September 3.
Why was there never a poem on the cricket? Its creak seems to me to be one of the most prominent and obvious facts in the world, and the least heeded. In the report of a man's contemplations I look to see somewhat answering to this sound.
When I sat on Lee's Cliff the other day (August 29th), I saw a man working with a horse in a field by the river, carting dirt; and the horse and his relation to him struck me as very remarkable. There was the horse, a mere animated machine, — though his tail was brushing off the flies, his whole existence subordinated to the man's, with no tradition, perhaps no instinct, in him of independence and freedom, of a time when he was wild and free, completely humanized.
No compact made with him that he should have the Saturday afternoons, or the Sundays, or any holidays. His independence never recognized, it being now quite forgotten both by men and by horses that the horse was ever free. For I am not aware that there are any wild horses known surely not to be descended from tame ones.
Assisting that man to pull down that bank and spread it over the meadow; only keeping off the flies with his tail, and stamping, and catching a mouthful of grass or leaves from time to time, on his own account, all the rest for man. It seemed hardly worthwhile that he should be animated for this. It was plain that the man was not educating the horse; not trying to develop his nature, but merely getting work out of him.
That mass of animated matter seemed more completely the servant of man than any inanimate. For slaves have their holidays; a heaven is conceded to them, but to the horse none. Now and forever he is man's slave.
The more I considered, the more the man seemed akin to the horse; only his was the stronger will of the two.
For a little further on I saw an Irishman shovelling, who evidently was as much tamed as the horse. He had stipulated that to a certain extent his independence be recognized, and yet really he was but little more independent.
I had always instinctively regarded the horse as a free people somewhere, living wild. Whatever has not come under the sway of man is wild. In this sense original and independent men are wild, — not tamed and broken by society.
Now for my part I have such a respect for the horse's nature as would tempt me to let him alone; not to interfere with him, -- his walks, his diet, his loves. But by mankind he is treated simply as if he were an engine which must have rest and is sensible of pain.
Suppose that every squirrel were made to turn a coffee-mill!
Disease is not the accident of the individual, nor even of the generation, but of life itself. In some form, and to some degree or other, it is one of the permanent conditions of life. Compare December 11. 1855 ("Beauty and music are not mere traits and exceptions. They are the rule and character. It is the exception that we see and hear ")
Fall dandelions stand thick in the meadows. See August 26, 1853 ("The fall dandelion is as conspicuous and abundant now in Tuttle's meadow as buttercups in the spring. It takes their place."); September 1, 1859 ("The autumnal dandelion is a prevailing flower now, but since it shuts up in the afternoon it might not be known as common unless you were out in the morning or in a dark afternoon.."); September 11, 1859 ("This being a cloudy and somewhat rainy day, the autumnal dandelion is open in the afternoon.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Autumnal Dandelion
I had always instinctively regarded the horse as a free people somewhere, living wild. Whatever has not come under the sway of man is wild. In this sense original and independent men are wild, — not tamed and broken by society.
Now for my part I have such a respect for the horse's nature as would tempt me to let him alone; not to interfere with him, -- his walks, his diet, his loves. But by mankind he is treated simply as if he were an engine which must have rest and is sensible of pain.
Suppose that every squirrel were made to turn a coffee-mill!
Suppose that the gazelles were made to draw milk-carts!
2 P. M. — To Hubbard's Swimming-Place and Grove in rain.
As I went under the new telegraph-wire, I heard it vibrating like a harp high overhead. It was as the sound of a far-off glorious life, a supernal life, which came down to us, and vibrated the lattice-work of this life of ours.?
The melons and the apples seem at once to feed my brain.
Here comes a laborer from his dinner to resume his work at clearing out a ditch notwithstanding the rain, remembering as Cato says, per ferias potuisse fossas veteres tergeri, that in the holidays old ditches might have been cleared out. One would think that I were the paterfamilias come to see if the steward of my farm has done his duty.
The ivy leaves are turning red.
Fall dandelions stand thick in the meadows.
How much the Roman must have been indebted to his agriculture, dealing with the earth, its clods and stubble, its dust and mire.
Their farmer consuls were their glory, and they well knew the farm to be the nursery of soldiers.
Read Cato to see what kind of legs the Romans stood on.
The leaves of the hardhack are somewhat appressed, clothing the stem and showing their downy under sides like white, waving wands. Is it peculiar to the season, or the rain, -- or the plant?
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, September 3, 1851
There he was with his tail cut off, because it was in the way, or to suit the taste of his owner; his mane trimmed, and his feet shod with iron that he might wear longer.
What is a horse but an animal that has lost its liberty?
What is a horse but an animal that has lost its liberty?
What is it but a system of slavery? and do you not thus by insensible and unimportant degrees come to human slavery?
Has lost its liberty! - and has man got any more liberty himself for having robbed the horse, or has he lost just as much of his own, and become more like the horse he has robbed?
Is not the other end of the bridle in this case, too, coiled round his own neck?
Hence stable-boys, jockeys, all that class that is daily transported by fast horses.
There he stood with his oblong square figure (his tail being cut off) seen against the water, brushing off the flies with his tail and stamping, braced back while the man was filling the cart.
Is not the other end of the bridle in this case, too, coiled round his own neck?
Hence stable-boys, jockeys, all that class that is daily transported by fast horses.
There he stood with his oblong square figure (his tail being cut off) seen against the water, brushing off the flies with his tail and stamping, braced back while the man was filling the cart.
It is a very remarkable and significant fact that, though no man is quite well or healthy, yet every one believes practically that health is the rule and disease the exception, and each invalid is wont to think himself in a minority, and to postpone somewhat of endeavor to another state of existence. But it may be some encouragement to men to know that in this respect they stand on the same platform, that disease is, in fact, the rule of our terrestrial life and the prophecy of a celestial life.
Where is the coward who despairs because he is sick?
Where is the coward who despairs because he is sick?
Every one may live either the life of Achilles or of Nestor.
Seen in this light, our life with all its diseases will look healthy, and in one sense the more healthy as it is the more diseased. Disease is not the accident of the individual, nor even of the generation, but of life itself. In some form, and to some degree or other, it is one of the permanent conditions of life. It is, nevertheless, a cheering fact that men affirm health unanimously, and esteem themselves miserable failures.
Here was no blunder. They gave us life on exactly these conditions, and me thinks we shall live it with more heart when we perceive clearly that these are the terms on which we have it.
Life is a warfare, a struggle, and the diseases of the body answer to the troubles and defeats of the spirit. Man begins by quarrelling with the animal in him, and the result is immediate disease.
In proportion as the spirit is the more ambitious and persevering, the more obstacles it will meet with. It is as a seer that man asserts his disease to be exceptional.
Seen in this light, our life with all its diseases will look healthy, and in one sense the more healthy as it is the more diseased. Disease is not the accident of the individual, nor even of the generation, but of life itself. In some form, and to some degree or other, it is one of the permanent conditions of life. It is, nevertheless, a cheering fact that men affirm health unanimously, and esteem themselves miserable failures.
Here was no blunder. They gave us life on exactly these conditions, and me thinks we shall live it with more heart when we perceive clearly that these are the terms on which we have it.
Life is a warfare, a struggle, and the diseases of the body answer to the troubles and defeats of the spirit. Man begins by quarrelling with the animal in him, and the result is immediate disease.
In proportion as the spirit is the more ambitious and persevering, the more obstacles it will meet with. It is as a seer that man asserts his disease to be exceptional.
2 P. M. — To Hubbard's Swimming-Place and Grove in rain.
As I went under the new telegraph-wire, I heard it vibrating like a harp high overhead. It was as the sound of a far-off glorious life, a supernal life, which came down to us, and vibrated the lattice-work of this life of ours.?
The melons and the apples seem at once to feed my brain.
Here comes a laborer from his dinner to resume his work at clearing out a ditch notwithstanding the rain, remembering as Cato says, per ferias potuisse fossas veteres tergeri, that in the holidays old ditches might have been cleared out. One would think that I were the paterfamilias come to see if the steward of my farm has done his duty.
The ivy leaves are turning red.
Fall dandelions stand thick in the meadows.
How much the Roman must have been indebted to his agriculture, dealing with the earth, its clods and stubble, its dust and mire.
Their farmer consuls were their glory, and they well knew the farm to be the nursery of soldiers.
Read Cato to see what kind of legs the Romans stood on.
The leaves of the hardhack are somewhat appressed, clothing the stem and showing their downy under sides like white, waving wands. Is it peculiar to the season, or the rain, -- or the plant?
Walk often in drizzly weather, for then the small weeds (especially if they stand on bare ground), covered with rain-drops like beads, appear more beautiful than ever, -- the hypericums, for instance. They are equally beautiful when covered with dew, fresh and adorned, almost spirited away, in a robe of dewdrops.
Some farmers have begun to thresh and winnow their oats.
Identified spotted spurge (Euphorbia maculata), apparently out of blossom.
Shepherd's-purse and chickweed.
As for walking, the inhabitants of large English towns are confined almost exclusively to their parks and to the highways. The few footpaths in their vicinities "are gradually vanishing,” says Wilkinson, “under the encroachments of the proprietors." He proposes that the people's right to them be asserted and defended and that they be kept in a passable state at the public expense. "This," says he, “would be easily done by means of asphalt laid upon a good foundation" !!! So much for walking, and the prospects of walking, in the neighborhood of English large towns.
Think of a man -- he may be a genius of some kind -- being confined to a highway and a park for his world to range in! I should die from mere nervousness at the thought of such confinement. I should hesitate before I were born, if those terms could be made known to me beforehand. Fenced in forever by those green barriers of fields, where gentlemen are seated! Can they be said to be inhabitants of this globe? Will they be content to inhabit heaven thus partially?
Some farmers have begun to thresh and winnow their oats.
Identified spotted spurge (Euphorbia maculata), apparently out of blossom.
Shepherd's-purse and chickweed.
As for walking, the inhabitants of large English towns are confined almost exclusively to their parks and to the highways. The few footpaths in their vicinities "are gradually vanishing,” says Wilkinson, “under the encroachments of the proprietors." He proposes that the people's right to them be asserted and defended and that they be kept in a passable state at the public expense. "This," says he, “would be easily done by means of asphalt laid upon a good foundation" !!! So much for walking, and the prospects of walking, in the neighborhood of English large towns.
Think of a man -- he may be a genius of some kind -- being confined to a highway and a park for his world to range in! I should die from mere nervousness at the thought of such confinement. I should hesitate before I were born, if those terms could be made known to me beforehand. Fenced in forever by those green barriers of fields, where gentlemen are seated! Can they be said to be inhabitants of this globe? Will they be content to inhabit heaven thus partially?
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, September 3, 1851
Walk often in drizzly weather, for then the small weeds (especially if they stand on bare ground), covered with rain-drops like beads, appear more beautiful than ever, See September 2, 1859 ("The sarothra grows thickly, and is now abundantly in bloom, on denuded places, i.e., where the sod and more or less soil has been removed, by sandy roadsides.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, St. Johns-wort (Hypericum)
