_May 6. Thursday._ The fickle person is he that does not know what is true or right absolutely,—who has not an ancient wisdom for a lifetime, but a new prudence for every hour. We must sail by a sort of dead reckoning on this course of life, not speak any vessel nor spy any headland, but, in spite of all phenomena, come steadily to port at last. In general we must have a catholic and universal wisdom, wiser than any particular, and be prudent enough to defer to it always. We are literally wiser than we know. Men do not fail for want of knowledge, but for want of prudence to give wisdom the preference.[243] 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.[244] 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 unbidden, like the wind that stirs the trees, and men cannot 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. WESTWARD, HO! The needles of the pine All to the west incline.[245] THE ECHO OF THE SABBATH BELL HEARD IN THE WOODS[246] Dong, sounds the brass in the east, As if for a civic feast, But I like that sound the best Out of the fluttering west. The steeple rings a knell, But the fairies' silvery bell Is the voice of that gentle folk, Or else the horizon that spoke. Its metal is not of brass, But air, and water, and glass, And under a cloud it is swung, And by the wind is rung, With a slim silver tongue. When the steeple tolls the noon, It soundeth not so soon, Yet it rings an earlier hour, And the sun has not reached its tower. _May 10. Monday._ A good warning to the restless tourists of these days is contained in the last verses of Claudian's "Old Man of Verona."