I had been a rich man without any damage to my poverty. But I retained the landscape, and I have since annually carried off what it yielded without a wheelbarrow. With respect to landscapes, quote, I am monarch of all. I survey my right. There is none to dispute. End. I have frequently seen a poet withdraw, having enjoyed the most valuable part of a farm, while the crusty farmer supposed that he had got a few wild apples. Only why the owner does not know it for many years. When a poet has put his farm in rhyme, the most admirable kind of invisible fence has fairly impounded it, milked it, skimmed it, and got all the cream, and left the farmer only the skimmed milk. The real attractions of the hollow Well Farm to me were its complete retirement, being about two miles from the village, half a mile from the nearest neighbor, and separated from the highway by a broad field, Its bounding on the river, which the owner said protected it by its fogs from frosts in the spring, though that was nothing to me. The gray color and ruinous state of the house and barn, and dilapidated fences which put such an interval between me and the last occupant, the hollow and lichen covered apple trees gnawed by rabbits, showing what kind of neighbors I should have. But above all the recollection I had it from my earliest voyages up the river, when The house was concealed behind a dense grove of red maples, through which I heard the house dog bark. I was in haste to buy it before the proprietor finished getting out some rocks, cutting down the hollow apple trees, and grubbing up some young birches which had sprung up in the pasture, or in short, had made any more of his improvements. To enjoy these advantages, I was ready to carry it on like Atlas, to take the world on my shoulders. I never heard what compensation he received for that, and do all those things which had no other motive or excuse, but that I might pay for it and be unmolested in my possession of it. For I knew all the while that it would yield the most abundant crop of the kind I want, if I could only afford to let it alone. But it turned out, as I have said. All that I could say, then, with respect to farming on a large scale, I have always cultivated a garden. Was that I had my seeds ready. Many think that seeds improve with age. I have no doubt that time discriminates between the good and the bad. And when at last I shall plant, I shall be less likely to be disappointed. But I would say to my fellows once for all, as long as possible, live free and uncommitted. It makes but little difference whether you are committed to a farm or the county jail. Old Cato, whose derr rustica is my cultivator, says, and the only translation I have seen makes sheer nonsense of the passage quote. When you think of getting a farm, turn it thus in your mind, not to buy greedily, nor spare your pains to look at it, and do not think it enough to go round at once. The oftener you go there, the more it will please you. If it is good. I think I shall not buy greedily, but go round and round it as long as I live, and be buried in it first, that it may please me the more. At last, the present was my next experiment of this kind, which I purposed to describe more at length, for convenience, putting the experience of two years into one. As I have said, I do not propose to write an ode to dejection, but to brag as lustily as Chanticleer in the morning standing on his roost, if only to wake my neighbors up. When first I took up my abode in the woods, that is, began to spend my nights as well as my days there, which by accident, was on Independence Day, or the fourth of July eighteen forty five. My house was not finished for winter, but was merely a defense against the rain, without plastering or chimney, the walls being of rough weather stained boards with wide chinks, which made it cool at night. The upright white hewn studs and freshly planed door and window casings gave it a clean and airy look, especially in the morning, when its timbers were saturated with dew, so that I fancied that by noon some sweet gum would exude from them. To my imagination, it retained throughout the day, more or less of this auroral character, reminding me of a certain house on a mountain which I had visited a year before. This was an airy and unplastered cabin fit to entertain a traveling god, and where a goddess might trail her garments. The winds which passed over my dwelling were such as sweep over the ridges of mountains, bearing the broken strains or celestial parts only of terrestrial music. The morning wind forever blows. The poem of creation is uninterrupted, but few are the ears that hear it. Olympus is but the outside of the earth everywhere. The only house I had been the owner of before, if I accept a boat, was a tent, which I used occasionally when making excursions in the summer. And this is still rolled up in my garrett. But the boat, after passing from hand to hand, has gone down the stream of time. With this more substantial shelter about me, I had made some progress toward settling in the world. This frame, so slightly clad, was a sort of crystallization around me, and reacted on the builder. It was suggestive somewhat as a picture in outlines. I did not need to go outdoors to take the air, for the atmosphere within had lost none of its freshness. It was not so much within doors as behind a door, where I sat even in the rainiest weather. The Harivansa says, quote an abode without birds is like a meat without seasoning end quote. Such was not my abode, for I found myself suddenly neighbor to the birds, not by having imprisoned one, but having caged myself near them. I was not only nearer to some of those which commonly frequent the garden and the orchard, but to those smaller and more thrilling songsters of the forest, which never or rarely serenade a villager, the wood thrush, the veery, the scarlet tanninger, the field sparrow, the whipper will, and many others. I was seated by the shore of a small pond, about a mile and a half south of the village of Concord, and somewhat higher than it, in the midst of an extensive wood. Between that town and Lincoln, and about two miles south of that are only field known to fame Concord battle Ground. But I was so low in the woods that the opposite shore, half a mile off, like the rest covered with wood, was my most distant horizon. For the first week, whenever I looked out on the pond, it impressed me like a tarn, high up on the side of a mountain, its bottom far above the surface of other lakes. And as the sun arose, I saw it throwing off its nightly clothing of mist, and here and there by degrees its soft ripples, where its smooth reflecting surface was revealed. While the mists like ghosts were stealthily withdrawing in every direction into the woods, as at the breaking up of some nocturnal conventicle. The very dew seemed to hang upon the trees later into the day than usual, as on the sides of mountains. This small lake was of most value as a neighbor in the intervals of a gentle rain storm in August, when both air and water, being perfectly still, but the sky overcast mid afternoon, had all the serenity of evening, and the wood thrush sang around and was heard from shore to shore. A lake like this is never smoother than at such a time, and the clear portion of the air above it, being shallow and darkened by clouds, the water, full of light and reflections, becomes a lower heaven itself, so much the more important. From a hilltop nearby, where the wood had been recently cut off, there was a pleasing vista southward across the pond through a wide indentation in the hills which formed the shore there, where their opposite sides sloping toward each other, suggested a stream flowing out in that direction through a wooded valley, but stream there was none that way. I looked between and over the near green hills to some distant and higher ones in the horizon tinged with blue. Indeed, by standing on tiptoe I could catch a glimpse of some of the peaks of the still bluer and more distant mountain ranges in the northwest, those true blue coins from Heaven's own mint, and also of some portion of the village. But in other directions, even from this point I could not see over or beyond the woods which surrounded me. It is well to have some water in your neighborhood, to give buoyancy to and float the earth. One value, even of the smallest well, is that when you look into it, you see that Earth is not continent, but insular. This is as important as that it keeps butter cool. When I looked across the pond from this peak toward the Sudbury Meadows, which in time of flood, I distinguished elevated perhaps by a mirage, in their seething valley, like a coin in a basin. All the earth beyond the pond appeared like a thin crust, insulated and floated even by this small all sheet of interverting water. And I was reminded that this on which I dwelt was but dry land. Though the view from my door was still more contracted, I did not feel crowded or confined. In the least there was pasture enough for my imagination. The low shrub oak plateau to which the opposite shore arose, stretched away toward the prairies of the west and the steps of Tartary, affording ample room for all the roving families of men. Quote. There are none happy in the world but beings who enjoy freely of vast horizon end quote said Damodara, when his herds required new and larger pastures. Both place and time were changed, and I dwelt nearer to those parts of the universe and to those eras in history which had most attracted me. Where I lived was as far off as many a region viewed nightly by astronomers. We are wont to imagine rare and delectable places in some remote and more celestial corner of the system, behind the constellation of Cassiopeia's chair, far from noise and disturbance, I discovered that my house actually had its sight in such a withdrawn but forever new and unprofaned part of the universe. If it were worth the while to settle in those parts near to the Pleiades or the Hyades, or to Aldebaran or Altaire. Then I was really there, or had an equal remoteness from the life which I had left behind, dwindled and twinkling with his fine array to my nearest neighbor, and to be seen only in moonless nights by him. Such was that part of creation where I had squatted. Quote. There was a shepherd that did live and held his thoughts as high as were the mounts, whereon his flocks did hourly feed him by end quote what should we think of the shepherd's life if his flocks always wandered to higher pastures than his thoughts? Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may say innocence with nature herself. I have been as sincere a worshiper of Aurora as the Greeks. I got up early and bathed in the pond. That was a religious exercise, and one of the best things which I did. They say that characters were engraven on the bathing tub of King Ching Thang to this effect, quote, renew thyself completely each day? Do it again and again and forever again end quote. I can understand that morning brings back the heroic ages. I was as much affected by the faint hum of a mosquito making its invisible and unimaginable tour through my apartment at early as dawn, when I was sitting with door and windows open, as I could be by any trumpet that ever sang of fame. It was Homer's requiem, itself, an iliad and odyssey in the air, singing its own wrath and wanderings. There was something cosmical about it, a standing advertisement till forbidden of the everlasting vigor and fertility of the world. The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour. Then there is least somnolence in us, and for an hour at least some part of us awakes, which slumbers all the rest of the day and night. Little is to be expected of that day, if it can be called a day to which we are not awakened by our genius, but by the mechanical none ludgings of some servitor are not awakened by our own newly acquired force and aspirations from within, accompanied by the undulations of celestial music instead of factory bells, and a fragrance filling the air, to a higher life than we fell asleep from. And thus the darkness bear its fruit and prove itself to be good no less than the light. That man who does not believe that each day contains an earlier, more sacred and auroral hour than he has yet profaned, has despaired of life and is pursuing a descending and darkening way. After a partial cessation of his sensuous life, the soul of man, or its organs, rather, are reinvigorated each day, and his genius tries again what noble life it can make. All memorable events, I should say, transpire in morning time, and in a morning atmosphere. The Vedas say, quote all intelligences awake with the morning end quote poetry and art, and the fairest and most memorable of the actions of men date from such an hour. All poets and heroes, like Memnon are the children of Aurora, and emit their music at sunrise. To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is a perpetual morning. It matters not what the clocks say or the attitudes and labors of men. Mourning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me. Moral reform is the effort to throw off sleep. Why is it that men give so poor an account of their day? If they have not been slumbering, they are not such poor calculators. If they had not been overcome with drowsiness, they would have performed something. The millions are awake enough for physical labor, but only one in a million is awake enough for effective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred millions two a poet or divine life. To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face. We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep. I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor. It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful, but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do to affect the quality of the day. That is the highest of arts. Every man is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his most elevated and critical hour. If we refused, or rather used up such paltry information as we get, the oracles would distinctly inform us how this might be done. End of Chapter two