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SOLITUDEThis is a delicious evening, when the whole body is one sense,and imbibes delight through every pore. I go and come with astrange liberty in Nature, a part of herself. As I walk along thestony shore of the pond in my shirt-sleeves, though it is cool aswell as cloudy and windy, and I see nothing special to attract me,all the elements are unusually congenial to me. The bullfrogs trumpto usher in the night, and the note of the whip-poor-will is borneon the rippling wind from over the water. Sympathy with thefluttering alder and poplar leaves almost takes away my breath; yet,like the lake, my serenity is rippled but not ruffled. These smallwaves raised by the evening wind are as remote from storm as thesmooth reflecting surface. Though it is now dark, the wind stillblows and roars in the wood, the waves still dash, and somecreatures lull the rest with their notes. The repose is nevercomplete. The wildest animals do not repose, but seek their preynow; the fox, and skunk, and rabbit, now roam the fields and woodswithout fear. They are Nature's watchmen -- links which connect thedays of animated life.When I return to my house I find that visitors have been thereand left their cards, either a bunch of flowers, or a wreath ofevergreen, 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 theforest 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 alwaystell if visitors had called in my absence, either by the bendedtwigs or grass, or the print of their shoes, and generally of whatsex or age or quality they were by some slight trace left, as aflower dropped, or a bunch of grass plucked and thrown away, even asfar off as the railroad, half a mile distant, or by the lingeringodor of a cigar or pipe. Nay, I was frequently notified of thepassage of a traveller along the highway sixty rods off by the scentof his pipe.There is commonly sufficient space about us. Our horizon isnever quite at our elbows. The thick wood is not just at our door,nor the pond, but somewhat is always clearing, familiar and worn byus, appropriated and fenced in some way, and reclaimed from Nature.For what reason have I this vast range and circuit, some squaremiles of unfrequented forest, for my privacy, abandoned to me bymen? My nearest neighbor is a mile distant, and no house is visiblefrom any place but the hill-tops within half a mile of my own. Ihave my horizon bounded by woods all to myself; a distant view ofthe railroad where it touches the pond on the one hand, and of thefence which skirts the woodland road on the other. But for the mostpart it is as solitary where I live as on the prairies. It is asmuch Asia or Africa as New England. I have, as it were, my own sunand moon and stars, and a little world all to myself. At nightthere 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 thespring, when at long intervals some came from the village to fishfor pouts -- they plainly fished much more in the Walden Pond oftheir own natures, and baited their hooks with darkness -- but theysoon retreated, usually with light baskets, and left "the world todarkness and to me," and the black kernel of the night was neverprofaned by any human neighborhood. I believe that men aregenerally still a little afraid of the dark, though the witches areall hung, and Christianity and candles have been introduced.Yet I experienced sometimes that the most sweet and tender, themost innocent and encouraging society may be found in any naturalobject, even for the poor misanthrope and most melancholy man.There can be no very black melancholy to him who lives in the midstof Nature and has his senses still. There was never yet such astorm but it was AEolian music to a healthy and innocent ear.Nothing can rightly compel a simple and brave man to a vulgarsadness. While I enjoy the friendship of the seasons I trust thatnothing can make life a burden to me. The gentle rain which watersmy beans and keeps me in the house today is not drear andmelancholy, but good for me too. Though it prevents my hoeing them,it is of far more worth than my hoeing. If it should continue solong as to cause the seeds to rot in the ground and destroy thepotatoes in the low lands, it would still be good for the grass onthe 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 Iwere more favored by the gods than they, beyond any deserts that Iam conscious of; as if I had a warrant and surety at their handswhich my fellows have not, and were especially guided and guarded.I do not flatter myself, but if it be possible they flatter me. Ihave never felt lonesome, or in the least oppressed by a sense ofsolitude, but once, and that was a few weeks after I came to thewoods, when, for an hour, I doubted if the near neighborhood of manwas not essential to a serene and healthy life. To be alone wassomething unpleasant. But I was at the same time conscious of aslight insanity in my mood, and seemed to foresee my recovery. Inthe midst of a gentle rain while these thoughts prevailed, I wassuddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in Nature, inthe very pattering of the drops, and in every sound and sight aroundmy house, an infinite and unaccountable friendliness all at oncelike an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages ofhuman neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of themsince. Every little pine needle expanded and swelled with sympathyand befriended me. I was so distinctly made aware of the presenceof something kindred to me, even in scenes which we are accustomedto call wild and dreary, and also that the nearest of blood to meand humanest was not a person nor a villager, that I thought noplace 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 inthe spring or fall, which confined me to the house for the afternoonas well as the forenoon, soothed by their ceaseless roar andpelting; when an early twilight ushered in a long evening in whichmany thoughts had time to take root and unfold themselves. In thosedriving northeast rains which tried the village houses so, when themaids stood ready with mop and pail in front entries to keep thedeluge out, I sat behind my door in my little house, which was allentry, and thoroughly enjoyed its protection. In one heavythunder-shower the lightning struck a large pitch pine across thepond, making a very conspicuous and perfectly regular spiral groovefrom top to bottom, an inch or more deep, and four or five incheswide, as you would groove a walking-stick. I passed it again theother day, and was struck with awe on looking up and beholding thatmark, now more distinct than ever, where a terrific and resistlessbolt came down out of the harmless sky eight years ago. Menfrequently say to me, "I should think you would feel lonesome downthere, and want to be nearer to folks, rainy and snowy days andnights especially." I am tempted to reply to such -- This wholeearth 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? Thiswhich you put seems to me not to be the most important question.What sort of space is that which separates a man from his fellowsand makes him solitary? I have found that no exertion of the legscan bring two minds much nearer to one another. What do we wantmost to dwell near to? Not to many men surely, the depot, thepost-office, the bar-room, the meeting-house, the school-house, thegrocery, Beacon Hill, or the Five Points, where men most congregate,but to the perennial source of our life, whence in all ourexperience we have found that to issue, as the willow stands nearthe water and sends out its roots in that direction. This will varywith different natures, but this is the place where a wise man willdig his cellar.... I one evening overtook one of my townsmen, whohas accumulated what is called "a handsome property" -- though Inever got a fair view of it -- on the Walden road, driving a pair ofcattle to market, who inquired of me how I could bring my mind togive up so many of the comforts of life. I answered that I was verysure I liked it passably well; I was not joking. And so I went hometo my bed, and left him to pick his way through the darkness and themud to Brighton -- or Bright-town -- which place he would reach sometime in the morning.Any prospect of awakening or coming to life to a dead man makesindifferent all times and places. The place where that may occur isalways the same, and indescribably pleasant to all our senses. Forthe most part we allow only outlying and transient circumstances tomake our occasions. They are, in fact, the cause of ourdistraction. Nearest to all things is that power which fashionstheir being. Next to us the grandest laws are continually beingexecuted. Next to us is not the workman whom we have hired, withwhom we love so well to talk, but the workman whose work we are."How vast and profound is the influence of the subtile powers ofHeaven and of Earth!""We seek to perceive them, and we do not see them; we seek tohear them, and we do not hear them; identified with the substance ofthings, they cannot be separated from them.""They cause that in all the universe men purify and sanctifytheir hearts, and clothe themselves in their holiday garments tooffer sacrifices and oblations to their ancestors. It is an oceanof subtile intelligences. They are everywhere, above us, on ourleft, on our right; they environ us on all sides."We are the subjects of an experiment which is not a littleinteresting to me. Can we not do without the society of our gossipsa little while under these circumstances -- have our own thoughts tocheer us? Confucius says truly, "Virtue does not remain as anabandoned orphan; it must of necessity have neighbors."With thinking we may be beside ourselves in a sane sense. By aconscious effort of the mind we can stand aloof from actions andtheir consequences; and all things, good and bad, go by us like atorrent. We are not wholly involved in Nature. I may be either thedriftwood in the stream, or Indra in the sky looking down on it. Imay be affected by a theatrical exhibition; on the other hand, I maynot be affected by an actual event which appears to concern me muchmore. I only know myself as a human entity; the scene, so to speak,of thoughts and affections; and am sensible of a certain doublenessby which I can stand as remote from myself as from another. Howeverintense my experience, I am conscious of the presence and criticismof a part of me, which, as it were, is not a part of me, butspectator, sharing no experience, but taking note of it, and that isno more I than it is you. When the play, it may be the tragedy, oflife 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. Thisdoubleness 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 anddissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion thatwas so companionable as solitude. We are for the most part morelonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in ourchambers. A man thinking or working is always alone, let him bewhere he will. Solitude is not measured by the miles of space thatintervene between a man and his fellows. The really diligentstudent in one of the crowded hives of Cambridge College is assolitary as a dervish in the desert. The farmer can work alone inthe field or the woods all day, hoeing or chopping, and not feellonesome, because he is employed; but when he comes home at night hecannot sit down in a room alone, at the mercy of his thoughts, butmust be where he can "see the folks," and recreate, and, as hethinks, remunerate himself for his day's solitude; and hence hewonders how the student can sit alone in the house all night andmost of the day without ennui and "the blues"; but he does notrealize that the student, though in the house, is still at work inhis field, and chopping in his woods, as the farmer in his, and inturn 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. Wemeet at meals three times a day, and give each other a new taste ofthat old musty cheese that we are. We have had to agree on acertain set of rules, called etiquette and politeness, to make thisfrequent meeting tolerable and that we need not come to open war.We meet at the post-office, and at the sociable, and about thefireside every night; we live thick and are in each other's way, andstumble over one another, and I think that we thus lose some respectfor one another. Certainly less frequency would suffice for allimportant and hearty communications. Consider the girls in afactory -- never alone, hardly in their dreams. It would be betterif 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 andexhaustion at the foot of a tree, whose loneliness was relieved bythe grotesque visions with which, owing to bodily weakness, hisdiseased imagination surrounded him, and which he believed to bereal. So also, owing to bodily and mental health and strength, wemay be continually cheered by a like but more normal and naturalsociety, and come to know that we are never alone.I have a great deal of company in my house; especially in themorning, when nobody calls. Let me suggest a few comparisons, thatsome one may convey an idea of my situation. I am no more lonelythan the loon in the pond that laughs so loud, or than Walden Ponditself. What company has that lonely lake, I pray? And yet it hasnot the blue devils, but the blue angels in it, in the azure tint ofits waters. The sun is alone, except in thick weather, when theresometimes 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 ofcompany; he is legion. I am no more lonely than a single mullein ordandelion 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 aweathercock, or the north star, or the south wind, or an Aprilshower, or a January thaw, or the first spider in a new house.I have occasional visits in the long winter evenings, when thesnow falls fast and the wind howls in the wood, from an old settlerand original proprietor, who is reported to have dug Walden Pond,and stoned it, and fringed it with pine woods; who tells me storiesof old time and of new eternity; and between us we manage to pass acheerful 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 Goffeor Whalley; and though he is thought to be dead, none can show wherehe is buried. An elderly dame, too, dwells in my neighborhood,invisible to most persons, in whose odorous herb garden I love tostroll sometimes, gathering simples and listening to her fables; forshe has a genius of unequalled fertility, and her memory runs backfarther than mythology, and she can tell me the original of everyfable, and on what fact every one is founded, for the incidentsoccurred when she was young. A ruddy and lusty old dame, whodelights in all weathers and seasons, and is likely to outlive allher children yet.The indescribable innocence and beneficence of Nature -- of sunand 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, andthe woods shed their leaves and put on mourning in midsummer, if anyman should ever for a just cause grieve. Shall I not haveintelligence with the earth? Am I not partly leaves and vegetablemould myself?What is the pill which will keep us well, serene, contented?Not my or thy great-grandfather's, but our great-grandmotherNature's universal, vegetable, botanic medicines, by which she haskept 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 Acheronand the Dead Sea, which come out of those long shallowblack-schooner looking wagons which we sometimes see made to carrybottles, let me have a draught of undiluted morning air. Morningair! 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, forthe benefit of those who have lost their subscription ticket tomorning time in this world. But remember, it will not keep quitetill noonday even in the coolest cellar, but drive out the stoppleslong ere that and follow westward the steps of Aurora. I am noworshipper of Hygeia, who was the daughter of that old herb-doctorAEsculapius, and who is represented on monuments holding a serpentin one hand, and in the other a cup out of which the serpentsometimes drinks; but rather of Hebe, cup-bearer to Jupiter, who wasthe daughter of Juno and wild lettuce, and who had the power ofrestoring gods and men to the vigor of youth. She was probably theonly thoroughly sound-conditioned, healthy, and robust young ladythat ever walked the globe, and wherever she came it was spring.