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A TEXT FROM THOREAU “THERE is
no more
tempting novelty than this new November. No going to Europe or to
another world
is to be named with it. Give me the old familiar walk, post-office and
all,
with this ever new self, with this infinite expectation and faith which
does
not know when it is beaten. We'll go nutting once more. We’ll pluck the
nut of
the world and crack it in the winter evenings. Theatres and all other
sight-seeing are puppet shows in comparison. I will take another walk
to the
cliff, another row on the river, another skate on the meadow, be out in
the
first snow, and associate with the winter birds. Here I am at home. In
the bare
and bleached crust of the earth, I recognize my friend.” Thus
bravely did
Thoreau enter upon the gray month. It was in 1858, when he was
forty-one years
old. He wants nothing new, he assures himself. He will “take the
shortest way
round and stay at home.” Think of
the
consummate folly of attempting to go away from here,” he says, underscoring
the final word. As if whatever
place a man might move to would not be “here” to him! As if he could
run away
from his own shadow! So I interpret the italics. His
protestations,
characteristically unqualified and emphatic, imply that thoughts of
travel
have beset him. Probably they beset every outdoor philosopher at this
short-day
season. They are part of the autumnal crop. Our northern world begins
to look —
in cloudy moods — like a place to escape from. The birds have gone, the
leaves
have fallen, the year is done. “Let us arise and go also,” an inward
voice seems
to whisper. Not unlikely there is in us all the dormant remainder of an
outworn
migratory instinct. Civilization has caged us and tamed us; “hungry
generations” have trodden us down; but below consciousness and memory
there
still persists the blind stirring of ancestral impulse. The fathers
were
nomads, and the children's feet are still not quite content with day's
work in
a treadmill. Let our
preferences
be what they may, however, the greater number of us must stay where we
are put,
and play the hand that is dealt to us, happy if we can face the dark
side of
the year with a measure of philosophy. If there is a new self, as
Thoreau
says, there will be a new world and a new season. If we carry the
tropics
within us, we need not dream of Florida. And even if there is no
constraint
upon our going and coming, we need not be in haste to run away. We may
safely
wait a week or two, at least. November is often not half so bad as it
is
painted — not half so bad, indeed, as Thoreau himself sometimes painted
it. For
the eleventh month was not one of his favorites. “November Eat-Heart,”
he is
more than once moved to call it. The experience of it puts his
equanimity to
the proof. Even his bravest words about it sound rather like a defiance
than a
welcome, — a little as if he were whistling to keep up his courage.
With the
month at its worst, he confesses, he has almost to drive himself
afield. He can
hardly decide upon any route; “all seem so unpromising, mere
surface-walking
and fronting the cold wind.” “Surface-walking.” How excellent that is!
Every
contemplative outdoor man knows what is meant, but only Thoreau could
have hit
it off to such perfection in a word. I must
admit that I
am not sorry to find the Walden stoic once in a long while overtaken
by such a
comparatively unheroic mood. He boasted so often and so well (with all
the rest
he boasted of his boasting) that it pleases me to hear him complain. So
the
weather could be too much even for him, I say to myself, with something
like a
chuckle. He was mortal, after all; and the day was sometimes dark, even
in
Concord. Not that
he ever
whimpered. And had he done so, in any moment of weakness, it should
never have
been for me to lay a public finger upon the fact. Nobody shall be more
loyal
to Thoreau than I am, though others may understand him better and
praise him
more adequately. If he complained, he did it “man-fashion,” and was
within a
man's right. To say that the worst of Massachusetts weather is never to
be
spoken against is to say too much; it is stretching the doctrine of
non-resistance to the point of absurdity. As well forbid us to carry
umbrellas,
or to put up lightning-rods. There is plenty of weather that deserves
to be
spoken against. Only let
it be
done, as I say, “man-fashion;” and having said our say, let us go about
our
business again, making the best of things as they are — as Thoreau did.
For,
having owned his disrelish for what the gods provided, he quickly
recovered
himself, and proceeded to finish his entry in a cheerier strain.
Matters are
not so desperate with him, after all. He has to force himself out of
doors, it
is true, but once in the woods he often finds himself “unexpectedly
compensated.”
“The thinnest yellow light of November is more warming and
exhilarating than
any wine they tell of.” He meets with something that interests him, and
immediately
the day is as warm as July — as if the wind had shifted from northwest
to
south. There is the secret, in November as in May — to be interested.
Then
there is no longer a question of “surface walking.” The soul is
concerned, and
life has begun anew. Thus far,
the
present November (I write on the 4th) has been unusually mild; some
days have
been really summer-like, too warm for comfort; but the sun has shone
only by
minutes — now and then an hour, at the most. Deciduous trees are nearly
bare,
the oaks excepted; flowers are few and mostly out of condition, though
it would
be easy to make a pretty high-sounding list of names; and birds are
getting to
be almost as scarce as in winter. There is no longer any quiet
strolling in the
woods. If you wish to listen for small sounds you must stand still.
The ground
is so thick with crackling leaves that it is impossible to go silently.
Everything
prophesies of the death of the year. It is almost time for the snow to
fall and
bury what remains of it. Yet in
warm days
one may still see dragon-flies on the wing. Yesterday meadow larks
were
singing with the greatest abandon and in something like a chorus. I
must have
seen a dozen, and most if not all of them were in tune. On the 1st of
the month
a grouse drummed again and again; an unseasonable piece of lyrical
enthusiasm,
one might think; but I doubt if it was anything so very exceptional.
Once,
indeed, a few years ago, I heard a grouse drum repeatedly in January,
on a
cloudy day, when the ground in the woods was deep under snow. That, I
believe,
was an event much out of the common, though by no means without
precedent. I
wish Thoreau could have been there; he would have improved the
occasion so admirably.
So long as the partridge can keep his spirits up to the drumming point,
why
should the rest of us outdoor people pull a long face over hard times
and short
rations? Shall we be less manly than a bird? The
partridge will
neither migrate nor hibernate, but looks winter in the eye and bids the
wind
whistle. It is too bad if we who command the services of coal dealers
and
plumbers, tailors and butchers, doctors and clergymen, cannot stand our
ground
with a creature that knows neither house nor fuel, and has nothing for
it,
summer and winter, but to live by his wits. To the partridge man must
look like
a weak brother, a coddler of himself, ruined by civilization and
“modern
improvements;” a lubber who would freeze to death where a chickadee
bubbles over
with the very joy of living. With
weather-braving souls like these Thoreau would associate; and so will
I. It is
true, what all the moralists have told us, that it is good for a man to
keep
company with his superiors. Not that in my own case I look for their
example
and tuition to make me inherently better; it is getting late for that;
“nothing
that happens after we are twelve counts for very much;” I shall be
content if
they make me happier. And so much I surely depend upon. Good spirits
are
contagious. It is the great advantage of keeping a dog, that he has
happiness
to spare, and gives to his master. So a flock of chickadees, or
snowbirds, or
kinglets, or tree sparrows, or goldfinches brighten a man's day. He
comes away
smiling. I will go out now and prove it. |