Conclusion

To the sick the doctors wisely recommend a change of air and scenery. Thank Heaven, here is not all the world. The buck-eye does not grow in New England, and the mocking-bird is rarely heard here. The wild-goose is more of a cosmopolite than we; he breaks his fast in Canada, takes a luncheon in the Ohio, and plumes himself for the night in a southern bayou. Even the bison, to some extent, keeps pace with the seasons, cropping the pastures of the Colorado only till a greener and sweeter grass awaits him by the Yellowstone. Yet we think that if rail-fences are pulled down, and stone-walls piled up on our farms, bounds are henceforth set to our lives and our fates decided. If you are chosen town-clerk, forsooth, you cannot go to Tierra del Fuego this summer: but you may go to the land of infernal fire nevertheless. The universe is wider than our views of it.

Doctors wisely advise sick people to seek a change of air and scenery. Thank Heaven, this place is not the whole world. The buck-eye does not grow in New England, and the mocking-bird is rarely heard here. The wild goose is more of a world traveler than we are. He eats breakfast in Canada, has lunch along the Ohio, and preens his feathers for the night in a southern bayou. Even the bison, to some extent, moves with the seasons. He grazes the pastures along the Colorado only until greener, sweeter grass awaits him by the Yellowstone. Yet we think pulling down rail fences and building stone walls on our farms sets limits on our lives. We think those boundaries settle our fates. If you are elected town clerk, why, of course you cannot go to Tierra del Fuego this summer. But you may still go to the land of hellfire. The universe is wider than our view of it.

Yet we should oftener look over the tafferel of our craft, like curious passengers, and not make the voyage like stupid sailors picking oakum. The other side of the globe is but the home of our correspondent. Our voyaging is only great-circle sailing, and the doctors prescribe for diseases of the skin merely. One hastens to Southern Africa to chase the giraffe; but surely that is not the game he would be after. How long, pray, would a man hunt giraffes if he could? Snipes and woodcocks also may afford rare sport; but I trust it would be nobler game to shoot one’s self.—

Yet we should more often look over our boat’s stern railing, like curious passengers. We should not make the voyage like mindless sailors picking apart old rope for fibers. The other side of the globe is merely where someone we write to lives. Our voyages merely follow great-circle routes around the earth, and doctors prescribe treatments only for skin diseases. A man rushes to Southern Africa to hunt giraffes. But surely giraffes are not the prey he should be after. How long, please tell me, would a man hunt giraffes if he could? Snipes and woodcocks may also offer exceptional sport. But I trust that shooting oneself would be a nobler kind of hunting.

What does Africa,—what does the West stand for? Is not our own interior white on the chart? black though it may prove, like the coast, when discovered. Is it the source of the Nile, or the Niger, or the Mississippi, or a North-West Passage around this continent, that we would find? Are these the problems which most concern mankind? Is Franklin the only man who is lost, that his wife should be so earnest to find him? Does Mr. Grinnell know where he himself is? Be rather the Mungo Park, the Lewis and Clarke and Frobisher, of your own streams and oceans; explore your own higher latitudes,—with shiploads of preserved meats to support you, if they be necessary; and pile the empty cans sky-high for a sign. Were preserved meats invented to preserve meat merely? Nay, be a Columbus to whole new continents and worlds within you, opening new channels, not of trade, but of thought. Every man is the lord of a realm beside which the earthly empire of the Czar is but a petty state, a hummock left by the ice. Yet some can be patriotic who have no self-respect, and sacrifice the greater to the less. They love the soil which makes their graves, but have no sympathy with the spirit which may still animate their clay. Patriotism is a maggot in their heads. What was the meaning of that South-Sea Exploring Expedition, with all its parade and expense, but an indirect recognition of the fact, that there are continents and seas in the moral world to which every man is an isthmus or an inlet, yet unexplored by him, but that it is easier to sail many thousand miles through cold and storm and cannibals, in a government ship, with five hundred men and boys to assist one, than it is to explore the private sea, the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean of one’s being alone.—

What does Africa stand for? What does the West stand for? Isn’t our own inner world still white on the map, unexplored? Though when discovered, it may prove as black as the coast. Are we trying to find the source of the Nile, the Niger, or the Mississippi? Or a North-West Passage around this continent? Are these the questions that concern humanity most? Is Franklin the only lost man, that his wife should be so determined to find him? Does Mr. Grinnell know where he himself is? Instead, be the Mungo Park, the Lewis and Clarke and Frobisher of your own streams and oceans. Explore your own higher latitudes, with shiploads of preserved meats to sustain you, if necessary. And pile the empty cans sky-high as a sign. Were preserved meats invented merely to preserve meat? No, be a Columbus discovering whole new continents and worlds within yourself. Open new channels, not for trade, but for thought. Every man rules an inner realm beside which the Czar’s earthly empire is only a tiny state. Beside that inner realm, the empire is just a mound left behind by the ice. Yet some people can be patriotic without having any self-respect, sacrificing the greater realm to the lesser. They love the soil that will hold their graves. But they have no sympathy with the spirit that may still give life to their bodies. Patriotism is a maggot in their heads. What did that South-Sea Exploring Expedition mean, with all its show and expense? Wasn’t the expedition just an indirect acknowledgment that the moral world contains continents and seas? Every man is an isthmus or an inlet leading to those regions, though he has not explored them himself. Yet exploring those regions is harder than sailing many thousand miles through cold, storms, and cannibals in a government ship. On that ship, five hundred men and boys help you. But you must explore your private sea, the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean of your own being, alone.

It is not worth the while to go round the world to count the cats in Zanzibar. Yet do this even till you can do better, and you may perhaps find some “Symmes’ Hole” by which to get at the inside at last. England and France, Spain and Portugal, Gold Coast and Slave Coast, all front on this private sea; but no bark from them has ventured out of sight of land, though it is without doubt the direct way to India. If you would learn to speak all tongues and conform to the customs of all nations, if you would travel farther than all travellers, be naturalized in all climes, and cause the Sphinx to dash her head against a stone, even obey the precept of the old philosopher, and Explore thyself. Herein are demanded the eye and the nerve. Only the defeated and deserters go to the wars, cowards that run away and enlist. Start now on that farthest western way, which does not pause at the Mississippi or the Pacific, nor conduct toward a worn-out China or Japan, but leads on direct a tangent to this sphere, summer and winter, day and night, sun down, moon down, and at last earth down too.

It is not worth traveling around the world to count the cats in Zanzibar. Yet do even that until you can do better. You may perhaps find some “Symmes’ Hole” through which you can finally reach the inside. England and France, Spain and Portugal, Gold Coast and Slave Coast all face this private sea. But no ship from those shores has ventured out of sight of land. Yet this sea is undoubtedly the direct route to India. If you want to speak all languages and follow the customs of all nations, explore yourself. Follow the old philosopher’s advice if you want to travel farther than all travelers and belong in every climate. Do the same if you want to make the Sphinx smash her head against a stone. Exploring yourself takes a keen eye and courage. Only the defeated and deserters go to war, cowards who run away and enlist. Set out now on that farthest westward route, which does not stop at the Mississippi or the Pacific. Nor does the route lead toward a worn-out China or Japan. Instead, it leads straight along a tangent to this globe, through summer and winter, day and night. The sun sets, the moon sets, and finally the earth sets too.

It is said that Mirabeau took to highway robbery “to ascertain what degree of resolution was necessary in order to place one’s self in formal opposition to the most sacred laws of society.” He declared that “a soldier who fights in the ranks does not require half so much courage as a foot-pad,”—“that honor and religion have never stood in the way of a well-considered and a firm resolve.” This was manly, as the world goes; and yet it was idle, if not desperate. A saner man would have found himself often enough “in formal opposition” to what are deemed “the most sacred laws of society,” through obedience to yet more sacred laws, and so have tested his resolution without going out of his way. It is not for a man to put himself in such an attitude to society, but to maintain himself in whatever attitude he find himself through obedience to the laws of his being, which will never be one of opposition to a just government, if he should chance to meet with such.

It is said that Mirabeau turned to highway robbery “to discover how much determination it took to openly defy society’s most sacred laws.” He declared that “a soldier fighting in the ranks needs less than half the courage of a highway robber.” He also said “that honor and religion have never blocked a carefully considered, firm decision.” By the world’s standards, this was manly. Yet it was pointless, if not desperate. A more sensible man would often have found himself “openly defying” what people consider “society’s most sacred laws.” He would have done so by obeying even more sacred laws. In this way, he could have tested his determination without going out of his way. A man should not deliberately put himself in opposition to society. Instead, he should stand firm in whatever position he finds himself by obeying the laws of his own nature. Obeying those laws will never put him in opposition to a just government, if he should happen to encounter one.

I left the woods for as good a reason as I went there. Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more lives to live, and could not spare any more time for that one. It is remarkable how easily and insensibly we fall into a particular route, and make a beaten track for ourselves. I had not lived there a week before my feet wore a path from my door to the pond-side; and though it is five or six years since I trod it, it is still quite distinct. It is true, I fear that others may have fallen into it, and so helped to keep it open. The surface of the earth is soft and impressible by the feet of men; and so with the paths which the mind travels. How worn and dusty, then, must be the highways of the world, how deep the ruts of tradition and conformity! I did not wish to take a cabin passage, but rather to go before the mast and on the deck of the world, for there I could best see the moonlight amid the mountains. I do not wish to go below now.

I left the woods for as good a reason as I had for going there. Perhaps I felt I had several more lives to live and could spare no more time for that one. It is remarkable how easily we settle into a particular route without noticing and wear a track for ourselves. Before I had lived there a week, my feet had worn a path from my door to the pond. Though I have not walked that path for five or six years, it is still quite clear. I fear, though, that others may have followed the path and helped keep it open. The earth’s surface is soft and easily marked by human feet. The same is true of the paths the mind travels. How worn and dusty, then, the world’s highways must be! How deep the ruts of tradition and conformity! I did not want to travel in a ship’s cabin. Instead, I wanted to sail as a common sailor, out on the deck of the world. There I could best see the moonlight among the mountains. I do not wish to go below deck now.

I learned this, at least, by my experiment; that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours. He will put some things behind, will pass an invisible boundary; new, universal, and more liberal laws will begin to establish themselves around and within him; or the old laws be expanded, and interpreted in his favor in a more liberal sense, and he will live with the license of a higher order of beings. In proportion as he simplifies his life, the laws of the universe will appear less complex, and solitude will not be solitude, nor poverty poverty, nor weakness weakness. If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.

I learned at least this from my experiment: if you move confidently toward your dreams and try to live the life you have imagined, you will find success you would not expect in ordinary life. You will leave some things behind and cross an invisible boundary. New, universal, and more generous laws will begin to take shape around you and within you. Or the old laws will expand and be interpreted more generously in your favor. You will live with the freedom of a higher order of beings. As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will seem less complex. Solitude will no longer be solitude, nor poverty poverty, nor weakness weakness. If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be wasted. In the air is where those castles should be. Now put foundations under them.

It is a ridiculous demand which England and America make, that you shall speak so that they can understand you. Neither men nor toad-stools grow so. As if that were important, and there were not enough to understand you without them. As if Nature could support but one order of understandings, could not sustain birds as well as quadrupeds, flying as well as creeping things, and hush and who, which Bright can understand, were the best English. As if there were safety in stupidity alone. I fear chiefly lest my expression may not be extra-vagant enough, may not wander far enough beyond the narrow limits of my daily experience, so as to be adequate to the truth of which I have been convinced. Extra vagance! it depends on how you are yarded. The migrating buffalo, which seeks new pastures in another latitude, is not extravagant like the cow which kicks over the pail, leaps the cow-yard fence, and runs after her calf, in milking time. I desire to speak somewhere without bounds; like a man in a waking moment, to men in their waking moments; for I am convinced that I cannot exaggerate enough even to lay the foundation of a true expression. Who that has heard a strain of music feared then lest he should speak extravagantly any more forever? In view of the future or possible, we should live quite laxly and undefined in front, our outlines dim and misty on that side; as our shadows reveal an insensible perspiration toward the sun. The volatile truth of our words should continually betray the inadequacy of the residual statement. Their truth is instantly translated; its literal monument alone remains. The words which express our faith and piety are not definite; yet they are significant and fragrant like frankincense to superior natures.

England and America make a ridiculous demand: you must speak so they can understand you. Neither people nor toadstools grow that way. As if being understood by England and America mattered, or there were not enough others to understand you. As if Nature could support only one kind of mind. As if Nature could not support birds as well as four-legged animals, flying creatures as well as crawling ones. As if hush and who, which Bright can understand, were the best English. As if stupidity alone offered safety. My main fear is that my language may not be extra-vagant enough. It may not wander far enough beyond my narrow daily experience to express the truth I have come to believe. Extra vagance! That depends on the size of your enclosure. A migrating buffalo seeks new pastures in another latitude. Its wandering is not extravagant like a cow’s when she kicks over the milk pail during milking. She jumps the barnyard fence and runs after her calf. I want to speak somewhere without limits, like someone in a moment of awakening speaking to others in theirs. For I am convinced that even my greatest exaggerations cannot lay the foundation for a truthful expression. Who, after hearing a passage of music, has ever again feared speaking too extravagantly? Facing the future or what is possible, we should live loosely, without fixed boundaries on that side. Our outlines should be dim and misty there, as our shadows reveal an imperceptible outflow toward the sun. The elusive truth of our words should constantly reveal how inadequate the remaining statement is. Their truth is instantly translated. Only its literal monument remains. The words expressing our faith and devotion are not precise. Yet to higher minds, those words are meaningful and fragrant, like frankincense.

Why level downward to our dullest perception always, and praise that as common sense? The commonest sense is the sense of men asleep, which they express by snoring. Sometimes we are inclined to class those who are once-and-a-half-witted with the half-witted, because we appreciate only a third part of their wit. Some would find fault with the morning-red, if they ever got up early enough. “They pretend,” as I hear, “that the verses of Kabir have four different senses; illusion, spirit, intellect, and the exoteric doctrine of the Vedas;” but in this part of the world it is considered a ground for complaint if a man’s writings admit of more than one interpretation. While England endeavors to cure the potato-rot, will not any endeavor to cure the brain-rot, which prevails so much more widely and fatally?

Why always sink to our dullest level of understanding and praise it as common sense? The most common sense belongs to sleeping men, who express it by snoring. Sometimes we tend to call people with one and a half times the usual wit half-witted. We do so because we recognize only a third of their wit. Some would find fault with the red dawn, if they ever got up early enough. “They claim,” I hear, “that Kabir’s verses have four different meanings: illusion, spirit, intellect, and the Vedas’ publicly taught doctrine.” But in this part of the world, people complain if someone’s writings allow more than one interpretation. While England tries to cure potato rot, will no one try to cure brain rot? Brain rot is so much more widespread and deadly.

I do not suppose that I have attained to obscurity, but I should be proud if no more fatal fault were found with my pages on this score than was found with the Walden ice. Southern customers objected to its blue color, which is the evidence of its purity, as if it were muddy, and preferred the Cambridge ice, which is white, but tastes of weeds. The purity men love is like the mists which envelop the earth, and not like the azure ether beyond.

I do not think I have achieved obscurity. But I would be proud if my pages faced no worse criticism for obscurity than the Walden ice did. Southern customers objected to its blue color, a sign of its purity, as if the ice were muddy. They preferred the Cambridge ice, which is white but tastes of weeds. The purity people love is like the mists that surround the earth, not like the clear blue sky beyond.

Some are dinning in our ears that we Americans, and moderns generally, are intellectual dwarfs compared with the ancients, or even the Elizabethan men. But what is that to the purpose? A living dog is better than a dead lion. Shall a man go and hang himself because he belongs to the race of pygmies, and not be the biggest pygmy that he can? Let every one mind his own business, and endeavor to be what he was made.

Some keep pounding into our ears that we Americans, and modern people generally, are intellectual dwarfs compared with the ancients. Or even compared with the Elizabethans. But why should that comparison matter? A living dog is better than a dead lion. Should a man go hang himself because he belongs to a race of pygmies? Shouldn't he instead be the biggest pygmy he can? Let everyone mind their own business and try to become what they were made to be.

Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed, and in such desperate enterprises? If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away. It is not important that he should mature as soon as an apple-tree or an oak. Shall he turn his spring into summer? If the condition of things which we were made for is not yet, what were any reality which we can substitute? We will not be shipwrecked on a vain reality. Shall we with pains erect a heaven of blue glass over ourselves, though when it is done we shall be sure to gaze still at the true ethereal heaven far above, as if the former were not?

Why should we be so desperate to succeed so quickly, and take on such desperate ventures? If a man falls behind his companions, perhaps he hears a different drummer. Let him walk to the music he hears, however slow or far away. He does not need to mature as quickly as an apple tree or an oak. Should he turn his spring into summer? If the conditions we were made for do not yet exist, what would any substitute reality be worth? We will not let ourselves be shipwrecked on an empty reality. Should we work hard to build a heaven of blue glass over ourselves? Even when we finished, we would surely still gaze at the true heaven far above, as if our glass heaven did not exist.

There was an artist in the city of Kouroo who was disposed to strive after perfection. One day it came into his mind to make a staff. Having considered that in an imperfect work time is an ingredient, but into a perfect work time does not enter, he said to himself, It shall be perfect in all respects, though I should do nothing else in my life. He proceeded instantly to the forest for wood, being resolved that it should not be made of unsuitable material; and as he searched for and rejected stick after stick, his friends gradually deserted him, for they grew old in their works and died, but he grew not older by a moment. His singleness of purpose and resolution, and his elevated piety, endowed him, without his knowledge, with perennial youth. As he made no compromise with Time, Time kept out of his way, and only sighed at a distance because he could not overcome him. Before he had found a stock in all respects suitable the city of Kouroo was a hoary ruin, and he sat on one of its mounds to peel the stick. Before he had given it the proper shape the dynasty of the Candahars was at an end, and with the point of the stick he wrote the name of the last of that race in the sand, and then resumed his work. By the time he had smoothed and polished the staff Kalpa was no longer the pole-star; and ere he had put on the ferrule and the head adorned with precious stones, Brahma had awoke and slumbered many times. But why do I stay to mention these things? When the finishing stroke was put to his work, it suddenly expanded before the eyes of the astonished artist into the fairest of all the creations of Brahma. He had made a new system in making a staff, a world with full and fair proportions; in which, though the old cities and dynasties had passed away, fairer and more glorious ones had taken their places. And now he saw by the heap of shavings still fresh at his feet, that, for him and his work, the former lapse of time had been an illusion, and that no more time had elapsed than is required for a single scintillation from the brain of Brahma to fall on and inflame the tinder of a mortal brain. The material was pure, and his art was pure; how could the result be other than wonderful?

There was an artist in the city of Kouroo who wanted to achieve perfection. One day he thought of making a staff. He considered that time plays a part in imperfect work, but has no place in perfect work. He said to himself, The staff will be perfect in every way, even if I do nothing else in my life. He went straight to the forest to find wood, determined not to use unsuitable material. As he searched and rejected stick after stick, his friends gradually left him. They grew old at their work and died, but he did not age a moment. His single-minded purpose, determination, and deep devotion gave him eternal youth without his knowing it. Because he made no compromise with Time, Time stayed out of his way. Time could only sigh at a distance because he could not overcome the artist. Before the artist found a piece of wood suitable in every way, the city of Kouroo had become an ancient ruin. He sat on one of its mounds to peel the bark from the stick. Before he had shaped the stick properly, the dynasty of the Candahars had ended. With the stick’s point, he wrote the name of the last of that line in the sand, then resumed his work. By the time he had smoothed and polished the staff, Kalpa was no longer the pole-star. Before he fitted the staff with its metal tip and jewel-covered head, Brahma had awakened and slept many times. But why do I pause to mention these things? When the artist put the finishing touch to his work, the staff suddenly expanded before his astonished eyes. It became the most beautiful of all Brahma’s creations. In making a staff, he had made a new system, a world with complete and beautiful proportions. Although the old cities and dynasties had passed away, more beautiful and glorious ones had taken their places. Now he saw the still-fresh pile of shavings at his feet. He realized that, for him and his work, all that passing time had been an illusion. Only the time needed for a single spark from Brahma’s brain to fall upon a mortal brain’s tinder had passed. In that instant, the spark set the tinder ablaze. The material was pure, and his art was pure. How could the result be anything but wonderful?

No face which we can give to a matter will stead us so well at last as the truth. This alone wears well. For the most part, we are not where we are, but in a false position. Through an infirmity of our natures, we suppose a case, and put ourselves into it, and hence are in two cases at the same time, and it is doubly difficult to get out. In sane moments we regard only the facts, the case that is. Say what you have to say, not what you ought. Any truth is better than make-believe. Tom Hyde, the tinker, standing on the gallows, was asked if he had anything to say. “Tell the tailors,” said he, “to remember to make a knot in their thread before they take the first stitch.” His companion’s prayer is forgotten.

No spin we put on a matter will serve us as well in the end as the truth. Only the truth holds up over time. For the most part, we do not face our actual situation but put ourselves in a false one. Because of a weakness in human nature, we imagine a situation and place ourselves in it. So we are in two situations at once, and getting out is twice as hard. In our sane moments, we consider only the facts, the situation as it really is. Say what you have to say, not what you think you ought to say. Any truth is better than make-believe. Tom Hyde, the tinker, was standing on the gallows when someone asked if he had anything to say. “Tell the tailors,” he said, “to remember to tie a knot in their thread before making the first stitch.” His companion’s prayer is forgotten.

However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names. It is not so bad as you are. It looks poorest when you are richest. The fault-finder will find faults even in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is. You may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poor-house. The setting sun is reflected from the windows of the alms-house as brightly as from the rich man’s abode; the snow melts before its door as early in the spring. I do not see but a quiet mind may live as contentedly there, and have as cheering thoughts, as in a palace. The town’s poor seem to me often to live the most independent lives of any. May be they are simply great enough to receive without misgiving. Most think that they are above being supported by the town; but it oftener happens that they are not above supporting themselves by dishonest means, which should be more disreputable. Cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage. Do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends. Turn the old; return to them. Things do not change; we change. Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts. God will see that you do not want society. If I were confined to a corner of a garret all my days, like a spider, the world would be just as large to me while I had my thoughts about me. The philosopher said: “From an army of three divisions one can take away its general, and put it in disorder; from the man the most abject and vulgar one cannot take away his thought.” Do not seek so anxiously to be developed, to subject yourself to many influences to be played on; it is all dissipation. Humility like darkness reveals the heavenly lights. The shadows of poverty and meanness gather around us, “and lo! creation widens to our view.” We are often reminded that if there were bestowed on us the wealth of Crœsus, our aims must still be the same, and our means essentially the same. Moreover, if you are restricted in your range by poverty, if you cannot buy books and newspapers, for instance, you are but confined to the most significant and vital experiences; you are compelled to deal with the material which yields the most sugar and the most starch. It is life near the bone where it is sweetest. You are defended from being a trifler. No man loses ever on a lower level by magnanimity on a higher. Superfluous wealth can buy superfluities only. Money is not required to buy one necessary of the soul.

However humble your life is, face it and live it. Do not avoid it or call it ugly names. Your life is not as bad as you are. It looks poorest when you are richest. A faultfinder will find faults even in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is. You may perhaps have some pleasant, exciting, glorious hours, even in a poorhouse. The setting sun shines as brightly in the poorhouse windows as in a rich man’s home. The snow melts outside the poorhouse door just as early in spring. I see no reason a peaceful mind could not be as content there as in a palace. Its thoughts could be just as cheerful. The town’s poor often seem to me to live the most independent lives of anyone. Perhaps they are simply great enough to accept help without feeling uneasy. Most people think accepting town support is beneath them. But more often, they do not think earning a living dishonestly is beneath them, though dishonesty should be more shameful. Cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage. Do not worry much about getting new things, whether clothes or friends. Turn your old clothes inside out. Return to your old friends. Things do not change. We change. Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts. God will see that you do not lack company. Suppose I were confined to a corner of an attic all my life, like a spider. The world would be just as large to me as long as I had my thoughts. The philosopher said: “You can take the general from an army of three divisions and throw the army into confusion. But you cannot take thought away from even the lowest, most ordinary person.” Do not be so anxious to develop yourself or expose yourself to many influences that can play upon you. All of this scatters your energies. Humility, like darkness, reveals the lights of heaven. The shadows of poverty and lowliness gather around us, “and look! creation opens wider to our view.” We are often reminded that even if we were given the wealth of Crœsus, our goals must remain the same. The means of reaching those goals must remain essentially the same, too. Moreover, if poverty limits your reach, perhaps keeping you from buying books and newspapers, it leaves you with what matters most. You are confined to the most meaningful and vital experiences. You must work with the material that yields the most sugar and starch. Life is sweetest close to the bone. Poverty protects you from wasting your life on trivial things. No one ever loses on a lower level by acting generously on a higher one. Unnecessary wealth can buy only unnecessary things. Money is not needed to buy a single necessity of the soul.

I live in the angle of a leaden wall, into whose composition was poured a little alloy of bell metal. Often, in the repose of my mid-day, there reaches my ears a confused tintinnabulum from without. It is the noise of my contemporaries. My neighbors tell me of their adventures with famous gentlemen and ladies, what notabilities they met at the dinner-table; but I am no more interested in such things than in the contents of the Daily Times. The interest and the conversation are about costume and manners chiefly; but a goose is a goose still, dress it as you will. They tell me of California and Texas, of England and the Indies, of the Hon. Mr. —— of Georgia or of Massachusetts, all transient and fleeting phenomena, till I am ready to leap from their court-yard like the Mameluke bey. I delight to come to my bearings,—not walk in procession with pomp and parade, in a conspicuous place, but to walk even with the Builder of the universe, if I may,—not to live in this restless, nervous, bustling, trivial Nineteenth Century, but stand or sit thoughtfully while it goes by. What are men celebrating? They are all on a committee of arrangements, and hourly expect a speech from somebody. God is only the president of the day, and Webster is his orator. I love to weigh, to settle, to gravitate toward that which most strongly and rightfully attracts me;—not hang by the beam of the scale and try to weigh less,—not suppose a case, but take the case that is; to travel the only path I can, and that on which no power can resist me. It affords me no satisfaction to commence to spring an arch before I have got a solid foundation. Let us not play at kittly-benders. There is a solid bottom every where. We read that the traveller asked the boy if the swamp before him had a hard bottom. The boy replied that it had. But presently the traveller’s horse sank in up to the girths, and he observed to the boy, “I thought you said that this bog had a hard bottom.” “So it has,” answered the latter, “but you have not got half way to it yet.” So it is with the bogs and quicksands of society; but he is an old boy that knows it. Only what is thought, said, or done at a certain rare coincidence is good. I would not be one of those who will foolishly drive a nail into mere lath and plastering; such a deed would keep me awake nights. Give me a hammer, and let me feel for the furring. Do not depend on the putty. Drive a nail home and clinch it so faithfully that you can wake up in the night and think of your work with satisfaction,—a work at which you would not be ashamed to invoke the Muse. So will help you God, and so only. Every nail driven should be as another rivet in the machine of the universe, you carrying on the work.

I live in the corner of a lead wall containing a little bell metal. Often, during my midday rest, a confused ringing reaches my ears from outside. It is the noise of my contemporaries. My neighbors tell me about their adventures with famous gentlemen and ladies, and the celebrities they met at dinner. But these things interest me no more than the contents of the Daily Times. Their interest and conversation mostly concern clothing and manners. But a goose is still a goose, however you dress it. They tell me about California and Texas, England and the Indies. They tell me about the Hon. Mr. —— of Georgia or Massachusetts. All these are passing, fleeting phenomena. They go on until I am ready to leap out of their courtyard like the Mameluke bey. I delight in finding my bearings. I do not want to march in a procession, surrounded by pomp and ceremony, where everyone can see me. Instead, I want to walk beside the Builder of the universe, if I may. I do not want to live in this restless, nervous, bustling, trivial Nineteenth Century. I want to stand or sit thoughtfully while the century passes by. What are people celebrating? They are all on an organizing committee, expecting someone to give a speech at any moment. God is merely the day's presiding officer, and Webster is his speaker. I love to weigh things, to settle, to gravitate toward whatever attracts me most strongly and rightly. I do not want to hang from the scale's beam and try to weigh less. I do not want to imagine a situation, but to deal with the situation that exists. I want to travel the only path I can, the path on which no power can stop me. I find no satisfaction in starting to build an arch before I have a solid foundation. Let us not play kittly-benders, skating over thin ice. There is a solid bottom everywhere. We read about a traveler who asked a boy whether the swamp ahead had a hard bottom. The boy said it did. But soon the traveler's horse sank up to the straps around its belly. The traveler said to the boy, “I thought you said this bog had a hard bottom.” “So it does,” the boy answered, “but you are not even halfway down to it yet.” The same is true of society's bogs and quicksands. But it takes an experienced boy to know that. Only what is thought, said, or done when circumstances come together in a certain rare way is good. I would not foolishly drive a nail into nothing but lath and plaster. Such an act would keep me awake at night. Give me a hammer, and let me feel for the wooden supports underneath. Do not rely on putty. Drive a nail all the way in, and bend its tip over to secure it with such care that you can sleep satisfied. You should be able to wake at night and think with satisfaction about your work. You should not be ashamed to call on the Muse to inspire such work. God will help you in this way, and only in this way. Every nail you drive should be another rivet in the machinery of the universe, as you carry on the work.

Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth. I sat at a table where were rich food and wine in abundance, and obsequious attendance, but sincerity and truth were not; and I went away hungry from the inhospitable board. The hospitality was as cold as the ices. I thought that there was no need of ice to freeze them. They talked to me of the age of the wine and the fame of the vintage; but I thought of an older, a newer, and purer wine, of a more glorious vintage, which they had not got, and could not buy. The style, the house and grounds and “entertainment” pass for nothing with me. I called on the king, but he made me wait in his hall, and conducted like a man incapacitated for hospitality. There was a man in my neighborhood who lived in a hollow tree. His manners were truly regal. I should have done better had I called on him.

Give me truth rather than love, money, or fame. I sat at a table with plenty of rich food and wine, and servants eager to please. But there was no sincerity or truth, and I left that unwelcoming table hungry. The hospitality was as cold as the frozen desserts. I thought my hosts needed no ice to freeze them. They told me about the wine’s age and the fame of its vintage. But I thought of an older, newer, purer wine, from a more glorious vintage. They did not have that wine and could not buy it. The style, the house and grounds, and the “entertainment” mean nothing to me. I visited the king, but he made me wait in his hall and acted like someone incapable of hospitality. A man in my neighborhood lived in a hollow tree. His manners were truly royal. I would have done better to visit him.

How long shall we sit in our porticoes practising idle and musty virtues, which any work would make impertinent? As if one were to begin the day with long-suffering, and hire a man to hoe his potatoes; and in the afternoon go forth to practise Christian meekness and charity with goodness aforethought! Consider the China pride and stagnant self-complacency of mankind. This generation inclines a little to congratulate itself on being the last of an illustrious line; and in Boston and London and Paris and Rome, thinking of its long descent, it speaks of its progress in art and science and literature with satisfaction. There are the Records of the Philosophical Societies, and the public Eulogies of Great Men! It is the good Adam contemplating his own virtue. “Yes, we have done great deeds, and sung divine songs, which shall never die,”—that is, as long as we can remember them. The learned societies and great men of Assyria,—where are they? What youthful philosophers and experimentalists we are! There is not one of my readers who has yet lived a whole human life. These may be but the spring months in the life of the race. If we have had the seven-years’ itch, we have not seen the seventeen-year locust yet in Concord. We are acquainted with a mere pellicle of the globe on which we live. Most have not delved six feet beneath the surface, nor leaped as many above it. We know not where we are. Beside, we are sound asleep nearly half our time. Yet we esteem ourselves wise, and have an established order on the surface. Truly, we are deep thinkers, we are ambitious spirits! As I stand over the insect crawling amid the pine needles on the forest floor, and endeavoring to conceal itself from my sight, and ask myself why it will cherish those humble thoughts, and hide its head from me who might, perhaps, be its benefactor, and impart to its race some cheering information, I am reminded of the greater Benefactor and Intelligence that stands over me the human insect.

How long will we sit on our porches practicing stale, idle virtues that any work would make irrelevant? As if someone began the day by practicing patience while hiring a man to hoe his potatoes. Then, in the afternoon, he would go out to practice Christian humility and charity, with goodness planned in advance! Consider humanity’s China-like pride and stagnant self-satisfaction. This generation is somewhat inclined to congratulate itself on being the latest in a distinguished line. In Boston and London and Paris and Rome, people reflect on their long ancestry. They speak with satisfaction about their progress in art and science and literature. There are the Records of the Philosophical Societies, and the public tributes to Great Men! Here is good Adam admiring his own virtue. “Yes, we have done great deeds and sung divine songs that will never die,” meaning, as long as we can remember them. Where are the learned societies and great men of Assyria? What young philosophers and experimenters we are! Not one of my readers has yet lived a whole human life. These may be only the spring months in the life of the human race. If we have had the seven-year itch, we have not yet seen the seventeen-year locust in Concord. We know only a thin skin of the globe we live on. Most people have not dug six feet below its surface or jumped six feet above it. We do not know where we are. Besides, we are sound asleep nearly half the time. Yet we consider ourselves wise and have established an orderly society on the surface. Truly, we are deep thinkers and ambitious spirits! I stand over an insect crawling among the pine needles on the forest floor, trying to hide from me. I ask myself why the insect clings to such lowly thoughts and hides its head from me. Perhaps I could be its benefactor and give its race some encouraging information. As I watch, I am reminded of the greater Benefactor and Intelligence standing over me, the human insect.

There is an incessant influx of novelty into the world, and yet we tolerate incredible dulness. I need only suggest what kind of sermons are still listened to in the most enlightened countries. There are such words as joy and sorrow, but they are only the burden of a psalm, sung with a nasal twang, while we believe in the ordinary and mean. We think that we can change our clothes only. It is said that the British Empire is very large and respectable, and that the United States are a first-rate power. We do not believe that a tide rises and falls behind every man which can float the British Empire like a chip, if he should ever harbor it in his mind. Who knows what sort of seventeen-year locust will next come out of the ground? The government of the world I live in was not framed, like that of Britain, in after-dinner conversations over the wine.

Something new is constantly entering the world, yet we put up with incredible dullness. I need only mention the kinds of sermons people still listen to in the most enlightened countries. Words like joy and sorrow exist, but they are merely refrains in a psalm, sung with a nasal twang. Meanwhile, we put our faith in the ordinary and petty. We think our clothes are the only things we can change. People say the British Empire is very large and respectable, and the United States is a first-rate power. We do not believe that behind every person a tide rises and falls. That tide could float the British Empire like a wood chip, if he ever held it in his mind. Who knows what kind of seventeen-year locust will come out of the ground next? The government of the world I live in was not drawn up like Britain's, in after-dinner conversations over wine.

The life in us is like the water in the river. It may rise this year higher than man has ever known it, and flood the parched uplands; even this may be the eventful year, which will drown out all our muskrats. It was not always dry land where we dwell. I see far inland the banks which the stream anciently washed, before science began to record its freshets. Every one has heard the story which has gone the rounds of New England, of a strong and beautiful bug which came out of the dry leaf of an old table of apple-tree wood, which had stood in a farmer’s kitchen for sixty years, first in Connecticut, and afterward in Massachusetts,—from an egg deposited in the living tree many years earlier still, as appeared by counting the annual layers beyond it; which was heard gnawing out for several weeks, hatched perchance by the heat of an urn. Who does not feel his faith in a resurrection and immortality strengthened by hearing of this? Who knows what beautiful and winged life, whose egg has been buried for ages under many concentric layers of woodenness in the dead dry life of society, deposited at first in the alburnum of the green and living tree, which has been gradually converted into the semblance of its well-seasoned tomb,—heard perchance gnawing out now for years by the astonished family of man, as they sat round the festive board,—may unexpectedly come forth from amidst society’s most trivial and handselled furniture, to enjoy its perfect summer life at last!

The life within us is like the water in a river. This year the water may rise higher than anyone has ever known, flooding the parched uplands. This may even be the momentous year that drowns all our muskrats. The land where we live was not always dry. Far inland, I see banks the river washed long ago, before science began recording its floods. Everyone has heard the story told throughout New England about a strong, beautiful beetle. The beetle emerged from the dry wooden leaf of an old applewood table. The table had stood in a farmer’s kitchen for sixty years, first in Connecticut and later in Massachusetts. The beetle came from an egg laid in the living tree many years before that. The annual growth rings beyond the egg showed how long ago the egg had been laid. For several weeks, people had heard the beetle gnawing its way out. Perhaps the heat of an urn had caused the egg to hatch. Who does not feel their faith in resurrection and immortality strengthened by this story? Who knows what beautiful, winged life may emerge in the same way? Its egg has lain buried for ages beneath many concentric layers of woodenness in society’s dead, dry life. The egg was first laid in the sapwood of the green, living tree. Gradually, that wood became what seemed to be the egg’s dry, seasoned tomb. Perhaps the astonished human family has heard this life gnawing its way out for years while sitting around the festive table. Who knows what life may unexpectedly emerge from society’s most ordinary, well-used furniture, finally to enjoy its full summer life!

I do not say that John or Jonathan will realize all this; but such is the character of that morrow which mere lapse of time can never make to dawn. The light which puts out our eyes is darkness to us. Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.

I do not say that John or Jonathan will realize all this. But that is the kind of tomorrow that the mere passage of time can never bring. Light that blinds us is darkness to us. A day dawns for us only when we are awake to it. There is more day yet to dawn. The sun is only a morning star.