vanspectacle.Ihavespentmanyanhour,whenIwasyounger,floatingoveritssurfaceasthezephyrwilled,havingpaddledmyboattothemiddle,andlyingonmybackacrosstheseats,inasummerforenoon,dreamingawake,untilIwasarousedbytheboattouchingthesand,andIarosetoseewhatshoremyfateshadimpelledmetodayswhenidlenesswasthemostattractiveandproductiveindustry.ManyaforenoonhaveIstolenaway,preferringtospendthusthemostvaluedpartofthedayforIwasrich,ifnotinmoney,insunnyhoursandsummerdays,andspentthemlavishlynordoIregretthatIdidnotwastemoreofthemintheworkshoportheteacher’sdesk.ButsinceIleftthoseshoresthewoodchoppershavestillfurtherlaidthemwaste,andnowformanyayeartherewillbenomoreramblingthroughtheaislesofthewood,withoccasionalvistasthroughwhichyouseethewater.MyMusemaybeexcusedifsheissilenthenceforth.Howcanyouexpectthebirdstosingwhentheirgrovesarecutdown?
Nowthetrunksoftreesonthebottom,andtheoldlogcanoe,andthedarksurroundingwoods,aregone,andthevillagers,whoscarcelyknowwhereitlies,insteadofgoingtothepondtobatheordrink,arethinkingtobringitswater,whichshouldbeassacredastheGangesatleast,tothevillageinapipe,towashtheirdisheswith!—toearntheirWaldenbytheturningofacockordrawingofaplug!ThatdevilishIronHorse,whoseear-rendingneighisheardthroughoutthetown,hasmuddiedtheBoilingSpringwithhisfoot,andheitisthathasbrowsedoffallthewoodsonWaldenshore,thatTrojanhorse,withathousandmeninhisbelly,introducedbymercenaryGreeks!Whereisthecountry’schampion,theMooreofMooreHill,tomeethimattheDeepCutandthrustanavenginglancebetweentheribsofthebloatedpest?
Nevertheless,ofallthecharactersIhaveknown,perhapsWaldenwearsbest,andbestpreservesitspurity.Manymenhavebeenlikenedtoit,butfewdeservethathonor.Thoughthewoodchoppershavelaidbarefirstthisshoreandthenthat,andtheIrishhavebuilttheirstiesbyit,andtherailroadhasinfringedonitsborder,andtheice-menhaveskimmeditonce,itisitselfunchanged,thesamewaterwhichmyyouthfuleyesfellonallthechangeisinme.Ithasnotacquiredonepermanentwrinkleafterallitsripples.Itisperenniallyyoung,andImaystandandseeaswallowdipapparentlytopickaninsectfromitssurfaceasofyore.Itstruckmeagaintonight,asifIhadnotseenitalmostdailyformorethantwentyyears,—Why,hereisWalden,thesamewoodlandlakethatIdiscoveredsomanyyearsagowhereaforestwascutdownlastwinteranotherisspringingupbyitsshoreaslustilyaseverthesamethoughtiswellinguptoitssurfacethatwasthenitisthesameliquidjoyandhappinesstoitselfanditsMaker,ay,anditmaybetome.Itistheworkofabravemansurely,inwhomtherewasnoguile!Heroundedthiswaterwithhishand,deepenedandclarifieditinhisthought,andinhiswillbequeathedittoConcord.IseebyitsfacethatitisvisitedbythesamereflectionandIcanalmostsay,Walden,isityou?
Itisnodreamofmine,
Toornamentaline
IcannotcomenearertoGodandHeaven
ThanIlivetoWaldeneven.
Iamitsstonyshore,
Andthebreezethatpasseso’er
Inthehollowofmyhand
Areitswateranditssand,
Anditsdeepestresort
Lieshighinmythought.
ThecarsneverpausetolookatityetIfancythattheengineersandfiremenandbrakemen,andthosepassengerswhohaveaseasonticketandseeitoften,arebettermenforthesight.Theengineerdoesnotforgetatnight,orhisnaturedoesnot,thathehasbeheldthisvisionofserenityandpurityonceatleastduringtheday.Thoughseenbutonce,ithelpstowashoutState-streetandtheengine’ssoot.Oneproposesthatitbecalled“God’sDrop.”
IhavesaidthatWaldenhasnovisibleinletnoroutlet,butitisontheonehanddistantlyandindirectlyrelatedtoFlint’sPond,whichismoreelevated,byachainofsmallpondscomingfromthatquarter,andontheotherdirectlyandmanifestlytoConcordRiver,whichislower,byasimilarchainofpondsthroughwhichinsomeothergeologicalperioditmayhaveflowed,andbyalittledigging,whichGodforbid,itcanbemadetoflowthitheragain.Ifbylivingthusreservedandaustere,likeahermitinthewoods,solong,ithasacquiredsuchwonderfulpurity,whowouldnotregretthatthecomparativelyimpurewatersofFlint’sPondshouldbemingledwithit,oritselfshouldevergotowasteitssweetnessintheoceanwave?
Flint’s,orSandyPond,inLincoln,ourgreatestlakeandinlandsea,liesaboutamileeastofWalden.Itismuchlarger,beingsaidtocontainonehundredandninety-sevenacres,andismorefertileinfishbutitiscomparativelysha