to the sick the doctors wisely recommend a change of air and scenery. thank heaven, here is not all the world. the buckeye does not grow in new england, and the mockingbird is rarely heard here. the wild goose is more of a cosmopolite than we; he breaks his fast in canada, takes a luncheon in the ohio, and plumes himself for the night in a southern bayou. even the bison, to some extent, keeps pace with the seasons cropping the pastures of the colorado only till a greener and sweeter grass awaits him by the yellowstone. yet we think that if rail fences are pulled down, and stone walls piled up on our farms, bounds are henceforth set to our lives and our fates decided. if you are chosen town clerk, forsooth, you cannot go to tierra del fuego this summer: but you may go to the land of infernal fire nevertheless. the universe is wider than our views of it.
yet we should oftener look over the tafferel of our craft, like curious passengers, and not make the voyage like stupid sailors picking oakum. the other side of the globe is but the home of our correspondent. our voyaging is only great-circle sailing, and the doctors prescribe for diseases of the skin merely. one hastens to southern africa to chase the giraffe; but surely that is not the game he would be after. how long, pray, would a man hunt giraffes if he could? snipes and woodcocks also may afford rare sport; but i trust it would be nobler game to shoot one's self.--
"direct your eye right inward, and you'll find
a thousand regions in your mind
yet undiscovered. travel them, and be
expert in home-cosmography."
what does africa -- what does the west stand for? is not our own interior white on the chart? black though it may prove, like the coast, when discovered. is it the source of the nile, or the niger, or the mississippi, or a northwest passage around this continent, that we would find? are these the problems which most concern mankind? is franklin the only man who is lost, that his wife should be so earnest to find him? does mr. grinnell know where he himself is? be rather the mungo park, the lewis and clark and frobisher, of your own streams and oceans; explore your own higher latitudes -- with shiploads of preserved meats to support you, if they be necessary; and pile the empty cans sky-high for a sign. were preserved meats invented to preserve meat merely? nay, be a columbus to whole new continents and worlds within you, opening new channels, not of trade, but of thought. every man is the lord of a realm beside which the earthly empire of the czar is but a petty state, a hummock left by the ice. yet some can be patriotic who have no self-respect, and sacrifice the greater to the less. they love the soil which makes their graves, but have no sympathy with the spirit which may still animate their clay. patriotism is a maggot in their heads. what was the meaning of that south-sea exploring expedition, with all its parade and expense, but an indirect recognition of the fact that there are continents and seas in the moral world to which every man is an isthmus or an inlet, yet unexplored by him, but that it is easier to sail many thousand miles through cold and storm and cannibals, in a government ship, with five hundred men and boys to assist one, than it is to explore the private sea, the atlantic and pacific ocean of one's being alone.
"erret, et extremos alter scrutetur iberos.
plus habet hic vitae, plus habet ille viae."
let them wander and scrutinize the outlandish australians.
i have more of god, they more of the road.
it is not worth the while to go round the world to count the cats in zanzibar. yet do this even till you can do better, and you may perhaps find some "symmes' hole" by which to get at the inside at last. england and france, spain and portugal, gold coast and slave coast, all front on this private sea; but no bark from them has ventured out of sight of land, though it is without doubt the direct way to india. if you would learn to speak all tongues and conform to the customs of all nations, if you would travel farther than all travellers, be naturalized in all climes, and cause the sphinx to dash her head against a stone, even obey the precept of the old philosopher, and explore thyself. herein are demanded the eye and the nerve. only the defeated and deserters go to the wars, cowards that run away and enlist. start now on that farthest western way, which does not pause at the mississippi or the pacific, nor conduct toward a wornout china or japan, but leads on direct, a tangent to this sphere, summer and winter, day and night, sun down, moon down, and at last earth down too.
it is said that mirabeau took to highway robbery "to ascertain what degree of resolution was necessary in order to place one's self in formal opposition to the most sacred laws of society." he declared that "a soldier who fights in the ranks does not require half so much courage as a footpad" -- "that honor and religion have never stood in the way of a well-considered and a firm resolve." this was manly, as the world goes; and yet it was idle, if not desperate. a saner man would have found himself often enough "in formal opposition" to what are deemed "the most sacred laws of society," through obedience to yet more sacred laws, and so have tested his resolution without going out of his way. it is not for a man to put himself in such an attitude to society, but to maintain himself in whatever attitude he find himself through obedience to the laws of his being, which will never be one of opposition to a just government, if he should chance to meet with such.
i left the woods for as good a reason as i went there. perhaps it seemed to me that i had several more lives to live, and could not spare any more time for that one. it is remarkable how easily and insensibly we fall into a particular route, and make a beaten track for ourselves. i had not lived there a week before my feet wore a path from my door to the pond-side; and though it is five or six years since i trod it, it is still quite distinct. it is true, i fear, that others may have fallen into it, and so helped to keep it open. the surface of the earth is soft and impressible by the feet of men; and so with the paths which the mind travels. how worn and dusty, then, must be the highways of the world, how deep the ruts of tradition and conformity! i did not wish to take a cabin passage, but rather to go before the mast and on the deck of the world, for there i could best see the moonlight amid the mountains. i do not wish to go below now.
i learned this, at least, by my experiment: that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours. he will put some things behind, will pass an invisible boundary; new, universal, and more liberal laws will begin to establish themselves around and within him; or the old laws be expanded, and interpreted in his favor in a more liberal sense, and he will live with the license of a higher order of beings. in proportion as he simplifies his life, the laws of the universe will appear less complex, and solitude will not be solitude, nor poverty poverty, nor weakness weakness. if you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. now put the foundations under them.
it is a ridiculous demand which england and america make, that you shall speak so that they can understand you. neither men nor toadstools grow so. as if that were important, and there were not enough to understand you without them. as if nature could support but one order of understandings, could not sustain birds as well as quadrupeds, flying as well as creeping things, and hush and whoa, which bright can understand, were the best english. as if there were safety in stupidity alone. i fear chiefly lest my expression may not be extravagant enough, may not wander far enough beyond the narrow limits of my daily experience, so as to be adequate to the truth of which i have been convinced. extra vagance! it depends on how you are yarded. the migrating buffalo, which seeks new pastures in another latitude, is not extravagant like the cow which kicks over the pail, leaps the cowyard fence, and runs after her calf, in milking time. i desire to speak somewhere without bounds; like a man in a waking moment, to men in their waking moments; for i am convinced that i cannot exaggerate enough even to lay the foundation of a true expression. who that has heard a strain of music feared then lest he should speak extravagantly any more forever? in view of the future or possible, we should live quite laxly and undefined in front, our outlines dim and misty on that side; as our shadows reveal an insensible perspiration toward the sun. the volatile truth of our words should continually betray the inadequacy of the residual statement. their truth is instantly translated; its literal monument alone remains. the words which express our faith and piety are not definite; yet they are significant and fragrant like frankincense to superior natures.
why level downward to our dullest perception always, and praise that as common sense? the commonest sense is the sense of men asleep, which they express by snoring. sometimes we are inclined to class those who are once-and-a-half-witted with the half-witted, because we appreciate only a third part of their wit. some would find fault with the morning red, if they ever got up early enough. "they pretend," as i hear, "that the verses of kabir have four different senses; illusion, spirit, intellect, and the exoteric doctrine of the vedas"; but in this part of the world it is considered a ground for complaint if a man's writings admit of more than one interpretation. while england endeavors to cure the potato-rot, will not any endeavor to cure the brain-rot, which prevails so much more widely and fatally?
i do not suppose that i have attained to obscurity, but i should be proud if no more fatal fault were found with my pages on this score than was found with the walden ice. southern customers objected to its blue color, which is the evidence of its purity, as if it were muddy, and preferred the cambridge ice, which is white, but tastes of weeds. the purity men love is like the mists which envelop the earth, and not like the azure ether beyond.
some are dinning in our ears that we americans, and moderns generally, are intellectual dwarfs compared with the ancients, or even the elizabethan men. but what is that to the purpose? a living dog is better than a dead lion. shall a man go and hang himself because he belongs to the race of pygmies, and not be the biggest pygmy that he can? let every one mind his own business, and endeavor to be what he was made.
why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed and in such desperate enterprises? if a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away. it is not important that he should mature as soon as an apple tree or an oak. shall he turn his spring into summer? if the condition of things which we were made for is not yet, what were any reality which we can substitute? we will not be shipwrecked on a vain reality. shall we with pains erect a heaven of blue glass over ourselves, though when it is done we shall be sure to gaze still at the true ethereal heaven far above, as if the former were not?
there was an artist in the city of kouroo who was disposed to strive after perfection. one day it came into his mind to make a staff. having considered that in an imperfect work time is an ingredient, but into a perfect work time does not enter, he said to himself, it shall be perfect in all respects, though i should do nothing else in my life. he proceeded instantly to the forest for wood, being resolved that it should not be made of unsuitable material; and as he searched for and rejected stick after stick, his friends gradually deserted him, for they grew old in their works and died, but he grew not older by a moment. his singleness of purpose and resolution, and his elevated piety, endowed him, without his knowledge, with perennial youth. as he made no compromise with time, time kept out of his way, and only sighed at a distance because he could not overcome him. before he had found a stock in all respects suitable the city of kouroo was a hoary ruin, and he sat on one of its mounds to peel the stick. before he had given it the proper shape the dynasty of the candahars was at an end, and with the point of the stick he wrote the name of the last of that race in the sand, and then resumed his work. by the time he had smoothed and polished the staff kalpa was no longer the pole-star; and ere he had put on the ferule and the head adorned with precious stones, brahma had awoke and slumbered many times. but why do i stay to mention these things? when the finishing stroke was put to his work, it suddenly expanded before the eyes of the astonished artist into the fairest of all the creations of brahma. he had made a new system in making a staff, a world with full and fair proportions; in which, though the old cities and dynasties had passed away, fairer and more glorious ones had taken their places. and now he saw by the heap of shavings still fresh at his feet, that, for him and his work, the former lapse of time had been an illusion, and that no more time had elapsed than is required for a single scintillation from the brain of brahma to fall on and inflame the tinder of a mortal brain. the material was pure, and his art was pure; how could the result be other than wonderful?
no face which we can give to a matter will stead us so well at last as the truth. this alone wears well. for the most part, we are not where we are, but in a false position. through an infinity of our natures, we suppose a case, and put ourselves into it, and hence are in two cases at the same time, and it is doubly difficult to get out. in sane moments we regard only the facts, the case that is. say what you have to say, not what you ought. any truth is better than make-believe. tom hyde, the tinker, standing on the gallows, was asked if he had anything to say. "tell the tailors," said he, "to remember to make a knot in their thread before they take the first stitch." his companion's prayer is forgotten.
however mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names. it is not so bad as you are. it looks poorest when you are richest. the fault-finder will find faults even in paradise. love your life, poor as it is. you may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poorhouse. the setting sun is reflected from the windows of the almshouse as brightly as from the rich man's abode; the snow melts before its door as early in the spring. i do not see but a quiet mind may live as contentedly there, and have as cheering thoughts, as in a palace. the town's poor seem to me often to live the most independent lives of any. maybe they are simply great enough to receive without misgiving. most think that they are above being supported by the town; but it oftener happens that they are not above supporting themselves by dishonest means, which should be more disreputable. cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage. do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends. turn the old; return to them. things do not change; we change. sell your clothes and keep your thoughts. god will see that you do not want society. if i were confined to a corner of a garret all my days, like a spider, the world would be just as large to me while i had my thoughts about me. the philosopher said: "from an army of three divisions one can take away its general, and put it in disorder; from the man the most abject and vulgar one cannot take away his thought." do not seek so anxiously to be developed, to subject yourself to many influences to be played on; it is all dissipation. humility like darkness reveals the heavenly lights. the shadows of poverty and meanness gather around us, "and lo! creation widens to our view." we are often reminded that if there were bestowed on us the wealth of croesus, our aims must still be the same, and our means essentially the same. moreover, if you are restricted in your range by poverty, if you cannot buy books and newspapers, for instance, you are but confined to the most significant and vital experiences; you are compelled to deal with the material which yields the most sugar and the most starch. it is life near the bone where it is sweetest. you are defended from being a trifler. no man loses ever on a lower level by magnanimity on a higher. superfluous wealth can buy superfluities only. money is not required to buy one necessary of the soul.
i live in the angle of a leaden wall, into whose composition was poured a little alloy of bell-metal. often, in the repose of my mid-day, there reaches my ears a confused tintinnabulum from without. it is the noise of my contemporaries. my neighbors tell me of their adventures with famous gentlemen and ladies, what notabilities they met at the dinner-table; but i am no more interested in such things than in the contents of the daily times. the interest and the conversation are about costume and manners chiefly; but a goose is a goose still, dress it as you will. they tell me of california and texas, of england and the indies, of the hon. mr. --- of georgia or of massachusetts, all transient and fleeting phenomena, till i am ready to leap from their court-yard like the mameluke bey. i delight to come to my bearings -- not walk in procession with pomp and parade, in a conspicuous place, but to walk even with the builder of the universe, if i may -- not to live in this restless, nervous, bustling, trivial nineteenth century, but stand or sit thoughtfully while it goes by. what are men celebrating? they are all on a committee of arrangements, and hourly expect a speech from somebody. god is only the president of the day, and webster is his orator. i love to weigh, to settle, to gravitate toward that which most strongly and rightfully attracts me -- not hang by the beam of the scale and try to weigh less -- not suppose a case, but take the case that is; to travel the only path i can, and that on which no power can resist me. it affords me no satisfaction to commerce to spring an arch before i have got a solid foundation. let us not play at kittly-benders. there is a solid bottom everywhere. we read that the traveller asked the boy if the swamp before him had a hard bottom. the boy replied that it had. but presently the traveller's horse sank in up to the girths, and he observed to the boy, "i thought you said that this bog had a hard bottom." "so it has," answered the latter, "but you have not got half way to it yet." so it is with the bogs and quicksands of society; but he is an old boy that knows it. only what is thought, said, or done at a certain rare coincidence is good. i would not be one of those who will foolishly drive a nail into mere lath and plastering; such a deed would keep me awake nights. give me a hammer, and let me feel for the furring. do not depend on the putty. drive a nail home and clinch it so faithfully that you can wake up in the night and think of your work with satisfaction -- a work at which you would not be ashamed to invoke the muse. so will help you god, and so only. every nail driven should be as another rivet in the machine of the universe, you carrying on the work.
rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth. i sat at a table where were rich food and wine in abundance, and obsequious attendance, but sincerity and truth were not; and i went away hungry from the inhospitable board. the hospitality was as cold as the ices. i thought that there was no need of ice to freeze them. they talked to me of the age of the wine and the fame of the vintage; but i thought of an older, a newer, and purer wine, of a more glorious vintage, which they had not got, and could not buy. the style, the house and grounds and "entertainment" pass for nothing with me. i called on the king, but he made me wait in his hall, and conducted like a man incapacitated for hospitality. there was a man in my neighborhood who lived in a hollow tree. his manners were truly regal. i should have done better had i called on him.
how long shall we sit in our porticoes practising idle and musty virtues, which any work would make impertinent? as if one were to begin the day with long-suffering, and hire a man to hoe his potatoes; and in the afternoon go forth to practise christian meekness and charity with goodness aforethought! consider the china pride and stagnant self-complacency of mankind. this generation inclines a little to congratulate itself on being the last of an illustrious line; and in boston and london and paris and rome, thinking of its long descent, it speaks of its progress in art and science and literature with satisfaction. there are the records of the philosophical societies, and the public eulogies of great men! it is the good adam contemplating his own virtue. "yes, we have done great deeds, and sung divine songs, which shall never die" -- that is, as long as we can remember them. the learned societies and great men of assyria -- where are they? what youthful philosophers and experimentalists we are! there is not one of my readers who has yet lived a whole human life. these may be but the spring months in the life of the race. if we have had the seven-years' itch, we have not seen the seventeen-year locust yet in concord. we are acquainted with a mere pellicle of the globe on which we live. most have not delved six feet beneath the surface, nor leaped as many above it. we know not where we are. beside, we are sound asleep nearly half our time. yet we esteem ourselves wise, and have an established order on the surface. truly, we are deep thinkers, we are ambitious spirits! as i stand over the insect crawling amid the pine needles on the forest floor, and endeavoring to conceal itself from my sight, and ask myself why it will cherish those humble thoughts, and bide its head from me who might, perhaps, be its benefactor, and impart to its race some cheering information, i am reminded of the greater benefactor and intelligence that stands over me the human insect.
there is an incessant influx of novelty into the world, and yet we tolerate incredible dulness. i need only suggest what kind of sermons are still listened to in the most enlightened countries. there are such words as joy and sorrow, but they are only the burden of a psalm, sung with a nasal twang, while we believe in the ordinary and mean. we think that we can change our clothes only. it is said that the british empire is very large and respectable, and that the united states are a first-rate power. we do not believe that a tide rises and falls behind every man which can float the british empire like a chip, if he should ever harbor it in his mind. who knows what sort of seventeen-year locust will next come out of the ground? the government of the world i live in was not framed, like that of britain, in after-dinner conversations over the wine.
the life in us is like the water in the river. it may rise this year higher than man has ever known it, and flood the parched uplands; even this may be the eventful year, which will drown out all our muskrats. it was not always dry land where we dwell. i see far inland the banks which the stream anciently washed, before science began to record its freshets. every one has heard the story which has gone the rounds of new england, of a strong and beautiful bug which came out of the dry leaf of an old table of apple-tree wood, which had stood in a farmer's kitchen for sixty years, first in connecticut, and afterward in massachusetts -- from an egg deposited in the living tree many years earlier still, as appeared by counting the annual layers beyond it; which was heard gnawing out for several weeks, hatched perchance by the heat of an urn. who does not feel his faith in a resurrection and immortality strengthened by hearing of this? who knows what beautiful and winged life, whose egg has been buried for ages under many concentric layers of woodenness in the dead dry life of society, deposited at first in the alburnum of the green and living tree, which has been gradually converted into the semblance of its well-seasoned tomb -- heard perchance gnawing out now for years by the astonished family of man, as they sat round the festive board -- may unexpectedly come forth from amidst society's most trivial and handselled furniture, to enjoy its perfect summer life at last!
i do not say that john or jonathan will realize all this; but such is the character of that morrow which mere lapse of time can never make to dawn. the light which puts out our eyes is darkness to us. only that day dawns to which we are awake. there is more day to dawn. the sun is but a morning star.
生了病的话，医生要明智地劝告你转移个地方，换换空气。谢天谢地，世界并不限于这里。七叶树没有在新英格兰生长，这里也难得听到模仿鸟。野鹅比起我们来更加国际化，它们在加拿大用早饭，在俄亥俄州吃中饭，夜间到南方的河湾上去修饰自己的羽毛。甚至野牛也相当地追随着时令节气，它在科罗拉多牧场上吃草，一直吃到黄石公园又有更绿更甜的草在等待它的时候。然而我们人却认为，如果拆掉栏杆或篱笆，在田园周围砌上石墙的话，我们的生活可就有了界限，我们的命运方能安定。如果你被挑选为市镇的办事员，那你今夏就不能到火地岛去旅行，但你很可能到地狱的火里去。宇宙比我们看到的还要来得大呵。
然而我们应该更经常地像好奇的旅行家一样在船尾浏览周遭的风景，不要一面旅行，一面却像愚蠢的水手，只顾低头撕麻絮。其实地球的另一面也不过是和我们通信的人家。我们的旅行只是兜了一个大圈子，而医生开方子，也只能医治你的皮肤病。有人赶到南非洲去追逐长颈鹿，实在他应该追逐的不是这种动物。你说一个人又有多久的时候追逐长颈鹿呢！猎鹬鸟捉土拨鼠也是罕有的游戏了，我认为枪击你自己会是更崇高的一项运动。——
“快把你的视线转向内心，
你将发现你心中有一千处
地区未曾发现。那末去旅行，
成为家庭宇宙志的地理专家。”非洲是什么意思，——西方又代表什么呢？在我们的内心的地图上，可不是一块空自吗？一旦将它发现，它还不是像海岸一样，是黑黑的吗？是否要我们去发现尼罗河的河源，或尼日尔河的，或密西西比河的源头，或我们这大陆上的西北走廊呢？难道这些是跟人类最有关系的问题吗？弗兰克林爵士是否是这世上唯一失踪了的北极探险家，因此他的太太必须这样焦急地找寻他呢。格林奈尔先生是否知道他自己在什么地方？让你自己成为考察自己的江河海洋的门戈·派克、刘易士、克拉克和弗罗比秀之流吧；去勘探你自己的更高纬度去吧，——必要的话，船上装足了罐头肉，以维持你的生命，你还可以把空罐头堆得跟天空一样高，作为标志之用。发明罐头肉难道仅仅是为了保藏肉类吗？不，你得做一个哥伦布，寻找你自己内心的新大陆和新世界，开辟海峡，并不是为了做生意，而是为了思想的流通。每个人都是自己领域中的主人，沙皇的帝国和这个领域一比较，只成了蕞尔小国，一个冰天雪地中的小疙瘩。然而有的人就不知道尊重自己，却奢谈爱国，而为了少数人的缘故，要大多数人当牺牲品。他们爱上他们将来要葬身的土地，却不理睬使他们的躯体活泼起来的精神。爱国只是他们脑子里的空想。南海探险队是什么意思呢？那样的排场，那样的耗费，间接他说，那只是承认了这样一个事实：在精神生活的世界中，虽然有的是海洋和大陆，其中每一个人只不过是一个半岛和一个岛屿，然而他不去探这个险；他却坐在一只政府拨给他的大船中间，航行经过儿千里的寒冷、风暴和吃人生番之地，带着五百名水手和仆人来服侍他；他觉得这比在内心的海洋上探险，比在单独一个人的大西洋和太平洋上探险，倒是容易得多呢。
“erret，et extremos alter scrutetur lberos。
plus habet hic vitae，plus habet ille viae。”
“让他们去漂泊去考察异邦的澳大利亚人，
我从上帝得到的多，他们得到更多的路。”
周游全世界，跑到桑给巴尔去数老虎的多少，是不值得的。但没有更好的事情做，这甚至还是值得做的事情，也许你能找到“薛美斯的洞”，从那里你最后可以进入到你内心的深处。英国、法国、西班牙、葡萄牙、黄金海岸、奴隶海岸，都面对着内心的海洋；可是从那里出发，都可以直航印度，却没有哪一条船敢开出港湾，远航到茫茫不见大陆的内心海洋上。尽管你学会了一切方言，习惯了一切风俗，尽管你比一切旅行家旅行得更远，适应了一切的气候和水土，连那斯芬克斯也给你气死撞碎在石上了，你还是要听从古代哲学家的一句话，“到你内心去探险。”这才用得到眼睛和脑子。只有败军之将和逃兵才能走上这个战场，只有懦夫和逃亡者才能在这里入伍。现在就开始探险吧，走上那最远的西方之路，这样的探险并不停止在密西西比，或太平洋，也不叫你到古老的中国或日本去，这个探险一往无前，好像经过大地的一条切线，无论冬夏昼夜，日落月殁，都可以作灵魂的探险，一直探到最后地球消失之处。
据说米拉波到大路上试验了一次剪径的行为，“来测验一下，正式违抗社会最神圣的法律到底需要多少程度的决心”。他后来宣称“战场上的士兵所需要的勇气只有剪径强盗的一半”，——还说，“荣誉和宗教不能拦阻住一个审慎而坚定的决心。”而在这个世界上，米拉波总算是个男子汉了；可是这很无聊，即使他并不是无赖。一个比较清醒的人将发现自己“正式违抗”所谓“社会最神圣的法律”的次数是太多了，因为他服从一些更加神圣的法律，他不故意这样做，也已经测验了他自己的决心。其实他不必对社会采取这样的态度，他只要保持原来的态度，仅仅服从他自己的法则，如果他能碰到一个公正的政府，他这样做是不会和它对抗的。
我离开森林，就跟我进入森林，有同样的好理由。我觉得也许还有好几个生命可过，我不必把更多时间来交给这一种生命了。惊人的是我们很容易糊里糊涂习惯于一种生活，踏出一条自己的一定轨迹。在那儿住不到一星期，我的脚就踏出了一条小径，从门口一直通到湖滨；距今不觉五六年了，这小径依然还在。是的，我想是别人也走了这条小径了，所以它还在通行。大地的表面是柔软的，人脚留下了踪迹；同样的是，心灵的行程也留下了路线。想人世的公路如何给践踏得尘埃蔽天，传统和习俗形成了何等深的车辙！我不愿坐在房舱里，宁肯站在世界的桅杆前与甲板上，因为从那里我更能看清群峰中的皓月。我再也不愿意下到舱底去了。
至少我是从实验中了解这个的：一个人若能自信地向他梦想的方向行进，努力经营他所想望的生活，他是可以获得通常还意想不到的成功的。他将要越过一条看不见的界线，他将要把一些事物抛在后面；新的、更广大的、更自由的规律将要开始围绕着他，并且在他的内心里建立起来；或者旧有的规律将要扩大，并在更自由的意义里得到有利于他的新解释，他将要拿到许可证，生活在事物的更高级的秩序中。他自己的生活越简单，宇宙的规律也就越显得简单，寂寞将不成其为寂寞，贫困将不成其为贫困，软弱将不成其为软弱。如果你造了空中楼阁，你的劳苦并不是白费的，楼阁应该造在空中，就是要把基础放到它们的下面去。
英国和美国提出了奇怪可笑的要求，要求你说话必须能被他们理解。人生和毒菌的生长都不是这样听命的。还以为这很重要，好像没有了他们便没有人来理解你了。好像大自然只赞成这样一种理解的能力，它养得活四足动物而并不能养活鸟雀，养活了走兽而养不活飞禽，轻声，别说话和站住的吆喝，好像成了最好的英文，连勃莱特也能懂得的。仿佛只有愚蠢倒能永保安全！我最担心的是我表达的还不够过火呢，我担心我的表达不能超过我自己的日常经验的狭隘范围，来适应我所肯定的真理！过火！这要看你处在什么境地。漂泊的水牛跑到另一个纬度去找新的牧场，并不比奶牛在喂奶时踢翻了铅桶，跳过了牛栏，奔到小牛身边去，来得更加过火。我希望在一些没有束缚的地方说话；像一个清醒的人跟另一些清醒的人那样他说话；我觉得，要给真正的表达奠立一个基础，我还不够过火呢。谁听到过一段音乐就害怕自己会永远说话说得过火呢？为了未来或为了可能的事物，我们应该生活得不太紧张，表面上不要外露，轮廓不妨暧昧而朦胧些，正如我们的影子，对着太阳也会显得不知不觉地汗流浃背的。我们的真实的语言易于蒸发掉，常使一些残余下来的语言变得不适用。它们的真实是时刻改变的；只有它的文字形式还保留着。表达我们的信心和虔诚的文字是很不确定的；它们只对于卓越的人才有意义，其芳馨如乳香。
为什么我们时常降低我们的智力到了愚笨的程度，而又去赞美它为常识？最平常的常识是睡着的人的意识，在他们打鼾中表达出来的。有时我们把难得聪明的人和愚笨的人归为一类，因为我们只能欣赏他们的三分之一的聪明。有人偶然起了一次早，就对黎明的红霞挑剔开了。我还听说过，“他们认为卡
比尔的诗有四种不同的意义；幻觉、精神、智性和吠陀经典的通俗教义。”可是我们这里要是有人给一个作品做了一种以上的解释，大家就要纷纷责难了。英国努力防治土豆腐烂，难道就不努力医治脑子腐烂？而后者实在是更普遍更危险的呢。
我并不是说，我已经变得更深奥了，可是，从我这些印张上找出来的致命缺点如果不比从这瓦尔登湖的冰上找出来更多的话，我就感觉到很骄做了。你看南方的冰商反对它的蓝色，仿佛那是泥浆，其实这是它纯洁的证明，他们反而看中了剑桥之水，那是白色的，但有一股草腥气。人们所爱好的纯洁是包裹着大地的雾，而不是上面那蓝色的太空。
有人嘀咕着，说我们美国人及一般近代人，和古人比较起来，甚至和伊丽莎白时代的人比较起来，都不过是智力上的矮子罢了。这话什么意思？一只活着的狗总比一头死去的狮子好。难道一个人属于矮子一类便该上吊？为什么他不能做矮子中最长的一人。人人该管他自己的事情，努力于他的职责。
为什么我们这样急于要成功，而从事这样荒唐的事业？如果一个人跟不上他的伴侣们，那也许是因为他听的是另一种鼓声。让他踏着他听到的音乐节拍而走路，不管那拍子如何，或者在多远的地方。他应否像一株苹果树或橡树那样快地成熟，并不是重要的，他该不该把他的春天变作夏天？如果我们所要求的情况还不够条件，我们能用来代替的任何现实又算得了什么呢？我们不要在一个空虚的现实上撞破了船。我们是否要费力去在头顶上面建立一个蓝色玻璃的天空呢，虽然完成后我们还要凝望那遥远得多的真实的天空，把前者视作并未建立过的一样？
在柯洛城中，有一个艺术家，他追求完美。有一天他想做一根手杖。他想，一有时间的因素就不能成为完美的艺术作品，凡是完美作品，其中时间是不存在的，因此他自言自语，哪怕我一生中不再做任何其他的事情，也要把它做得十全十美。他立刻到森林中去找木料，他已决定不用那不合式的材料，就在他寻找着，一根又一根地选不中意而抛掉的这个期间，他的朋友们逐渐地离开了他，因为他们工作到老了之后都死掉了，可是他一点也没老。他一心一意，坚定而又高度虔诚，这一切使他在不知不觉中得到了永久的青春。因为他并不跟时间妥协，时间就站在一旁叹气，拿他没办法。他还没有找到一个完全适用的材料，柯洛城已是古湮的废墟，后来他就坐在废墟上，剥一根树枝的皮。他还没有给它造出一个形状来，坎达哈朝代已经结束了。他用了手杖的尖头，在沙土上写下那个民族的最后一人的名字来，然后他又继续工作。当他磨光了手杖，卡尔伯已经不是北极星了；他还没有装上金箍和饰有宝石的杖头，梵天都已经睡醒过好几次。为什么我要提起这些话呢？最后完成的时候，它突然辉耀无比，成了梵天所创造的世界中间最美丽的一件作品，他在创造手杖之中创造了一个新制度，一个美妙而比例适度的新世界；其间古代古城虽都逝去了，新的更光荣的时代和城市却已代之而兴起。而现在他看到刨花还依然新鲜地堆在他的脚下，对于他和他的工作，所谓时间的流逝只是过眼幻影，时间一点也没逝去，就像梵天脑中闪过的思想立刻就点燃了几人脑中的火绒一样。材料纯粹，他的艺术纯粹；结果怎能不神奇？
我们能给予物质的外貌，最后没有一个能像真理这样于我们有利。只有真理，永不破蔽。大体说来，我们并不存在于这个地方，而是在一个虚设的位置上。只因我们天性脆弱，我们假定了一类情况，并把自己放了进去，这就同时有了两种情况，我们要从中脱身就加倍地困难了。清醒的时候，我们只注意事实，注意实际的情况。你要说你要说的话，别说你该说的话呵。任何真理都比虚伪好。补锅匠汤姆·海德站在断头台上，问他有什么话要说。“告诉裁缝们，”他说，“在缝第一针之前，不要忘记了在他们的线尾打一个结。”他的伴侣的祈祷被忘记了。
不论你的生命如何卑贱，你要面对它，生活它；不要躲避它，更别用恶言咒骂它。它不像你那样坏。你最富的时候，倒是最穷。爱找缺点的人就是到天堂里也找得到缺点。尽管贫困，你要爱你的生活。甚至在一个济贫院里，你也还有愉快，高兴，光荣的时辰。夕阳反射在济贫院的窗上，像射在富户人家窗上一样光亮，在那门前，积雪同在早春溶化。我只看到，一个安心的人，在那里也像在皇官中一样，生活得心满意足而富有愉快的思想。城镇中的穷人，我看，倒往往是过着最独立不羁的生活。也许因为他们很伟大，所以受之无愧。大多数人以为他们是超然的，不靠城镇来支援他们；可是事实上他们是往往用了不正当的手段来对付生活，他们毫不是超脱的，毋宁是不体面的。视贫穷如园中之花草而像圣人一样地耕植它吧！不要找新花样，无论是新朋友或新衣服，来麻烦你自己。找旧的；回到那里去。万物不变；是我们在变。你的衣服可以卖掉，但要保留你的思想。上帝将保证你不需要社会。如果我得整天躲在阁楼的一角，像一只蜘蛛一样，只要我还能思想，世界对于我还是一样地大。哲学家说，“三军可夺帅也，匹夫不可夺志也。”不要焦虑求发展，不要屈服于玩弄你的影响；这些全是浪费。卑贱像黑暗，闪耀着极美的光。贫穷与卑贱的阴影围住了我们，“可是瞧啊！我们的眼界扩大了。”我们常常被提醒，即使赐给我们克洛索斯的巨富，我们的目的一定还是如此，我们的方法将依然故我。况且，你如果受尽了贫穷的限制，例如连书报都买不起了，那时你也不过是被限制于最有意义、最为重要的经验之内了：你不能不跟那些可以产生最多的糖和最多淀粉的物质打交道。最接近骨头地方的生命最甜蜜。你不会去做无聊的事了。在上的人宽宏大度，不会使那在下的人有任何损失。多余的财富只能够买多余的东西，人的灵魂必需的东西，是不需要花钱买的。
我住在一个铅墙的角隅中，那里已倒人了一点钟铜的合金。常常在我正午休息的时候，一种混乱的叮叮之声从外面传到了我的耳鼓中。这是我同时代人的声音。我的邻居在告诉我他们同那些著名的绅士淑女的奇遇，在夜宴桌上，他们遇见的那一些贵族；我对这些，正如我对《每日时报》的内容，同样不发生兴趣。一般的趣味和谈话资料总是关于服装和礼貌，可是笨鹅总归是笨鹅，随便你怎么打扮它。他们告诉我加利福尼亚和得克萨斯，英国和印度，佐治亚州或马萨诸塞州的某某大人，全是短暂的、瞬息即逝的现象，我几乎要像马穆鲁克的省长一样从他们的庭院中逃走。我愿我行我素，不愿涂脂抹粉，招摇过市，引人注目，即使我可以跟这个宇宙的建筑大师携手共行，我也不愿，——我不愿生活在这个不安的、神经质的、忙乱的。琐细的十九世纪生活中，宁可或立或坐，沉思着，听任这十九世纪过去。人们在庆祝些什么呢？他们都参加了某个事业的筹备委员会，随时预备听人家演说。上帝只是今天的主席，韦勃斯特是他的演说家。那些强烈地合理地吸引我的事物，我爱衡量它们的分量，处理它们，向它们转移；——决不拉住磅秤的横杆，来减少重量，——不假设一个情况，而是按照这个情况的实际来行事；旅行在我能够旅行的唯一的路上，在那里没有一种力量可以阻止我。我不会在奠定坚实基础以前先造拱门而自满自足。我们不要玩冒险的把戏。什么都得有个结实的基础。我们读到过一个旅行家问一个孩子，他面前的这个沼泽有没有一个坚固的底。孩子说有的。可是，旅行家的马立刻就陷了下去，陷到肚带了，他对孩子说，“我听你说的是这个沼泽有一个坚固的底。”“是有啊，”后者回答，“可是你还没有到达它的一半深呢。”社会的泥泽和流沙也如此。要知道这一点，却非年老的孩子不可。也只有在很难得，很凑巧之中，所想的，所说的那一些事才是好的。我不愿做一个在只有板条和灰浆的墙中钉入一只钉子的人，要是这样做了，那到半夜里我还会睡不着觉。给我一个锤子，让我来摸一摸钉板条。不要依赖表面上涂着的灰浆。锤入一只钉子，让它真真实实地钉紧，那我半夜里醒来了想想都很满意呢，——这样的工作，便是你召唤了文艺女神来看看，也毫无愧色的。这样做上帝才会帮你的忙，也只有这样做你的忙他才帮。每一个锤入的钉子应该作为宇宙大机器中的一部分。你这才是在继续这一个工作。
不必给我爱，不必给我钱，不必给我名誉，给我真理吧。我坐在一张放满了山珍海味的食桌前，受到奉承的招待，可是那里没有真理和诚意；宴罢之后，从这冷淡的桌上归来，我饥饿难当。这种招待冷得像冰。我想不必再用冰来冰冻它们了，他们告诉我酒的年代和美名；可是我想到了一种更古，却又更新、更纯粹、更光荣的饮料，但他们没有，要买也买不到。式样，建筑，庭园和“娱乐”，在我看来，有等于无。我去访问一个国王，他吩咐我在客厅里等他，像一个好客的人。我邻居中有一个人住在树洞里。他的行为才真有王者之风。我要是去访问他，结果一定会好得多。
我们还要有多久坐在走廊中，实行这些无聊的陈规陋习，弄得任何工作都荒诞不堪，还要有多久呢？好像一个人，每天一早就要苦修，还雇了一个人来给他种土豆；到下午，抱着预先想好的善心出去实行基督教徒的温柔与爱心！请想想中国的自大和那种人类的凝滞的自满。这一世代庆幸自己为一个光荣传统的最后一代；而在波士顿、伦敦、巴黎、罗马，想想它们历史多么悠久，它们还在说它们的文学、艺术和科学多么进步而沾沾自喜。有的是哲学学会的记录，对于伟人公开的赞美文章！好一个亚当，在夸耀他自己的美德了。 “是的，我们做了伟大的事业了，唱出了神圣的歌了，它们是不朽的，”——在我们能记得它们的时候，自然是不朽的罗。可是古代亚述的有学问的团体和他们的伟人，——请问现在何在？我们是何等年轻的哲学家和实验家啊！我的读者之中，还没有一个人生活过整个人生。这些也许只是在人类的春天的几个月里。即便我们患了七年才治好的癣疥，我们也并没有看见康科德受过的十六年蝗灾。我们只晓得我们所生活的地球上的一张薄膜。大多数人没有深入过水下六英尺，也没有跳高到六英尺以上。我们不知在哪里。况且有差不多一半的时间，我们是沉睡的。可是我们却自以为聪明，自以为在地球上建立了秩序。真的，我们倒是很深刻的思想家，而且我们是有志气的人！我站在林中，看这森林地上的松针之中，蠕蠕爬行着的一只昆虫，看到它企图避开我的视线，自己去藏起来，我便问我自己，为什么它有这样谦逊的思想，要藏起它的头避开我，而我，也许可以帮助它，可以给它这个族类若干可喜的消息，这时我禁不住想起我们更伟大的施恩者，大智慧者，他也在俯视着我们这些宛如虫豸的人。
新奇的事物正在无穷尽地注入这个世界来，而我们却忍受着不可思议的愚蠢。我只要提起，在最开明的国土上，我们还在听怎样的说教就够了。现在还有快乐啊，悲哀啊，这种字眼，但这些都只是用鼻音唱出的赞美诗的叠句，实际上我们所信仰的还是平庸而卑下的。我们以为我们只要换换衣服就行了。据说大英帝国很大，很可敬，而美利坚合众国是一等强国。我们不知道每一个人背后都有潮起潮落，这浪潮可以把大英帝国像小木片一样浮起来，如果他有决心记住这个。谁知道下一次还会发生什么样的十七年蝗灾？我所生活在内的那个世界的政府，并不像英国政府那样，不是在夜宴之后，喝喝美酒并谈谈说说就建立起来的。
我们身体内的生命像河中的水。它可以今年涨得高，高得空前，洪水涨上枯焦的高地；甚至这样的一年也可能是多事之年，把我们所有的麝鼠都淹死。我们生活的地方不一定总是干燥的土地。我看到远远地，在内陆就有些河岸，远在科学还没有记录它们的泛滥之前，就曾受过江河的冲激。大家都听到过新英格兰传说的这个故事，有一只强壮而美丽的爬虫，它从一只古老的苹果木桌子的干燥的活动桌板中爬了出来，那桌于放在一个农夫的厨房中间已经六十年了，先是在康涅狄格州，后来搬到了马萨诸塞州来，那卵还比六十年前更早几年，当苹果树还活着的时候就下在里面了，因为这是可以根据它外面的年轮判断的；好几个星期来，已经听到它在里面咬着了，它大约是受到一只钵头的热气才孵化的。听到了这样的故事之后，谁能不感到增强了复活的信心与不朽的信心呢？这卵已几世代地埋在好几层的、一圈圈围住的木头中间，放在枯燥的社会生活之中，起先在青青的有生命的白木质之间，后来这东西渐渐成了一个风干得很好的坟墓了，——也许它已经咬了几年之久，使那坐在这欢宴的餐桌前的一家子听到声音惊惶失措，——谁知道何等美丽的、有翅膀的生命突然从社会中最不值钱的、人家送的家具中，一下子跳了出来，终于享受了它完美的生命的夏天！
我并不是说约翰或者约纳森这些普通人可以理解所有的这一切；可是时间尽管流逝，而黎明始终不来的那个明天，它具备着这样的特性。使我们失去视觉的那种光明，对于我们是黑暗。只有我们睁开眼睛醒过来的那一天，天才亮了。天亮的日子多着呢。太阳不过是一个晓星。
