Higher Laws

As I came home through the woods with my string of fish,

trailing my pole, it being now quite dark, I caught a glimpse of a

woodchuck stealing across my path, and felt a strange thrill of

savage delight, and was strongly tempted to seize and devour him

raw; not that I was hungry then, except for that wildness which he

represented. Once or twice, however, while I lived at the pond, I

found myself ranging the woods, like a half-starved hound, with a

strange abandonment, seeking some kind of venison which I might

devour, and no morsel could have been too savage for me. The

wildest scenes had become unaccountably familiar. I found in

myself, and still find, an instinct toward a higher, or, as it is

named, spiritual life, as do most men, and another toward a

primitive rank and savage one, and I reverence them both. I love

the wild not less than the good. The wildness and adventure that

are in fishing still recommended it to me. I like sometimes to take

rank hold on life and spend my day more as the animals do. Perhaps

I have owed to this employment and to hunting, when quite young, my

closest acquaintance with Nature. They early introduce us to and

detain us in scenery with which otherwise, at that age, we should

have little acquaintance. Fishermen, hunters, woodchoppers, and

others, spending their lives in the fields and woods, in a peculiar

sense a part of Nature themselves, are often in a more favorable

mood for observing her, in the intervals of their pursuits, than

philosophers or poets even, who approach her with expectation. She

is not afraid to exhibit herself to them. The traveller on the

prairie is naturally a hunter, on the head waters of the Missouri

and Columbia a trapper, and at the Falls of St. Mary a fisherman.

He who is only a traveller learns things at second-hand and by the

halves, and is poor authority. We are most interested when science

reports what those men already know practically or instinctively,

for that alone is a true humanity, or account of human experience.

They mistake who assert that the Yankee has few amusements,

because he has not so many public holidays, and men and boys do not

play so many games as they do in England, for here the more

primitive but solitary amusements of hunting, fishing, and the like

have not yet given place to the former. Almost every New England

boy among my contemporaries shouldered a fowling-piece between the

ages of ten and fourteen; and his hunting and fishing grounds were

not limited, like the preserves of an English nobleman, but were

more boundless even than those of a savage. No wonder, then, that

he did not oftener stay to play on the common. But already a change

is taking place, owing, not to an increased humanity, but to an

increased scarcity of game, for perhaps the hunter is the greatest

friend of the animals hunted, not excepting the Humane Society.

Moreover, when at the pond, I wished sometimes to add fish to my

fare for variety. I have actually fished from the same kind of

necessity that the first fishers did. Whatever humanity I might

conjure up against it was all factitious, and concerned my

philosophy more than my feelings. I speak of fishing only now, for

I had long felt differently about fowling, and sold my gun before I

went to the woods. Not that I am less humane than others, but I did

not perceive that my feelings were much affected. I did not pity

the fishes nor the worms. This was habit. As for fowling, during

the last years that I carried a gun my excuse was that I was

studying ornithology, and sought only new or rare birds. But I

confess that I am now inclined to think that there is a finer way of

studying ornithology than this. It requires so much closer

attention to the habits of the birds, that, if for that reason only,

I have been willing to omit the gun. Yet notwithstanding the

objection on the score of humanity, I am compelled to doubt if

equally valuable sports are ever substituted for these; and when

some of my friends have asked me anxiously about their boys, whether

they should let them hunt, I have answered, yes -- remembering that

it was one of the best parts of my education -- make them hunters,

though sportsmen only at first, if possible, mighty hunters at last,

so that they shall not find game large enough for them in this or

any vegetable wilderness -- hunters as well as fishers of men. Thus

far I am of the opinion of Chaucers nun, who

"yave not of the text a pulled hen

That saith that hunters ben not holy men."

There is a period in the history of the individual, as of the race,

when the hunters are the "best men," as the Algonquins called them.

We cannot but pity the boy who has never fired a gun; he is no more

humane, while his education has been sadly neglected. This was my

answer with respect to those youths who were bent on this pursuit,

trusting that they would soon outgrow it. No humane being, past the

thoughtless age of boyhood, will wantonly murder any creature which

holds its life by the same tenure that he does. The hare in its

extremity cries like a child. I warn you, mothers, that my

sympathies do not always make the usual philanthropic distinctions.

Such is oftenest the young mans introduction to the forest, and

the most original part of himself. He goes thither at first as a

hunter and fisher, until at last, if he has the seeds of a better

life in him, he distinguishes his proper objects, as a poet or

naturalist it may be, and leaves the gun and fish-pole behind. The

mass of men are still and always young in this respect. In some

countries a hunting parson is no uncommon sight. Such a one might

make a good shepherds dog, but is far from being the Good Shepherd.

I have been surprised to consider that the only obvious employment,

except wood-chopping, ice-cutting, or the like business, which ever

to my knowledge detained at Walden Pond for a whole half-day any of

my fellow-citizens, whether fathers or children of the town, with

just one exception, was fishing. Commonly they did not think that

they were lucky, or well paid for their time, unless they got a long

string of fish, though they had the opportunity of seeing the pond

all the while. They might go there a thousand times before the

sediment of fishing would sink to the bottom and leave their purpose

pure; but no doubt such a clarifying process would be going on all

the while. The Governor and his Council faintly remember the pond,

for they went a-fishing there when they were boys; but now they are

too old and dignified to go a-fishing, and so they know it no more

forever. Yet even they expect to go to heaven at last. If the

legislature regards it, it is chiefly to regulate the number of

hooks to be used there; but they know nothing about the hook of

hooks with which to angle for the pond itself, impaling the

legislature for a bait. Thus, even in civilized communities, the

embryo man passes through the hunter stage of development.

I have found repeatedly, of late years, that I cannot fish

without falling a little in self-respect. I have tried it again and

again. I have skill at it, and, like many of my fellows, a certain

instinct for it, which revives from time to time, but always when I

have done I feel that it would have been better if I had not fished.

I think that I do not mistake. It is a faint intimation, yet so are

the first streaks of morning. There is unquestionably this instinct

in me which belongs to the lower orders of creation; yet with every

year I am less a fisherman, though without more humanity or even

wisdom; at present I am no fisherman at all. But I see that if I

were to live in a wilderness I should again be tempted to become a

fisher and hunter in earnest. Beside, there is something

essentially unclean about this diet and all flesh, and I began to

see where housework commences, and whence the endeavor, which costs

so much, to wear a tidy and respectable appearance each day, to keep

the house sweet and free from all ill odors and sights. Having been

my own butcher and scullion and cook, as well as the gentleman for

whom the dishes were served up, I can speak from an unusually

complete experience. The practical objection to animal food in my

case was its uncleanness; and besides, when I had caught and cleaned

and cooked and eaten my fish, they seemed not to have fed me

essentially. It was insignificant and unnecessary, and cost more

than it came to. A little bread or a few potatoes would have done

as well, with less trouble and filth. Like many of my

contemporaries, I had rarely for many years used animal food, or

tea, or coffee, etc.; not so much because of any ill effects which I

had traced to them, as because they were not agreeable to my

imagination. The repugnance to animal food is not the effect of

experience, but is an instinct. It appeared more beautiful to live

low and fare hard in many respects; and though I never did so, I

went far enough to please my imagination. I believe that every man

who has ever been earnest to preserve his higher or poetic faculties

in the best condition has been particularly inclined to abstain from

animal food, and from much food of any kind. It is a significant

fact, stated by entomologists -- I find it in Kirby and Spence --

that "some insects in their perfect state, though furnished with

organs of feeding, make no use of them"; and they lay it down as "a

general rule, that almost all insects in this state eat much less

than in that of larvae. The voracious caterpillar when transformed

into a butterfly ... and the gluttonous maggot when become a fly"

content themselves with a drop or two of honey or some other sweet

liquid. The abdomen under the wings of the butterfly still

represents the larva. This is the tidbit which tempts his

insectivorous fate. The gross feeder is a man in the larva state;

and there are whole nations in that condition, nations without fancy

or imagination, whose vast abdomens betray them.

It is hard to provide and cook so simple and clean a diet as

will not offend the imagination; but this, I think, is to be fed

when we feed the body; they should both sit down at the same table.

Yet perhaps this may be done. The fruits eaten temperately need not

make us ashamed of our appetites, nor interrupt the worthiest

pursuits. But put an extra condiment into your dish, and it will

poison you. It is not worth the while to live by rich cookery.

Most men would feel shame if caught preparing with their own hands

precisely such a dinner, whether of animal or vegetable food, as is

every day prepared for them by others. Yet till this is otherwise

we are not civilized, and, if gentlemen and ladies, are not true men

and women. This certainly suggests what change is to be made. It

may be vain to ask why the imagination will not be reconciled to

flesh and fat. I am satisfied that it is not. Is it not a reproach

that man is a carnivorous animal? True, he can and does live, in a

great measure, by preying on other animals; but this is a miserable

way -- as any one who will go to snaring rabbits, or slaughtering

lambs, may learn -- and he will be regarded as a benefactor of his

race who shall teach man to confine himself to a more innocent and

wholesome diet. Whatever my own practice may be, I have no doubt

that it is a part of the destiny of the human race, in its gradual

improvement, to leave off eating animals, as surely as the savage

tribes have left off eating each other when they came in contact

with the more civilized.

If one listens to the faintest but constant suggestions of his

genius, which are certainly true, he sees not to what extremes, or

even insanity, it may lead him; and yet that way, as he grows more

resolute and faithful, his road lies. The faintest assured

objection which one healthy man feels will at length prevail over

the arguments and customs of mankind. No man ever followed his

genius till it misled him. Though the result were bodily weakness,

yet perhaps no one can say that the consequences were to be

regretted, for these were a life in conformity to higher principles.

If the day and the night are such that you greet them with joy, and

life emits a fragrance like flowers and sweet-scented herbs, is more

elastic, more starry, more immortal -- that is your success. All

nature is your congratulation, and you have cause momentarily to

bless yourself. The greatest gains and values are farthest from

being appreciated. We easily come to doubt if they exist. We soon

forget them. They are the highest reality. Perhaps the facts most

astounding and most real are never communicated by man to man. The

true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and

indescribable as the tints of morning or evening. It is a little

star-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched.

Yet, for my part, I was never unusually squeamish; I could

sometimes eat a fried rat with a good relish, if it were necessary.

I am glad to have drunk water so long, for the same reason that I

prefer the natural sky to an opium-eaters heaven. I would fain

keep sober always; and there are infinite degrees of drunkenness. I

believe that water is the only drink for a wise man; wine is not so

noble a liquor; and think of dashing the hopes of a morning with a

cup of warm coffee, or of an evening with a dish of tea! Ah, how

low I fall when I am tempted by them! Even music may be

intoxicating. Such apparently slight causes destroyed Greece and

Rome, and will destroy England and America. Of all ebriosity, who

does not prefer to be intoxicated by the air he breathes? I have

found it to be the most serious objection to coarse labors long

continued, that they compelled me to eat and drink coarsely also.

But to tell the truth, I find myself at present somewhat less

particular in these respects. I carry less religion to the table,

ask no blessing; not because I am wiser than I was, but, I am

obliged to confess, because, however much it is to be regretted,

with years I have grown more coarse and indifferent. Perhaps these

questions are entertained only in youth, as most believe of poetry.

My practice is "nowhere," my opinion is here. Nevertheless I am far

from regarding myself as one of those privileged ones to whom the

Ved refers when it says, that "he who has true faith in the

Omnipresent Supreme Being may eat all that exists," that is, is not

bound to inquire what is his food, or who prepares it; and even in

their case it is to be observed, as a Hindoo commentator has

remarked, that the Vedant limits this privilege to "the time of

distress."

Who has not sometimes derived an inexpressible satisfaction from

his food in which appetite had no share? I have been thrilled to

think that I owed a mental perception to the commonly gross sense of

taste, that I have been inspired through the palate, that some

berries which I had eaten on a hillside had fed my genius. "The

soul not being mistress of herself," says Thseng-tseu, "one looks,

and one does not see; one listens, and one does not hear; one eats,

and one does not know the savor of food." He who distinguishes the

true savor of his food can never be a glutton; he who does not

cannot be otherwise. A puritan may go to his brown-bread crust with

as gross an appetite as ever an alderman to his turtle. Not that

food which entereth into the mouth defileth a man, but the appetite

with which it is eaten. It is neither the quality nor the quantity,

but the devotion to sensual savors; when that which is eaten is not

a viand to sustain our animal, or inspire our spiritual life, but

food for the worms that possess us. If the hunter has a taste for

mud-turtles, muskrats, and other such savage tidbits, the fine lady

indulges a taste for jelly made of a calfs foot, or for sardines

from over the sea, and they are even. He goes to the mill-pond, she

to her preserve-pot. The wonder is how they, how you and I, can

live this slimy, beastly life, eating and drinking.

Our whole life is startlingly moral. There is never an

instants truce between virtue and vice. Goodness is the only

investment that never fails. In the music of the harp which

trembles round the world it is the insisting on this which thrills

us. The harp is the travelling patterer for the Universes

Insurance Company, recommending its laws, and our little goodness is

all the assessment that we pay. Though the youth at last grows

indifferent, the laws of the universe are not indifferent, but are

forever on the side of the most sensitive. Listen to every zephyr

for some reproof, for it is surely there, and he is unfortunate who

does not hear it. We cannot touch a string or move a stop but the

charming moral transfixes us. Many an irksome noise, go a long way

off, is heard as music, a proud, sweet satire on the meanness of our

lives.

We are conscious of an animal in us, which awakens in proportion

as our higher nature slumbers. It is reptile and sensual, and

perhaps cannot be wholly expelled; like the worms which, even in

life and health, occupy our bodies. Possibly we may withdraw from

it, but never change its nature. I fear that it may enjoy a certain

health of its own; that we may be well, yet not pure. The other day

I picked up the lower jaw of a hog, with white and sound teeth and

tusks, which suggested that there was an animal health and vigor

distinct from the spiritual. This creature succeeded by other means

than temperance and purity. "That in which men differ from brute

beasts," says Mencius, "is a thing very inconsiderable; the common

herd lose it very soon; superior men preserve it carefully." Who

knows what sort of life would result if we had attained to purity?

If I knew so wise a man as could teach me purity I would go to seek

him forthwith. "A command over our passions, and over the external

senses of the body, and good acts, are declared by the Ved to be

indispensable in the minds approximation to God." Yet the spirit

can for the time pervade and control every member and function of

the body, and transmute what in form is the grossest sensuality

into purity and devotion. The generative energy, which, when we are

loose, dissipates and makes us unclean, when we are continent

invigorates and inspires us. Chastity is the flowering of man; and

what are called Genius, Heroism, Holiness, and the like, are but

various fruits which succeed it. Man flows at once to God when the

channel of purity is open. By turns our purity inspires and our

impurity casts us down. He is blessed who is assured that the

animal is dying out in him day by day, and the divine being

established. Perhaps there is none but has cause for shame on

account of the inferior and brutish nature to which he is allied. I

fear that we are such gods or demigods only as fauns and satyrs, the

divine allied to beasts, the creatures of appetite, and that, to

some extent, our very life is our disgrace.--

"How happys he who hath due place assigned

To his beasts and disafforested his mind!

. . . . . . .

Can use this horse, goat, wolf, and evry beast,

And is not ass himself to all the rest!

Else man not only is the herd of swine,

But hes those devils too which did incline

Them to a headlong rage, and made them worse."

All sensuality is one, though it takes many forms; all purity is

one. It is the same whether a man eat, or drink, or cohabit, or

sleep sensually. They are but one appetite, and we only need to see

a person do any one of these things to know how great a sensualist

he is. The impure can neither stand nor sit with purity. When the

reptile is attacked at one mouth of his burrow, he shows himself at

another. If you would be chaste, you must be temperate. What is

chastity? How shall a man know if he is chaste? He shall not know

it. We have heard of this virtue, but we know not what it is. We

speak conformably to the rumor which we have heard. From exertion

come wisdom and purity; from sloth ignorance and sensuality. In the

student sensuality is a sluggish habit of mind. An unclean person

is universally a slothful one, one who sits by a stove, whom the sun

shines on prostrate, who reposes without being fatigued. If you

would avoid uncleanness, and all the sins, work earnestly, though it

be at cleaning a stable. Nature is hard to be overcome, but she

must be overcome. What avails it that you are Christian, if you are

not purer than the heathen, if you deny yourself no more, if you are

not more religious? I know of many systems of religion esteemed

heathenish whose precepts fill the reader with shame, and provoke

him to new endeavors, though it be to the performance of rites

merely.

I hesitate to say these things, but it is not because of the

subject -- I care not how obscene my words are -- but because I

cannot speak of them without betraying my impurity. We discourse

freely without shame of one form of sensuality, and are silent about

another. We are so degraded that we cannot speak simply of the

necessary functions of human nature. In earlier ages, in some

countries, every function was reverently spoken of and regulated by

law. Nothing was too trivial for the Hindoo lawgiver, however

offensive it may be to modern taste. He teaches how to eat, drink,

cohabit, void excrement and urine, and the like, elevating what is

mean, and does not falsely excuse himself by calling these things

trifles.

Every man is the builder of a temple, called his body, to the

god he worships, after a style purely his own, nor can he get off by

hammering marble instead. We are all sculptors and painters, and

our material is our own flesh and blood and bones. Any nobleness

begins at once to refine a mans features, any meanness or

sensuality to imbrute them.

John Farmer sat at his door one September evening, after a hard

days work, his mind still running on his labor more or less.

Having bathed, he sat down to re-create his intellectual man. It

was a rather cool evening, and some of his neighbors were

apprehending a frost. He had not attended to the train of his

thoughts long when he heard some one playing on a flute, and that

sound harmonized with his mood. Still he thought of his work; but

the burden of his thought was, that though this kept running in his

head, and he found himself planning and contriving it against his

will, yet it concerned him very little. It was no more than the

scurf of his skin, which was constantly shuffled off. But the notes

of the flute came home to his ears out of a different sphere from

that he worked in, and suggested work for certain faculties which

slumbered in him. They gently did away with the street, and the

village, and the state in which he lived. A voice said to him --

Why do you stay here and live this mean moiling life, when a

glorious existence is possible for you? Those same stars twinkle

over other fields than these. -- But how to come out of this

condition and actually migrate thither? All that he could think of

was to practise some new austerity, to let his mind descend into his

body and redeem it, and treat himself with ever increasing respect.