this is a delicious evening, when the whole body is one sense, and imbibes delight through every pore. i go and come with a strange liberty in nature, a part of herself. as i walk along the stony shore of the pond in my shirt-sleeves, though it is cool as well as cloudy and windy, and i see nothing special to attract me, all the elements are unusually congenial to me. the bullfrogs trump to usher in the night, and the note of the whip-poor-will is borne on the rippling wind from over the water. sympathy with the fluttering alder and poplar leaves almost takes away my breath; yet, like the lake, my serenity is rippled but not ruffled. these small waves raised by the evening wind are as remote from storm as the smooth reflecting surface. though it is now dark, the wind still blows and roars in the wood, the waves still dash, and some creatures lull the rest with their notes. the repose is never complete. the wildest animals do not repose, but seek their prey now; the fox, and skunk, and rabbit, now roam the fields and woods without fear. they are nature's watchmen -- links which connect the days of animated life.

when i return to my house i find that visitors have been there and left their cards, either a bunch of flowers, or a wreath of evergreen, or a name in pencil on a yellow walnut leaf or a chip. they who come rarely to the woods take some little piece of the forest into their hands to play with by the way, which they leave, either intentionally or accidentally. one has peeled a willow wand, woven it into a ring, and dropped it on my table. i could always tell if visitors had called in my absence, either by the bended twigs or grass, or the print of their shoes, and generally of what sex or age or quality they were by some slight trace left, as a flower dropped, or a bunch of grass plucked and thrown away, even as far off as the railroad, half a mile distant, or by the lingering odor of a cigar or pipe. nay, i was frequently notified of the passage of a traveller along the highway sixty rods off by the scent of his pipe.

there is commonly sufficient space about us. our horizon is never quite at our elbows. the thick wood is not just at our door, nor the pond, but somewhat is always clearing, familiar and worn by us, appropriated and fenced in some way, and reclaimed from nature. for what reason have i this vast range and circuit, some square miles of unfrequented forest, for my privacy, abandoned to me by men? my nearest neighbor is a mile distant, and no house is visible from any place but the hill-tops within half a mile of my own. i have my horizon bounded by woods all to myself; a distant view of the railroad where it touches the pond on the one hand, and of the fence which skirts the woodland road on the other. but for the most part it is as solitary where i live as on the prairies. it is as much asia or africa as new england. i have, as it were, my own sun and moon and stars, and a little world all to myself. at night there was never a traveller passed my house, or knocked at my door, more than if i were the first or last man; unless it were in the spring, when at long intervals some came from the village to fish for pouts -- they plainly fished much more in the walden pond of their own natures, and baited their hooks with darkness -- but they soon retreated, usually with light baskets, and left "the world to darkness and to me," and the black kernel of the night was never profaned by any human neighborhood. i believe that men are generally still a little afraid of the dark, though the witches are all hung, and christianity and candles have been introduced.

yet i experienced sometimes that the most sweet and tender, the most innocent and encouraging society may be found in any natural object, even for the poor misanthrope and most melancholy man. there can be no very black melancholy to him who lives in the midst of nature and has his senses still. there was never yet such a storm but it was aeolian music to a healthy and innocent ear. nothing can rightly compel a simple and brave man to a vulgar sadness. while i enjoy the friendship of the seasons i trust that nothing can make life a burden to me. the gentle rain which waters my beans and keeps me in the house today is not drear and melancholy, but good for me too. though it prevents my hoeing them, it is of far more worth than my hoeing. if it should continue so long as to cause the seeds to rot in the ground and destroy the potatoes in the low lands, it would still be good for the grass on the uplands, and, being good for the grass, it would be good for me. sometimes, when i compare myself with other men, it seems as if i were more favored by the gods than they, beyond any deserts that i am conscious of; as if i had a warrant and surety at their hands which my fellows have not, and were especially guided and guarded. i do not flatter myself, but if it be possible they flatter me. i have never felt lonesome, or in the least oppressed by a sense of solitude, but once, and that was a few weeks after i came to the woods, when, for an hour, i doubted if the near neighborhood of man was not essential to a serene and healthy life. to be alone was something unpleasant. but i was at the same time conscious of a slight insanity in my mood, and seemed to foresee my recovery. in the midst of a gentle rain while these thoughts prevailed, i was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in nature, in the very pattering of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my house, an infinite and unaccountable friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and i have never thought of them since. every little pine needle expanded and swelled with sympathy and befriended me. i was so distinctly made aware of the presence of something kindred to me, even in scenes which we are accustomed to call wild and dreary, and also that the nearest of blood to me and humanest was not a person nor a villager, that i thought no place could ever be strange to me again.

"mourning untimely consumes the sad;

few are their days in the land of the living,

beautiful daughter of toscar."

some of my pleasantest hours were during the long rain-storms in the spring or fall, which confined me to the house for the afternoon as well as the forenoon, soothed by their ceaseless roar and pelting; when an early twilight ushered in a long evening in which many thoughts had time to take root and unfold themselves. in those driving northeast rains which tried the village houses so, when the maids stood ready with mop and pail in front entries to keep the deluge out, i sat behind my door in my little house, which was all entry, and thoroughly enjoyed its protection. in one heavy thunder-shower the lightning struck a large pitch pine across the pond, making a very conspicuous and perfectly regular spiral groove from top to bottom, an inch or more deep, and four or five inches wide, as you would groove a walking-stick. i passed it again the other day, and was struck with awe on looking up and beholding that mark, now more distinct than ever, where a terrific and resistless bolt came down out of the harmless sky eight years ago. men frequently say to me, "i should think you would feel lonesome down there, and want to be nearer to folks, rainy and snowy days and nights especially." i am tempted to reply to such -- this whole earth which we inhabit is but a point in space. how far apart, think you, dwell the two most distant inhabitants of yonder star, the breadth of whose disk cannot be appreciated by our instruments? why should i feel lonely? is not our planet in the milky way? this which you put seems to me not to be the most important question. what sort of space is that which separates a man from his fellows and makes him solitary? i have found that no exertion of the legs can bring two minds much nearer to one another. what do we want most to dwell near to? not to many men surely, the depot, the post-office, the bar-room, the meeting-house, the school-house, the grocery, beacon hill, or the five points, where men most congregate, but to the perennial source of our life, whence in all our experience we have found that to issue, as the willow stands near the water and sends out its roots in that direction. this will vary with different natures, but this is the place where a wise man will dig his cellar.... i one evening overtook one of my townsmen, who has accumulated what is called "a handsome property" -- though i never got a fair view of it -- on the walden road, driving a pair of cattle to market, who inquired of me how i could bring my mind to give up so many of the comforts of life. i answered that i was very sure i liked it passably well; i was not joking. and so i went home to my bed, and left him to pick his way through the darkness and the mud to brighton -- or bright-town -- which place he would reach some time in the morning.

any prospect of awakening or coming to life to a dead man makes indifferent all times and places. the place where that may occur is always the same, and indescribably pleasant to all our senses. for the most part we allow only outlying and transient circumstances to make our occasions. they are, in fact, the cause of our distraction. nearest to all things is that power which fashions their being. next to us the grandest laws are continually being executed. next to us is not the workman whom we have hired, with whom we love so well to talk, but the workman whose work we are.

"how vast and profound is the influence of the subtile powers of heaven and of earth!"

"we seek to perceive them, and we do not see them; we seek to hear them, and we do not hear them; identified with the substance of things, they cannot be separated from them."

"they cause that in all the universe men purify and sanctify their hearts, and clothe themselves in their holiday garments to offer sacrifices and oblations to their ancestors. it is an ocean of subtile intelligences. they are everywhere, above us, on our left, on our right; they environ us on all sides."

we are the subjects of an experiment which is not a little interesting to me. can we not do without the society of our gossips a little while under these circumstances -- have our own thoughts to cheer us? confucius says truly, "virtue does not remain as an abandoned orphan; it must of necessity have neighbors."

with thinking we may be beside ourselves in a sane sense. by a conscious effort of the mind we can stand aloof from actions and their consequences; and all things, good and bad, go by us like a torrent. we are not wholly involved in nature. i may be either the driftwood in the stream, or indra in the sky looking down on it. i may be affected by a theatrical exhibition; on the other hand, i may not be affected by an actual event which appears to concern me much more. i only know myself as a human entity; the scene, so to speak, of thoughts and affections; and am sensible of a certain doubleness by which i can stand as remote from myself as from another. however intense my experience, i am conscious of the presence and criticism of a part of me, which, as it were, is not a part of me, but spectator, sharing no experience, but taking note of it, and that is no more i than it is you. when the play, it may be the tragedy, of life is over, the spectator goes his way. it was a kind of fiction, a work of the imagination only, so far as he was concerned. this doubleness may easily make us poor neighbors and friends sometimes.

i find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. to be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. i love to be alone. i never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. we are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers. a man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will. solitude is not measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows. the really diligent student in one of the crowded hives of cambridge college is as solitary as a dervish in the desert. the farmer can work alone in the field or the woods all day, hoeing or chopping, and not feel lonesome, because he is employed; but when he comes home at night he cannot sit down in a room alone, at the mercy of his thoughts, but must be where he can "see the folks," and recreate, and, as he thinks, remunerate himself for his day's solitude; and hence he wonders how the student can sit alone in the house all night and most of the day without ennui and "the blues"; but he does not realize that the student, though in the house, is still at work in his field, and chopping in his woods, as the farmer in his, and in turn seeks the same recreation and society that the latter does, though it may be a more condensed form of it.

society is commonly too cheap. we meet at very short intervals, not having had time to acquire any new value for each other. we meet at meals three times a day, and give each other a new taste of that old musty cheese that we are. we have had to agree on a certain set of rules, called etiquette and politeness, to make this frequent meeting tolerable and that we need not come to open war. we meet at the post-office, and at the sociable, and about the fireside every night; we live thick and are in each other's way, and stumble over one another, and i think that we thus lose some respect for one another. certainly less frequency would suffice for all important and hearty communications. consider the girls in a factory -- never alone, hardly in their dreams. it would be better if there were but one inhabitant to a square mile, as where i live. the value of a man is not in his skin, that we should touch him.

i have heard of a man lost in the woods and dying of famine and exhaustion at the foot of a tree, whose loneliness was relieved by the grotesque visions with which, owing to bodily weakness, his diseased imagination surrounded him, and which he believed to be real. so also, owing to bodily and mental health and strength, we may be continually cheered by a like but more normal and natural society, and come to know that we are never alone.

i have a great deal of company in my house; especially in the morning, when nobody calls. let me suggest a few comparisons, that some one may convey an idea of my situation. i am no more lonely than the loon in the pond that laughs so loud, or than walden pond itself. what company has that lonely lake, i pray? and yet it has not the blue devils, but the blue angels in it, in the azure tint of its waters. the sun is alone, except in thick weather, when there sometimes appear to be two, but one is a mock sun. god is alone -- but the devil, he is far from being alone; he sees a great deal of company; he is legion. i am no more lonely than a single mullein or dandelion in a pasture, or a bean leaf, or sorrel, or a horse-fly, or a bumblebee. i am no more lonely than the mill brook, or a weathercock, or the north star, or the south wind, or an april shower, or a january thaw, or the first spider in a new house.

i have occasional visits in the long winter evenings, when the snow falls fast and the wind howls in the wood, from an old settler and original proprietor, who is reported to have dug walden pond, and stoned it, and fringed it with pine woods; who tells me stories of old time and of new eternity; and between us we manage to pass a cheerful evening with social mirth and pleasant views of things, even without apples or cider -- a most wise and humorous friend, whom i love much, who keeps himself more secret than ever did goffe or whalley; and though he is thought to be dead, none can show where he is buried. an elderly dame, too, dwells in my neighborhood, invisible to most persons, in whose odorous herb garden i love to stroll sometimes, gathering simples and listening to her fables; for she has a genius of unequalled fertility, and her memory runs back farther than mythology, and she can tell me the original of every fable, and on what fact every one is founded, for the incidents occurred when she was young. a ruddy and lusty old dame, who delights in all weathers and seasons, and is likely to outlive all her children yet.

the indescribable innocence and beneficence of nature -- of sun and wind and rain, of summer and winter -- such health, such cheer, they afford forever! and such sympathy have they ever with our race, that all nature would be affected, and the sun's brightness fade, and the winds would sigh humanely, and the clouds rain tears, and the woods shed their leaves and put on mourning in midsummer, if any man should ever for a just cause grieve. shall i not have intelligence with the earth? am i not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself?

what is the pill which will keep us well, serene, contented? not my or thy great-grandfather's, but our great-grandmother nature's universal, vegetable, botanic medicines, by which she has kept herself young always, outlived so many old parrs in her day, and fed her health with their decaying fatness. for my panacea, instead of one of those quack vials of a mixture dipped from acheron and the dead sea, which come out of those long shallow black-schooner looking wagons which we sometimes see made to carry bottles, let me have a draught of undiluted morning air. morning air! if men will not drink of this at the fountainhead of the day, why, then, we must even bottle up some and sell it in the shops, for the benefit of those who have lost their subscription ticket to morning time in this world. but remember, it will not keep quite till noonday even in the coolest cellar, but drive out the stopples long ere that and follow westward the steps of aurora. i am no worshipper of hygeia, who was the daughter of that old herb-doctor aesculapius, and who is represented on monuments holding a serpent in one hand, and in the other a cup out of which the serpent sometimes drinks; but rather of hebe, cup-bearer to jupiter, who was the daughter of juno and wild lettuce, and who had the power of restoring gods and men to the vigor of youth. she was probably the only thoroughly sound-conditioned, healthy, and robust young lady that ever walked the globe, and wherever she came it was spring.

这是一个愉快的傍晚，全身只有一个感觉，每一个毛孔中都浸润着喜悦。我在大自然里以奇异的自由姿态来去，成了她自己的一部分。我只穿衬衫，沿着硬石的湖岸走，天气虽然寒冷，多云又多凤，也没有特别分心的事，那时天气对我异常地合适。牛蛙鸣叫，邀来黑夜，夜鹰的乐音乘着吹起涟漪的风从湖上传来。摇曳的赤杨和白杨，激起我的情感使我几乎不能呼吸了；然而像湖水一样，我的宁静只有涟漪而没有激荡。和如镜的湖面一样，晚风吹起来的微波是谈不上什么风暴的。虽然天色黑了，风还在森林中吹着，咆哮着，波浪还在拍岸，某一些动物还在用它们的乐音催眠着另外的那些，宁静不可能是绝对的。最凶狠的野兽并没有宁静，现在正找寻它们的牺牲品；狐狸，臭鼬，兔子，也正漫游在原野上，在森林中，它们却没有恐惧，它们是大自然的看守者，——是连接一个个生气勃勃的白昼的链环。等我口到家里，发现已有访客来过，他们还留下了名片呢，不是一束花，便是一个常春树的花环，或用铅笔写在黄色的胡桃叶或者木片上的一个名字。不常进入森林的人常把森林中的小玩意儿一路上拿在手里玩，有时故意，有时偶然，把它们留下了。有一位剥下了柳树皮，做成一个戒指，丢在我桌上。在我出门时有没有客人来过，我总能知道，不是树枝或青草弯倒，便是有了鞋印，一般说，从他们留下的微小痕迹里我还可以猜出他们的年龄、性别和性格；有的掉下了花朵，有的抓来一把草，又扔掉，甚至还有一直带到半英里外的铁路边才扔下的呢；有时，雪茄烟或烟斗味道还残留不散。常常我还能从烟斗的香味注意到六十杆之外公路上行经的一个旅行者。

我们周围的空间该说是很大的了。我们不能一探手就触及地平线。蓊郁的森林或湖沼并不就在我的门口，中间总还有着一块我们熟悉而且由我们使用的空地，多少整理过了，还围了点篱笆，它仿佛是从大自然的手里被夺取得来的。为了什么理由，我要有这么大的范围和规模，好多平方英里的没有人迹的森林，遭人类遗弃而为我所私有了呢？最接近我的邻居在一英里外，看不到什么房子，除非登上那半里之外的小山山顶去瞭望，才能望见一点儿房屋。我的地平线全给森林包围起来，专供我自个享受，极目远望只能望见那在湖的一端经过的铁路和在湖的另一端沿着山林的公路边上的篱笆。大体说来，我居住的地方，寂寞得跟生活在大草原上一样。在这里离新英格兰也像离亚洲和非洲一样遥远。可以说，我有我自己的太阳、月亮和星星，我有一个完全属于我自己的小世界。从没有一个人在晚上经过我的屋子，或叩我的门，我仿佛是人类中的第一个人或最后一个人，除非在春天里，隔了很长久的时候，有人从村里来钓鳘鱼，——在瓦尔登湖中，很显然他们能钓到的只是他们自己的多种多样的性格，而钩子只能钩到黑夜而已——他们立刻都撤走了，常常是鱼篓很轻地撤退的，又把 “世界留给黑夜和我”，而黑夜的核心是从没有被任何人类的邻舍污染过的。我相信，人们通常还都有点儿害怕黑暗，虽然妖巫都给吊死了，基督教和蜡烛火也都已经介绍过来。

然而我有时经历到，在任何大自然的事物中，都能找出最甜蜜温柔，最天真和鼓舞人的伴侣，即使是对于愤世嫉俗的可怜人和最最忧慢的人也一样。只要生活在大自然之间而还有五官的话，便不可能有很阴郁的忧虑。对于健全而无邪的耳朵，暴风雨还真是伊奥勒斯的音乐呢。什么也不能正当地迫使单纯而勇敢的人产生庸俗的伤感。当我享受着四季的友爱时，我相信，任什么也不能使生活成为我沉重的负担。今天佳雨洒在我的豆子上，使我在屋里待了整天，这雨既不使我沮丧，也不使我抑郁，对于我可是好得很呢。虽然它使我不能够锄地，但比我锄地更有价值。如果雨下得太久，使地里的种予，低地的土豆烂掉，它对高地的草还是有好处的，既然它对高地的草很好，它对我也是很好的了。有时，我把自己和别人作比较，好像我比别人更得诸神的宠爱，比我应得的似乎还多呢；好像我有一张证书和保单在他们手上，别人却没有，因此我受到了特别的引导和保护。我并没有自称自赞，可是如果可能的话，倒是他们称赞了我。我从不觉得寂寞，也一点不受寂寞之感的压迫，只有一次，在我进了森林数星期后，我怀疑了一个小时，不知宁静而健康的生活是否应当有些近邻，独处似乎不很愉快。同时，我却觉得我的情绪有些失常了，但我似乎也预知我会恢复到正常的。当这些思想占据我的时候，温和的雨丝飘酒下来，我突然感觉到能跟大自然做伴是力瞩此甜蜜如此受惠，就在这滴答滴答的雨声中，我屋子周围的每一个声音和景象都有着无穷尽无边际的友爱，一下子这个支持我的气氛把我想象中的有邻居方便一点的思潮压下去了，从此之后，我就没有再想到过邻居这口事。每一支小小松针都富于同情心地胀大起来，成了我的朋友。我明显地感到这里存在着我的同类，虽然我是在一般所谓凄惨荒凉的处境中，然则那最接近于我的血统，并最富于人性的却并不是一个人或一个村民，从今后再也不会有什么地方会使我觉得陌生的了。

“不合宜的哀动消蚀悲哀；

在生者的大地上，他们的日子很短，

托斯卡尔的美丽的女儿啊。”

我的最愉快的若干时光在于春秋两季的长时间暴风雨当中，这弄得我上午下午都被禁闭在室内，只有不停止的大雨和咆哮安慰着我；我从微明的早起就进入了漫长的黄昏，其间有许多思想扎下了根，并发展了它们自己。在那种来自东北的倾盆大雨中，村中那些房屋都受到了考验，女佣人都已经拎了水桶和拖把，在大门口阻止洪水侵入，我坐在我小屋子的门后，只有这一道门，却很欣赏它给予我的保护。在一次雷阵雨中，曾有一道闪电击中湖对岸的一株苍松，从上到下，划出一个一英寸，或者不止一英寸深，四五英寸宽，很明显的螺旋形的深槽，就好像你在一根手杖上刻的槽一样。那天我又经过了它，一抬头看到这一个痕迹，真是惊叹不已，那是八年以前，一个可怕的、不可抗拒的雷霆留下的痕迹，现在却比以前更为清晰。人们常常对我说，“我想你在那儿住着，一定很寂寞，总是想要跟人们接近一下的吧，特别在下雨下雪的日子和夜晚。”我喉咙痒痒的直想这样口答，——我们居住的整个地球，在宇宙之中不过是一个小点。那边一颗星星，我们的天文仪器还无法测量出它有多么大呢，你想想它上面的两个相距最远的居民又能有多远的距离呢？我怎会觉得寂寞？我们的地球难道不在银河之中？在我看来，你提出的似乎是最不重要的问题。怎样一种空间才能把人和人群隔开而使人感到寂寞呢？我已经发现了，无论两条腿怎样努力也不能使两颗心灵更形接近。我们最愿意和谁紧邻而居呢？人并不是都喜欢车站哪，邮局哪，酒吧间哪，会场哪，学校哪，杂货店哪，烽火山哪，五点区哪，虽然在那里人们常常相聚，人们倒是更愿意接近那生命的不竭之源泉的大自然，在我们的经验中，我们时常感到有这么个需要，好像水边的杨柳，一定向了有水的方向伸展它的根。人的性格不同，所以需要也很不相同，可是一个聪明人必需在不竭之源泉的大自然那里挖掘他的地窖……有一个晚上在走向瓦尔登湖的路上，我赶上了一个市民同胞，他已经积蓄了所谓的“一笔很可观的产业”，虽然我从没有好好地看到过它，那晚上他赶着一对牛上市场去，他间我，我是怎么想出来的，宁肯抛弃这么多人生的乐趣？我口答说，我确信我很喜欢我这样的生活；我不是开玩笑。便这样，我回家，上床睡了，让他在黑夜泥泞之中走路走到布赖顿去——或者说，走到光亮城里去——大概要到天亮的时候才能走到那里。

对一个死者说来，任何觉醒的，或者复活的景象，都使一切时间与地点变得无足轻重。可能发生这种情形的地方都是一样的，对我们的感官是有不可言喻的欢乐的。可是我们大部分人只让外表上的、很短暂的事情成为我们所从事的工作。事实上，这些是使我们分心的原因。最接近万物的乃是创造一切的一股力量。其次靠近我们的宇宙法则在不停地发生作用。再其次靠近我们的，不是我们雇用的匠人，虽然我们欢喜和他们谈谈说说，而是那个大匠，我们自己就是他创造的作品。

“神鬼之为德，其盛矣乎。”

“视之而弗见，听之而弗闻，体物而不可遗。”

“使天下之人，斋明盛服，以承祭祀，洋洋乎，如在其上，如在其左右。

我们是一个实验的材料，但我对这个实验很感兴趣。在这样的情况下，难道我们不能够有一会儿离开我们的充满了是非的社会，——只让我们自己的思想来鼓舞我们？孔子说得好，“德不孤，必有邻。”

有了思想，我们可以在清醒的状态下，欢喜若狂。只要我们的心灵有意识地努力，我们就可以高高地超乎任何行为及其后果之上；一切好事坏事，就像奔流一样，从我们身边经过。我们并不是完全都给纠缠在大自然之内的。我可以是急流中一片浮木，也可以是从空中望着尘寰的因陀罗。看戏很可能感动了我；而另一方面，和我生命更加攸关的事件却可能不感动我。我只知道我自己是作为一个人而存在的；可以说我是反映我思想感情的一个舞台面，我多少有着双重人格，因此我能够远远地看自己犹如看别人一样。不论我有如何强烈的经验，我总能意识到我的一部分在从旁批评我，好像它不是我的一部分，只是一个旁观者，并不分担我的经验，而是注意到它：正如他并不是你，他也不能是我。等到人生的戏演完，很可能是出悲剧，观众就自己走了。关于这第二重人格，这自然是虚构的，只是想象力的创造。但有时这双重人格很容易使别人难于和我们作邻居，交朋友了。

大部分时间内，我觉得寂寞是有益于健康的。有了伴儿，即使是最好的伴儿，不久也要厌倦，弄得很糟糕。我爱孤独。我没有碰到比寂寞更好的同伴了。到国外去厕身于人群之中，大概比独处室内，格外寂寞。一个在思想着在工作着的人总是单独的，让他爱在哪儿就在哪儿吧，寂寞不能以一个人离开他的同伴的里数来计算。真正勤学的学生，在剑桥学院最拥挤的蜂房内，寂寞得像沙漠上的一个托钵僧一样。农夫可以一整天，独个儿地在田地上，在森林中工作，耕地或砍伐，却不觉得寂寞，因为他有工作；可是到晚上，他回到家里，却不能独自在室内沉思，而必须到“看得见他那里的人”的地方去消遣一下，用他的想法，是用以补偿他一天的寂寞；因此他很奇怪，为什么学生们能整日整夜坐在室内不觉得无聊与“忧郁”；可是他不明白虽然学生在室内，却在他的田地上工作，在他的森林中采伐，像农夫在田地或森林中一样，过后学生也要找消遣，也要社交，尽管那形式可能更加凝炼些。

社交往往廉价。相聚的时间之短促，来不及使彼此获得任何新的有价值的东西。我们在每日三餐的时间里相见，大家重新尝尝我们这种陈腐乳酪的味道。我们都必须同意若干条规则，

那就是所谓的礼节和礼貌，使得这种经常的聚首能相安无事，避免公开争吵，以至面红耳赤。我们相会于邮局，于社交场所，每晚在炉火边；我们生活得太拥挤，互相干扰，彼此牵绊，因此我想，彼此已缺乏敬意了。当然，所有重要而热忱的聚会，次数少一点也够了。试想工厂中的女工，——永远不能独自生活，甚至做梦也难于孤独。如果一英里只住一个人，像我这儿，那要好得多。人的价值并不在他的皮肤上，所以我们不必要去碰皮肤。

我曾听说过，有人迷路在森林里，倒在一棵树下，饿得慌，又累得要命，由于体力不济，病态的想象力让他看到了周围有许多奇怪的幻象，他以为它们都是真的。同样，在身体和灵魂都很健康有力的时候，我们可以不断地从类似的，但更正常、更自然的社会得到鼓舞，从而发现我们是不寂寞的。

我在我的房屋中有许多伴侣；特别在早上还没有人来访问我的时候。让我来举几个比喻，或能传达出我的某些状况。我并不比湖中高声大笑的潜水鸟更孤独，我并不比瓦尔登湖更寂寞。我倒要问问这孤独的湖有谁作伴？然而在它的蔚蓝的水波上，却有着不是蓝色的魔鬼，而是蓝色的天使呢。太阳是寂寞的，除非乌云满天，有时候就好像有两个太阳，但那一个是假的。上帝是孤独的，——可是魔鬼就绝不孤独；他看到许多伙伴；他是要结成帮的。我并不比一朵毛蕊花或牧场上的一朵蒲公英寂寞，我不比一张豆叶，一枝酢酱草，或一只马蝇，或一只大黄蜂更孤独。我不比密尔溪，或一只风信鸡，或北极星，或南风更寂寞，我不比四月的雨或正月的溶雪，或新屋中的第一只蜘蛛更孤独。

在冬天的长夜里，雪狂飘，风在森林中号叫的时候，一个老年的移民，原先的主人，不时来拜访我，据说瓦尔登湖还是他挖了出来，铺了石子，沿湖种了松树的；他告诉我旧时的和新近的永恒的故事；我们俩这样过了一个愉快的夜晚，充满了交际的喜悦，交换了对事物的惬意的意见，虽然没有苹果或苹果酒，——这个最聪明而幽默的朋友啊，我真喜欢他，他比谷菲或华莱知道更多的秘密；虽然人家说他已经死了，却没有人指出过他的坟墓在哪里。还有一个老太太，也住在我的附近，大部分人根本看不见她，我却有时候很高兴到她的芳香的百草园中去散步，采集药草，又倾听她的寓言；因为她有无比丰富的创造力，她的记忆一直追溯到神话以前的时代，她可以把每一个寓言的起源告诉我，哪一个寓言是根据了哪一个事实而来的，因为这些事都发生在她年轻的时候。一个红润的、精壮的老太太，不论什么天气什么季节她都兴致勃勃，看样子要比她的孩子活得还长久。

太阳，风雨，夏天，冬天，——大自然的不可描写的纯洁和恩惠，他们永远提供这么多的康健，这么多的欢乐！对我们人类这样地同情，如果有人为了正当的原因悲痛，那大自然也会受到感动，太阳黯淡了，风像活人一样悲叹，云端里落下泪雨，树木到仲夏脱下叶子，披上丧服。难道我不该与土地息息相通吗？我自己不也是一部分绿叶与青菜的泥上吗？

是什么药使我们健全、宁静、满足的呢？不是你我的曾祖父的，而是我们的大自然曾祖母的，全宇宙的蔬菜和植物的补品，她自己也靠它而永远年轻，活得比汤麦斯·派尔还更长久，用他们的衰败的脂肪更增添了她的康健。不是那种江湖医生配方的用冥河水和死海海水混合的药水，装在有时我们看到过装瓶子用的那种浅长形黑色船状车子上的药瓶子里，那不是我的万灵妙药：还是让我来喝一口纯净的黎明空气。黎明的空气啊！如果人们不愿意在每日之源喝这泉水，那未，啊，我们必须把它们装在瓶子内；放在店里，卖给世上那些失去黎明预订券的人们。可是记着，它能冷藏在地窖下，一直保持到正午，但要在那以前很久就打开瓶塞，跟随曙光的脚步西行。我并不崇拜那司健康之女神，她是爱斯库拉彼斯这古老的草药医师的女儿，在纪念碑上，她一手拿了一条蛇，另一只手拿了一个杯子，而蛇时常喝杯中的水；我宁可崇拜朱庇特的执杯者希勃，这青春的女神，为诸神司酒行觞，她是朱诺和野生莴苣的女儿，能使神仙和人返老还童。她也许是地球上出现过的最健康、最强壮、身体最好的少女，无论她到哪里，那里便成了春天。