conquer with votes,—which yet is no monopoly of his, and to which time and experience only add a more subtile and conscious charm.
The rich years were given us to increase, not to impair, these cheap felicities.
Sad or sinful is the life of that man who finds not the heavens bluer and the waves more musical in maturity than childhood.
Time is a severe alembic of youthful joys, no doubt; we exhaust book after book, and leave Shakespeare
unopened; we grow fastidious in men and women; all the rhetoric, all the logic, we fancy we have heard before; we have seen the pictures, we have listened to the symphonies: but what has been done by all the art and literature of the world towards describing one summer day?
The most exhausting effort brings us no nearer to it than to the blue sky which is its dome; our words are shot up against it like arrows, and fall back helpless.
Literary amateurs go the tour of the globe to renew their stock of materials, when they do not yet know a bird or a bee or a blossom beside their homesteaddoor; and in the hour of their greatest success they have not an horizon to their life so large as that of yonder boy in his punt.
All that is purchasable in the capitals of the world is not to be weighed in comparison with the simple enjoyment that may be crowded into one hour of sunshine.
What can place or power do here?
‘Who could be before me, though the palace of Caesar
cracked and split with emperors, while I, sitting in silence on a cliff of Rhodes
, watched the sun as he swung his golden censer athwart the heavens?’
It is pleasant to observe a sort of confused and latent recognition of all this in the instinctive sympathy which is always rendered to any indication of out-door pursuits.
How cordially one sees the eyes of all travellers turn to the man who enters the railroad-station with a fowling-piece in hand, or the boy with water-lilies!
There is a momentary sensation of the freedom of the woods, a whiff of oxygen for the anxious money-changers.
How agreeably sounds the news—to all but his creditors—that the lawyer or the merchant has locked his office-door and gone fishing!
The American temperament needs at this moment nothing so much as that wholesome training of semi-rural life which reared Hampden
to assume at one grasp the sovereignty of England
, and which has ever since served as the foundation of England
's greatest ability.
The best thoughts and purposes seem ordained to come to human beings beneath the open sky, as the ancients fabled that Pan found when he was engaged in the chase, the goddess Ceres
whom no other of the gods could find when seeking seriously.
The little I have gained from colleges and libraries has certainly not worn so well as the little I learned in childhood of the habits of plant, bird, and insect.
That ‘weight and sanity of thought,’ which Coleridge
so finely makes the crowning attribute of Wordsworth
, is in no way so well matured and cultivated as in the society of Nature.
There may be extremes and affectations, and Mary Lamb
declared that Wordsworth
held it doubtful if a dweller in towns had a soul to be saved.
During the various phases of transcendental idealism among ourselves in the last twenty years, the love of Nature has at times assumed an exaggerated and even a pathetic a pathetic aspect, in the morbid attempts of youths and maidens to make it a substitute for vigorous thought and action,—a lion endeavoring to dine on grass and green leaves.
In some cases this mental chlorosis reached such a height as almost to nauseate one with Nature, when in the society of the victims; and surfeited companions felt inclined to rush to the treadmill immediately, or get chosen on the Board of Selectmen.
or plunge into any conceivable drudgery, in order to feel that there was still work enough in the universe to keep it sound and healthy.
But this, after all, was exceptional and transitory, and our American life still needs, beyond all things else, the more habitual cultivation of out-door habits.
Probably the direct ethical influence of natural objects may be overrated.
Nature is not didactic, but simply healthy.
She helps everything to its legitimate development, but applies no goads, and forces on us no sharp distinctions.
Her wonderful calmness, refreshing the whole soul, must aid both conscience and intellect in the end, but sometimes lulls both temporarily, when immediate issues are pending.
The waterfall cheers and purifies infinitely, but it marks no moments, has no reproaches for indolence, forces to no immediate decision, offers unbounded to-morrows, and the man of action must tear himself away, when the time comes, since the work will not be done for him. ‘The natural day is very calm, and will hardly reprove our indolence.’
And yet the more bent any man is upon action, the more profoundly he needs this very calmness of Nature to preserve his equilibrium.
The radical himself needs nothing so much as fresh air. The world is called conservative; but it is far easier to impress a plausible thought on the complaisance of others, than to retain an unfaltering faith in it for ourselves.
The most dogged reformer distrusts himself every little while, and says inwardly, like Luther, ‘Art thou alone wise?’
So he is compelled to exaggerate, in the effort to hold his own. The community is bored by the conceit and egotism of the innovators; so it is by that of poets and artists, orators and statesmen; but if we knew how heavily ballasted all these poor fellows need to be, to keep an even keel amid so many conflicting tempests of blame and praise, we should hardly reproach them.
But the simple enjoyments of out-door life, costing next to nothing, tend to equalize all vexations.
What matter if the Governor
removes you from office?
he cannot remove you from the lake; and if readers or customers will not bite, the pickerel will.
We must keep busy, of course; yet we cannot transform the world except very slowly, and we can best preserve our patience in the society of Nature, who does her work almost as imperceptibly as we.