Solitude

This is a delicious evening, when the whole body is one sense, and imbibes delight through every pore. I go and come with a strange liberty in Nature, a part of herself. As I walk along the stony shore of the pond in my shirt sleeves, though it is cool as well as cloudy and windy, and I see nothing special to attract me, all the elements are unusually congenial to me. The bullfrogs trump to usher in the night, and the note of the whippoorwill is borne on the rippling wind from over the water. Sympathy with the fluttering alder and poplar leaves almost takes away my breath; yet, like the lake, my serenity is rippled but not ruffled. These small waves raised by the evening wind are as remote from storm as the smooth reflecting surface. Though it is now dark, the wind still blows and roars in the wood, the waves still dash, and some creatures lull the rest with their notes. The repose is never complete. The wildest animals do not repose, but seek their prey now; the fox, and skunk, and rabbit, now roam the fields and woods without fear. They are Nature’s watchmen,—links which connect the days of animated life.

This is a delightful evening, when my whole body becomes one sense and absorbs pleasure through every pore. I come and go with a strange freedom in Nature, as part of Nature herself. I walk along the pond’s rocky shore in my shirt sleeves, though the weather is cool, cloudy, and windy. Though I see nothing in particular to attract me, all the elements feel unusually welcoming. The bullfrogs trumpet to welcome the night. The whippoorwill’s call travels across the water on the rippling wind. My connection with the fluttering alder and poplar leaves almost takes my breath away. Yet, like the lake, my calm is rippled but not disturbed. These small waves raised by the evening wind are as far from a storm as the smooth, reflecting surface. Though darkness has fallen, the wind still blows and roars in the woods, and the waves still crash. Some creatures soothe the rest with their calls. The rest is never complete. The wildest animals do not rest but seek their prey now. The fox, skunk, and rabbit now roam the fields and woods without fear. They are Nature’s watchmen, links connecting one day of active life to the next.

When I return to my house I find that visitors have been there and left their cards, either a bunch of flowers, or a wreath of evergreen, or a name in pencil on a yellow walnut leaf or a chip. They who come rarely to the woods take some little piece of the forest into their hands to play with by the way, which they leave, either intentionally or accidentally. One has peeled a willow wand, woven it into a ring, and dropped it on my table. I could always tell if visitors had called in my absence, either by the bended twigs or grass, or the print of their shoes, and generally of what sex or age or quality they were by some slight trace left, as a flower dropped, or a bunch of grass plucked and thrown away, even as far off as the railroad, half a mile distant, or by the lingering odor of a cigar or pipe. Nay, I was frequently notified of the passage of a traveller along the highway sixty rods off by the scent of his pipe.

When I return to my house, I find that visitors have been there and left their calling cards. These may be flowers, an evergreen wreath, or a name penciled on a yellow walnut leaf or wood chip. People who rarely visit the woods pick up some small piece of the forest to play with along the way. They leave these things behind, either on purpose or by accident. One visitor peeled a willow twig, wove it into a ring, and dropped it on my table. I could always tell if visitors had stopped by while I was away. Bent twigs or grass, or shoeprints, gave them away. And I could generally tell their sex, age, or social standing from some slight trace they left. A dropped flower or a handful of grass, plucked and thrown away, could tell me. I could spot such traces even as far away as the railroad, half a mile off. The lingering smell of a cigar or pipe could also tell me about my visitors. Indeed, I often knew that a traveler was passing along the road sixty rods away by smelling his pipe.

There is commonly sufficient space about us. Our horizon is never quite at our elbows. The thick wood is not just at our door, nor the pond, but somewhat is always clearing, familiar and worn by us, appropriated and fenced in some way, and reclaimed from Nature. For what reason have I this vast range and circuit, some square miles of unfrequented forest, for my privacy, abandoned to me by men? My nearest neighbor is a mile distant, and no house is visible from any place but the hill-tops within half a mile of my own. I have my horizon bounded by woods all to myself; a distant view of the railroad where it touches the pond on the one hand, and of the fence which skirts the woodland road on the other. But for the most part it is as solitary where I live as on the prairies. It is as much Asia or Africa as New England. I have, as it were, my own sun and moon and stars, and a little world all to myself. At night there was never a traveller passed my house, or knocked at my door, more than if I were the first or last man; unless it were in the spring, when at long intervals some came from the village to fish for pouts,—they plainly fished much more in the Walden Pond of their own natures, and baited their hooks with darkness,—but they soon retreated, usually with light baskets, and left “the world to darkness and to me,” and the black kernel of the night was never profaned by any human neighborhood. I believe that men are generally still a little afraid of the dark, though the witches are all hung, and Christianity and candles have been introduced.

There is usually enough space around us. Our horizon is never right at our elbows. The dense woods are not right outside our door, nor is the pond. There is always some cleared ground, familiar and worn by our use. We have claimed it, fenced it in somehow, and taken it back from Nature. Why do I have this vast stretch of land, several square miles of rarely visited forest, for my privacy? Why have other people left it all to me? My nearest neighbor is a mile away. Within half a mile of my house, no other house is visible except from the hilltops. I have a horizon bounded by woods all to myself. On one side, I can see the distant railroad where it touches the pond. On the other, I can see the fence along the woodland road. But for the most part, my home is as solitary as the prairies. It is as much Asia or Africa as New England. I have, so to speak, my own sun and moon and stars, and a little world all to myself. At night, no traveler ever passed my house or knocked at my door. I might as well have been the first or last person alive. The only exception was in spring, when people occasionally came from the village to fish for pouts, a kind of catfish. They plainly did far more fishing in the Walden Pond of their own natures, baiting their hooks with darkness. But they soon withdrew, usually with nearly empty baskets, and left “the world to darkness and to me,”. No human presence ever intruded on the black heart of the night. I believe people are generally still a little afraid of the dark. This fear remains even though the witches have all been hanged, and Christianity and candles have been introduced.

Yet I experienced sometimes that the most sweet and tender, the most innocent and encouraging society may be found in any natural object, even for the poor misanthrope and most melancholy man. There can be no very black melancholy to him who lives in the midst of Nature and has his senses still. There was never yet such a storm but it was Æolian music to a healthy and innocent ear. Nothing can rightly compel a simple and brave man to a vulgar sadness. While I enjoy the friendship of the seasons I trust that nothing can make life a burden to me. The gentle rain which waters my beans and keeps me in the house to-day is not drear and melancholy, but good for me too. Though it prevents my hoeing them, it is of far more worth than my hoeing. If it should continue so long as to cause the seeds to rot in the ground and destroy the potatoes in the low lands, it would still be good for the grass on the uplands, and, being good for the grass, it would be good for me. Sometimes, when I compare myself with other men, it seems as if I were more favored by the gods than they, beyond any deserts that I am conscious of; as if I had a warrant and surety at their hands which my fellows have not, and were especially guided and guarded. I do not flatter myself, but if it be possible they flatter me. I have never felt lonesome, or in the least oppressed by a sense of solitude, but once, and that was a few weeks after I came to the woods, when, for an hour, I doubted if the near neighborhood of man was not essential to a serene and healthy life. To be alone was something unpleasant. But I was at the same time conscious of a slight insanity in my mood, and seemed to foresee my recovery. In the midst of a gentle rain while these thoughts prevailed, I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in Nature, in the very pattering of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my house, an infinite and unaccountable friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them since. Every little pine needle expanded and swelled with sympathy and befriended me. I was so distinctly made aware of the presence of something kindred to me, even in scenes which we are accustomed to call wild and dreary, and also that the nearest of blood to me and humanest was not a person nor a villager, that I thought no place could ever be strange to me again.—

Yet I sometimes found the sweetest, gentlest, most innocent and encouraging companionship in any natural object. Even a poor hater of humanity or the most deeply unhappy person may find such companionship. No one who lives among Nature and still has their senses can suffer very dark despair. No storm has ever failed to sound like wind-played music to a healthy and innocent ear. Nothing can rightly force a simple, brave person into ordinary sadness. As long as I enjoy the friendship of the seasons, I trust that nothing can make life a burden. The gentle rain watering my beans and keeping me indoors today is not dreary or depressing. The rain is good for me too. Though the rain prevents me from hoeing my beans, the rain is worth far more than my hoeing. Suppose the rain lasted so long that the seeds rotted underground and the potatoes in low ground were destroyed. Even then, the rain would still be good for the grass on higher ground. And because the rain would benefit the grass, the rain would benefit me. Sometimes, when I compare myself with other people, I seem more favored by the gods than they are. Their favor seems far greater than anything I know I deserve. I feel as if the gods have given me a promise and guarantee that others lack. I feel as if I am especially guided and protected. I do not flatter myself, but perhaps the gods flatter me. I have felt lonely, or at all weighed down by solitude, only once. That was a few weeks after I came to the woods. For an hour, I wondered whether having people nearby was essential to a peaceful, healthy life. Being alone felt unpleasant. But I also recognized a slight irrationality in my mood and seemed to foresee my recovery. While these thoughts occupied me during a gentle rain, I suddenly felt such sweet and helpful companionship in Nature. I felt that companionship in the pattering drops and in every sound and sight around my house. All at once, an endless, inexplicable friendliness surrounded and supported me like the air. That friendliness made the supposed advantages of having human neighbors seem insignificant. I have never thought of those advantages since. Every little pine needle opened and swelled with sympathy and befriended me. I became distinctly aware of something akin to me, even in scenes we usually call wild and dreary. I also realized that my closest relative, and the most human presence, was neither a person nor a villager. I felt that no place could ever seem strange to me again.

Some of my pleasantest hours were during the long rain storms in the spring or fall, which confined me to the house for the afternoon as well as the forenoon, soothed by their ceaseless roar and pelting; when an early twilight ushered in a long evening in which many thoughts had time to take root and unfold themselves. In those driving north-east rains which tried the village houses so, when the maids stood ready with mop and pail in front entries to keep the deluge out, I sat behind my door in my little house, which was all entry, and thoroughly enjoyed its protection. In one heavy thunder shower the lightning struck a large pitch-pine across the pond, making a very conspicuous and perfectly regular spiral groove from top to bottom, an inch or more deep, and four or five inches wide, as you would groove a walking-stick. I passed it again the other day, and was struck with awe on looking up and beholding that mark, now more distinct than ever, where a terrific and resistless bolt came down out of the harmless sky eight years ago. Men frequently say to me, “I should think you would feel lonesome down there, and want to be nearer to folks, rainy and snowy days and nights especially.” I am tempted to reply to such,—This whole earth which we inhabit is but a point in space. How far apart, think you, dwell the two most distant inhabitants of yonder star, the breadth of whose disk cannot be appreciated by our instruments? Why should I feel lonely? is not our planet in the Milky Way? This which you put seems to me not to be the most important question. What sort of space is that which separates a man from his fellows and makes him solitary? I have found that no exertion of the legs can bring two minds much nearer to one another. What do we want most to dwell near to? Not to many men surely, the depot, the post-office, the bar-room, the meeting-house, the school-house, the grocery, Beacon Hill, or the Five Points, where men most congregate, but to the perennial source of our life, whence in all our experience we have found that to issue, as the willow stands near the water and sends out its roots in that direction. This will vary with different natures, but this is the place where a wise man will dig his cellar.... I one evening overtook one of my townsmen, who has accumulated what is called “a handsome property,”—though I never got a fair view of it,—on the Walden road, driving a pair of cattle to market, who inquired of me how I could bring my mind to give up so many of the comforts of life. I answered that I was very sure I liked it passably well; I was not joking. And so I went home to my bed, and left him to pick his way through the darkness and the mud to Brighton,—or Bright-town,—which place he would reach some time in the morning.

Some of my happiest hours came during the long rainstorms in spring or fall. The storms kept me inside all afternoon as well as all morning. Their constant roar and pounding soothed me. An early twilight brought on a long evening, giving many thoughts time to take root and unfold. Those driving northeast rains put the village houses to a hard test. Maids waited in the front entryways with mops and buckets to keep the flood out. Meanwhile, I sat behind my door in my little house, which was practically all entryway, and thoroughly enjoyed its shelter. During one heavy thunderstorm, lightning struck a large pitch-pine across the pond. The lightning cut a strikingly clear, perfectly regular spiral groove from top to bottom, like a groove carved into a walking stick. The groove was an inch or more deep and four or five inches wide. I passed the tree again the other day. Looking up at that mark, now clearer than ever, I felt awe. Eight years ago, a terrifying, unstoppable bolt had come down from the harmless sky and left that mark. People often say to me, “I would think you’d feel lonely down there and want to be nearer other people. Especially on rainy and snowy days and nights.” I am tempted to answer them like this: The whole earth we live on is only a point in space. Consider that star over there, whose disk is too small for our instruments to measure. How far apart do you think its two most distant inhabitants live? Why should I feel lonely? Isn’t our planet in the Milky Way? Your question does not seem to me the most important one. What kind of distance separates a person from others and makes that person solitary? I have found that no amount of walking can bring two minds much closer together. What do we most want to live near? Surely not crowds, the depot, the post office, the barroom, the meetinghouse, the schoolhouse, or the grocery store. Nor Beacon Hill or the Five Points, where people gather most. Instead, we want to live near the lasting source of our life. All our experience has shown us that our life flows from that source. We should be like the willow, standing near the water and sending its roots toward it. The source will differ with each person’s nature, but beside that source is where a wise person will dig a cellar.... One evening on the Walden road, I caught up with a man from my town. He had accumulated what people call “a handsome property,” though I never got a fair look at it. He was driving a pair of cattle to market. He asked how I could bring myself to give up so many of life’s comforts. I answered that I was quite sure I liked my life well enough. I was not joking. So I went home to bed. I left him to find his way through the darkness and mud to Brighton, or Bright-town. He would reach the place sometime in the morning.

Any prospect of awakening or coming to life to a dead man makes indifferent all times and places. The place where that may occur is always the same, and indescribably pleasant to all our senses. For the most part we allow only outlying and transient circumstances to make our occasions. They are, in fact, the cause of our distraction. Nearest to all things is that power which fashions their being. Next to us the grandest laws are continually being executed. Next to us is not the workman whom we have hired, with whom we love so well to talk, but the workman whose work we are.

For a dead man, any hope of waking or coming to life makes all times and places equally unimportant. The place where such an awakening may happen is always the same, and indescribably pleasant to all our senses. For the most part, we let only distant and passing circumstances shape the occasions of our lives. Those circumstances are, in fact, what distract us. Closest to all things is the power that shapes their being. Next to us, the greatest laws are constantly at work. Next to us is not the worker we have hired, whom we so love talking to. It is the worker whose work we ourselves are.

“How vast and profound is the influence of the subtile powers of Heaven and of Earth!”

“How vast and deep is the influence of the unseen powers of Heaven and Earth!”

“We seek to perceive them, and we do not see them; we seek to hear them, and we do not hear them; identified with the substance of things, they cannot be separated from them.”

“We try to see them, but we do not see them. We try to hear them, but we do not hear them. They are part of the very substance of things and cannot be separated from those things.”

“They cause that in all the universe men purify and sanctify their hearts, and clothe themselves in their holiday garments to offer sacrifices and oblations to their ancestors. It is an ocean of subtile intelligences. They are every where, above us, on our left, on our right; they environ us on all sides.”

“They cause people throughout the universe to make their hearts pure and holy. These people put on festive clothes to offer sacrifices and gifts to their ancestors. It is an ocean of subtle spirits. These spirits are everywhere, above us, to our left, and to our right. They surround us on all sides.”

We are the subjects of an experiment which is not a little interesting to me. Can we not do without the society of our gossips a little while under these circumstances,—have our own thoughts to cheer us? Confucius says truly, “Virtue does not remain as an abandoned orphan; it must of necessity have neighbors.”

We are taking part in an experiment that interests me greatly. Under these circumstances, can we not go without our gossiping companions for a little while? Can we not cheer ourselves with our own thoughts? Confucius rightly says, “Virtue does not remain an abandoned orphan. It must have neighbors.”

With thinking we may be beside ourselves in a sane sense. By a conscious effort of the mind we can stand aloof from actions and their consequences; and all things, good and bad, go by us like a torrent. We are not wholly involved in Nature. I may be either the drift-wood in the stream, or Indra in the sky looking down on it. I may be affected by a theatrical exhibition; on the other hand, I may not be affected by an actual event which appears to concern me much more. I only know myself as a human entity; the scene, so to speak, of thoughts and affections; and am sensible of a certain doubleness by which I can stand as remote from myself as from another. However intense my experience, I am conscious of the presence and criticism of a part of me, which, as it were, is not a part of me, but spectator, sharing no experience, but taking note of it; and that is no more I than it is you. When the play, it may be the tragedy, of life is over, the spectator goes his way. It was a kind of fiction, a work of the imagination only, so far as he was concerned. This doubleness may easily make us poor neighbors and friends sometimes.

Through thought, we may stand outside ourselves without losing our sanity. With a conscious mental effort, we can stand apart from actions and their consequences. And all things, good and bad, rush past us like a torrent. We are not entirely caught up in Nature. I may be either driftwood in the stream or Indra in the sky looking down on the stream. I may be moved by a play. On the other hand, I may not be moved by an actual event that seems to concern me much more. I know myself only as a human being, the setting, so to speak, for thoughts and feelings. And I sense a certain dual nature that lets me stand as far apart from myself as from another person. However intense my experience, I am aware of a part of me that watches and judges. This part seems not to belong to me at all. Instead, this part is a spectator, sharing none of the experience but taking note of it. And that spectator is no more me than you. When life's play, perhaps a tragedy, is over, the spectator goes his own way. As far as the spectator was concerned, the play was a kind of fiction, only a work of imagination. This dual nature may easily make us poor neighbors and friends sometimes.

I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers. A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will. Solitude is not measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows. The really diligent student in one of the crowded hives of Cambridge College is as solitary as a dervish in the desert. The farmer can work alone in the field or the woods all day, hoeing or chopping, and not feel lonesome, because he is employed; but when he comes home at night he cannot sit down in a room alone, at the mercy of his thoughts, but must be where he can “see the folks,” and recreate, and as he thinks remunerate himself for his day’s solitude; and hence he wonders how the student can sit alone in the house all night and most of the day without ennui and “the blues;” but he does not realize that the student, though in the house, is still at work in his field, and chopping in his woods, as the farmer in his, and in turn seeks the same recreation and society that the latter does, though it may be a more condensed form of it.

I find it healthy to be alone most of the time. Being with others, even the best company, soon becomes tiring and distracting. I love to be alone. I have never found a companion as companionable as solitude. We are usually lonelier when we go out among people than when we stay in our rooms. A person thinking or working is always alone, wherever they may be. Solitude is not measured by the miles between a person and other people. A truly hardworking student in one of Cambridge College’s crowded hives is as solitary as a dervish in the desert. The farmer can work alone in the fields or woods all day, hoeing or chopping, without feeling lonely. He does not feel lonely because he is busy. But when he comes home at night, he cannot sit alone in a room, at the mercy of his thoughts. He must go where he can “see the folks,” relax, and, as he sees it, reward himself for his day’s solitude. So he wonders how the student can sit alone indoors all night and most of the day without boredom and “the blues.” But he does not realize that the student, though indoors, is still working in his field and chopping in his woods. The student is working just as the farmer is. In turn, the student seeks the same relaxation and company as the farmer, though perhaps in a more concentrated form.

Society is commonly too cheap. We meet at very short intervals, not having had time to acquire any new value for each other. We meet at meals three times a day, and give each other a new taste of that old musty cheese that we are. We have had to agree on a certain set of rules, called etiquette and politeness, to make this frequent meeting tolerable and that we need not come to open war. We meet at the post-office, and at the sociable, and about the fireside every night; we live thick and are in each other’s way, and stumble over one another, and I think that we thus lose some respect for one another. Certainly less frequency would suffice for all important and hearty communications. Consider the girls in a factory,—never alone, hardly in their dreams. It would be better if there were but one inhabitant to a square mile, as where I live. The value of a man is not in his skin, that we should touch him.

Social contact is usually too cheap. We meet so often that we have no time to gain any new value for each other. We meet at meals three times a day, giving each other another taste of the stale, musty cheese we are. We have had to agree on rules called etiquette and politeness to make these frequent meetings tolerable. These rules keep us from going to open war. We meet at the post office, at social gatherings, and around the fire every night. We live crowded together, get in each other’s way, and stumble over one another. I think we lose some respect for one another this way. Certainly, we could meet less often and still have all our important and heartfelt conversations. Consider the girls working in a factory. They are never alone, hardly even in their dreams. It would be better if there were only one person per square mile, as where I live. A person’s worth is not in his skin, so we need not touch him to appreciate it.

I have heard of a man lost in the woods and dying of famine and exhaustion at the foot of a tree, whose loneliness was relieved by the grotesque visions with which, owing to bodily weakness, his diseased imagination surrounded him, and which he believed to be real. So also, owing to bodily and mental health and strength, we may be continually cheered by a like but more normal and natural society, and come to know that we are never alone.

I have heard of a man lost in the woods, dying of starvation and exhaustion at the foot of a tree. His physical weakness caused his troubled imagination to surround him with strange, distorted visions. He believed these visions were real, and they eased his loneliness. In the same way, physical and mental health and strength may continually cheer us with similar but more natural companionship. Through this companionship, we may come to know that we are never alone.

I have a great deal of company in my house; especially in the morning, when nobody calls. Let me suggest a few comparisons, that some one may convey an idea of my situation. I am no more lonely than the loon in the pond that laughs so loud, or than Walden Pond itself. What company has that lonely lake, I pray? And yet it has not the blue devils, but the blue angels in it, in the azure tint of its waters. The sun is alone, except in thick weather, when there sometimes appear to be two, but one is a mock sun. God is alone,—but the devil, he is far from being alone; he sees a great deal of company; he is legion. I am no more lonely than a single mullein or dandelion in a pasture, or a bean leaf, or sorrel, or a horse-fly, or a bumble-bee. I am no more lonely than the Mill Brook, or a weathercock, or the north star, or the south wind, or an April shower, or a January thaw, or the first spider in a new house.

I have plenty of company in my house, especially in the morning, when nobody visits. Let me offer a few comparisons, so that one of them may give some idea of my situation. I am no lonelier than the loon that laughs so loudly in the pond, or than Walden Pond itself. What company does that lonely lake have, I ask? Yet the lake holds no blue devils of sadness, but blue angels in the bright blue of its waters. The sun is alone, except in cloudy weather, when sometimes there seem to be two suns. But one is a false sun. God is alone. But the devil is far from alone. He has plenty of company. He is a legion. I am no lonelier than a single mullein or dandelion in a pasture. I am no lonelier than a bean leaf, or sorrel, or a horsefly, or a bumblebee. I am no lonelier than the Mill Brook, or a weather vane, or the north star, or the south wind. I am no lonelier than an April shower, a January thaw, or the first spider in a new house.

I have occasional visits in the long winter evenings, when the snow falls fast and the wind howls in the wood, from an old settler and original proprietor, who is reported to have dug Walden Pond, and stoned it, and fringed it with pine woods; who tells me stories of old time and of new eternity; and between us we manage to pass a cheerful evening with social mirth and pleasant views of things, even without apples or cider,—a most wise and humorous friend, whom I love much, who keeps himself more secret than ever did Goffe or Whalley; and though he is thought to be dead, none can show where he is buried. An elderly dame, too, dwells in my neighborhood, invisible to most persons, in whose odorous herb garden I love to stroll sometimes, gathering simples and listening to her fables; for she has a genius of unequalled fertility, and her memory runs back farther than mythology, and she can tell me the original of every fable, and on what fact every one is founded, for the incidents occurred when she was young. A ruddy and lusty old dame, who delights in all weathers and seasons, and is likely to outlive all her children yet.

An old settler and original owner occasionally visits me on long winter evenings. Snow falls thickly, and the wind howls in the woods. People say he dug Walden Pond, lined it with stones, and bordered it with pine woods. He tells me stories of ancient times and of a new eternity. Together we pass a cheerful evening with friendly laughter and pleasant thoughts, even without apples or cider. He is a very wise and humorous friend, whom I love dearly. He keeps himself better hidden than Goffe or Whalley ever did. And though people think he is dead, no one can show where he is buried. An elderly woman also lives in my neighborhood, invisible to most people. I sometimes love to stroll in her fragrant herb garden, gathering medicinal plants and listening to her fables. For her imagination is endlessly fertile, and her memory reaches back further than mythology. She can tell me the origin of every fable and the facts behind each one. The events happened when she was young. She is a rosy-cheeked, vigorous old woman who delights in all weather and every season. She is likely to outlive all her children yet.

The indescribable innocence and beneficence of Nature,—of sun and wind and rain, of summer and winter,—such health, such cheer, they afford forever! and such sympathy have they ever with our race, that all Nature would be affected, and the sun’s brightness fade, and the winds would sigh humanely, and the clouds rain tears, and the woods shed their leaves and put on mourning in midsummer, if any man should ever for a just cause grieve. Shall I not have intelligence with the earth? Am I not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself?

The innocence and kindness of Nature are beyond description, in sun, wind, and rain, in summer and winter. What health and joy they always bring! Nature has such sympathy for humanity that all Nature would be affected if anyone ever had just cause to grieve. The sun’s brightness would fade, the winds would sigh with human sympathy, and the clouds would rain tears. The woods would shed their leaves and dress in mourning in midsummer. Should I not be in close understanding with the earth? Am I not partly leaves and decaying plant matter myself?

What is the pill which will keep us well, serene, contented? Not my or thy great-grandfather’s, but our great-grandmother Nature’s universal, vegetable, botanic medicines, by which she has kept herself young always, outlived so many old Parrs in her day, and fed her health with their decaying fatness. For my panacea, instead of one of those quack vials of a mixture dipped from Acheron and the Dead Sea, which come out of those long shallow black-schooner looking wagons which we sometimes see made to carry bottles, let me have a draught of undiluted morning air. Morning air! If men will not drink of this at the fountain-head of the day, why, then, we must even bottle up some and sell it in the shops, for the benefit of those who have lost their subscription ticket to morning time in this world. But remember, it will not keep quite till noon-day even in the coolest cellar, but drive out the stopples long ere that and follow westward the steps of Aurora. I am no worshipper of Hygeia, who was the daughter of that old herb-doctor Æsculapius, and who is represented on monuments holding a serpent in one hand, and in the other a cup out of which the serpent sometimes drinks; but rather of Hebe, cupbearer to Jupiter, who was the daughter of Juno and wild lettuce, and who had the power of restoring gods and men to the vigor of youth. She was probably the only thoroughly sound-conditioned, healthy, and robust young lady that ever walked the globe, and wherever she came it was spring.

What pill will keep us healthy, calm, and content? Not my great-grandfather’s or yours, but our great-grandmother Nature’s universal plant medicines. With these remedies, she has always kept herself young and outlived so many old Parrs in her time. She has nourished her own health on their decaying fat. For my cure-all, give me a drink of pure morning air instead of one of those quack medicine bottles. Their contents are a mixture scooped from Acheron and the Dead Sea. The bottles come from those long, low wagons that look like black schooners, which we sometimes see built to carry bottles. Morning air! If people will not drink morning air fresh from the source as day begins, we must bottle some. Then we must sell the air in shops for those who have lost their season tickets to this world’s mornings. But remember, morning air will not last until noon, even in the coolest cellar. Long before noon, the air will force out the bottle stoppers and follow Aurora’s footsteps westward. I do not worship Hygeia, daughter of that old herbal doctor Æsculapius. Monuments show her holding a snake in one hand and a cup in the other. The snake sometimes drinks from the cup. Instead, I worship Hebe, Jupiter’s cupbearer, who was the daughter of Juno and wild lettuce. Hebe had the power to restore gods and humans to youthful vigor. She was probably the only completely fit, healthy, and robust young woman who ever walked the earth. Wherever she went, it was spring.