for want of knowledge, but for want of prudence to give wisdom the preference.[1] These low weathercocks on barns and fences show not which way the general and steady current of the wind sets, which brings fair weather or foul, but the vane on the steeple, high up in another stratum of atmosphere, tells that. What we need to know in any case is very simple.[2] I shall not mistake the direction of my life ; if I but know the high land and the main, on this side the Cordilleras, on that the Pacific, I shall know how to run. If a ridge intervene, I have but to seek, or make, a gap to the sea. May 9. Sunday. The pine stands in the woods like an Indian, untamed, with a fantastic wildness about it, even in the clearings. If an Indian warrior were well painted, with pines in the background, he would seem to blend with the trees, and make a harmonious expression. The pitch pines are the ghosts of Philip and Massasoit. The white pine has the smoother features of the squaw. The poet speaks only those thoughts that come un bidden, like the wind that stirs the trees, and men can not help but listen. He is not listened to, but heard. The weathercock might as well dally with the wind as a man pretend to resist eloquence. The breath that inspires the poet has traversed a whole Campagna, and this new climate here indicates that other latitudes are chilled or heated. Speak to men as to gods and you will not be insincere.
