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    Chapter 5

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    Chapter 5
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    SOLITUDE

    This is a delicious evening, when the whole body is one sense,
    and imbibes delight through every pore. I go and come with a
    strange liberty in Nature, a part of herself. As I walk along the
    stony shore of the pond in my shirt-sleeves, though it is cool as
    well as cloudy and windy, and I see nothing special to attract me,
    all the elements are unusually congenial to me. The bullfrogs trump
    to usher in the night, and the note of the whip-poor-will is borne
    on the rippling wind from over the water. Sympathy with the
    fluttering alder and poplar leaves almost takes away my breath; yet,
    like the lake, my serenity is rippled but not ruffled. These small
    waves raised by the evening wind are as remote from storm as the
    smooth reflecting surface. Though it is now dark, the wind still
    blows and roars in the wood, the waves still dash, and some
    creatures lull the rest with their notes. The repose is never
    complete. The wildest animals do not repose, but seek their prey
    now; the fox, and skunk, and rabbit, now roam the fields and woods
    without fear. They are Nature's watchmen -- links which connect the
    days of animated life.
    When I return to my house I find that visitors have been there
    and left their cards, either a bunch of flowers, or a wreath of
    evergreen, or a name in pencil on a yellow walnut leaf or a chip.
    They who come rarely to the woods take some little piece of the
    forest into their hands to play with by the way, which they leave,
    either intentionally or accidentally. One has peeled a willow wand,
    woven it into a ring, and dropped it on my table. I could always
    tell if visitors had called in my absence, either by the bended
    twigs or grass, or the print of their shoes, and generally of what
    sex or age or quality they were by some slight trace left, as a
    flower dropped, or a bunch of grass plucked and thrown away, even as
    far off as the railroad, half a mile distant, or by the lingering
    odor of a cigar or pipe. Nay, I was frequently notified of the
    passage of a traveller along the highway sixty rods off by the scent
    of his pipe.
    There is commonly sufficient space about us. Our horizon is
    never quite at our elbows. The thick wood is not just at our door,
    nor the pond, but somewhat is always clearing, familiar and worn by
    us, appropriated and fenced in some way, and reclaimed from Nature.
    For what reason have I this vast range and circuit, some square
    miles of unfrequented forest, for my privacy, abandoned to me by
    men? My nearest neighbor is a mile distant, and no house is visible
    from any place but the hill-tops within half a mile of my own. I
    have my horizon bounded by woods all to myself; a distant view of
    the railroad where it touches the pond on the one hand, and of the
    fence which skirts the woodland road on the other. But for the most
    part it is as solitary where I live as on the prairies. It is as
    much Asia or Africa as New England. I have, as it were, my own sun
    and moon and stars, and a little world all to myself. At night
    there was never a traveller passed my house, or knocked at my door,
    more than if I were the first or last man; unless it were in the
    spring, when at long intervals some came from the village to fish
    for pouts -- they plainly fished much more in the Walden Pond of
    their own natures, and baited their hooks with darkness -- but they
    soon retreated, usually with light baskets, and left "the world to
    darkness and to me," and the black kernel of the night was never
    profaned by any human neighborhood. I believe that men are
    generally still a little afraid of the dark, though the witches are
    all hung, and Christianity and candles have been introduced.
    Yet I experienced sometimes that the most sweet and tender, the
    most innocent and encouraging society may be found in any natural
    object, even for the poor misanthrope and most melancholy man.
    There can be no very black melancholy to him who lives in the midst
    of Nature and has his senses still. There was never yet such a
    storm but it was AEolian music to a healthy and innocent ear.
    Nothing can rightly compel a simple and brave man to a vulgar
    sadness. While I enjoy the friendship of the seasons I trust that
    nothing can make life a burden to me. The gentle rain which waters
    my beans and keeps me in the house today is not drear and
    melancholy, but good for me too. Though it prevents my hoeing them,
    it is of far more worth than my hoeing. If it should continue so
    long as to cause the seeds to rot in the ground and destroy the
    potatoes in the low lands, it would still be good for the grass on
    the uplands, and, being good for the grass, it would be good for me.
    Sometimes, when I compare myself with other men, it seems as if I
    were more favored by the gods than they, beyond any deserts that I
    am conscious of; as if I had a warrant and surety at their hands
    which my fellows have not, and were especially guided and guarded.
    I do not flatter myself, but if it be possible they flatter me. I
    have never felt lonesome, or in the least oppressed by a sense of
    solitude, but once, and that was a few weeks after I came to the
    woods, when, for an hour, I doubted if the near neighborhood of man
    was not essential to a serene and healthy life. To be alone was
    something unpleasant. But I was at the same time conscious of a
    slight insanity in my mood, and seemed to foresee my recovery. In
    the midst of a gentle rain while these thoughts prevailed, I was
    suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in Nature, in
    the very pattering of the drops, and in every sound and sight around
    my house, an infinite and unaccountable friendliness all at once
    like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of
    human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them
    since. Every little pine needle expanded and swelled with sympathy
    and befriended me. I was so distinctly made aware of the presence
    of something kindred to me, even in scenes which we are accustomed
    to call wild and dreary, and also that the nearest of blood to me
    and humanest was not a person nor a villager, that I thought no
    place could ever be strange to me again.

    "Mourning untimely consumes the sad;
    Few are their days in the land of the living,
    Beautiful daughter of Toscar."

    Some of my pleasantest hours were during the long rain-storms in
    the spring or fall, which confined me to the house for the afternoon
    as well as the forenoon, soothed by their ceaseless roar and
    pelting; when an early twilight ushered in a long evening in which
    many thoughts had time to take root and unfold themselves. In those
    driving northeast rains which tried the village houses so, when the
    maids stood ready with mop and pail in front entries to keep the
    deluge out, I sat behind my door in my little house, which was all
    entry, and thoroughly enjoyed its protection. In one heavy
    thunder-shower the lightning struck a large pitch pine across the
    pond, making a very conspicuous and perfectly regular spiral groove
    from top to bottom, an inch or more deep, and four or five inches
    wide, as you would groove a walking-stick. I passed it again the
    other day, and was struck with awe on looking up and beholding that
    mark, now more distinct than ever, where a terrific and resistless
    bolt came down out of the harmless sky eight years ago. Men
    frequently say to me, "I should think you would feel lonesome down
    there, and want to be nearer to folks, rainy and snowy days and
    nights especially." I am tempted to reply to such -- This whole
    earth which we inhabit is but a point in space. How far apart,
    think you, dwell the two most distant inhabitants of yonder star,
    the breadth of whose disk cannot be appreciated by our instruments?
    Why should I feel lonely? is not our planet in the Milky Way? This
    which you put seems to me not to be the most important question.
    What sort of space is that which separates a man from his fellows
    and makes him solitary? I have found that no exertion of the legs
    can bring two minds much nearer to one another. What do we want
    most to dwell near to? Not to many men surely, the depot, the
    post-office, the bar-room, the meeting-house, the school-house, the
    grocery, Beacon Hill, or the Five Points, where men most congregate,
    but to the perennial source of our life, whence in all our
    experience we have found that to issue, as the willow stands near
    the water and sends out its roots in that direction. This will vary
    with different natures, but this is the place where a wise man will
    dig his cellar.... I one evening overtook one of my townsmen, who
    has accumulated what is called "a handsome property" -- though I
    never got a fair view of it -- on the Walden road, driving a pair of
    cattle to market, who inquired of me how I could bring my mind to
    give up so many of the comforts of life. I answered that I was very
    sure I liked it passably well; I was not joking. And so I went home
    to my bed, and left him to pick his way through the darkness and the
    mud to Brighton -- or Bright-town -- which place he would reach some
    time in the morning.
    Any prospect of awakening or coming to life to a dead man makes
    indifferent all times and places. The place where that may occur is
    always the same, and indescribably pleasant to all our senses. For
    the most part we allow only outlying and transient circumstances to
    make our occasions. They are, in fact, the cause of our
    distraction. Nearest to all things is that power which fashions
    their being. Next to us the grandest laws are continually being
    executed. Next to us is not the workman whom we have hired, with
    whom we love so well to talk, but the workman whose work we are.
    "How vast and profound is the influence of the subtile powers of
    Heaven and of Earth!"
    "We seek to perceive them, and we do not see them; we seek to
    hear them, and we do not hear them; identified with the substance of
    things, they cannot be separated from them."
    "They cause that in all the universe men purify and sanctify
    their hearts, and clothe themselves in their holiday garments to
    offer sacrifices and oblations to their ancestors. It is an ocean
    of subtile intelligences. They are everywhere, above us, on our
    left, on our right; they environ us on all sides."
    We are the subjects of an experiment which is not a little
    interesting to me. Can we not do without the society of our gossips
    a little while under these circumstances -- have our own thoughts to
    cheer us? Confucius says truly, "Virtue does not remain as an
    abandoned orphan; it must of necessity have neighbors."
    With thinking we may be beside ourselves in a sane sense. By a
    conscious effort of the mind we can stand aloof from actions and
    their consequences; and all things, good and bad, go by us like a
    torrent. We are not wholly involved in Nature. I may be either the
    driftwood in the stream, or Indra in the sky looking down on it. I
    may be affected by a theatrical exhibition; on the other hand, I may
    not be affected by an actual event which appears to concern me much
    more. I only know myself as a human entity; the scene, so to speak,
    of thoughts and affections; and am sensible of a certain doubleness
    by which I can stand as remote from myself as from another. However
    intense my experience, I am conscious of the presence and criticism
    of a part of me, which, as it were, is not a part of me, but
    spectator, sharing no experience, but taking note of it, and that is
    no more I than it is you. When the play, it may be the tragedy, of
    life is over, the spectator goes his way. It was a kind of fiction,
    a work of the imagination only, so far as he was concerned. This
    doubleness may easily make us poor neighbors and friends sometimes.
    I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time.
    To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and
    dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion that
    was so companionable as solitude. We are for the most part more
    lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our
    chambers. A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be
    where he will. Solitude is not measured by the miles of space that
    intervene between a man and his fellows. The really diligent
    student in one of the crowded hives of Cambridge College is as
    solitary as a dervish in the desert. The farmer can work alone in
    the field or the woods all day, hoeing or chopping, and not feel
    lonesome, because he is employed; but when he comes home at night he
    cannot sit down in a room alone, at the mercy of his thoughts, but
    must be where he can "see the folks," and recreate, and, as he
    thinks, remunerate himself for his day's solitude; and hence he
    wonders how the student can sit alone in the house all night and
    most of the day without ennui and "the blues"; but he does not
    realize that the student, though in the house, is still at work in
    his field, and chopping in his woods, as the farmer in his, and in
    turn seeks the same recreation and society that the latter does,
    though it may be a more condensed form of it.
    Society is commonly too cheap. We meet at very short intervals,
    not having had time to acquire any new value for each other. We
    meet at meals three times a day, and give each other a new taste of
    that old musty cheese that we are. We have had to agree on a
    certain set of rules, called etiquette and politeness, to make this
    frequent meeting tolerable and that we need not come to open war.
    We meet at the post-office, and at the sociable, and about the
    fireside every night; we live thick and are in each other's way, and
    stumble over one another, and I think that we thus lose some respect
    for one another. Certainly less frequency would suffice for all
    important and hearty communications. Consider the girls in a
    factory -- never alone, hardly in their dreams. It would be better
    if there were but one inhabitant to a square mile, as where I live.
    The value of a man is not in his skin, that we should touch him.
    I have heard of a man lost in the woods and dying of famine and
    exhaustion at the foot of a tree, whose loneliness was relieved by
    the grotesque visions with which, owing to bodily weakness, his
    diseased imagination surrounded him, and which he believed to be
    real. So also, owing to bodily and mental health and strength, we
    may be continually cheered by a like but more normal and natural
    society, and come to know that we are never alone.
    I have a great deal of company in my house; especially in the
    morning, when nobody calls. Let me suggest a few comparisons, that
    some one may convey an idea of my situation. I am no more lonely
    than the loon in the pond that laughs so loud, or than Walden Pond
    itself. What company has that lonely lake, I pray? And yet it has
    not the blue devils, but the blue angels in it, in the azure tint of
    its waters. The sun is alone, except in thick weather, when there
    sometimes appear to be two, but one is a mock sun. God is alone --
    but the devil, he is far from being alone; he sees a great deal of
    company; he is legion. I am no more lonely than a single mullein or
    dandelion in a pasture, or a bean leaf, or sorrel, or a horse-fly,
    or a bumblebee. I am no more lonely than the Mill Brook, or a
    weathercock, or the north star, or the south wind, or an April
    shower, or a January thaw, or the first spider in a new house.
    I have occasional visits in the long winter evenings, when the
    snow falls fast and the wind howls in the wood, from an old settler
    and original proprietor, who is reported to have dug Walden Pond,
    and stoned it, and fringed it with pine woods; who tells me stories
    of old time and of new eternity; and between us we manage to pass a
    cheerful evening with social mirth and pleasant views of things,
    even without apples or cider -- a most wise and humorous friend,
    whom I love much, who keeps himself more secret than ever did Goffe
    or Whalley; and though he is thought to be dead, none can show where
    he is buried. An elderly dame, too, dwells in my neighborhood,
    invisible to most persons, in whose odorous herb garden I love to
    stroll sometimes, gathering simples and listening to her fables; for
    she has a genius of unequalled fertility, and her memory runs back
    farther than mythology, and she can tell me the original of every
    fable, and on what fact every one is founded, for the incidents
    occurred when she was young. A ruddy and lusty old dame, who
    delights in all weathers and seasons, and is likely to outlive all
    her children yet.
    The indescribable innocence and beneficence of Nature -- of sun
    and wind and rain, of summer and winter -- such health, such cheer,
    they afford forever! and such sympathy have they ever with our race,
    that all Nature would be affected, and the sun's brightness fade,
    and the winds would sigh humanely, and the clouds rain tears, and
    the woods shed their leaves and put on mourning in midsummer, if any
    man should ever for a just cause grieve. Shall I not have
    intelligence with the earth? Am I not partly leaves and vegetable
    mould myself?
    What is the pill which will keep us well, serene, contented?
    Not my or thy great-grandfather's, but our great-grandmother
    Nature's universal, vegetable, botanic medicines, by which she has
    kept herself young always, outlived so many old Parrs in her day,
    and fed her health with their decaying fatness. For my panacea,
    instead of one of those quack vials of a mixture dipped from Acheron
    and the Dead Sea, which come out of those long shallow
    black-schooner looking wagons which we sometimes see made to carry
    bottles, let me have a draught of undiluted morning air. Morning
    air! If men will not drink of this at the fountainhead of the day,
    why, then, we must even bottle up some and sell it in the shops, for
    the benefit of those who have lost their subscription ticket to
    morning time in this world. But remember, it will not keep quite
    till noonday even in the coolest cellar, but drive out the stopples
    long ere that and follow westward the steps of Aurora. I am no
    worshipper of Hygeia, who was the daughter of that old herb-doctor
    AEsculapius, and who is represented on monuments holding a serpent
    in one hand, and in the other a cup out of which the serpent
    sometimes drinks; but rather of Hebe, cup-bearer to Jupiter, who was
    the daughter of Juno and wild lettuce, and who had the power of
    restoring gods and men to the vigor of youth. She was probably the
    only thoroughly sound-conditioned, healthy, and robust young lady
    that ever walked the globe, and wherever she came it was spring.
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