asphyxia.”  When I would recreate myself, I seek the darkest wood, 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 wild-wood 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 is it 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 fibres 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, when the vegetable mould is exhausted, and it is compelled to make manure of the bones of its fathers.  There the poet sustains himself merely by his own superfluous fat, and the philosopher comes down on his marrow-bones.

It is said to be the task of the American “to work the virgin soil,” and that “agriculture here already assumes proportions unknown everywhere else.”  I think that the farmer displaces the Indian even because he redeems the meadow, and so makes himself stronger and in some respects more natural.  I was surveying for a man the other day a single straight line one hundred and thirty-two rods long, through a swamp, at whose entrance might have been written the words which Dante read over the entrance to the infernal regions,—­“Leave all hope, ye that enter,”—­that is, of ever getting out again; where at one time I saw my employer actually up to his neck and swimming for his life in his property, though it was still winter.  He had another similar swamp which I could not survey at all, because it was completely under water, and nevertheless, with regard to a third swamp, which I did survey from a distance, he remarked to me, true to his instincts, that he would not part with it for any consideration, on account of the mud which it contained.  And that man intends to put a girdling ditch round the whole in the course of forty months, and so redeem it by the magic of his spade.  I refer to him only as the type of a class.