EVERY YEAR SINCE 1961, on the day before Thanksgiving the Wall Street Journal has published two pieces on its opinion page: The Desolate Wilderness, And The Fair Land. Since 1995 or so it's been a tradition of mine to read both, and take them as cause for reflection on our grand harvest and the courage that forging into uncharted lands, be they as grand as a new continent or as personal as a new career, requires.
Sadly, and as you know if you tried to follow the links above, both articles are in the subscription-required portion of the Journal. And so, in keeping with the second part of my tradition, I publish them here for you. I've been a loyal customer of the Journal for many years; I hope that in the spirit of giving thanks they won't mind.
Happy Thanksgiving.
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The Desolate Wilderness
Here beginneth the chronicle of those memorable
circumstances of the year 1620, as recorded by Nathaniel Morton, keeper
of the records of Plymouth Colony, based on the account of William
Bradford, sometime governor thereof:
So they left that goodly and pleasant city of Leyden,
which had been their resting-place for above eleven years, but they
knew that they were pilgrims and strangers here below, and looked not
much on these things, but lifted up their eyes to Heaven, their dearest
country, where God hath prepared for them a city (Heb. XI, 16), and
therein quieted their spirits.
When they came to Delfs-Haven they found the ship and
all things ready, and such of their friends as could not come with them
followed after them, and sundry came from Amsterdam to see them shipt,
and to take their leaves of them. One night was spent with little sleep
with the most, but with friendly entertainment and Christian discourse,
and other real expressions of true Christian love.
The next day they went on board, and their friends
with them, where truly doleful was the sight of that sad and mournful
parting, to hear what sighs and sobs and prayers did sound amongst
them; what tears did gush from every eye, and pithy speeches pierced
each other's heart, that sundry of the Dutch strangers that stood on
the Key as spectators could not refrain from tears. But the tide (which
stays for no man) calling them away, that were thus loath to depart,
their Reverend Pastor, falling down on his knees, and they all with
him, with watery cheeks commended them with the most fervent prayers
unto the Lord and His blessing; and then with mutual embraces and many
tears they took their leaves one of another, which proved to be the
last leave to many of them.
Being now passed the vast ocean, and a sea of troubles
before them in expectations, they had now no friends to welcome them,
no inns to entertain or refresh them, no houses, or much less towns, to
repair unto to seek for succour; and for the season it was winter, and
they that know the winters of the country know them to be sharp and
violent, subject to cruel and fierce storms, dangerous to travel to
known places, much more to search unknown coasts.
Besides, what could they see but a hideous and
desolate wilderness, full of wilde beasts and wilde men? and what
multitudes of them there were, they then knew not: for which way soever
they turned their eyes (save upward to Heaven) they could have but
little solace or content in respect of any outward object; for summer
being ended, all things stand in appearance with a weatherbeaten face,
and the whole country, full of woods and thickets, represented a wild
and savage hew.
If they looked behind them, there was a mighty ocean
which they had passed, and was now as a main bar or gulph to separate
them from all the civil parts of the world.
And the Fair Land
Any one whose labors take him into the far reaches of
the country, as ours lately have done, is bound to mark how the years
have made the land grow fruitful.
This is indeed a big country, a rich country, in a way
no array of figures can measure and so in a way past belief of those
who have not seen it. Even those who journey through its Northeastern
complex, into the Southern lands, across the central plains and to its
Western slopes can only glimpse a measure of the bounty of America.
And a traveler cannot but be struck on his journey by
the thought that this country, one day, can be even greater. America,
though many know it not, is one of the great underdeveloped countries
of the world; what it reaches for exceeds by far what it has grasped.
So the visitor returns thankful for much of what he
has seen, and, in spite of everything, an optimist about what his
country might be. Yet the visitor, if he is to make an honest report,
must also note the air of unease that hangs everywhere.
For the traveler, as travelers have been always, is as
much questioned as questioning. And for all the abundance he sees, he
finds the questions put to him ask where men may repair for succor from
the troubles that beset them.
His countrymen cannot forget the savage face of war.
Too often they have been asked to fight in strange and distant places,
for no clear purpose they could see and for no accomplishment they can
measure. Their spirits are not quieted by the thought that the good and
pleasant bounty that surrounds them can be destroyed in an instant by a
single bomb. Yet they find no escape, for their survival and comfort
now depend on unpredictable strangers in far-off corners of the globe.
How can they turn from melancholy when at home they
see young arrayed against old, black against white, neighbor against
neighbor, so that they stand in peril of social discord. Or not despair
when they see that the cities and countryside are in need of repair,
yet find themselves threatened by scarcities of the resources that
sustain their way of life. Or when, in the face of these challenges,
they turn for leadership to men in high places -- only to find those
men as frail as any others.
So sometimes the traveler is asked whence will come
their succor. What is to preserve their abundance, or even their
civility? How can they pass on to their children a nation as strong and
free as the one they inherited from their forefathers? How is their
country to endure these cruel storms that beset it from without and
from within?
Of course the stranger cannot quiet their spirits. For
it is true that everywhere men turn their eyes today much of the world
has a truly wild and savage hue. No man, if he be truthful, can say
that the specter of war is banished. Nor can he say that when men or
communities are put upon their own resources they are sure of solace;
nor be sure that men of diverse kinds and diverse views can live
peaceably together in a time of troubles.
But we can all remind ourselves that the richness of
this country was not born in the resources of the earth, though they be
plentiful, but in the men that took its measure. For that reminder is
everywhere -- in the cities, towns, farms, roads, factories, homes,
hospitals, schools that spread everywhere over that wilderness.
We can remind ourselves that for all our social
discord we yet remain the longest enduring society of free men
governing themselves without benefit of kings or dictators. Being so,
we are the marvel and the mystery of the world, for that enduring
liberty is no less a blessing than the abundance of the earth.
And we might remind ourselves also, that if those men
setting out from Delftshaven had been daunted by the troubles they saw
around them, then we could not this autumn be thankful for a fair land.
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