for
the swamp. How vain, then, have been all your labors, citizens, for me!

My spirits infallibly rise in proportion to the outward dreariness. Give
me the ocean, the desert, or the wilderness! In the desert, pure air
and solitude compensate for want of moisture and fertility. The traveler
Burton says of it--"Your MORALE improves; you become frank and cordial,
hospitable and single-minded.... In the desert, spirituous liquors
excite only disgust. There is a keen enjoyment in a mere animal
existence." They who have been traveling long on the steppes of Tartary
say, "On re-entering cultivated lands, the agitation, perplexity, and
turmoil of civilization oppressed and suffocated us; the air seemed to
fail us, and we felt every moment as if about to die of asphyxia." When
I would recreate myself, I seek the darkest woods the thickest and most
interminable and, to the citizen, most dismal, swamp. I enter a swamp as
a sacred place,--a sanctum sanctorum. There is the strength, the marrow,
of Nature. The wildwood covers the virgin mould,--and the same soil is
good for men and for trees. A man's health requires as many acres of
meadow to his prospect as his farm does loads of muck. There are
the strong meats on which he feeds. A town is saved, not more by the
righteous men in it than by the woods and swamps that surround it. A
township where one primitive forest waves above while another primitive
forest rots below--such a town is fitted to raise not only corn and
potatoes, but poets and philosophers for the coming ages. In such a
soil grew Homer and Confucius and the rest, and out of such a wilderness
comes the Reformer eating locusts and wild honey.

To preserve wild animals implies generally the creation of a forest for
them to dwell in or resort to. So it is with man. A hundred years ago
they sold bark in our streets peeled from our own woods. In the very
aspect of those primitive and rugged trees there was, methinks, a
tanning principle which hardened and consolidated the fibers of men's
thoughts. Ah! already I shudder for these comparatively degenerate days
of my native village, when you cannot collect a load of bark of good
thickness, and we no longer produce tar and turpentine.

The civilized nations--Greece, Rome, England--have been sustained by the
primitive forests which anciently rotted where they stand. They survive
as long as the soil is not exhausted. Alas for human culture! little is
to be expected of a nation