The Village

After hoeing, or perhaps reading and writing, in the forenoon, I usually bathed again in the pond, swimming across one of its coves for a stint, and washed the dust of labor from my person, or smoothed out the last wrinkle which study had made, and for the afternoon was absolutely free. Every day or two I strolled to the village to hear some of the gossip which is incessantly going on there, circulating either from mouth to mouth, or from newspaper to newspaper, and which, taken in homœopathic doses, was really as refreshing in its way as the rustle of leaves and the peeping of frogs. As I walked in the woods to see the birds and squirrels, so I walked in the village to see the men and boys; instead of the wind among the pines I heard the carts rattle. In one direction from my house there was a colony of muskrats in the river meadows; under the grove of elms and buttonwoods in the other horizon was a village of busy men, as curious to me as if they had been prairie dogs, each sitting at the mouth of its burrow, or running over to a neighbor’s to gossip. I went there frequently to observe their habits. The village appeared to me a great news room; and on one side, to support it, as once at Redding & Company’s on State Street, they kept nuts and raisins, or salt and meal and other groceries. Some have such a vast appetite for the former commodity, that is, the news, and such sound digestive organs, that they can sit forever in public avenues without stirring, and let it simmer and whisper through them like the Etesian winds, or as if inhaling ether, it only producing numbness and insensibility to pain,—otherwise it would often be painful to hear,—without affecting the consciousness. I hardly ever failed, when I rambled through the village, to see a row of such worthies, either sitting on a ladder sunning themselves, with their bodies inclined forward and their eyes glancing along the line this way and that, from time to time, with a voluptuous expression, or else leaning against a barn with their hands in their pockets, like caryatides, as if to prop it up. They, being commonly out of doors, heard whatever was in the wind. These are the coarsest mills, in which all gossip is first rudely digested or cracked up before it is emptied into finer and more delicate hoppers within doors. I observed that the vitals of the village were the grocery, the bar-room, the post-office, and the bank; and, as a necessary part of the machinery, they kept a bell, a big gun, and a fire-engine, at convenient places; and the houses were so arranged as to make the most of mankind, in lanes and fronting one another, so that every traveller had to run the gantlet, and every man, woman, and child might get a lick at him. Of course, those who were stationed nearest to the head of the line, where they could most see and be seen, and have the first blow at him, paid the highest prices for their places; and the few straggling inhabitants in the outskirts, where long gaps in the line began to occur, and the traveller could get over walls or turn aside into cow paths, and so escape, paid a very slight ground or window tax. Signs were hung out on all sides to allure him; some to catch him by the appetite, as the tavern and victualling cellar; some by the fancy, as the dry goods store and the jeweller’s; and others by the hair or the feet or the skirts, as the barber, the shoemaker, or the tailor. Besides, there was a still more terrible standing invitation to call at every one of these houses, and company expected about these times. For the most part I escaped wonderfully from these dangers, either by proceeding at once boldly and without deliberation to the goal, as is recommended to those who run the gantlet, or by keeping my thoughts on high things, like Orpheus, who, “loudly singing the praises of the gods to his lyre, drowned the voices of the Sirens, and kept out of danger.” Sometimes I bolted suddenly, and nobody could tell my whereabouts, for I did not stand much about gracefulness, and never hesitated at a gap in a fence. I was even accustomed to make an irruption into some houses, where I was well entertained, and after learning the kernels and very last sieve-ful of news, what had subsided, the prospects of war and peace, and whether the world was likely to hold together much longer, I was let out through the rear avenues, and so escaped to the woods again.

After hoeing, or perhaps reading and writing, in the morning, I usually bathed again in the pond. I would swim across one of its coves for exercise. I washed the dust of work from my body, or smoothed away the last wrinkle left by study. Then I was completely free for the afternoon. Every day or two I strolled to the village to hear some of its endless gossip. The gossip passed from mouth to mouth, or from newspaper to newspaper. Taken in tiny doses, it was as refreshing in its way as rustling leaves and peeping frogs. Just as I walked in the woods to see birds and squirrels, I walked in the village to see men and boys. Instead of wind among the pines, I heard rattling carts. In one direction from my house, a colony of muskrats lived in the river meadows. In the other direction, beneath a grove of elms and buttonwoods, stood a village of busy men. These men interested me as much as if they had been prairie dogs. Each sat at the entrance to his burrow or ran to a neighbor’s to gossip. I went there often to observe their habits. The village seemed to me one great news room. On one side, they sold nuts and raisins, or salt, meal, and other groceries to support the news business. Redding & Company’s on State Street had once done the same. Some people have an enormous appetite for that first commodity, news, and remarkably strong digestive systems. They can sit forever along public streets without moving, letting news simmer and whisper through them like the Etesian summer winds. Or they take in news as if breathing ether, producing only numbness and freedom from pain without affecting consciousness. Otherwise, hearing the news would often be painful. When I wandered through the village, I hardly ever failed to see a row of these worthy fellows. Some sat sunning themselves on a ladder, leaning forward. From time to time, their eyes glanced along the row in either direction with an expression of sensual pleasure. Others leaned against a barn with their hands in their pockets, like caryatides, the carved human figures supporting buildings. They looked as if they were holding up the barn. Because these men were usually outdoors, they heard whatever was in the air. These men are the coarsest mills, where all gossip is first roughly digested or ground up. Then the gossip is poured into finer, more delicate hoppers indoors. I noticed that the village’s vital organs were the grocery store, the barroom, the post office, and the bank. As necessary parts of the machinery, the villagers kept a bell, a large gun, and a fire engine conveniently placed. The houses were arranged along lanes, facing one another, to get the most out of humanity. Every traveler had to run the gauntlet, so every man, woman, and child could take a swing at him. Naturally, those nearest the head of the line paid the highest prices for their places. From there, they could see and be seen most, and get the first blow at the traveler. A few scattered residents lived on the outskirts, where long gaps began to appear in the line. There, travelers could climb over walls or turn onto cow paths and escape. Those residents paid very little in ground or window taxes. Signs hung on every side to lure the traveler. Some, like those of the tavern and basement eating house, caught him by his appetite. Others, like those of the dry goods store and the jeweller’s, caught his fancy. Still others caught him by his hair, feet, or clothing: the barber, the shoemaker, and the tailor. Besides, an even more terrible standing invitation urged him to visit every one of these houses. Visitors were expected around these times. For the most part, I escaped these dangers wonderfully well. Sometimes I went straight to my destination, boldly and without stopping to think, as those running the gauntlet are advised. Or I kept my mind on higher things, like Orpheus, who, “loudly singing the praises of the gods to his lyre, drowned the voices of the Sirens, and kept out of danger.” Sometimes I suddenly bolted, and nobody could tell where I had gone. I cared little about looking graceful and never hesitated at a gap in a fence. I was even in the habit of bursting into certain houses, where I was warmly received. There I gathered the kernels of news, down to the very last sieveful, whatever had settled to the bottom. I learned the prospects for war and peace, and whether the world was likely to hold together much longer. Then I was let out by the back ways, and so escaped to the woods again.

It was very pleasant, when I stayed late in town, to launch myself into the night, especially if it was dark and tempestuous, and set sail from some bright village parlor or lecture room, with a bag of rye or Indian meal upon my shoulder, for my snug harbor in the woods, having made all tight without and withdrawn under hatches with a merry crew of thoughts, leaving only my outer man at the helm, or even tying up the helm when it was plain sailing. I had many a genial thought by the cabin fire “as I sailed.” I was never cast away nor distressed in any weather, though I encountered some severe storms. It is darker in the woods, even in common nights, than most suppose. I frequently had to look up at the opening between the trees above the path in order to learn my route, and, where there was no cart-path, to feel with my feet the faint track which I had worn, or steer by the known relation of particular trees which I felt with my hands, passing between two pines for instance, not more than eighteen inches apart, in the midst of the woods, invariably, in the darkest night. Sometimes, after coming home thus late in a dark and muggy night, when my feet felt the path which my eyes could not see, dreaming and absent-minded all the way, until I was aroused by having to raise my hand to lift the latch, I have not been able to recall a single step of my walk, and I have thought that perhaps my body would find its way home if its master should forsake it, as the hand finds its way to the mouth without assistance. Several times, when a visitor chanced to stay into evening, and it proved a dark night, I was obliged to conduct him to the cart-path in the rear of the house, and then point out to him the direction he was to pursue, and in keeping which he was to be guided rather by his feet than his eyes. One very dark night I directed thus on their way two young men who had been fishing in the pond. They lived about a mile off through the woods, and were quite used to the route. A day or two after one of them told me that they wandered about the greater part of the night, close by their own premises, and did not get home till toward morning, by which time, as there had been several heavy showers in the mean while, and the leaves were very wet, they were drenched to their skins. I have heard of many going astray even in the village streets, when the darkness was so thick that you could cut it with a knife, as the saying is. Some who live in the outskirts, having come to town a-shopping in their wagons, have been obliged to put up for the night; and gentlemen and ladies making a call have gone half a mile out of their way, feeling the sidewalk only with their feet, and not knowing when they turned. It is a surprising and memorable, as well as valuable experience, to be lost in the woods any time. Often in a snow storm, even by day, one will come out upon a well-known road and yet find it impossible to tell which way leads to the village. Though he knows that he has travelled it a thousand times, he cannot recognize a feature in it, but it is as strange to him as if it were a road in Siberia. By night, of course, the perplexity is infinitely greater. In our most trivial walks, we are constantly, though unconsciously, steering like pilots by certain well-known beacons and headlands, and if we go beyond our usual course we still carry in our minds the bearing of some neighboring cape; and not till we are completely lost, or turned round,—for a man needs only to be turned round once with his eyes shut in this world to be lost,—do we appreciate the vastness and strangeness of Nature. Every man has to learn the points of compass again as often as he awakes, whether from sleep or any abstraction. Not till we are lost, in other words not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations.

When I stayed late in town, I greatly enjoyed launching myself into the night, especially in dark and stormy weather. I would set sail from a bright village sitting room or lecture hall, carrying rye or cornmeal on my shoulder. My destination was my snug harbor in the woods. I secured everything outside and went below deck with a cheerful crew of thoughts. I left only my outward self at the helm, or even tied the helm in place when sailing was easy. I had many pleasant thoughts beside the cabin fire “as I sailed.” I was never shipwrecked or in trouble in any weather, though I met some severe storms. The woods are darker, even on ordinary nights, than most people suppose. I often had to look up at the opening between the trees above the path to find my way. Where there was no wagon track, I had to feel with my feet for the faint trail I had worn. Or I steered by the familiar positions of particular trees, feeling them with my hands. For instance, I always passed between two pines no more than eighteen inches apart, deep in the woods. I could do so even on the darkest night. Sometimes I came home late on a dark, muggy night, my feet feeling the path my eyes could not see. I dreamed and let my mind wander the whole way. Only when I raised my hand to lift the latch did I come to my senses. Then I could not recall a single step of my walk. I thought perhaps my body would find its way home even if its master abandoned it. After all, the hand finds its way to the mouth without help. Several times, a visitor happened to stay until evening, and the night turned out to be dark. I had to lead him to the wagon track behind the house and point him in the right direction. To stay on course, he had to rely more on his feet than his eyes. One very dark night, I sent two young men on their way like this after they had been fishing in the pond. They lived about a mile away through the woods and knew the route well. A day or two later, one told me they had wandered most of the night near their own property. They did not get home until nearly morning. Several heavy showers had fallen during the night, and the leaves were very wet. By the time they arrived, they were soaked to the skin. I have heard of many people losing their way even in village streets. The darkness was so thick you could cut it with a knife, as the saying goes. Some people from the outskirts had driven into town in their wagons to shop and had to stay overnight. Ladies and gentlemen paying a visit have gone half a mile out of their way. They could feel the sidewalk only with their feet and did not know when they turned. Getting lost in the woods at any time is a surprising, memorable, and valuable experience. Often during a snowstorm, even in daylight, you reach a familiar road but cannot tell which way leads to the village. You know you have traveled the road a thousand times, yet you cannot recognize a single feature. The road seems as strange as if it were in Siberia. At night, of course, the confusion is infinitely greater. Even on our most ordinary walks, we constantly steer like pilots by familiar beacons and headlands, without knowing it. If we go beyond our usual course, we still keep the direction of some nearby cape in mind. Only when we are completely lost or turned around do we appreciate the vastness and strangeness of Nature. In this world, a person needs only to be turned around once with closed eyes to become lost. Everyone must learn the compass directions again whenever they wake, whether from sleep or from being lost in thought. Only when we are lost, in other words, when we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves. Only then do we realize where we are and the infinite reach of our connections.

One afternoon, near the end of the first summer, when I went to the village to get a shoe from the cobbler’s, I was seized and put into jail, because, as I have elsewhere related, I did not pay a tax to, or recognize the authority of, the state which buys and sells men, women, and children, like cattle at the door of its senate-house. I had gone down to the woods for other purposes. But, wherever a man goes, men will pursue and paw him with their dirty institutions, and, if they can, constrain him to belong to their desperate odd-fellow society. It is true, I might have resisted forcibly with more or less effect, might have run “amok” against society; but I preferred that society should run “amok” against me, it being the desperate party. However, I was released the next day, obtained my mended shoe, and returned to the woods in season to get my dinner of huckleberries on Fair-Haven Hill. I was never molested by any person but those who represented the state. I had no lock nor bolt but for the desk which held my papers, not even a nail to put over my latch or windows. I never fastened my door night or day, though I was to be absent several days; not even when the next fall I spent a fortnight in the woods of Maine. And yet my house was more respected than if it had been surrounded by a file of soldiers. The tired rambler could rest and warm himself by my fire, the literary amuse himself with the few books on my table, or the curious, by opening my closet door, see what was left of my dinner, and what prospect I had of a supper. Yet, though many people of every class came this way to the pond, I suffered no serious inconvenience from these sources, and I never missed anything but one small book, a volume of Homer, which perhaps was improperly gilded, and this I trust a soldier of our camp has found by this time. I am convinced, that if all men were to live as simply as I then did, thieving and robbery would be unknown. These take place only in communities where some have got more than is sufficient while others have not enough. The Pope’s Homers would soon get properly distributed.—

One afternoon near the end of my first summer, I went to the village to collect a shoe from the cobbler. I was arrested and put in jail because I refused to pay a tax to the state or recognize its authority. As I have explained elsewhere, that state buys and sells men, women, and children like cattle outside its senate-house. I had gone to the woods for other purposes. But wherever a man goes, other men will chase him and lay their dirty institutions on him. If they can, they will force him to join their desperate society of odd fellows. True, I might have resisted by force, with more or less success, and run “amok” against society. But I preferred to let society run “amok” against me, since society was the desperate one. However, I was released the next day, collected my repaired shoe, and returned to the woods. I arrived in time for my dinner of huckleberries on Fair-Haven Hill. No one ever bothered me except those who represented the state. I had no lock or bolt except on the desk where I kept my papers. I did not even have a nail to secure my door latch or windows. I never locked my door, day or night, even when I would be away for several days. I left it unlocked even when I spent two weeks in the woods of Maine the following fall. Yet my house was treated with more respect than if a line of soldiers had surrounded it. A tired wanderer could rest and warm himself by my fire. A reader could entertain himself with the few books on my table. A curious visitor could open my cupboard and see what remained of my dinner and what I might have for supper. Yet although many people from every class came this way to the pond, these visits caused me no serious trouble. I never found anything missing except one small book, a volume of Homer, perhaps unwisely decorated with gold. I trust some soldier from our camp has found the book by now. I am convinced that if all men lived as simply as I did then, theft and robbery would be unknown. These crimes happen only in communities where some have more than enough while others have too little. The Pope’s Homers would soon be properly distributed.

“You who govern public affairs, what need have you to employ punishments? Love virtue, and the people will be virtuous. The virtues of a superior man are like the wind; the virtues of a common man are like the grass; the grass, when the wind passes over it, bends.”

“You who govern public affairs, why do you need to use punishment? Love virtue, and the people will be virtuous. The virtues of a superior man are like the wind. The virtues of an ordinary man are like the grass. When the wind passes over the grass, the grass bends.”