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1Some of my pleasantest hours were during the long rain storms in the spring or fall, which confined me to the house for
2the afternoon as well as the forenoon, soothed by their ceaseless roar and pelting; when an early twilight ushered in a
3long evening in which many thoughts had time to take root and unfold themselves. In those driving north-east rains which
4tried the village houses so, when the maids stood ready with mop and pail in front entries to keep the deluge out, I sat
5behind my door in my little house, which was all entry, and thoroughly enjoyed its protection. In one heavy thunder
6shower the lightning struck a large pitch-pine across the pond, making a very conspicuous and perfectly regular spiral
7groove from top to bottom, an inch or more deep, and four or five inches wide, as you would groove a walking-stick. I
8passed it again the other day, and was struck with awe on looking up and beholding that mark, now more distinct than
9ever, where a terrific and resistless bolt came down out of the harmless sky eight years ago. Men frequently say to me,
10"I should think you would feel lonesome down there, and want to be nearer to folks, rainy and snowy days and nights
11especially." I am tempted to reply to such,--This whole earth which we inhabit is but a point in space. How far apart,
12think you, dwell the two most distant inhabitants of yonder star, the breadth of whose disk cannot be appreciated by our
13instruments? Why should I feel lonely? is not our planet in the Milky Way? This which you put seems to me not to be the
14most important question. What sort of space is that which separates a man from his fellows and makes him solitary? I
15have found that no exertion of the legs can bring two minds much nearer to one another. What do we want most to dwell
16near to? Not to many men surely, the depot, the post-office, the bar-room, the meeting-house, the school-house, the
17grocery, Beacon Hill, or the Five Points, where men most congregate, but to the perennial source of our life, whence in
18all our experience we have found that to issue, as the willow stands near the water and sends out its roots in that
19direction. This will vary with different natures, but this is the place where a wise man will dig his cellar.... I one
20evening overtook one of my townsmen, who has accumulated what is called "a handsome property,"--though I never got a
21fair view of it,--on the Walden road, driving a pair of cattle to market, who inquired of me how I could bring my mind
22to 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.
23And so I went home to my bed, and left him to pick his way through the darkness and the mud to Brighton,--or
24Bright-town,--which place he would reach some time in the morning. Any prospect of awakening or coming to life to a dead
25man makes indifferent all times and places. The place where that may occur is always the same, and indescribably
26pleasant to all our senses. For the most part we allow only outlying and transient circumstances to make our occasions.
27They are, in fact, the cause of our distraction. Nearest to all things is that power which fashions their being. Next to
28us the grandest laws are continually being executed. Next to us is not the workman whom we have hired, with whom we love
29so well to talk, but the workman whose work we are. "How vast and profound is the influence of the subtile powers of
30Heaven and of Earth!" "We seek to perceive them, and we do not see them; we seek to hear them, and we do not hear them;
31identified with the substance of things, they cannot be separated from them." "They cause that in all the universe men
32purify and sanctify their hearts, and clothe themselves in their holiday garments to offer sacrifices and oblations to
33their ancestors. It is an ocean of subtile intelligences. They are every where, above us, on our left, on our right;
34they environ us on all sides." We are the subjects of an experiment which is not a little interesting to me. Can we not
35do without the society of our gossips a little while under these circumstances,--have our own thoughts to cheer us?
36Confucius says truly, "Virtue does not remain as an abandoned orphan; it must of necessity have neighbors." With
37thinking we may be beside ourselves in a sane sense. By a conscious effort of the mind we can stand aloof from actions
38and their consequences; and all things, good and bad, go by us like a torrent. We are not wholly involved in Nature. I
39may be either the drift-wood in the stream, or Indra in the sky looking down on it. I may be affected by a theatrical
40exhibition; on the other hand, I may not be affected by an actual event which appears to concern me much more. I only
41know myself as a human entity; the scene, so to speak, of thoughts and affections; and am sensible of a certain
42doubleness by which I can stand as remote from myself as from another. However intense my experience, I am conscious of
43the presence and criticism of a part of me, which, as it were, is not a part of me, but spectator, sharing no
44experience, 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
45is over, the spectator goes his way. It was a kind of fiction, a work of the imagination only, so far as he was
46concerned. This doubleness may easily make us poor neighbors and friends sometimes. I find it wholesome to be alone the
47greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I
48never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad
49among men than when we stay in our chambers. A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will.
50Solitude is not measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows. The really diligent student
51in one of the crowded hives of Cambridge College is as solitary as a dervish in the desert. The farmer can work alone in
52the field or the woods all day, hoeing or chopping, and not feel lonesome, because he is employed; but when he comes
53home at night he cannot sit down in a room alone, at the mercy of his thoughts, but must be where he can "see the
54folks," and recreate, and as he thinks remunerate himself for his day's solitude; and hence he wonders how the student
55can sit alone in the house all night and most of the day without ennui and "the blues;" but he does not realize that the
56student, though in the house, is still at work in his field, and chopping in his woods, as the farmer in his, and in
57turn seeks the same recreation and society that the latter does, though it may be a more condensed form of it. Society
58is commonly too cheap. We meet at very short intervals, not having had time to acquire any new value for each other. We
59meet 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
60agree on a certain set of rules, called etiquette and politeness, to make this frequent meeting tolerable and that we
61need not come to open war. We meet at the post-office, and at the sociable, and about the fireside every night; we live
62thick and are in each other's way, and stumble over one another, and I think that we thus lose some respect for one
63another. Certainly less frequency would suffice for all important and hearty communications. Consider the girls in a
64factory,--never alone, hardly in their dreams. It would be better if there were but one inhabitant to a square mile, as
65where I live. The value of a man is not in his skin, that we should touch him.
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