Higher Laws

As I came home through the woods with my string of fish, trailing my pole, it being now quite dark, I caught a glimpse of a woodchuck stealing across my path, and felt a strange thrill of savage delight, and was strongly tempted to seize and devour him raw; not that I was hungry then, except for that wildness which he represented. Once or twice, however, while I lived at the pond, I found myself ranging the woods, like a half-starved hound, with a strange abandonment, seeking some kind of venison which I might devour, and no morsel could have been too savage for me. The wildest scenes had become unaccountably familiar. I found in myself, and still find, an instinct toward a higher, or, as it is named, spiritual life, as do most men, and another toward a primitive rank and savage one, and I reverence them both. I love the wild not less than the good. The wildness and adventure that are in fishing still recommended it to me. I like sometimes to take rank hold on life and spend my day more as the animals do. Perhaps I have owed to this employment and to hunting, when quite young, my closest acquaintance with Nature. They early introduce us to and detain us in scenery with which otherwise, at that age, we should have little acquaintance. Fishermen, hunters, woodchoppers, and others, spending their lives in the fields and woods, in a peculiar sense a part of Nature themselves, are often in a more favorable mood for observing her, in the intervals of their pursuits, than philosophers or poets even, who approach her with expectation. She is not afraid to exhibit herself to them. The traveller on the prairie is naturally a hunter, on the head waters of the Missouri and Columbia a trapper, and at the Falls of St. Mary a fisherman. He who is only a traveller learns things at second-hand and by the halves, and is poor authority. We are most interested when science reports what those men already know practically or instinctively, for that alone is a true humanity, or account of human experience.

I was walking home through the woods with my string of fish, dragging my fishing pole behind me. It was quite dark when I glimpsed a woodchuck slipping across my path. I felt a strange thrill of savage delight and a strong urge to seize him and eat him raw. I was not hungry then, except for the wildness he represented. Once or twice while living at the pond, however, I roamed the woods like a half-starved hound. With a strange lack of restraint, I searched for some kind of game to devour. No morsel could have been too wild for me. The wildest scenes had become familiar, for reasons I could not explain. Like most people, I felt drawn toward a higher life, or what is called a spiritual life. I still feel that pull, along with another toward a primitive, earthy, savage life, and I honor both. I love the wild as much as the good. The wildness and adventure of fishing still appealed to me. Sometimes I like to take a raw, direct hold on life and spend my day more as animals do. Perhaps fishing and hunting when I was very young gave me my closest knowledge of Nature. These pursuits introduce us early to landscapes we would otherwise know little about at that age, and keep us there. Fishermen, hunters, woodcutters, and others spend their lives in the fields and woods. In a special sense, they are part of Nature themselves. During pauses in their work, they are often better prepared to observe her than even philosophers or poets. Philosophers and poets approach her with expectations. She is not afraid to reveal herself to those who work in the fields and woods. A traveler on the prairie naturally becomes a hunter. At the headwaters of the Missouri and Columbia, he becomes a trapper, and at the Falls of St. Mary, a fisherman. Someone who is only a traveler learns things secondhand and incompletely, and is not a reliable source. We are most interested when science reports what those people already know through practice or instinct. For that knowledge alone is a true humanity, or account of human experience.

They mistake who assert that the Yankee has few amusements, because he has not so many public holidays, and men and boys do not play so many games as they do in England, for here the more primitive but solitary amusements of hunting fishing and the like have not yet given place to the former. Almost every New England boy among my contemporaries shouldered a fowling piece between the ages of ten and fourteen; and his hunting and fishing grounds were not limited, like the preserves of an English nobleman, but were more boundless even than those of a savage. No wonder, then, that he did not oftener stay to play on the common. But already a change is taking place, owing, not to an increased humanity, but to an increased scarcity of game, for perhaps the hunter is the greatest friend of the animals hunted, not excepting the Humane Society.

People are mistaken when they say the Yankee has few amusements because he has fewer public holidays. They also point out that men and boys play fewer games here than in England. But here, the simpler, solitary pleasures of hunting, fishing, and the like have not yet given way to organized games. Almost every New England boy of my generation carried a hunting gun sometime between the ages of ten and fourteen. His hunting and fishing grounds were not restricted like an English nobleman’s private game reserves. They were even more boundless than those of a native hunter. No wonder, then, that he did not stay more often to play on the town common. But a change is already taking place, not because of greater compassion, but because game is becoming scarcer. For perhaps the hunter is the greatest friend of the hunted animals, even counting the Humane Society.

Moreover, when at the pond, I wished sometimes to add fish to my fare for variety. I have actually fished from the same kind of necessity that the first fishers did. Whatever humanity I might conjure up against it was all factitious, and concerned my philosophy more than my feelings. I speak of fishing only now, for I had long felt differently about fowling, and sold my gun before I went to the woods. Not that I am less humane than others, but I did not perceive that my feelings were much affected. I did not pity the fishes nor the worms. This was habit. As for fowling, during the last years that I carried a gun my excuse was that I was studying ornithology, and sought only new or rare birds. But I confess that I am now inclined to think that there is a finer way of studying ornithology than this. It requires so much closer attention to the habits of the birds, that, if for that reason only, I have been willing to omit the gun. Yet notwithstanding the objection on the score of humanity, I am compelled to doubt if equally valuable sports are ever substituted for these; and when some of my friends have asked me anxiously about their boys, whether they should let them hunt, I have answered, yes,—remembering that it was one of the best parts of my education,—make them hunters, though sportsmen only at first, if possible, mighty hunters at last, so that they shall not find game large enough for them in this or any vegetable wilderness,—hunters as well as fishers of men. Thus far I am of the opinion of Chaucer’s nun, who

Also, while living at the pond, I sometimes wanted to add fish to my meals for variety. I have actually fished out of the same kind of need as the first people who fished. Any humane objections I could summon were all artificial, based more on my philosophy than on my feelings. I am speaking only of fishing here. I had long felt differently about shooting birds and sold my gun before going to the woods. I was not less humane than others, but I did not notice that fishing affected my feelings much. I felt no pity for the fish or the worms. That lack of pity came from habit. As for shooting birds, during my last years with a gun, my excuse was that I was studying ornithology. I sought only new or rare birds. But I confess that I now lean toward thinking there is a better way to study birds. Studying birds without a gun requires much closer attention to their habits. For that reason alone, I have been willing to leave the gun behind. Yet despite the objection that hunting and fishing are cruel, I must doubt whether equally valuable sports ever replace them. Some friends have anxiously asked whether they should let their boys hunt. I have answered yes, remembering that hunting was one of the best parts of my education. Make them hunters, even if they hunt only for sport at first. If possible, let them become mighty hunters at last. Then they will find no game large enough for them in this wilderness or any other wilderness of plants. Let them be hunters as well as fishers of men. To this extent, I agree with Chaucer’s nun, who

There is a period in the history of the individual, as of the race, when the hunters are the “best men,” as the Algonquins called them. We cannot but pity the boy who has never fired a gun; he is no more humane, while his education has been sadly neglected. This was my answer with respect to those youths who were bent on this pursuit, trusting that they would soon outgrow it. No humane being, past the thoughtless age of boyhood, will wantonly murder any creature which holds its life by the same tenure that he does. The hare in its extremity cries like a child. I warn you, mothers, that my sympathies do not always make the usual phil-anthropic distinctions.

There is a stage in each person’s history, as in humanity’s, when hunters are the “best men,” as the Algonquins called them. We cannot help pitying the boy who has never fired a gun. He is no more humane for it, and his education has been sadly neglected. This was my answer about young people determined to hunt, and I trusted they would soon outgrow hunting. No humane person past the thoughtless age of boyhood will needlessly kill any creature with the same claim to life. A hare cries like a child when in extreme distress. I warn you, mothers, that my sympathies do not always make the usual phil-anthropic distinctions.

Such is oftenest the young man’s introduction to the forest, and the most original part of himself. He goes thither at first as a hunter and fisher, until at last, if he has the seeds of a better life in him, he distinguishes his proper objects, as a poet or naturalist it may be, and leaves the gun and fish-pole behind. The mass of men are still and always young in this respect. In some countries a hunting parson is no uncommon sight. Such a one might make a good shepherd’s dog, but is far from being the Good Shepherd. I have been surprised to consider that the only obvious employment, except wood-chopping, ice-cutting, or the like business, which ever to my knowledge detained at Walden Pond for a whole half day any of my fellow-citizens, whether fathers or children of the town, with just one exception, was fishing. Commonly they did not think that they were lucky, or well paid for their time, unless they got a long string of fish, though they had the opportunity of seeing the pond all the while. They might go there a thousand times before the sediment of fishing would sink to the bottom and leave their purpose pure; but no doubt such a clarifying process would be going on all the while. The governor and his council faintly remember the pond, for they went a-fishing there when they were boys; but now they are too old and dignified to go a-fishing, and so they know it no more forever. Yet even they expect to go to heaven at last. If the legislature regards it, it is chiefly to regulate the number of hooks to be used there; but they know nothing about the hook of hooks with which to angle for the pond itself, impaling the legislature for a bait. Thus, even in civilized communities, the embryo man passes through the hunter stage of development.

This is how a young man most often discovers the forest and the most original part of himself. At first, he goes there to hunt and fish. Eventually, if he has the seeds of a better life within him, he recognizes his true aims. Perhaps he becomes a poet or naturalist and leaves his gun and fishing pole behind. Most men remain forever young in this respect. In some countries, a hunting minister is not an uncommon sight. Such a man might make a good sheepdog, but he is far from being the Good Shepherd. I have been surprised to think how rarely my fellow townspeople spent even half a day at Walden Pond. Apart from chopping wood, cutting ice, or similar work, fishing was the only obvious activity that kept them there. To my knowledge, there was just one exception among all the town’s people, whether parents or children. Usually, they felt neither lucky nor well rewarded for their time unless they caught a long string of fish. Yet they had the chance to look at the pond the whole time. They might visit a thousand times before the sediment of fishing settled, leaving their purpose pure. But no doubt this process of clarification would be happening all along. The governor and his council vaguely remember the pond because they went fishing there as boys. But now they are too old and dignified to go fishing, so they will never know the pond again. Yet even they expect to reach heaven in the end. If the legislature pays attention to the pond, its main concern is regulating how many hooks people may use there. But legislators know nothing of the supreme hook that could catch the pond itself, with the legislature impaled as bait. So, even in civilized communities, the human being in the making passes through the hunter stage of development.

I have found repeatedly, of late years, that I cannot fish without falling a little in self-respect. I have tried it again and again. I have skill at it, and, like many of my fellows, a certain instinct for it, which revives from time to time, but always when I have done I feel that it would have been better if I had not fished. I think that I do not mistake. It is a faint intimation, yet so are the first streaks of morning. There is unquestionably this instinct in me which belongs to the lower orders of creation; yet with every year I am less a fisherman, though without more humanity or even wisdom; at present I am no fisherman at all. But I see that if I were to live in a wilderness I should again be tempted to become a fisher and hunter in earnest. Beside, there is something essentially unclean about this diet and all flesh, and I began to see where housework commences, and whence the endeavor, which costs so much, to wear a tidy and respectable appearance each day, to keep the house sweet and free from all ill odors and sights. Having been my own butcher and scullion and cook, as well as the gentleman for whom the dishes were served up, I can speak from an unusually complete experience. The practical objection to animal food in my case was its uncleanness; and, besides, when I had caught and cleaned and cooked and eaten my fish, they seemed not to have fed me essentially. It was insignificant and unnecessary, and cost more than it came to. A little bread or a few potatoes would have done as well, with less trouble and filth. Like many of my contemporaries, I had rarely for many years used animal food, or tea, or coffee, &c.; not so much because of any ill effects which I had traced to them, as because they were not agreeable to my imagination. The repugnance to animal food is not the effect of experience, but is an instinct. It appeared more beautiful to live low and fare hard in many respects; and though I never did so, I went far enough to please my imagination. I believe that every man who has ever been earnest to preserve his higher or poetic faculties in the best condition has been particularly inclined to abstain from animal food, and from much food of any kind. It is a significant fact, stated by entomologists, I find it in Kirby and Spence, that “some insects in their perfect state, though furnished with organs of feeding, make no use of them;” and they lay it down as “a general rule, that almost all insects in this state eat much less than in that of larvæ. The voracious caterpillar when transformed into a butterfly,” . . “and the gluttonous maggot when become a fly,” content themselves with a drop or two of honey or some other sweet liquid. The abdomen under the wings of the butterfly still represents the larva. This is the tid-bit which tempts his insectivorous fate. The gross feeder is a man in the larva state; and there are whole nations in that condition, nations without fancy or imagination, whose vast abdomens betray them.

In recent years, I have repeatedly found that fishing lowers my self-respect a little. I have tried again and again. I am good at fishing and, like many others, have a certain instinct for it that returns from time to time. But whenever I finish, I feel I would have been better off not fishing. I think I am not mistaken. The feeling is faint, but so are the first streaks of dawn. I undoubtedly have this instinct, which belongs to the lower forms of life. Yet each year I become less of a fisherman, though no more humane or even wise. At present, I am no fisherman at all. But I see that living in the wilderness would tempt me to become a serious fisherman and hunter again. Besides, there is something fundamentally unclean about eating fish or any other flesh. I began to see where housework starts. I also understood the source of the costly effort to look neat and respectable each day. The same effort keeps a house fresh and free of unpleasant smells and sights. I have been my own butcher, dishwasher, and cook, as well as the gentleman served at the table. So I can speak from an unusually complete experience. My practical objection to animal food was its uncleanness. Besides, after catching, cleaning, cooking, and eating my fish, I felt they had not truly nourished me. The whole business was trivial and unnecessary, and cost more than it was worth. A little bread or a few potatoes would have served as well, with less trouble and filth. Like many people of my time, I had rarely consumed animal food, tea, coffee, and similar things for many years. This was less because I had noticed harmful effects than because these things did not appeal to my imagination. The aversion to animal food comes not from experience but from instinct. Living simply and accepting hardship in many ways seemed more beautiful to me. Though I never fully lived that way, I went far enough to satisfy my imagination. I believe this is true of every man who has seriously tried to keep his higher or poetic powers at their best. Every such man has been especially inclined to avoid animal food and to eat little food of any kind. In Kirby and Spence, I find a significant fact reported by insect experts. They state that “some insects, in their fully developed state, have feeding organs but make no use of them.” They also give “a general rule: almost all insects in this state eat much less than they did as larvae. The ravenous caterpillar, once transformed into a butterfly,” . . “and the gluttonous maggot, once it becomes a fly,” are satisfied with a drop or two of honey or another sweet liquid. The abdomen beneath a butterfly’s wings still represents the larva. This is the tasty morsel that tempts the insect-eating creature destined to devour the butterfly. A glutton is a man still in the larval stage. Whole nations remain in that condition, nations without fancy or imagination, betrayed by their enormous bellies.

It is hard to provide and cook so simple and clean a diet as will not offend the imagination; but this, I think, is to be fed when we feed the body; they should both sit down at the same table. Yet perhaps this may be done. The fruits eaten temperately need not make us ashamed of our appetites, nor interrupt the worthiest pursuits. But put an extra condiment into your dish, and it will poison you. It is not worth the while to live by rich cookery. Most men would feel shame if caught preparing with their own hands precisely such a dinner, whether of animal or vegetable food, as is every day prepared for them by others. Yet till this is otherwise we are not civilized, and, if gentlemen and ladies, are not true men and women. This certainly suggests what change is to be made. It may be vain to ask why the imagination will not be reconciled to flesh and fat. I am satisfied that it is not. Is it not a reproach that man is a carnivorous animal? True, he can and does live, in a great measure, by preying on other animals; but this is a miserable way,—as any one who will go to snaring rabbits, or slaughtering lambs, may learn,—and he will be regarded as a benefactor of his race who shall teach man to confine himself to a more innocent and wholesome diet. Whatever my own practice may be, I have no doubt that it is a part of the destiny of the human race, in its gradual improvement, to leave off eating animals, as surely as the savage tribes have left off eating each other when they came in contact with the more civilized.

It is hard to find and prepare food so simple and pure that it does not offend the imagination. But I think the imagination should be fed when we feed the body. Both should sit down at the same table. Yet perhaps we can manage this. Fruit eaten in moderation need not make us ashamed of our appetites or interrupt our worthiest pursuits. But add an extra seasoning to your dish, and it will poison you. Rich cooking is not worth living on. Most men would feel ashamed if caught preparing exactly the kind of dinner others prepare for them every day. This is true whether the food comes from animals or plants. Yet until that changes, we are not civilized. Even if we are gentlemen and ladies, we are not true men and women. This shame certainly suggests what needs to change. It may be pointless to ask why the imagination cannot accept flesh and fat. I am convinced that it cannot. Is it not a disgrace that human beings eat meat? True, people can and do live largely by preying on other animals. But this is a miserable way to live. Anyone who tries snaring rabbits or slaughtering lambs can learn that. Whoever teaches people to limit themselves to a more innocent and wholesome diet will be considered a benefactor of humanity. Whatever my own habits may be, I have no doubt that humanity will eventually stop eating animals as it gradually improves. This is as certain as the fact that tribes called savage stopped eating one another after encountering more civilized peoples.

If one listens to the faintest but constant suggestions of his genius, which are certainly true, he sees not to what extremes, or even insanity, it may lead him; and yet that way, as he grows more resolute and faithful, his road lies. The faintest assured objection which one healthy man feels will at length prevail over the arguments and customs of mankind. No man ever followed his genius till it misled him. Though the result were bodily weakness, yet perhaps no one can say that the consequences were to be regretted, for these were a life in conformity to higher principles. If the day and the night are such that you greet them with joy, and life emits a fragrance like flowers and sweet-scented herbs, is more elastic, more starry, more immortal,—that is your success. All nature is your congratulation, and you have cause momentarily to bless yourself. The greatest gains and values are farthest from being appreciated. We easily come to doubt if they exist. We soon forget them. They are the highest reality. Perhaps the facts most astounding and most real are never communicated by man to man. The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening. It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched.

If you listen to the faintest but constant guidance of your inner genius, that guidance is certainly true. You cannot see what extremes, or even madness, your genius may lead you to. Yet as you grow more determined and faithful, your path leads in that direction. The faintest firm objection felt by one healthy person will eventually overcome humanity’s arguments and customs. No one has ever been led astray by following his genius. Even if the result were physical weakness, perhaps no one could say the consequences were regrettable. Those consequences meant a life lived according to higher principles. If you greet both day and night with joy, and life gives off a fragrance like flowers and sweet-smelling herbs, that is your success. If life feels more resilient, more full of stars, more immortal, that is your success. All nature congratulates you, and you have reason to bless yourself at every moment. The greatest gains and the things of greatest value are the least appreciated. We easily begin to doubt whether they exist. We soon forget them. They are the highest reality. Perhaps the most astonishing and real facts are never shared from one person to another. The true harvest of my daily life is as hard to grasp and describe as morning or evening colors. It is a little stardust caught, a piece of the rainbow I have grasped.

Yet, for my part, I was never unusually squeamish; I could sometimes eat a fried rat with a good relish, if it were necessary. I am glad to have drunk water so long, for the same reason that I prefer the natural sky to an opium-eater’s heaven. I would fain keep sober always; and there are infinite degrees of drunkenness. I believe that water is the only drink for a wise man; wine is not so noble a liquor; and think of dashing the hopes of a morning with a cup of warm coffee, or of an evening with a dish of tea! Ah, how low I fall when I am tempted by them! Even music may be intoxicating. Such apparently slight causes destroyed Greece and Rome, and will destroy England and America. Of all ebriosity, who does not prefer to be intoxicated by the air he breathes? I have found it to be the most serious objection to coarse labors long continued, that they compelled me to eat and drink coarsely also. But to tell the truth, I find myself at present somewhat less particular in these respects. I carry less religion to the table, ask no blessing; not because I am wiser than I was, but, I am obliged to confess, because, however much it is to be regretted, with years I have grown more coarse and indifferent. Perhaps these questions are entertained only in youth, as most believe of poetry. My practice is “nowhere,” my opinion is here. Nevertheless I am far from regarding myself as one of those privileged ones to whom the Ved refers when it says, that “he who has true faith in the Omnipresent Supreme Being may eat all that exists,” that is, is not bound to inquire what is his food, or who prepares it; and even in their case it is to be observed, as a Hindoo commentator has remarked, that the Vedant limits this privilege to “the time of distress.”

Yet for my part, I was never especially squeamish. If necessary, I could sometimes eat a fried rat with real enjoyment. I am glad to have drunk water for so long, just as I prefer the natural sky to an opium-eater’s heaven. I would like to stay sober always, and there are endless degrees of drunkenness. I believe water is the only drink for a wise man. Wine is a less noble drink. And think of ruining a morning’s promise with a cup of warm coffee, or an evening’s with a cup of tea! Ah, how low I fall when those drinks tempt me! Even music can be intoxicating. Such seemingly minor causes destroyed Greece and Rome, and will destroy England and America. Of all forms of intoxication, who would not prefer to be intoxicated by the air he breathes? I have found one objection to long stretches of hard physical labor more serious than any other. Such labor forced me to eat and drink crudely as well. But to tell the truth, I am now somewhat less particular about eating and drinking. I bring less religious feeling to the table and ask no blessing. This is not because I am wiser than I was. Instead, I must confess, regrettably, that I have grown coarser and more indifferent with age. Perhaps these questions concern us only in youth, as most people believe is true of poetry. My practice is “nowhere,” but my opinion is here. Nevertheless, I am far from considering myself among the privileged people described by the Ved. The Ved says that “he who has true faith in the Omnipresent Supreme Being may eat all that exists.” In other words, such a person need not ask what his food is or who prepares it. Yet even for these people, the privilege has a limit, as a Hindu commentator has noted. The Vedant restricts the privilege to “the time of distress.”

Who has not sometimes derived an inexpressible satisfaction from his food in which appetite had no share? I have been thrilled to think that I owed a mental perception to the commonly gross sense of taste, that I have been inspired through the palate, that some berries which I had eaten on a hill-side had fed my genius. “The soul not being mistress of herself,” says Thseng-tseu, “one looks, and one does not see; one listens, and one does not hear; one eats, and one does not know the savor of food.” He who distinguishes the true savor of his food can never be a glutton; he who does not cannot be otherwise. A puritan may go to his brown-bread crust with as gross an appetite as ever an alderman to his turtle. Not that food which entereth into the mouth defileth a man, but the appetite with which it is eaten. It is neither the quality nor the quantity, but the devotion to sensual savors; when that which is eaten is not a viand to sustain our animal, or inspire our spiritual life, but food for the worms that possess us. If the hunter has a taste for mud-turtles, muskrats, and other such savage tid-bits, the fine lady indulges a taste for jelly made of a calf’s foot, or for sardines from over the sea, and they are even. He goes to the mill-pond, she to her preserve-pot. The wonder is how they, how you and I, can live this slimy, beastly life, eating and drinking.

Who has not sometimes felt an indescribable satisfaction from food that had nothing to do with appetite? I have been thrilled to think I owed a mental insight to the usually crude sense of taste. I have felt inspired through my palate. Some berries I ate on a hillside had nourished my genius. “When the soul is not in command of itself,” says Thseng-tseu, “we look but do not see. We listen but do not hear. We eat but do not know the flavor of food.” Anyone who recognizes the true flavor of food can never be a glutton. Anyone who does not can be nothing else. A puritan may approach his brown-bread crust with as crude an appetite as an alderman brings to his turtle soup. What goes into a person's mouth does not corrupt them. The appetite with which they eat does. Neither the quality nor the quantity of food is the problem, but devotion to sensual flavors. Then what we eat neither sustains our animal life nor inspires our spiritual life. Instead, the food feeds the worms that possess us. If the hunter enjoys mud turtles, muskrats, and other such wild delicacies, the fine lady has her own tastes. She enjoys jelly made from a calf's foot or sardines from across the sea, and the two are equals. He goes to the millpond, she to her jar of preserves. The wonder is how they, how you and I, can live this slimy, beastly life of eating and drinking.

Our whole life is startlingly moral. There is never an instant’s truce between virtue and vice. Goodness is the only investment that never fails. In the music of the harp which trembles round the world it is the insisting on this which thrills us. The harp is the travelling patterer for the Universe’s Insurance Company, recommending its laws, and our little goodness is all the assessment that we pay. Though the youth at last grows indifferent, the laws of the universe are not indifferent, but are forever on the side of the most sensitive. Listen to every zephyr for some reproof, for it is surely there, and he is unfortunate who does not hear it. We cannot touch a string or move a stop but the charming moral transfixes us. Many an irksome noise, go a long way off, is heard as music, a proud sweet satire on the meanness of our lives.

Our whole life is strikingly moral. There is never a moment’s truce between virtue and vice. Goodness is the only investment that never fails. The harp’s music vibrates around the world, and its insistence on this truth is what moves us. The harp is the traveling salesperson for the Universe’s Insurance Company, promoting its laws. Our small acts of goodness are the entire premium we pay. Though young people eventually grow indifferent, the laws of the universe do not. Those laws are forever on the side of the most sensitive. Listen for some criticism in every gentle breeze, for the criticism is surely there. Anyone who fails to hear it is unfortunate. We cannot pluck a string or adjust an organ stop without being transfixed by the enchanting moral lesson. Many an irritating noise sounds like music when heard from far away. It becomes a proud, sweet satire on the pettiness of our lives.

We are conscious of an animal in us, which awakens in proportion as our higher nature slumbers. It is reptile and sensual, and perhaps cannot be wholly expelled; like the worms which, even in life and health, occupy our bodies. Possibly we may withdraw from it, but never change its nature. I fear that it may enjoy a certain health of its own; that we may be well, yet not pure. The other day I picked up the lower jaw of a hog, with white and sound teeth and tusks, which suggested that there was an animal health and vigor distinct from the spiritual. This creature succeeded by other means than temperance and purity. “That in which men differ from brute beasts,” says Mencius, “is a thing very inconsiderable; the common herd lose it very soon; superior men preserve it carefully.” Who knows what sort of life would result if we had attained to purity? If I knew so wise a man as could teach me purity I would go to seek him forthwith. “A command over our passions, and over the external senses of the body, and good acts, are declared by the Ved to be indispensable in the mind’s approximation to God.” Yet the spirit can for the time pervade and control every member and function of the body, and transmute what in form is the grossest sensuality into purity and devotion. The generative energy, which, when we are loose, dissipates and makes us unclean, when we are continent invigorates and inspires us. Chastity is the flowering of man; and what are called Genius, Heroism, Holiness, and the like, are but various fruits which succeed it. Man flows at once to God when the channel of purity is open. By turns our purity inspires and our impurity casts us down. He is blessed who is assured that the animal is dying out in him day by day, and the divine being established. Perhaps there is none but has cause for shame on account of the inferior and brutish nature to which he is allied. I fear that we are such gods or demigods only as fauns and satyrs, the divine allied to beasts, the creatures of appetite, and that, to some extent, our very life is our disgrace.—

We sense an animal within us that wakes as our higher nature falls asleep. This animal is reptile-like and driven by the senses, and perhaps we cannot drive it out completely. It is like the worms that live in our bodies even when we are alive and healthy. Possibly we can distance ourselves from this animal nature, but we can never change it. I fear that our animal nature may have a health of its own. We may be healthy without being pure. The other day I picked up a hog’s lower jaw, with white, healthy teeth and tusks. The jaw suggested a kind of animal health and strength separate from spiritual health. This creature had thrived through means other than moderation and purity. “The difference between human beings and brute beasts,” says Mencius, “is very small. Ordinary people lose that difference very quickly. Superior people preserve it carefully.” Who knows what kind of life we would lead if we had achieved purity? If I knew someone wise enough to teach me purity, I would seek him out immediately. “The Ved declares that control over our passions and bodily senses, along with good actions, is essential. These are necessary for the mind to draw closer to God.” Yet, for a time, the spirit can fill and control every part and function of the body. It can transform what appears to be the crudest sensuality into purity and devotion. When we lack sexual restraint, our sexual energy drains us and makes us impure. When we practice restraint, that energy strengthens and inspires us. Chastity is human nature in bloom. What we call Genius, Heroism, Holiness, and similar qualities are simply the different fruits that follow that flowering. A person flows straight toward God when the channel of purity is open. In turn, our purity lifts us up, and our impurity brings us down. Blessed is the person who knows that the animal within him is dying out day by day. He knows that the divine is taking hold within him. Perhaps everyone has reason to feel ashamed of the lower, brutish nature to which we are connected. I fear we are gods or demigods only in the way that fauns and satyrs are. In us, the divine is joined to beasts, creatures ruled by appetite. And I fear that, to some extent, our very life is our disgrace.

All sensuality is one, though it takes many forms; all purity is one. It is the same whether a man eat, or drink, or cohabit, or sleep sensually. They are but one appetite, and we only need to see a person do any one of these things to know how great a sensualist he is. The impure can neither stand nor sit with purity. When the reptile is attacked at one mouth of his burrow, he shows himself at another. If you would be chaste, you must be temperate. What is chastity? How shall a man know if he is chaste? He shall not know it. We have heard of this virtue, but we know not what it is. We speak conformably to the rumor which we have heard. From exertion come wisdom and purity; from sloth ignorance and sensuality. In the student sensuality is a sluggish habit of mind. An unclean person is universally a slothful one, one who sits by a stove, whom the sun shines on prostrate, who reposes without being fatigued. If you would avoid uncleanness, and all the sins, work earnestly, though it be at cleaning a stable. Nature is hard to be overcome, but she must be overcome. What avails it that you are Christian, if you are not purer than the heathen, if you deny yourself no more, if you are not more religious? I know of many systems of religion esteemed heathenish whose precepts fill the reader with shame, and provoke him to new endeavors, though it be to the performance of rites merely.

All sensuality is one, though it takes many forms. All purity is one. Whether a man eats, drinks, has sex, or sleeps sensually, the impulse is the same. These are all expressions of one appetite. We need only watch someone do any one of these things to know how sensual he is. An impure person can neither stand nor sit in purity. When a reptile is attacked at one entrance to its burrow, it appears at another. If you want to be chaste, you must practice moderation. What is chastity? How can a man know whether he is chaste? He cannot know. We have heard of this virtue, but we do not know what it is. We speak according to what we have heard. Effort brings wisdom and purity. Laziness brings ignorance and sensuality. In a student, sensuality is a sluggish habit of mind. An impure person is always lazy. He sits by a stove, lies stretched out in the sun, and rests without being tired. If you want to avoid impurity and all sins, work earnestly, even if your work is cleaning a stable. Nature is hard to overcome, but she must be overcome. What good is being Christian if you are no purer than a heathen? What good is being Christian if you practice no more self-denial and are no more religious? I know many religions regarded as heathen whose teachings fill readers with shame and spur them to fresh efforts. Those efforts may involve nothing more than performing rituals.

I hesitate to say these things, but it is not because of the subject,—I care not how obscene my words are,—but because I cannot speak of them without betraying my impurity. We discourse freely without shame of one form of sensuality, and are silent about another. We are so degraded that we cannot speak simply of the necessary functions of human nature. In earlier ages, in some countries, every function was reverently spoken of and regulated by law. Nothing was too trivial for the Hindoo lawgiver, however offensive it may be to modern taste. He teaches how to eat, drink, cohabit, void excrement and urine, and the like, elevating what is mean, and does not falsely excuse himself by calling these things trifles.

I hesitate to say these things, but not because of the subject. I do not care how obscene my words are. But I cannot discuss these things without revealing my own impurity. We talk freely and without shame about one form of sensual pleasure, but stay silent about another. We are so degraded that we cannot speak plainly about the necessary functions of the human body. In earlier times, in some countries, every bodily function was spoken of with reverence and governed by law. Nothing was too trivial for the Hindoo lawgiver, however offensive modern readers may find such matters. He teaches people how to eat, drink, have sex, empty their bowels, urinate, and so on. In doing so, he gives dignity to lowly things. He does not make false excuses for ignoring these matters by calling them trivial.

Every man is the builder of a temple, called his body, to the god he worships, after a style purely his own, nor can he get off by hammering marble instead. We are all sculptors and painters, and our material is our own flesh and blood and bones. Any nobleness begins at once to refine a man’s features, any meanness or sensuality to imbrute them.

Every man builds a temple, his own body, for the god he worships. He builds in a style entirely his own. He cannot escape this work by carving marble instead. We are all sculptors and painters, and our materials are our own flesh, blood, and bones. Anything noble in a man immediately begins to refine his features. Anything mean or driven by physical appetites begins to make his features more beastlike.

John Farmer sat at his door one September evening, after a hard day’s work, his mind still running on his labor more or less. Having bathed, he sat down to re-create his intellectual man. It was a rather cool evening, and some of his neighbors were apprehending a frost. He had not attended to the train of his thoughts long when he heard some one playing on a flute, and that sound harmonized with his mood. Still he thought of his work; but the burden of his thought was, that though this kept running in his head, and he found himself planning and contriving it against his will, yet it concerned him very little. It was no more than the scurf of his skin, which was constantly shuffled off. But the notes of the flute came home to his ears out of a different sphere from that he worked in, and suggested work for certain faculties which slumbered in him. They gently did away with the street, and the village, and the state in which he lived. A voice said to him,—Why do you stay here and live this mean moiling life, when a glorious existence is possible for you? Those same stars twinkle over other fields than these.—But how to come out of this condition and actually migrate thither? All that he could think of was to practise some new austerity, to let his mind descend into his body and redeem it, and treat himself with ever increasing respect.

John Farmer sat at his door one September evening after a hard day’s work. His mind was still more or less occupied with his work. After bathing, he sat down to refresh his mind. The evening was rather cool, and some of his neighbors feared a frost. He had not followed his thoughts for long when he heard someone playing a flute. The sound matched his mood. He still thought about his work, but his main thought was how little the work really concerned him. Although the work kept running through his head, and he found himself planning and organizing against his will, it mattered little. It was no more than the dead skin he was constantly shedding. But the flute’s notes reached his ears from a world different from the one he worked in. The notes suggested tasks for abilities that lay asleep within him. They gently swept away the street, the village, and the state where he lived. A voice said to him: Why do you stay here, living this small life of toil, when a glorious life is possible for you? Those same stars twinkle over other fields besides these. But how could he escape his present condition and actually move to that other life? All he could think of was to practice some new form of self-denial. He could let his mind reach down into his body and redeem it, and treat himself with ever greater respect.