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10 - Walden - Henry David Thoreau · Logic Library

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Chapter five, Solitude. This is a delicious evening when the whole body is
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one sense and imbibes delight through every pore. I go and come with a
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strange liberty in nature, a part of herself, as I walk along the
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stony shore of the pond in my shirt sleeves. Though it is cool as
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well as cloudy and windy, and I see nothing special to attract me.
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All the elements are unusually congenial to me. The bull frogs trump to usher
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in the night, and the note of the whipper will is borne on the
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rippling wind from over the water. Sympathy with the fluttering alder and poplar leaves
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almost takes away my breath. Yet, like the lake, my serenity is
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rippled, but not ruffled. These small waves raised by the evening wind are
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as remote from storm as the smooth reflecting surface. Though it is now dark,
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the wind still blows and roars in the wood, The waves still dash,
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and some creatures lull the rest with their notes. The repose is never
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complete. The wildest animals do not repose, but seek their prey. Now
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the foxs and skunk and rabbit now roam the fields and woods without fear,
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They are nature's watchmen, links which connect the days of animated life. When
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I return to my house, I find that visitors have been there and left
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their cards, either a bunch of flowers or a wreath of evergreen, or
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a name in pencil on a yellow walnut leaf or a chip. They who
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come rarely to the woods, take some little piece of the forests into their
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hands to play with. By the way which they leave, either intentionally or
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accidentally. One has peeled a willow wand woven it into a ring and dropped
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it on my table. I could always tell of visitors had called in my
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absence, either by the bended twigs or grass, or the print of their
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shoes, and generally of what sex or age or quality they were by some
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slight trace left as a flower dropped or a bunch of grass plucked and then
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thrown away, even as far off as the railroad half a mile distant,
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or by the lingering odor of a cigar or pipe. Nay, I was
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frequently notified of the passage of a traveler along the highway sixty rods off by
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the scent of his pipe. There is commonly sufficient space about us. Our
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horizon is never quite at our elbows. The thick wood is not just at
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our door, nor the pond, but somewhat is always clearing, familiar and
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worn by us, appropriated and fenced in some way, and reclaimed from nature.
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For what reason have I this vast range and circuit, some square miles
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of unfrequented forest for my privacy, abandoned to me by men. My nearest
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neighbor is a mile distant, and no house is visible from any place but
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the hill tops within half a mile of my own. I have my horizon
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bounded by woods, all to myself, a distant view of the railroad where
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it touches the pond on the one hand, and of the fence which skirts
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the woodland road on the other. But for the most part it is as
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solitary where I live as on the prairies. It is as much Asia or
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Africa as New England. I have, as it were, my own sun
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and moon and stars, and a little world all to myself. At night.
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There was never a traveler past my house or knocked at my door,
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more than if I were the first or last man, unless it were in
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the spring, when at long intervals some came from the village to fish for
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pouts. They plainly fished much more in the walled and pond of their own
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natures, and baited their hooks with darkness. But they soon retreated, usually
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with light baskets, and left the world to darkness and to me, and
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the black kernel of the night was never profaned by any human neighborhood. I
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believe that men are generally still a little afraid of the dark. Though the
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witches are all hung and Christianity and candles have been introduced. Yet I experienced
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sometimes that the most sweet and tender, the most innocent, and encouraging society,
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may be found in any natural object. Even for the poor misanthrope and
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most melancholy man. There can be no very black melancholy to him who lives
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in the midst of nature and has his senses still. There was never yet
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such a storm, but it was Aolian music to a healthy and innocent ear.
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Nothing can rightly compel a simple and brave man to a vulgar sadness.
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While I enjoy the friendship of the seasons, I trust that nothing can make
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life a burden to me. The gentle rain which waters my beans and keeps
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me in the house to day is not drear and melancholy, but good for
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me too. Though it prevents me hoeing them, it is of far more
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worth than my hoeing. If it should continue so long as to cause the
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seeds to rot in the ground and destroy the potatoes in the low lands,
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it would still be good for the grass on the uplands. And being good
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for the grass, it would be good for me. Sometimes when I compare
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myself with other men, it seems as if I were more favored by the
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gods than they, beyond any deserts that I am conscious of, as if
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I had a warrant and surety at their hands, which my fellows have not,
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and were especially guy and guarded. I do not flatter myself, but
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if it be possible, they flatter me. I have never felt lonesome or
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in the least oppressed by a sense of solitude, but once, and that
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was a few weeks after I came to the woods, when for an hour
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I doubted if the near neighborhood of man was not essential to a serene and
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healthy life. To be alone was something unpleasant. But I was at the
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same time conscious of a slight insanity in my mood, and seemed to foresee
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my recovery in the midst of a gentle reign. While these thoughts prevailed,
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I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in nature, in the
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very pattering of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my house,
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an infinite and unaccountable friendliness, all at once, like an atmosphere sustaining
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me as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insufficient, and I have never
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thought of them since every little pine needle expanded and swelled with sympathy and befriended
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me. I was so distinctly made aware of the presence of something kindred to
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me, even in scenes which we are accustomed to call wild and re And
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also that the nearest of blood to me and humanist was not a person nor
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a villager, that I thought no place could ever be strange to me Again,
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morning untimely consumes the sad few are their days in the land of the
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living, beautiful daughter of Toscar. Some of my pleasantest hours were during the
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long rain storms in the spring or fall, which confined me to the house
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for the afternoon as well as the forenoon, soothed by their ceaseless roar and
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pelting, when an early twilight ushered in a long evening in which many thoughts
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had time to take root and unfold themselves in those driving northeast rains which tried
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the village houses. So when the maid stood ready with mop and pale in
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front entries to keep the deluge out, I sat behind my door in my
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little house, which was all entry, and thoroughly enjoyed its protection. In
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one heavy thunder shower, the lightning struck a large pitch pine across the pond,
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making a very conspicuous and perfectly regular spiral groove from top to bottom,
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an inch or more deep and four or five inches wide, as you would
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groove a walking stick. I passed it again the other day, and was
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struck with awe on looking up and beholding that mark, now more distinct than
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ever, where a terrific and resistless bolt came down out of the harmless sky
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eight years ago. Men frequently say to me, I should think you would
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feel lonesome down there, and want to be nearer to folks rainy and sunny
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days and nights especially. I am tempted to reply to such. This whole
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earth which we inhabit, is but a point in space? How far apart
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think you dwell the two most distant inhabitants of yonder star, the breadth of
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whose disk cannot be appreciated by our instruments. Why should I feel lonely?
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Is not our planet? In the milky way? This which you put seems
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to me not to be the most important question? What sort of space is
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that which separates a man from his fellows and makes him solitary? I have
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found that no exertion of the legs can bring two minds much nearer to one
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another. What do we want most to dwell near to? Not to many
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men, surely the depot, the post office, the bar room, the
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meeting house, the school house, the grocery, beacon hill, or the
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five points where men most congregate, But to the perennial source of our life.
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Whence, in all our experience we have found that to issue. As
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the willow stands near the water and sends out its roots in that direction,
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this will very with different natures. But this is the place where a wise
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man will dig his cellar. I one evening overtook one of my townsmen who
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has accumulated what is called a handsome property, though I never got a fair
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view of it. On the Walden road, driving a pair of cattle to
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market. Who inquired of me how I could bring my mind to give up
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so many of the comforts of life. I answered that I was very sure,
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I liked it passably well. I was not joking, and so I
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went home to my bed and left him to pick his way through the darkness
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and the mud to Brighton or bright Town, which place he would reach some
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time in the morning. Respect of awakening or coming to life to a dead
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man makes indifferent all times and places. The place where that may occur is
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always the same and indescribably pleasant to all our senses. For the most part,
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we allow only outlying and transient circumstances to make our occasions. They are,
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in fact the cause of our distraction. Nearest to all things is that
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power which fashions their being next to us, the grandest laws are continually being
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executed. Next to us. Is not the workmen whom we have hired,
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with whom we love so well to talk, but the workmen whose work we
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are. How vast and profound is the influence of the subtle powers of heaven
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and of earth. We seek to perceive them, and we do not see
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them. We seek to hear them, and we do not hear them.
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Identified with the substance of things, they cannot be separated from them. They
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cause that in all the universe men purify and sanctify their hearts, and clothe
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themselves in their holiday garments, to offer sacrifices and oblations to their ancestors.
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It is an ocean of subtle intelligences. They are everywhere above us, on
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our left, on our right. They environ us on all sides. We
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are the subjects of an experiment which is not a little interesting to me.
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Can we not do without the society of our gossips a little while under these
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circumstances, have our own thoughts to cheer us. Confucius says, truly,
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virtue does not remain as an abandoned orphan. It must, of necessity have
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neighbors with thinking. We may be beside ourselves in a sane sense. By
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a conscious effort of the mind, we can stand aloof from actions and their
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consequences, and all things good and bad go by us like a torrent.
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We are not wholly involved in nature. I may be either the driftwood in
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the stream or Indra in the sky looking down on it. I may be
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affected by a theatrical exhibition. On the other hand, I may not be
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affected by an actual event, which appears to concern me much more. I
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only know myself as a human entity the scene, so to speak, of
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thoughts and affections, and am sensible of a certain doubleness by which I can
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stand as remote from myself as from another. However intense my experience, I
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am conscious of the presence and criticism of a part of me, which,
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as it were, is not a part of me, but spectator, sharing
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no experience, but taking note of it. And that is no more I
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than it is you. When the play, it may be the tragedy of
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life is over, the spectator goes his way. It was a kind of
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fiction, a work of the imagination, only so far as he was concerned.
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This double may easily make us poor neighbors and friends. Sometimes I find
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it wholesome to be alone. The greater part of the time. To be
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in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I
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love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as
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solitude. We are for the most part, more lonely when we go abroad
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among men than when we stay in our own chambers. A man thinking or
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working is always alone. Let him be where he will. Solitude is not
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measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows.
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The really diligent student in one of the crowded hives of Cambridge College is as
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solitary as a dervish in the desert. The farmer can work alone in the
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field of the woods all day, hoeing or chopping and not feel lonesome because
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he is employed. But when he comes home at night, he cannot sit
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down in a room alone at the mercy of his thoughts, but must be
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where he can see the folks and recreate, and, as he thinks,
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remunerate himself for his days solitude. And hence he wonders how the student can
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sit alone in the house all night and most of the day without on Yui
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and the blues. But he does not realize that the student, though in
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the house, is still at work in his field and chopping in his woods
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as the farmer in his, and in turn seeks the same recreation and society
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that the latter does, though it may be a more condensed form of it.
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Society is commonly too cheap. We meet at very short intervals, not
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having had time to acquire any new value for each other. We meet at
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meals three times a day, and give each other a new taste of that
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old musty cheese that we are. We have had to agree on a certain
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set of rules called etiquette and politeness to make this frequent meeting tolerable, and
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that we need not come to open war. We meet at the post office,
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and at the sociable, and about the fireside every night. We live
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thick and are in each other's way, and stumble over one another. And
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I think that we thus lose some respect for one another. Certainly, less
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frequency would suffice for all important and hearty communications. Consider the girls in a
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factory, never alone, hardly in their dreams. It would be better if
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they were but one inhabitant to a square mile, as where I live.
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The value of a man is not in his skin, that we should touch
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him. I have heard of a man lost in the woods and dying of
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famine and exhaustion at the foot of a tree, whose loneliness was relieved by
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the grotesque visions with which, owing to bodily weakness, his diseased imagination,
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surrounded him, and which he believed to be real. So, also,
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owing to bodily and mental health and strength, we may be continually cheered by
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a like but more normal and natural society, and come to know that we
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are never alone. I have a great deal of company in my house,
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especially in the morning when nobody calls. Let me suggest a few comparisons that
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some one may convey an idea of my situation. I am no more lonely
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than the loon in the pond that laughs so loud, or than walden pond
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itself. What company has that lonely lake? I pray? And yet it
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has not the blue devils, but the blue angels in it, in the
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azure tint of its waters. The sun is alone, except in thick weather,
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when there sometimes appear to be two, but one is a mock son.
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God is alone, But the devil he is far from being alone.
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He sees a great deal of company. He is legion. I am no
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more lonely than a single mulldon or dandelion in a pasture, or a bean
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leaf, or a sorrel, or a horse fly or a bumble bee.
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I am no more lonely than the mill brook, or a weathercock, or
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the north star or the south wind, or an April shower or a January
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thaw, or the first spider in a new house. I have occasional visits
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in the long winter evenings, when the snow falls fast and the wind howls
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in the wood, from an old settler and original proprietor who is reported to
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have dug walden pond and stoned it and fringed it with pine woods, who
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tells me stories of old time and new eternity. And between us we manage
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to pass a cheerful evening with social mirth and pleasant views of things, even
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without apples or cider. A most wise and humorous friend whom I love much,
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who keeps himself more secret than ever did Goff or Wailly, And though
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he is thought to be dead, none can show where he is buried.
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An elderly dame, too, dwells in my neighborhood, invisible to most persons,
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in whose odorous herb garden I love to stroll, sometimes, gathering simples
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and listening to her fables, for she has a genius of unequaled fertility,
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and her memory runs back farther than mythology, and she can tell me the
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original of every fable, and on what fact every one is founded. For
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the incidents occurred when she was young, a ruddy and lusty old dame,
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who delights in all weathers and seasons, and is likely to outlive all her
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children. Yet the indescribable innocence and beneficence of nature of sun and wind and
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rain of summer and winter, such health, such cheer they afford forever,
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and such sympathy have they ever with our race? That all nature would be
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affected, and the sun's brightness fade, and the winds would sigh humanely,
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and the clouds rain tears, and the woods shed their leaves and put on
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mourning in midsummer. If any man should ever, for a just cause grieve,
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Shall I not have intelligence? With the earth? Am I not partly
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leaves and vegetable mold myself? What is the pill which keeps us well serene?
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Contented? Not my or thy great grandfathers, but our great grandmother natures
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universal vegetable botanic medicines by which she has kept herself young, always outlived so
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many old pars in her day and fed her health with their decaying fatness for
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my panacea. Instead of one of those quack vials of a mixture dipped from
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Asheron and the dead Sea, which come out of those long, shallow,
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black schooner looking wagons which we sometimes see made to carry bottles, Let me
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have a draft of undiluted mourning air. Mourning air. If men will not
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drink of this at the fountain head of the day, why then we must
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even bottle up some and sell it in the shops for the benefit of those
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who have lost their subscription ticket to morning time in this world. But remember
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it will not keep quite till noonday, even in the coolest cellar. But
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drive out the stopples long ere that, and follow westward the steps of Aurora.
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I am no worshiper of Hygia, who was the daughter of that old
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herb doctor Esculapius, and who is represented on monuments holding a serpent in one
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hand and in the other a cup out of which the serpent sometimes drinks,
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but rather of heb cupbare to Jupiter, who was the daughter of Juno and
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wild Lettuce, and who had the power of restoring gods and men to the
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vigor of youth. She was probably the only thoroughly sound conditioned, healthy and
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robust young lady that ever walked to the globe, and wherever she came,
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it was spring. End of Chapter five,