Sometimes,notwithstanding the snow,when I returned from my walk at evening I crossed the deep tracks of a woodchopper leading from my door,and found his pile of whittlings on the hearth,and my house filled with the odor of his pipe.Or on a Sunday afternoon,if I chanced to be at home,I heard the cronching of the snow made by the step of a long-headed farmer,who from far through the woods sought my house,to have a social “crack;”one of the few of his vocation who are “men on their farms;”who donned a frock instead of a professor's gown,and is as ready to extract the moral out of church or state as to haul a load of manure from his barn-yard.We talked of rude and simple times,when men sat about large fires in cold,bracing weather,with clear heads;and when other dessert failed,we tried our teeth on many a nut which wise squirrels have long since abandoned,for those which have the thickest shells are commonly empty.
The one who came from farthest to my lodge,through deepest snows and most dismal tempests,was a poet.A farmer,a hunter,a soldier,a reporter,even a philosopher,may be daunted;but nothing can deter a poet,for he is actuated by pure love.Who can predict his comings and goings?His business calls him out at all hours,even when doctors sleep.We made that small house ring with boisterous mirth and resound with the murmur of much sober talk,making amends then to Walden vale for the long silences.Broadway was still and deserted in comparison.At suitable intervals there were regular salutes of laughter,which might have been referred indifferently to the last-uttered or the forth-coming jest.We made many a “bran new”theory of life over a thin dish of gruel,which combined the advantages of conviviality with the clear-headedness which philosophy requires.
I should not forget that during my last winter at the pond there was another welcome visitor,who at one time came through the village,through snow and rain and darkness,till he saw my lamp through the trees,and shared with me some long winter evenings.One of the last of the philosophers,-Connecticut gave him to the world,-he peddled first her wares,afterwards,as he declares,his brains.These he peddles still,prompting God and disgracing man,bearing for fruit his brain only,like the nut its kernel.I think that he must be the man of the most faith of any alive.His words and attitude always suppose a better state of things than other men are acquainted with,and he will be the last man to be disappointed as the ages revolve.He has no venture in the present.But though comparatively disregarded now,when his day comes,laws unsuspected by most will take effect,and masters of families and rulers will come to him for advice.-
“How blind that cannot see serenity!”
A true friend of man;almost the only friend of human progress.An Old Mortality,say rather an Immortality,with unwearied patience and faith making plain the image engraven in men's bodies,the God of whom they are but defaced and leaning monuments.With his hospitable intellect he embraces children,beggars,insane,and scholars,and entertains the thought of all,adding to it commonly some breadth and elegance.I think that he should keep a caravansary on the world's highway,where philosophers of all nations might put up,and on his sign should be printed,“Entertainment for man,but not for his beast.Enter ye that have leisure and a quiet mind,who earnestly seek the right road.”He is perhaps the sanest man and has the fewest crotchets of any I chance to know;the same yesterday and tomorrow.Of yore we had sauntered and talked,and effectually put the world behind us;for he was pledged to no institution in it,freeborn,ingenuus.Whichever way we turned,it seemed that the heavens and the earth had met together,since he enhanced the beauty of the landscape.A blue-robed man,whose fittest roof is the overarching sky which reflects his serenity.I do not see how he can ever die;Nature cannot spare him.
Having each some shingles of thought well dried,we sat and whittled them,trying our knives,and admiring the clear yellowish grain of the pumpkin pine.We waded so gently and reverently,or we pulled together so smoothly,that the fishes of thought were not scared from the stream,nor feared any angler on the bank,but came and went grandly,like the clouds which float through the western sky,and the mother-o'-pearl flocks which sometimes form and dissolve there.There we worked,revising mythology,rounding a fable here and there,and building castles in the air for which earth offered no worthy foundation.Great Looker!Great Expecter!to converse with whom was a New England Night's Entertainment.Ah!such discourse we had,hermit and philosopher,and the old settler I have spoken of,-we three,-it expanded and racked my little house;I should not dare to say how many pounds'weight there was above the atmospheric pressure on every circular inch;it opened its seams so that they had to be calked with much dulness thereafter to stop the consequent leak;-but I had enough of that kind of oakum already picked.
There was one other with whom I had “solid seasons,”long to be remembered,at his house in the village,and who looked in upon me from time to time;but I had no more for society there.
There too,as everywhere,I sometimes expected the Visitor who never comes.The Vishnu Purana says,“The householder is to remain at eventide in his courtyard as long as it takes to milk a cow,or longer if he pleases,to await the arrival of a guest.”I often performed this duty of hospitality,waited long enough to milk a whole herd of cows,but did not see the man approaching from the town.
