_Sept. 5, '77._--I write this, 11 A.M., shelter'd under a dense oak
by the bank, where I have taken refuge from a sudden rain. I came down
here, (we had sulky drizzles all the morning, but an hour ago a lull,)
for the before-mention'd daily and simple exercise I am fond of--to
pull on that young hickory sapling out there--to sway and yield to its
tough-limber upright stem--haply to get into my old sinews some of
its elastic fibre and clear sap. I stand on the turf and take these
health-pulls moderately and at intervals for nearly an hour, inhaling
great draughts of fresh air. Wandering by the creek, I have three or
four naturally favorable spots where I rest--besides a chair I lug with
me and use for more deliberate occasions. At other spots convenient I
have selected, besides the hickory just named, strong and limber boughs
of beech or holly, in easy-reaching distance, for my natural gymnasia,
for arms, chest, trunk-muscles. I can soon feel the sap and sinew rising
through me, like mercury to heat. I hold on boughs or slender trees
caressingly there in the sun and shade, wrestle with their innocent
stalwartness--and _know_ the virtue thereof passes from them into me.
(Or may-be we interchange--may-be the trees are more aware of it all
than I ever thought.)
But now pleasantly imprison'd here under the big oak--the rain dripping,
and the sky cover'd with leaden clouds--nothing but the pond on one
side, and the other a spread of grass, spotted with the milky blossoms
of the wild carrot--the sound of an axe wielded at some distant
wood-pile--yet in this dull scene, (as most folks would call it,) why am
I so (almost) happy here and alone? Why would any intrusion, even from
people I like, spoil the charm? But am I alone? Doubtless there comes a
time--perhaps it has come to me--when one feels through his whole being,
and pronouncedly the emotional part, that identity between himself
subjectively and Nature objectively which Schelling and Fichte are so
fond of pressing. How it is I know not, but I often realize a presence
here--in clear moods I am certain of it, and neither chemistry nor
reasoning nor esthetics will give the least explanation. All the past
two summers it has been strengthening and nourishing my sick body and
soul, as never before. Thanks, invisible physician, for thy silent
delicious medicine, thy day and night, thy waters and thy airs, the
banks, the grass, the trees, and e'en the weeds!