Walking

fpatientindustryandreadingofthenewspapers—forwhatarethelibrariesofsciencebutfilesofnewspapers—amanaccumulatesamyriadfacts,laysthemupinhismemory,andthenwheninsomespringofhislifehesauntersabroadintotheGreatFieldsofthought,he,asitwere,goestograsslikeahorseandleavesallhisharnessbehindinthestable.IwouldsaytotheSocietyfortheDiffusionofUsefulKnowledge,sometimes,—Gotograss.Youhaveeatenhaylongenough.Thespringhascomewithitsgreencrop.TheverycowsaredriventotheircountrypasturesbeforetheendofMaythoughIhaveheardofoneunnaturalfarmerwhokepthiscowinthebarnandfedheronhayalltheyearround.So,frequently,theSocietyfortheDiffusionofUsefulKnowledgetreatsitscattle. Aman’signorancesometimesisnotonlyuseful,butbeautiful—whilehisknowledge,socalled,isoftentimesworsethanuseless,besidesbeingugly.Whichisthebestmantodealwith—hewhoknowsnothingaboutasubject,and,whatisextremelyrare,knowsthatheknowsnothing,orhewhoreallyknowssomethingaboutit,butthinksthatheknowsall? Mydesireforknowledgeisintermittent,butmydesiretobathemyheadinatmospheresunknowntomyfeetisperennialandconstant.ThehighestthatwecanattaintoisnotKnowledge,butSympathywithIntelligence.IdonotknowthatthishigherknowledgeamountstoanythingmoredefinitethananovelandgrandsurpriseonasuddenrevelationoftheinsufficiencyofallthatwecalledKnowledgebefore—adiscoverythattherearemorethingsinheavenandearththanaredreamedofinourphilosophy.Itisthelightingupofthemistbythesun.Mancannotknowinanyhighersensethanthis,anymorethanhecanlookserenelyandwithimpunityinthefaceofthesun:??τ?νο?ν,ο?κε?νοννο?σει?,—“Youwillnotperceivethat,asperceivingaparticularthing,”saytheChaldeanOracles. Thereissomethingservileinthehabitofseekingafteralawwhichwemayobey.Wemaystudythelawsofmatteratandforourconvenience,butasuccessfullifeknowsnolaw.Itisanunfortunatediscoverycertainly,thatofalawwhichbindsuswherewedidnotknowbeforethatwewerebound.Livefree,childofthemist—andwithrespecttoknowledgeweareallchildrenofthemist.Themanwhotakesthelibertytoliveissuperiortoallthelaws,byvirtueofhisrelationtothelaw-maker.“Thatisactiveduty,”saystheVishnuPurana,“whichisnotforourbondagethatisknowledgewhichisforourliberation:allotherdutyisgoodonlyuntowearinessallotherknowledgeisonlytheclevernessofanartist.” Itisremarkablehowfeweventsorcrisesthereareinourhistories,howlittleexercisedwehavebeeninourminds,howfewexperienceswehavehad.IwouldfainbeassuredthatIamgrowingapaceandrankly,thoughmyverygrowthdisturbthisdullequanimity—thoughitbewithstrugglethroughlong,dark,muggynightsorseasonsofgloom.Itwouldbewellifallourliveswereadivinetragedyeven,insteadofthistrivialcomedyorfarce.Dante,Bunyan,andothersappeartohavebeenexercisedintheirmindsmorethanwe:theyweresubjectedtoakindofculturesuchasourdistrictschoolsandcollegesdonotcontemplate.EvenMahomet,thoughmanymayscreamathisname,hadagooddealmoretolivefor,aye,andtodiefor,thantheyhavecommonly. When,atrareintervals,somethoughtvisitsone,asperchanceheiswalkingonarailroad,then,indeed,thecarsgobywithouthishearingthem.Butsoon,bysomeinexorablelaw,ourlifegoesbyandthecarsreturn. “Gentlebreeze,thatwanderestunseen, AndbendestthethistlesroundLoiraofstorms, Travelerofthewindyglens, Whyhastthouleftmyearsosoon?” Whilealmostallmenfeelanattractiondrawingthemtosociety,fewareattractedstronglytoNature.IntheirrelationtoNaturemenappeartomeforthemostpart,notwithstandingtheirarts,lowerthantheanimals.Itisnotoftenabeautifulrelation,asinthecaseoftheanimals.Howlittleappreciationofthebeautyofthelandscapethereisamongus!WehavetobetoldthattheGreekscalledtheworldΚ?σμο?Beauty,orOrder,butwedonotseeclearlywhytheydidso,andweesteemitatbestonlyacuriousphilologicalfact. Formypart,IfeelthatwithregardtoNatureIliveasortofborderlife,ontheconfinesofaworldintowhichImakeoccasionalandtransientforaysonly,andmypatriotismandallegiancetothestateintowhoseterritoriesIseemtoretreatarethoseofamoss-trooper.UntoalifewhichIcallnaturalIwouldgladlyfollowevenawill-o’-the-wispthroughbogsandsloughsunimaginable,butnomoonnorfireflyhasshownmethecausewaytoit.Natureisapersonalitysovastanduniversalthatwehaveneverseenoneofherfeatures.Thewalkerinthefamiliarfieldswhichstretcharoundmynativetownsometimesfindshimselfinanotherlandthanisdescribedintheirowners’deeds,asitwereinsomefarawayfieldontheconfinesoftheactualConcord,whereherjurisdictionceases,andtheideawhichthewordConcordsuggestsceasestobesuggested.ThesefarmswhichIhavemyselfsurveyed,theseboundswhichIhavesetup,appeardimlystillasthroughamistbuttheyhavenochemistrytofixthemtheyfadefromthesurfaceoftheglass,andthepicturewhichthepainterpaintedstandsoutdimlyfrombeneath.Theworldwithwhichwearecommonlyacquaintedleavesnotrace,anditwillhavenoanniversary. ItookawalkonSpaulding’sFarmtheotherafternoon.Isawthesettingsunlightinguptheoppositesideofastatelypinewood.Itsgoldenraysstraggledintotheaislesofthewoodasintosomenoblehall.IwasimpressedasifsomeancientandaltogetheradmirableandshiningfamilyhadsettledthereinthatpartofthelandcalledConcord,unknowntome—towhomthesunwasservant—whohadnotgoneintosocietyinthevillage—whohadnotbeencalledon.Isawtheirpark,theirpleasure-ground,beyondthroughthewood,inSpaulding’scranberry-meadow.Thepinesfurnishedthemwithgablesastheygrew.Theirhousewasnotobvioustovisionthetreesgrewthroughit.IdonotknowwhetherIheardthesoundsofasuppressedhilarityornot.Theyseemedtoreclineonthesunbeams.Theyhavesonsanddaughters.Theyarequitewell.Thefarmer’scart-path,whichleadsdirectlythroughtheirhall,doesnotintheleastputthemout,asthemuddybottomofapoolissometimesseenthroughthereflectedskies.TheyneverheardofSpaulding,anddonotknowthatheistheirneighbor,—notwithstandingIheardhimwhistleashedrovehisteamthroughthehouse.Nothingcanequaltheserenityoftheirlives.Theircoat-of-armsissimplyalichen.Isawitpaintedonthepinesandoaks.Theiratticswereinthetopsofthetrees.Theyareofnopolitics.Therewasnonoiseoflabor.Ididnotperceivethattheywereweavingorspinning.YetIdiddetect,whenthewindlulledandhearingwasdoneaway,thefinestimaginablesweetmusicalhum,—asofadistanthiveinMay,whichperchancewasthesoundoftheirthinking.Theyhadnoidlethoughts,andnoonewithoutcouldseetheirwork,fortheirindustrywasnotasinknotsandexcrescencesembayed. ButIfinditdifficulttorememberthem.TheyfadeirrevocablyoutofmymindevennowwhileIspeakandendeavortorecallthem,andrecollectmyself.ItisonlyafteralongandseriousefforttorecollectmybestthoughtsthatIbecomeagainawareoftheircohabitancy.Ifitwerenotforsuchfamiliesasthis,IthinkIshouldmoveoutofConcord. WeareaccustomedtosayinNewEnglandthatfewandfewerpigeonsvisituseveryyear.Ourforestsfurnishnomastforthem.So,itwouldseem,fewandfewerthoughtsvisiteachgrowingmanfromyeartoyear,forthegroveinourmindsislaidwaste,—soldtofeedunnecessaryfiresofambition,orsenttomill,andthereisscarcelyatwigleftforthemtoperchon.Theynolongerbuildnorbreedwithus.Insomemoregenialseason,perchance,afaintshadowflitsacrossthelandscapeofthemind,castbythewingsofsomethoughtinitsvernalorautumnalmigration,but,lookingup,weareunabletodetectthesubstanceofthethoughtitself.Ourwingedthoughtsareturnedtopoultry.Theynolongersoar,andtheyattainonlytoaShanghaiandCochinChinagrandeur.Thosegra-a-atethoughts,thosegra-a-atemenyouhearof! Wehugtheearth—howrarelywemount!Methinkswemightelevateourselvesalittlemore.Wemightclimbatree,atleast.Ifoundmyaccountinclimbingatreeonce.Itwasatallwhitepine,onthetopofahillandthoughIgotwellpitched,Iwaswellpaidforit,forIdiscoverednewmountainsinthehorizonwhichIhadneverseenbefore,—somuchmoreoftheearthandtheheavens.Imighthavewalkedaboutthefootofthetreeforthreescoreyearsandten,andyetIcertainlyshouldneverhaveseenthem.But,aboveall,Idiscoveredaroundme,—itwasneartheendofJune,—ontheendsofthetopmostbranchesonly,afewminuteanddelicateredconelikeblossoms,thefertileflowerofthewhitepinelookingheavenward.Icarriedstraightwaytothevillagethetopmostspire,andshowedittostrangerjurymenwhowalkedthestreets,—foritwascourtweek—andtofarmersandlumber-dealersandwood-choppersandhunters,andnotonehadeverseenthelikebefore,buttheywonderedasatastardroppeddown.Tellofancientarchitectsfinishingtheirworksonthetopsofcolumnsasperfectlyasonthelowerandmorevisibleparts!Naturehasfromthefirstexpandedtheminuteblossomsoftheforestonlytowardtheheavens,abovemen’sheadsandunobservedbythem.Weseeonlytheflowersthatareunderourfeetinthemeadows.Thepineshavedevelopedtheirdelicateblossomsonthehighesttwigsofthewoodeverysummerforages,aswellovertheheadsofNature’sredchildrenasofherwhiteonesyetscarcelyafarmerorhunterinthelandhaseverseenthem. Aboveall,wecannotaffordnottoliveinthepresent.Heisblessedoverallmortalswholosesnomomentofthepassinglifeinrememberingthepast.Unlessourphilosophyhearsthecockcrowineverybarn-yardwithinourhorizon,itisbelated.Thatsoundcommonlyremindsusthatwearegrowingrustyandantiqueinouremploymentsandhabitsofthoughts.Hisphilosophycomesdowntoamorerecenttimethanours.Thereissomethingsuggestedbyitthatisanewertestament,—thegospelaccordingtothismoment.Hehasnotfallenasternhehasgotupearlyandkeptupearly,andtobewhereheis,istobeinseason,intheforemostrankoftime.ItisanexpressionofthehealthandsoundnessofNature,abragforalltheworld,—healthinessasofaspringburstforth,anewfountainoftheMuses,tocelebratethislastinstantoftime.Wherehelivesnofugitiveslavelawsarepassed.Whohasnotbetrayedhismastermanytimessincelastheheardthatnote? Themeritofthisbird’sstrainisinitsfreedomfromallplaintiveness.Thesingercaneasilymoveustotearsortolaughter,butwhereishewhocanexciteinusapuremorningjoy?When,indolefuldumps,breakingtheawfulstillnessofourwoodensidewalkonaSunday,or,perchance,awatcherinthehouseofmourning,Ihearacockerelcrowfarornear,Ithinktomyself,“Thereisoneofuswell,atanyrate,”—andwithasuddengushreturntomysenses. WehadaremarkablesunsetonedaylastNovember.Iwaswalkinginameadow,thesourceofasmallbrook,whenthesunatlast,justbeforesetting,afteracoldgreyday,reachedaclearstratuminthehorizon,andthesoftest,brightestmorningsunlightfellonthedrygrassandonthestemsofthetreesintheoppositehorizonandontheleavesoftheshrub-oaksonthehillside,whileourshadowsstretchedlongoverthemeadoweastward,asifweweretheonlymotesinitsbeams.Itwassuchalightaswecouldnothaveimaginedamomentbefore,andtheairalsowassowarmandserenethatnothingwaswantingtomakeaparadiseofthatmeadow.Whenwereflectedthatthiswasnotasolitaryphenomenon,nevertohappenagain,butthatitwouldhappenforeverandever,aninfinitenumberofevenings,andcheerandreassurethelatestchildthatwalkedthere,itwasmoregloriousstill. Thesunsetsonsomeretiredmeadow,wherenohouseisvisible,withallthegloryandsplendorthatitlavishesoncities,andperchanceasithasneversetbefore,—wherethereisbutasolitarymarshhawktohavehiswingsgildedbyit,oronlyamusquashlooksoutfromhiscabin,andthereissomelittleblack-veinedbrookinthemidstofthemarsh,justbeginningtomeander,windingslowlyroundadecayingstump.Wewalkedinsopureandbrightalight,gildingthewitheredgrassandleaves,sosoftlyandserenelybright,IthoughtIhadneverbathedinsuchagoldenflood,withoutarippleoramurmurtoit.ThewestsideofeverywoodandrisinggroundgleamedliketheboundaryofElysium,andthesunonourbacksseemedlikeagentleherdsmandrivingushomeatevening. SowesauntertowardtheHolyLand,tillonedaythesunshallshinemorebrightlythaneverhehasdone,shallperchanceshineintoourmindsandhearts,andlightupourwholeliveswithagreatawakeninglight,aswarmandsereneandgoldenasonabank-sideinAutumn.