The building of
a new metropolis as wonderful as London is going on beneath the thatch
where the bees toil. All that constitutes human magnificence is seen
to be but a part, and not a large part either, of a yet wider
magnificence of effort and achievement; for of the flowers of the field
we can say, 'Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of
these.'

The fact is that civilised man moves in a much too narrow range of
affinities. He has forgotten the rock from which he was hewn, and the
hole of the pit from which he was dug. He has reduced the keyboard of
his sympathies by whole octaves. The habit of shutting up his body
within walls, has produced the corresponding habit of shutting up his
mind within walls. Hence Nature, which should be an object of delight
to him, becomes a cause of terror or repugnance. Solitude, which is
one of the most agreeable sensations of the natural man, is one of the
most painful and alarming sensations of the civilised man. The
civilised man needs to be born again that he may enter the kingdom of
Nature; for to enter either the kingdom of grace or of Nature the same
process is necessary--we must become as little children. Thoreau has
described this experience in terms which might apply equally to the
religious mystic or the Nature-lover. He tells us that for a brief
period after he came to live in the woods he felt lonesome, and
'doubted if the near neighbourhood of man was not essential to a serene
and healthy life. To be alone was something unpleasant. But I was at
the same time conscious of a slight insanity in my mood, and seemed to
foresee my recovery. In the midst of a gentle rain, while those
thoughts prevailed, I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and
beneficent society in Nature, in the very pattering of the drops, and
in every sight and sound about my house, an infinite and unaccountable
friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the
fancied advantages of human neighbourhood insignificant, and I have
never thought of them since. Every little pine-needle expanded and
swelled with sympathy, and befriended me. I was so distinctly made
aware of the presence of something kindred to me, even in scenes that
we are accustomed to call wild and dreary, and also that the nearest of
blood to me and humanest was not a person nor a villager, that I
thought no place could ever be strange to me again.' This experience
marked the rebirth of Thoreau