Butwhileweareconfinedtobooks,thoughthemostselectandclassic,andreadonlyparticularwrittenlanguages,whicharethemselvesbutdialectsandprovincial,weareindangerofforgettingthelanguagewhichallthingsandeventsspeakwithoutmetaphor,whichaloneiscopiousandstandard.Muchispublished,butlittleprinted.Therayswhichstreamthroughtheshutterwillbenolongerrememberedwhentheshutteriswhollyremoved.Nomethodnordisciplinecansupersedethenecessityofbeingforeveronthealert.Whatisacourseofhistory,orphilosophy,orpoetry,nomatterhowwellselected,orthebestsociety,orthemostadmirableroutineoflife,comparedwiththedisciplineoflookingalwaysatwhatistobeseen?Willyoubeareader,astudentmerely,oraseer?Readyourfate,seewhatisbeforeyou,andwalkonintofuturity.
IdidnotreadbooksthefirstsummerIhoedbeans.Nay,Ioftendidbetterthanthis.ThereweretimeswhenIcouldnotaffordtosacrificethebloomofthepresentmomenttoanywork,whetheroftheheadorhands.Iloveabroadmargintomylife.Sometimes,inasummermorning,havingtakenmyaccustomedbath,Isatinmysunnydoorwayfromsunrisetillnoon,raptinarevery,amidstthepinesandhickoriesandsumachs,inundisturbedsolitudeandstillness,whilethebirdssingaroundorflittednoiselessthroughthehouse,untilbythesunfallinginatmywestwindow,orthenoiseofsometraveller’swagononthedistanthighway,Iwasremindedofthelapseoftime.Igrewinthoseseasonslikecorninthenight,andtheywerefarbetterthananyworkofthehandswouldhavebeen.Theywerenottimesubtractedfrommylife,butsomuchoverandabovemyusualallowance.IrealizedwhattheOrientalsmeanbycontemplationandtheforsakingofworks.Forthemostpart,Imindednothowthehourswent.Thedayadvancedasiftolightsomeworkofmineitwasmorning,andlo,nowitisevening,andnothingmemorableisaccomplished.Insteadofsinginglikethebirds,Isilentlysmiledatmyincessantgoodfortune.Asthesparrowhaditstrill,sittingonthehickorybeforemydoor,sohadImychuckleorsuppressedwarblewhichhemighthearoutofmynest.Mydayswerenotdaysoftheweek,bearingthestampofanyheathendeity,norweretheymincedintohoursandfrettedbythetickingofaclockforIlivedlikethePuriIndians,ofwhomitissaidthat“foryesterday,to-day,andto-morrowtheyhaveonlyoneword,andtheyexpressthevarietyofmeaningbypointingbackwardforyesterday,forwardforto-morrow,andoverheadforthepassingday.”Thiswassheeridlenesstomyfellow-townsmen,nodoubtbutifthebirdsandflowershadtriedmebytheirstandard,Ishouldnothavebeenfoundwanting.Amanmustfindhisoccasionsinhimself,itistrue.Thenaturaldayisverycalm,andwillhardlyreprovehisindolence.
Ihadthisadvantage,atleast,inmymodeoflife,overthosewhowereobligedtolookabroadforamusement,tosocietyandthetheatre,thatmylifeitselfwasbecomemyamusementandneverceasedtobenovel.Itwasadramaofmanyscenesandwithoutanend.Ifw