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A PAPER READ BEFORE THE SOCIETY, MARCH 7, 1832, ' ( -RY — GEORGE STEW^ART, Jr. Among (ho stroiig-ost artistic miiu.l:-;, — in a sense oi' course, — which a century of progToss and activity has produced in American civili:^ation and morals, may })e named that brilliant one of Henry David Thoreau, who is knov.'U to some of you as the Hermit of AValden, — known to the world at large, as the poet-naturalist of the Western hemisphere. He was a philosopher of wide observation, a thinkei' of great force — second only to Emerson in the range and scope of his powers— and a faithful student of Natural History, in all its branches. Ho loved nature passionately. He spent months and years under the trees and among ilowers and plants, watching the wondrous development of tree and flower and plant life. He passed the sweetest days of his existence in L'arning the habits and ways of the animals which built their homes about the nooks and corners of Walden pond, and the AValden woods. He gave the most precious hours of his own life to the birds of the air, to the fish of the waters at his feet, and he communed with all the lovely things of nature, animate and inanimate, and made companions of every dead and liv- ing thing which met his observing eye or felt the caressing f \ 122- stroke of his kindly hand. There was no pvctonce about Henry Thoreau, no lalse prido, no sham or glittering tinsel. He was a man of thought, a devout lover of the beautiful, the true and the good, and his mind always seemed the amplest and completest, when he stole away to the solitudes of the forest and the glade, and thought out those exquisite fancies and views and creations �hieh the reading and thinking world, may find at any time, in the hnlf do^-ien witching books, which attest his genius, and show his aims. He was a true artist, thoug!i he painled no pictures on canvas, a tender poet, though the few specimens of his muse which we have, reveal no divine alllatus, — tis we understand it, — and have not even the merit of Kirke White's collection of A'crse, which need hardly be digniiied by the name of poetry. He wrote poetical pieces, after a fashion, but they are not good poetry. They lack all the grand elements of song, all the passion and lire, the lyric faculty, the stateliness, and that indescril)able touch which ever distinguish the better ellorts of the true poet. He was a more effective singer out of poetry than in it. Much of his prose writing however is warmly poetic, and the chiefest charm about his literary work is that a good deal of it is epigrammatic, dainty in fancy and free flowing in diction. Thoreau thought out whole poems often, but none of his finest things in that way ever reached the world through any other channel than that of prose composition, the avenue through wiiich he met his public w^hcn at his best. His style of writing was natural and easy, and he had a nice choice of phrase always at command. He had the art of graceful expression, without appearing to write artistically merely for art's sake. The style, clear and ornate, seemed to belong to him, to be a direct inspiration, just as many of his sublimer tlioughts were inspirations. He wrote fearlessly and independently, — 123 — a lul olc or Kit lot ■as ys 1)0 lits unci coiisttuitly (loniumlecl (li(» utmost fivedoiu and room for the (Mni)loym('iit ol the workings of his n'ind. "I would rather sit on a pumpkin and havo it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion," ho said once, and the words tell truly the character and spirit of the man. He never ti'iramed his oi)ini()ns to suit a passing' wind. He formed his vicnvs. felt surt^ that they were right ones, — and they generally were riglit Irom a high moral ])oint, — and then ho went on expou)iding them, expressing them boldly, and maintaininii' them ever afterwards, (>ventotho very hour of his death. M(Mi admired his sterling honesty, praised his love ol' ]nincii)le, and felt that the hermit, whatever faults he might possess, could mn'er do a mean or dishonourable thing. They used to say that people Int'ed Thoreau but did not Uk(; him. " Why," said one of his best friends, a good many years ago, "I would as soon take tlie arm of an elm tree, as the hermil/s. I love him but cannot like him." This idea was held by nearly all ol Thoreau's acquaintances, and its truthl'ulness cannot be disputed or set aside. His natun^ was certainly not a lovable one, though somehow the children o\Um ran to him in the streets, and watched for his coming and going. For them he had a kindly nod and a smile, and he used, sometimes, to pay them little compliments in the soft way which children of almost any age like and ai^preciate. With thmn he would go for a romp in the woods, nutting and berrying, and usually he was the maddest of the rompers. Emerson regretted that he had no ambition, and said that for the want of it, he was the captain of a huckleberry i)arty, when he might have been engineering for all America. The sage hoped better things of Thoreau, and mourned to see so much tale)it buried in a napkin. But to-day none of us think that Thoreau's talents are so very deeply buried in the earth, after all. I'or twenty years the possessor of those \ 'I i i I — 124 — talents has lain in th(? i^'ronnd. l)iit wo avo reading liis ])Ooks still, and lindingnew beauties in 1 hem almosi every day. " rounding- biMUis,'" continues Emerson in his (juaint way, " is good to the end of pounding empires one ol' these days ; hut if, at the end oi' years, it is still only beaiis !" How many, think you, believe in this year of grace, that Thoreau's bean-pounding, — we still employ the metaphor, — had nothing in it, and meant only a little vigorous pestle and mortar work? Our author was a good deal like Carlyle in many ways. He commanded the respect and admiration of his fellows. He was deep, i)hiIosoi)liio and calm, and only a few found the way to his heart, llo did not have many friends. He formed Tew companionship.s. How could it be otherwise ? He held himself aloof from mankiiid and observed vigorous rul s of his own, with regard to what associations he thought he ought to make. Towards Emerson he always felt the sincerest resjiect, and ranked him first among the very moderate number of true friends that he possessed. ^Ir Bronson Alcott was another neighbour for whom he had a good deal of admiration. The mystic's talk was always .so sweet and sympathetic that Thoreau was quite captivated, and he and Alcott remained on the best of terms, almost from their lirst meeting to the close of the younger man's career. He hid some others on his slender list, kindred souls we mav call them, but he cored little for attracting people tow�rds himself, or for keeping up a large circle of friends. He much preferred the silent compa^-ionship and love of the animals, the birds and the fishes. Barns, ploughing in the fields of Ayr, turned up a mouse with his plough. His first impulse was to kill it, but he checked himself in time, as his eye watched the little creature, and he said softly, " I'll make that mouse immortal." So Thoreau, in his way, has made the animals which fed from his hand by AValden pond, immortal iii * I it n — 125 — the litornturo of Now Kiiu'laiul. Tlio lish swiun to liim jU, a sigii, allovvinl him 1o tako thorn Ivoiu tho watov, and oftou they lay in his palm as if asloop. Snakos coilod about his loj^s and carossod his arms, all tho whili^ sho�in<^ ovidonco ol'thoir ailoction and ^'ood-will. The woodchueks ponnit- tod him to pull thorn out ol' Ihoir holes by the tail, and the frij^litoiiod ibx IVequontly sou: mail before his day or sinc(\ that "either he had told tho boos thini^'s or the boos had told him." Of Thoroau, tlio same may 1)0 said. He was on oonridontial terms Avith the whole animal kino-dom. Dr. A. 11, .Tapp, Ix^ttor known by his literary i>soudonymo of " Henry A. Pauo,"' wrote a book a few years ag'o, to prove that Thoroau was a sort of nineteenth century St. Francis of Assisi. >St. Francis, you know, was regarded as the great enigma of the Middle Ages. He had a sympathetic side for all animals. He was a friend to evorythinu' which crept, flow and occupied a place in animal lifi,'. lie chavm^'d the dumb beasts and brutes, won the alloctions of the birds and fowls of the air, and the lish glided softly into his hand, with all the conhdence of innocence and the consciousness of perfect safety. In this especial art of attracting animals of various degrees, a restnn])lance between the glorious old father and Thoroau, may, perhaps, b^ traced with sufficient exactness, bat the parallel ends there, one would think. And is it not too much to say, as Dr. Japp advances, that Thoreau's " liie, spent for the inotit part amid the bustle and fervour of American city strife," may be found "to illuminate," in some degree, "one of the puzzles of the Middle Ages ?'' The book, which strives to impress this view is ingenious, but the argument is weak, and the reasoning is scarcely tenable. Thoroau was a great authority on all marvels 11 « i^i] \ 126 — It'M connoohMl ^vilh llio vi^golablo kingdom, ils �on«lro\is growth and devolopmoiit, ils ibnn and aycliitoctui-o. IIo knew so much ;d)()ut phi)its that ho coahl tt'll at a Emerson, though he went further than that philosopher in most things. Ho refused to pay a tax to the State, and because of that refusal, sullered the indignity of imprisonment. Ho cared nothing for money, loved hard work, and a])!iorred idleness, — that is aimless idleness. His own mode of living appeared to many as a sort of dreamy idleness, — purposeless idleness. But Thoreau's idleness has done the world much good. By means of it he was able to open many of the hidden storehouses of knowledge, and through it again, he has addu'd materially to our stock of inlbrmalion, in certain directions, which could be gained only as he learned it, by patient and stu- — 128 — dious prrsonul iiivostigatiou. IIo was ol'toii ag'Cfi'ossivi', sclf-assoitive !ii)(l always had mihouudod faith in his own opinions and method ol' g'ottiiio- on. Ho depended solely npon himseir. He had lew wants to supply, and his hahits werethrirty and hardy. AVhen he needed a little money he knew how to earn it, and he was not ashamo'' ' > work. He built boats, planted, i^rafted, made Tenons, surveyed, — he was an excellent surveyor, — and did aiiythini^- in Tact that was required of him. Everything ho did was done well. He always w^orked with energy and zeal, and the leisure for himself which ho secured, was well earned and deserved. When his immediate needs were satisfied, and he thoug'ht he had enoui,^h to meet his present and future wants for a while, he would go l)ack to his old lile, wateh- iuGT the unfoldinn^ works of nature, and making- studies of what he saw and felt. He was not a self-indulg'ent mm, hut he had his whims, and these sometimes led him inlo difficulties and curious straits. Perhaps, no better or moiv skilful land-surveyor ever lived in America than Henry Thoreau. He had more surveying than he could do, and there was omplt)yment for hiui whenever he chose to undertake it. He was in constant demand, but he suittxl his own convenience, and worked only when hewislied to. He possessed rare mathematical knowledge, and Emerson tells us that " his habit of ascertainin.g the measures and distances of olijects which interested him, Iho size of trees, the depth and extent of ponds and rivers, the height of mountains, and the air line distance of his iavourite sum- mits, — this, and his intimate knowledge of the territory about Concord, made him drift into the profession," at last. So much may be said of Thoreau in a general way. There are details in his life wdiich are very interesiing and useful. He came of an ancient French fiimily, and his lather who was a manufacturer of lead-pencils, emigrated 120 — to hI LO. 5011 11(1 es, of m- ,.st. 11(1 his led to Ainoi'i(\i from th(» Isle of Cruornsey. onily in tlio prosf>nt C(Mitury. TJi. ubjoct of this paper �ii.s born in Concord, Mass., on the 1.2th July 1S17. lie went to Harvard and jUTadiialcd liero in 1837, but without takinp^ a d(^g'ro<« or earning any especial distinction. After this, in company with his brother, lo enga^-ed in teaching a small private school. He soon gave up this (Miiployincnt, however, and entered his fatlier's estaldishment, and applied himself diligently lor a while, to the art of making lead-p(»neils. He believed ill his own mind that he could make a better pencil than was then in use, and In^ actually performed that feat. He took his work to lioston, showed it to th(» chemists there, obtained th(>ir cmiilieates to the valm; and excelknce and quality of his pencils, and then returned home, not to make more of them, as we might suppose, but to renounce the craft altogether. His friends rallied around him, and told him how fortunate he was, and what a line prospect in the way of money-getting, lay before him. But Henry astonish(Hl them all by saying that he should never make another pencil as long as he lived. ""Why should I," said he, "I would not do again what I have done once." So it was, and he left the factory, and went on with his studies which were of a miscellaneous sort, and took his long walks in the silent woods. He loved solitude for its own sake, and wht>n he wantinl a companion, he preferred an Indian. He was often invited out, and dinner-party invitations were fre(|uently sent to him, but ho declined such favours regularly and promptly. He would not go to dinners because there each was in every one's way, and he could not meet the individuals present to any purpose. "They make their pride," he said, "in making their dinner cost much ; 1 make my pride in making my dinner cost little." Once or twice he did accept an invitation to dine, and when asked at table what dish he preferred, he 16 r I ( — 130 -- answered "the nearest." Of course such a man was better alone, or with his good Indian, roaming the forest, and communing with nature in her varied and seductive haunts. He never used tobacco, as has been said, but in his youth he sometimes smoked dried lily-stems,— this in his oesthetic days, and long before he was a man. Afterwards in speak- ing of those same lily-stems, he said "I have never smoked anything more noxioas." The iirst number of the Dial, — Margaret Fuller's paper, and the organ of the Transcendentalists, — was published in July, 1840. It was a quarterly, and its aims were high, and its policy independent and courageous. The initial issue contained contributions by Emerson, Miss Fuller, Eipley, C. P. Cranch, Bronson Alcott, John S. Dwight, — afterwards the editor of the Journal of Music, — Theodore Parker, W. H. Channing and Thoreau. The latter wrote for it the poem of "Sympathy." Among his con- tributions to this serial, were a number of papers about the Natural History of Massachusetts, and some translations of Pindar and of iEschylus. In the first A^olume there appear- ed three of his pieces, in the second he published two, in the third sixteen, and in the fourth five. Thoreau may be said to have made his first puljlic appearance through the Dial. He was only 23 years of age when his poem of "Sympathy" came out, and as it gave token of promise, many read and praised it. His first prose production given to the public and reprinted as the first paper of " Excursions,'' was in the third volume. The fourth volume contained his Walk in Winter. Emerson encouraged Thoreau to write, intro- duced him to literature, and on going away once for a short time, permitted him, during liis absence, to edit No. 3 of the third volume of The Dial. Indeed, he acted as a friend and adviser to him always. The great event in Thoreau's life occurred in 1845, when 1^ t s. of alk tro- lort 3 of end —131 — he seceded from the world, and went to live by the shores of Walden Fond, and built himself a frame house, wnth his own hands. For two years he lived in solitude, devoting him- self to study, the investigation of the habits of animals, natural history pursuits, and the performance of such labour as he deemed necessary. The story of that adventure is curious. He had nothing when he began it save a borrowed axe and a few dollars in his pocket. He was a squatter in every sense of the w^ord. He settled on somebody's land, cut down a few pines, hewed timber, and bought an old shanty, for the sake of the boards, from James Collins, an Irish labourer, on the adjacent Fitchburg Railroad. For the he w^as paid exactly $4.25. At the raising of his house boards he assisted by Emerson, George W. Curtis, the j^olite and refined " Easy Chair " of Harper's Mnt^azine, and some other distinguished members of Concord society. He began building in the spring. By the opening of winter, as the result of his own labour, he had secured a tight shingled and plastered house, 10 feet wide by 15 long, and 8 feet posts, with a garret and a closet, a large window on each side, two trap-doors, one door at the end, and i' brick lire- place opposite. The cost of this establishment is thus set down by the builder himself, and his remarks on the same appear in the margin. Boards 8 8 0?>\ IMostly sliajiiy boaicLs. Rof use .shingles fur roof ami siclos .... 4 00 Laths 1 25 Two second-hand windows with glass.. 2 4I{ One thousand old brick 4 00 Two casks of lime 2 40 Tliat was liiij;li. Hair ol More than I needed. Mantle-tree, iron 1.1 Nails :5 ;>0 Hinges and screws 14 Latch 10 Chalk 01 Transportation 1 40 I carried a good part on my back. In all $28 12i' — 132 Rather a moclevato price lor a house, and adds the builder, '•these are all the materials, excepting- the timl)ev, stones and sand, which I claimed by squatter's right. I have also a small wood-shed adjoining, made chiefly of the stuU' which was loft after builduig- the house." Now let us look a Utile into our hermit's Himily expenses, or house-keeping account, to speak more correctly. His wants were few, and he lived economically, but how many of us would be content to go and do likewise ? Let us see what he did, and how he lived. He leaves this record : — " By surveying, carpentij'-, and day labour of various other kinds in the village in the meanwhile, for I have as many trades as fingers, I had earned $ 13.84. The expense of food for eight months, namely, from July 4 to March 1, the time hen these estimates were made, though I lived there more than two years, — not counting potatoes, a little green corn, and some peas, which 1 had raised, nor considering the value of what was on hand at the last date, was : — Rice ,S1 7.*5^ Mohisses 1 7'j" Rye iiieiil 1 04^' Indian luoal !)'.)-^ Poik 22 Flour 88 Sugar 80 Lard (i5 Apples 25 Dried apples 22 Sweet potatoes 10 One pumpkin 0(i One watenuelon 02 Salt 03 Cheapest form of saueharine. Clieaper tlian rye. Cost more than Indiini meal, Ixjtli money and troulile. Yes, I did eat $8.74, all told ; but I should not thus , >i- blushingly publish my guilt, if I did not know that most of my readers were equally guilty with myself, and that in* . «■■ i !i^ I ' o ' "-J Ist lat — 133 — their deeds would look no bettor in print. The next year I soinotimes caught a mess of lish for my dinner, and once I went so far as to slaughter a woodchuck uhich ravaged my bean held, — etlect his transmigration, as a Tartar would say, — and devour him, partly for experiment's sake ; but though it alibrded me a momentary enjoyment, notwith- standing a musky Uavour, I saw that the longest use would not make that a good practice, however it might seem to have your woodchucks ready dressed by the village butcher. • Cluthiiiii and soino incidental expenses witliin the same dates, tlioiiuli little 'jan he inferred from this item, aniuunted to. . . 88 AO'l Oil and some liou.seli(jld utensils 2 Ot> So that all the pecuniary outgoes, excepting for washing and mending, which for the most part were done out of the house, and their bills have not yet been received, — and these are all and more than all the ways by which money necessarily goes out in this part of the world, — were : — House SliS 121 Farm, one year 14 7-A Fodd, eii,dit montlis 8 7-1 ClothinLr, ttc. , ei^dlt months 8 40^ Oil, &c., " " 2 00 In all ei'l !»l)i I address myself now to those of my readers wdio have a living to get, and to meet this I have for Farm produce sold ^'2',] 44 Earned by day-labour lu o4 In all §:3G 78 which, substracted from the sum of the outgoes, leaves a balance of $25.21'? on the one side, — this being very nearly the means with which I started, and the measure of ex- penses to be incurred, — and on the other, beside the leisure and independence and health thus secured, a comfortable house for me as long as I chose to occupy it." .'1' ■i Ml 1 1' i it 'ii — 134 — This lilb at Waldou pond was vovy pleasant to hi in, and he made the most oFit. Erery natural fact which he dis- covered, and he Ibund out very many of them, was a con- stant source of delight. " He was no pedant of a depart- ment," writes Emor.son, " his eye was open lo beauty aad his ear to music. He ibund these, not in rare conditions, but wheresoever he went. He thoiight the best of music was in single strains ; and he found poetic suggestion in the humming of the telegraph wire." And Alcott says of him, at about this time, — " he united the qualities of sylvan and human in a more remarkable manner than any whom it has been my happiness to know. Lover of the wild, he lived a borderer on the conllnes of civilization, jealous of the least encroachment upon his possessions. He came nearer the antique spirit than any of our native poets, and touched tne fields and groves and streams of his native town with a classic interest that shall not fade." And again says this equally remarkable genius, " his jn-esence was tonic, like ice-water in dog-days to tlie parched citizen pent in chambers and under brazen ceilings. AYelcome as the gurgle of brooks and dipping of pitchei.^,-— then drink and be cool ! There was in him sod and sluide, wilds and waters manifold, — the mould and mist of earth and slcy. Self-poised and sagacious as any denizen of the elements, he had the key to every animal's brain, every plant ; and were an Indian to Uower forth and reveal the scents hid- den in his cranium, it would not be more surprising than the speech of our Sylvanus." 'William Ellery Channing thus describes his personal appearance: — "in height he was about the average. In his build, spare with limbs that were rather longer than usual, or of which he made a longer use. His face once seen could not be forgotten ; the features quite marked, the nose aquihne, or very Roman, hke one of the portraits of Cajsar (more like a beak, as was lih f^. — 135 — said), larf^e overhanging brows above the deepest set blue eyes that could be seen, — blue in certain lights, and in others grey, — eyes expressive of all shades of feeling, but never Aveak or near-sighted ; the jbrehead not unusuallv broad or high, full of concentrated energy and purpose ; the mouth, v»'ith prominent lips, pursod up �ith meaning and thought when shut, and giving out when open a stream of the most varied and unusual and instructive sayings. His hair was a dark brown, exceedingly abundant, line and soft, and for several years he wore a comply board. His whole figure had an active earnestness as if he hud not a moment to waste. The clenched hand betokened purpose. In walking he made a short cut if he could, and when sit- ting* in the shade, or by the v/all-side, seemed merely the clearer to look forward into the next piece of activit}''. Even in the boat he had a wary, transitory air, his eyes on the look out ; porhaps tliere might ])e ducks or the Blondin turtle, or an otter, or sparrow. He was a plain man in his features and dress, — one who could not be mistaken, and this kind of plainness is not out of keeping with beauty. He sometimes went as far as homeliness, which again, even if there be a prejudice against it, shines out at times beyond a vulgar beauty." One quotation more, and this complet(\s the best descrip- tion Wiiich contemporaries have left of Tlioreau. George William Curtis savs in his graceful wav, "his knowledjje was original. He has a tine-ear and a sharp-eye in the woods and fields ; and he added to his knowledge the wisdom of the most ancient times and of the best literature." Almost all the critics give our author credit for great ori- ginality of mind. It was his misfortune as well as his advantage to have lived as the contemporary and intimate of Emerson. For a while he saw the greater man almost every day, and soon he learned to think like him, to pursue m\ hi ■ — 186 — 1A the same way of thought, and to liold simihir tonots with him on many of the problems which occupied men's minds, especially between the years 1840 and 1800. I think, he imbibed many of the bettor thounhts of Emerson, un- consciously, though there have been writers who have had grave doubts on the subject, and have not hesitated to de- nounce Thoreau as a jilagiarist. His own writings were undoubtedly coloured by his contact with the completer mind, and he never could quite rid them of the deep tinge which so many declared to be the Emerson influence and the result of the Emerson cult. Apropos of this, a story is related in a liimous literary circle in Boston. It is told at the expense of Thoreau's mother, who, it is said, remark- ed once to a neighbour, that Mr. Emerson wrote marvel- lously like her son. Lowell, who is as fkilful a critic as Whipple, as well as a most delightful poet, and whose opinions on books and authorship are wortliy of the highest praise, does not give Thoreau the place his admirers would like to see assigned him. In his "Fable for Critics," Mr. Lowell speaks thus freely : — " There cmnes , for instance ; ti) sec hiui's rive H^tort, Tread in Emerson's tracks with let^s painfully short ; How ho junii»s, how he strains, and ;;et.s red in the face, To keep Ktep with the niysta,i,Mgiiu's natural pace! Me follows as close as a stick to a rockt't, His Humors cxpIorinLC tlie prophet's each ])ocket. Fie, for shanie, brother bard ; with ijood fruit of your own, Can't you let neiglibour Emerson's orchards alone T' This is severe, but Lowell either failed to appreciate Thoreau or he felt a contempt for his talents. He once wrote an essay about him, — it may be read in his " My Study "Windows," — and acute critic as he is, he disappoint ed everybody in the estimate which he produced. It was inappreciative, unsympathetic and cold. Emerson himself had great respect always for Thoreau. He thought him a grand soul and a superior genius. In an unpublished letter o P — 137 — to a friend, he once wrote. " I read his books and manu- scripts alwaj'^s with new surprise at the range of his topics and the novoUy of his thought. A man of large reading, of quick perception, of great practical courage and ability, who grew greater every day, and, had his short life been prolonged, would have found but few equals to the jiower and wealth of his mind." Thoreau quitted his hut in two years' time. He exhaust- ed its special advantages, and having no further use for it, he abandoned it to its fate. By living there in the manner he did he proved certain things, made certaiii discoveries, and studied certain subjects. These aims accomplished, he turned his back on the hermitage and w^ent home to civi- lization and taxes. He went there in the first place because he was ready to go. He left for the same reason. The little odd house can no longer be seen. It has disappeared entirely and the site is now occupied by the sumac and the pine. Of course, the locality remains historic, and the Concord people still love to escort visitors to Thoreau's old haunt and tell the quaijit story of his wilderness life, at •' blue-eyed Walden." He returned to town in 1847. One day he received a tax- bill. He did not like it. He found fault with the way in ^vhich the public funds were being administered and expendiHl, and 1"3 told the tax-gaiherer that he could not conscientiously pay a tax which was obnoxious to him. He wa':i promptly arrested and lodged in jail. A friend came forward, the next day, and paid the tax, and Thoreau was released. Tlic friendly act gave him annoyance however, and he did not scruple to say so, but there was no help for it. The tax was paid, and the delinquent walked out of prison, a free man. He had silent one night in jail, and his impressions are recorded and form some of the best reading to be found in his books. There is some- . XT "^■Hfebi If' ■:l li /I — 138 — thing quite delicious in his description of his prison experiences ; something so fantastic, and withal so thorough- ly like Thoreau in every respect. Note this bit for example : — " As I stood considering the walls of solid stone, two or three feot thick, the door of wood and iron, a foot thick, and the iron grating which strained the light, I could not help being struck with the foolishness of that institution which treated me as if I were mere flesh and blood and bones, to be locked up. I wondered that it should have concluded at length that this was the best use to put me to, and had never thought to avail itself of my services in finy way. I saw that if there was a stone w^all between me and my townsmen, there was a still more difficult one to climb or break through before they could get to be as free as I was. I did not for a moment feel confined, and the walls seemed a great waste of stone and mortar. I felt as if I alone of all my townsmen had paid my tax. They plainly did not know how^ to treat me, but behaved like persons who are underbred. In every threat and in every compli- ment there was a blunder, for they thought that my chief desire was to stand on the other side of that stone wall. I could not but smile to see how industriously they locked the door on my meditations, which followed them out again without let or hindrance, and they were really all that was dangerous. As they could not reach me, they had resolved to punish my body ; just as boys, if they can- not come at any iierson at whom they have a grudge, will abuse his dog," AVhen he entered the prison, he found the prisoners in their shirt-sleeves enjoying a social chat. Salutations were exchanged between the new-comer and the "jail-birds," and soon after this the turnkey said pleasantly, " Come, boys, it is time to lock up." The men and half-grown lads filed off 189 — 1(" to their colls, and Thoreau was introduced, to his room- mate, — "a llrst-rate fellow and a clever man," as the jailor called him. He appeared to be at homo in the place, and kindly pointed out to the hermit the peg upon which he might hang his hat. After a while the two became very friendly with each other, and the man told Thoreau he had been put in the " lock-up" on a charge of burning a barn, but that he was innocent of the crime. " I pumped my fellow-prisoner as dry as I could," says our author, " for fear I should never see him again, but at length he showed me which was my bed, and left me to blow out the light." His further impressions are thus detailed : — "It was like travelling into a far country, such as I had never expected to behold, to lie there for one night. It seemed to me that I never had heard the town clock strike before, nor the evening sounds of the village ; for we slept with the windows open, which were inside the grating. It was to see my native village in the light of the Middle Ages ; and our Concord was turned into a Rhine stream, and visions of knights and castles passed before me. They were the voices of old burghers that I heard in the streets. I w^as an involuntary spectator and auditor of whatever was done and said in the kitchen of the adjacent village inn, — a wholly new and rare experience to me. It was a closer view of my native town. I was fairly inside of it. I never had seen its institutions before. * ' * In the morning our breakfasts were put through the hole in the door, in small, oblong, square tin pans, made to fit, and holding a pint of chocolate, with brown bread, and an iron spoon. When they called for the vessels again, I was green enough to return what bread I had left ; but my comrade seized it, and said that I should lay that up for a lunch or dinner." \ I iHI 'li' -140 — III this light and airy fashion h(^ goes on and tolls tho whol(3 story of his inoarcoration, and oxplains, ]>y tho way, that thoro was no parlicular itom in his tax-hill which he had ro fused to pay. lie had never declined to pay the hig-hway tax, bv.^cause he was as desirous of excv'lling as a i^ood neig'hbour, as he was of appearing before the author- ities as a bad subject. Next year, the question came up again. Thorean firmly declined to pay the tax, and the good offices oi a friend were called into requisition. The same performance was enacted for some years after this, whcr linally Thorean, who probably saw that his spirit of independence did not quite harmonize with tho line of conduct he was pursuing in the matter, and fearing lest he was really becoming a burden to his friends, ceased to offer resistance to the law, and paid the tax. If he had lived in England in Wilkes' time, he would probably have sided with that agitator in all his views. He was an extreme radical, a]id the uncompromising opponent of every form of government. If he had had the power he Avould have abolished all administrations from the face of the earth, lie had as much light in him as Wendell Phillips had in his young and lusty days, and was never so happy as when he was arrayed against strong men and stronger isms. In our time, when radi- calism has become a force, and is no longer regarded as a crime, when its leaders have developed into administrators of departments in the public service, and have helped to carr on the great affairs of State in the governments of countries, Thoreau, even with unchanged oj^inions would not be looked upon as an attainted man. He might form no part of a government, but there are other i:)ortfolios than those belonging to cabinets, and the Walden philosopher strengthened by the possession of one of these," and speak- ing for and to the people, might lind his views very — 141 — w « son«il)ly taking sh^ipo niid volumo, and inllucncing the jn'ogrcsisivo march oC events. In his day he was an a))oH- tionist, and sternly opposed to all tarills, and every variety of slavery, political as well as human. The trallic in the black man, which disgraced his country, was an al)omina- tion which he could not denounce in terms of suIUcient severity. He joined the Anti-slavery party, when to do so was to incur the bitter hatred oi' many good men. Thoreau did not care. He felt a burst oi' sympathy tugging at his heart, when old John Brown succumbed to the tap of authority on his shoulder. The hero was arrested, and Thoreau felt the mad, radical, rebellious, hot blood in his veins warming every pulse and iibre, and burning into his brain. He sent out notices to nearly every house in Conc^'-d, and told the peopJe he would speak on the great question in the Public Hall on Sunday evening, and he invited all to come and hear him. Even the Abolitionist Committee trembled at his daring, aiidthe Republican Committee felt a sinking at the heart. They put their heads together, and advised Henry Thoreau not to be too premature in the matter. It was not advisable to speak publicly of John Brown, and his character and condition. The time was not ripe, they thought, just yet. They counselled delay ; wait, they all said. \Yait, — and these men advised Henry Thoreau to wait. Henry Thoreau, think of it, Henry Thoreau who had his opinions, and cared not a rush for any man's counsel or advice, — advised Henry Thoreau who held to principle as if his life de- pended on it ! His mind was made up. Not si)eak next Sunday niglit, and the people mad to know the story of John Brown ? Why, the thing was absurd ! What, think you, was the reply this sturdy radical of the radicals sent back to the trembling Anti-slavery people ? Why this, " I did not send to you for advice, but to announce that I am (i I 5 t ' — 142 — to speak." Aiul ho did speak, and the hall had nevor held such an audionco as ho addressed on that memorable night. The crowds came iVom far and near, and Thoreau's earnest eulogy of the grand old martyr of Harper's ferry, was listened to Avith a sympathy and a respect which sur- prised the Abolitionists themselves. Some of them took courage from this exhibition, and Thoreau's speech was a llrst gun iired in Concord, in behalf of the black man's cause. Among other things which he said on that occasion, were these : " I am here to plead his cause w^ith you. I plead not for his life, but his character, — his immortal life ; and so it becomes your cause wholly, and not his in the least. I see now that it was necessary that the bravest and human- est man in the country should be hung. Perhaps he saw it himself. 1 almost fear that I may yet hear of his deliver- ance, doubting if a prolonged life, if any life, can do as much good as his death." And after the splendid old hero, — one of the grand mar- tyrs of the world, if ever there was one, — had been hanged, Thoreau said tenderly and feelingly : — " On the day of his translation I heard, to be sure, that he was hung, but I di ' not know what that meant ; I felt no sorrow on that account ; but not for a day or two did I even hear that he was dead, and not after any number of days shall I believe it. Of all the men who were said to be my contemporaries, it seemed to me that John Brown W' as the only one who had not died. I never hear of a man named Brown now — and I hear of them pretty often, — I never hear of any particular brave and earnest man, but ray first thought is of John Brown, and what relation he may be to him. I meet him at every turn. He is more alive than he ever w^as. He has earned immortality. He is not confined to North Elba nor to Kansas. He is no — 1 13 — loiigor working in socret. Ho works in public in the clear- est light that shines in the land." Thoreau lacked geniality and sunniness of disposition, charms which never iail to win friends and lovers. He had too much acid in his nature, — and he did not al- ways succeed in Ivcepinn- the acid out of his books either, — ever to bee no one of the world's heroes. He was a book- ish man, as well as a naturalist. He had more intellect than soul, and he was too sincere to dissemble. He had no finesse. The animals of the brush possessed more of his heart than the men he met in the streets, or the women at whose homes he dropped in, now and then, for a talk. Yet cold as he was to people, he contrived to be happy, and was always on particularly good terms with himself. " I love my fate to the core and rind," he used to say. Even when he lay dying of that dread disease, consumption, — which carried him off in 1802, he feebly said to some one at his bedside, " you ask particularly after my health. I suppose that I have not many months to live, but of course know nothing about it. I may say that I am enjoying existence as much as ever, and regret nothing." As a writer of books, Thoreau must always occupy an acknowledged place in American letters. He wrote about eight medium-sized volumes, but all of them are not equal in point of merit. Each in turn exhibits a wealth of observation, some satire, a certain dry humour, much force of character, and a clear insight into human affairs and nature. He wrote pretty much as he talked, thought often while on his feet, and some of the acutest things in his works were composed during the long walks which he took in the country. " The length of his walk uniformly made the length of his writing," as was once said. Some of his writings are exaggerative, and he measured every- thing by a rule of his own, which recognized Concord as 144 the centre of the universe. Even the North Pole had few phenomena vrhich he could not find in his own little town and neighbourhood. The meridian of Concord was the main base of operations for the whole civilized world, and i]i his eyes it was doubtless Naples, London, Paris and Venice, all rolled into one sublime entity. A pleasant book of his is The Week, which is really a re- cord of a dolig'hiM journey along the banlvs of the Concord and Merrimack rivers, which was taken by the author and his brother in the moiith of August, 1839. They sailed about in a boat which was built by themselves after a model of their own design, and at night they camped out on the shore. The b^ok is full of their adventures, by land and water, and contains many excellent bits of de- scrii)tive and essay writing, strengthened by philosophical dissertations, and some interesting studies in botany and in literature. A few alfectations in religious thought, peculiarly Tiioreauesque, abound here and there, but one may forgive such weaknesses in a work which is so meri- torious in all other directions. Walden, which treats of life in the woods, in a most enjoyable and reflective way, ranks next. It tells the story of Thoreau's own caieer in the forest, and on that account, as well as from its value as an authority on certain features oi New Eniiland civilization, it is likely to be oftener read and quoted than any of his other writings. A Yankee in Canada is well worth dipping into, though it certainly does not show its author at his best. He confesses that he failed to get much of himself into it. Still, it has some humour, and a good deal of ob- servation, and the reader will not iind it either dull or stu- pid. You will pardon me, perhaps, for reading to you, a page or two out of this sketchy \olume. Thoreau made the trip to Canada in 1850. He travelled with but slight incumbrance, in the wav of bauQafre. His boast was that 0C3"0^ SiML±*^-' 145 — lis ih- lu- a he fit lat he could be independent of it. He set out early, and car- ried only a small parcel in his hand, which contained the few articles which he absolutely needed for his journey. He says : — " My i)ack, in fact, was soon made, for I keep a short list of those articles which, from frequent experience, I have found indispensable to the foot traveller ; and, when about to start, I have only to consult to be sure that nothing is omitted, and, what is more important, nothing' superfluous inserted. Most of my fellow-travellers carried carpet-bags, or valises. Sometimts one had two or three tremendous yellow valises in his clutch, at each hitch of the cars, or if we were going to have a rush in earnest — and there were not a lew — I would see my man in the crowd, with two or three aflectionate lusty fellows pressing close, the strap along each side of his arm, between his shoulder and his valises, which held them tight to his back. I could not help asking in my mind, what so great cause for shewing Canada to those valises, when perhaps your very niece.* had to stay nt home for want of an escort ? I should have liked to be present when the custom-house oflicer came aboard of him, and asked him to declare upon his honour if he had anything but wearing apparel in thein. Even the elephant carries but a small trunk on his journeys. The perfection of travelling is to travel without baggage. After considerable reflection and experience, I have con- cluded that the best bag for a foot-traveller is made with a handkerchief, or, if he study appearances, a piece of stiff brown paper, well tied up, wuth a fresh piece within to put outside when the lirst is torn. That is good for both town and country, — a bundle which you can carry literally under your arm, and which will shrink and swell with its contents. I never found the carpet-bag of equal capacity, which was not a bundle of itself. "We styled ourselves the 18 ^: 146 Kniii^lits of the IJ mi)rolla and the Bundle ; for wherever we w^ent, whether to Notre-Dame or Mount Royal, or the Champ-de-Mars, to town mayor's or the bishop's palace, to the citadel, with a bare-legged Highlander for our escort, or to the Plains of Abraham, to dinner or to bed, the um- brella and the bundle went with us ; for we wished to l>e ready to digress at any moment. We made our haven no- where in particular, but everywhere where our umbrella and bundle were. It would have been an amusing cir- cumstance if the mayor of one of those cities had politely asked us where we were staying. "We could only have answered that we were staying with His Honour for the time being. I was amused when, after our return, some green ones enc^ aired if we found it ' easy to get accommo- dated,' as if we went abroad to get accommodated, when we can get that at home." And of Canada and its people. In; writes thus : — " To a traveller from the old world, Canada East may «il)pear like a new country, and its inhabitants like colon- ists ; but to me, coming from New England, and being a very green traveller withal, it appeared as Normandy it- self, and realized much that I had heard of Europe and tlie Middle Ages. Even the names of the humble Canadian villages alTected me as if they had been those of the re- nowned cities of antiquity. To be told by a habitant when I asked the name of a village in sight, that it is St. Fereofe or Ste. Anne, the Guardian Angel or the IIolj/ St. Josepli's ; or of a mountain that it was Belange or ;S/. Ilyacinthe ! As soon as we leave the States these saintly names begin. St. John is the first town you stop at (fortunately we did not see it), and henceforward the names of the mountains, and streams, and villages reel, if I may so speak, with the in- toxication of poetry : Chambly, Longueuil, Pointe-aux- Trembles, Bartholomy, etc, etc., as if it needed only a little — 147 — foreign accent, a few more liquids and vowels perchance in the language to make or locate our ideals at onc<.\ I ])egan to dream of Provence and the Troubadours, and of places and things which have no existence on the earth. They veiled the Indian and the primitive forest, and the woods towards Hudson's ^Jay were only as the forests of France and Germany. I could not at once bring myself to believe that the inhabitants who pronounced daily those beautiful, and to me signiiicant, words led as prosaic lives as we of New England. In short, the Canada which I saw was not merely a place for railroads to terminate in, and for criminals to run to. When I asked a man if there were any falls on the Rivicre-an-Chien — for I saw that it came over the same high bank with the Montmorenci and Sie. Anne — he answered that th(^re were. " IIow far?" I en- quired. ''Trois~(ju(irts de lieue.'' " How higli ?'' ''Je j/euse, (luatre-vingt-dix pieds" — that is ninety feet. We turned aside to look at the fills of the Rivitre dii Saut a la Pitc.e, half-a-mile from the road, which before we had passed in our haste and ignorance, and v^'c pronounced them as beau- tiful as any that we saw ; yet they seemed to make no ac- count of them there, and wlien first we en([uired the way to the falls, directed us to MouUnorenci, seven miles distant. It was evident that this was the country for waterfalls ; that every stream tliat em})ties into the 'Si. Lawrence, for some hundreds of miles must have a great fall or cascade on it, and in its passage through tlie mountains was for a short distance a small Saguenay, with its upright walls. This fall of La Puce, the least remarkable of the four which we visited in this vicinity, we had never heard of till we came to Canada, and yet, so far as I know, there is nothing of the kind in New England to be compared to it. Most travellers in Canada would not hear of it, though tliev might go so near as hear it. Since my return I find that ' >i /. — 148 — ir in the topographical description of the country, mention is made of " two or three romantic falls" on this stream, thoim'h we saw and heard of but this one. Ask the inha- bitants, respecting any stream, if there is a fall on it, and they will perchance tell you of something as interesting as Bashpish or the Catskill, which no traveller has ever seen, or, if they have not found it, you may possibly trace up the stream and discover it yourself. Falls there are " a drug," and we became quite dissatisfied in respect to them. "VVe had too much of them. Besides those which I have referred to, there are a thousand other falls on the St. Law- rence and its tributaries which I have not seen or heard of, and above all there is one which I have heard of called Niagara, so that I think this river must be the most re- markable for its falls of any in the w^orld. "At a house near the western boundary of Chateau Riclier, whose master was said to speak a very little English, having recently lived at Quebec, we got lodging for the night. As usual we had to go down alone to get round to the south side of the house, where the door was, away from the road ; for these Canadians' houses have no front door ; properly speaking every part is for the use of the occupant exclu- sively, and no part has reference to the traveller or to travel. Every New England house, on the contrary, has a front and a x^rincipal door opening to the great world, though ii may be on the cold side, for it stands on the highway of nations, and the road which runs by it comes from the old world and goes to the far West ; but the Canadian's door opens into his back yard and farm alone, and the road which runs behind his house leads only from the church of one saint to that of another." " Excursions " is a very good book, and full of quotable extracts. My own copy is marked on every page. It is in Excursions where we find such bits as these, " It is the 149 three-inch swing of a ponclulum in a cup-board, which the great pulse of nature vibrates by and through each instant." " Tlie beauty there is in mosses must be consi- dered from the holiest, quietest nook." "What is any man'-^! discourse to me, if I am not sensible of something in it as steady and cheery as the creak of crickets." '* I would keep some book of natural history always by me as a sort of elixir, the reading of which should restore tlie tone of the system." "Their tongues had a more generous accent than ours, as if breath was cheaper where they wagged." One more, " Cape Cod, the right arm of the Commonwealth." It would be easy to multiply the number of quotations, but enough have beeii given, I think, to show the manner and style of Thorcau's thought, his power of expression, and peculiar turn for humour. His other books are Letters — full of strong individuality and robust thought, — The Maine Woods, Cape Cod, and Earl// S/jriNg' in Ma'^sachuselts, the latter a collection of shrewd observations from the author's journal. This work, bequeathed in 187G to Mr. H. G. O. Blake by Sophia Thoreau, sister of the naturalist, was published in book-form in 1881. Thoreau died at Concord on the (Jth of May, 1862. Take him for all in all, he was a good and true man. He led a life which was full of beautiful lessons for the young as well as for the old. "We cannot all become hermits, per- haps few of us would care for such a self-denying state ol existence, — but we may all lead useful lives, if we will. And may we not learn something no])le and enduring, from the simple career of this self-sacrilicing naturalist, who gave some oi the best years of his life to the birds of the air, the animals which ran to him for protection, the iish which swam into his hand, and the plants which whisper- ed their secrets into his ear ? A man who lived as Thoreau lived could do great good to his fellows were he so 'if 150 — minded, and Thoreau, we all feel, accomplished much that was purposeful and excellent. We need not think of him as a Transcendentalist merely, though of course the tenets of that doctrine coloured his views, and shaped the action of his mind ; we need not quarrel with his w^ay of religious thought, but we may believe in him as a man and a brother- worker in an honest cause. AYe may admire the thousand good qualities with which God enriched his mind and en- dowed his heart. "We may accept the influencing tendency of his splendid manhood, and read spirited lessons for our guidance in most of the acts which he performed. His morality was high. He had almost an excess of it, His scholarship, his love of nature, his grandeur of soul, his pride of independence, his ripe and mature judgment on all the great concerns of life and activity, found ample deve- lopment in the intellectual life which he followed. The career of such a man marks out a line of beauty which many of us would do no wrong to accept, if not in its en- tirety, at least in part. Thoreau has passed away, but his genius lives. In fiction he rests immortalized in Haw- thorne's study of " The Marble Faun ;" in real life he has a firm hold on our affections, an ever living place in our hearts. His rank in American letters is assured, and his memory will not soon fade away, or sink out of the minds of thinkino: and of readinc; men.