diff options
Diffstat (limited to '78810-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 78810-0.txt | 10493 |
1 files changed, 10493 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/78810-0.txt b/78810-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ab64ef0 --- /dev/null +++ b/78810-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10493 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78810 *** + + + + + Henry Thoreau + + BACHELOR OF NATURE + + _by_ Léon Bazalgette + + Translated by + Van Wyck Brooks + + “My friend will be bold to conjecture. + He will guess bravely at the significance + of my words.” + --_Autumn_ + + + NEW YORK + Harcourt, Brace and Company + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY + HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. + + + Published, November, 1924. + Second printing, January, 1925. + + Printed in the U. S. A. + + + + + AUTHOR’S NOTE + + +Abundantly as Henry Thoreau informs us about himself in his Journal, +his correspondence and his writings, his story, owing to the extreme +reticence of his nature, would obviously be incomplete if it were +reduced to these elements alone. To finish it remained the task +of certain of his contemporaries, members of his circle. What the +following pages owe to their invaluable testimony is so evident that +it has not been thought necessary to emphasize this indebtedness by +crowding the book with notes, as if it laid any claim to erudition. +Nevertheless, this absence of references, ill-judged as it may be, must +not be taken to imply that this portrait-study has been inspired by +any desire less exacting than their own for the pure and simple truth. +It merely means that behind this truth there was perhaps another, less +often sought for, but no less moving after these vanished years. + + + + + I + + +Someone has died in the village: the man who bought the house on the +square a year ago--the retired seaman. + +A new face that has soon disappeared. Perhaps he had his reasons in +choosing for his retreat this straggling village, twenty miles from +the city from which he came. Or perhaps it had been enough for him to +chance upon it one day, a city-dweller in search of a resting-place, to +be won by the fine elms and maples that sheltered a gracious village, +nestling among the low hills and deep woods and named after the +slow-moving river that watered the broad meadows: Concord. + +For a man who had lived in the bustle of a port after a life of +adventure, everything there breathed a blessed peace. Nor was the +silence of the fields too sedative for one who had come from a capital. +Concord smiled in the agreeable spectacle of its thousand inhabitants, +farmers, workmen, tradespeople, village officials, and formed a +stopping-place for the stage-coach, the travellers, the carters who +passed through it on their way to the high pastoral regions of New +Hampshire. There was an inn, there were taverns where they served you +a stiff glass of liquor, several stores, the Town Hall. There was the +wooden church, too, and a fine stone jail that sheltered the county +criminals. They even hanged people there now and then. A man who was +accustomed to the world would not feel too remote from civilization. + +Perhaps, too, the renown of a spot where the country-folk had offered +a bold and decisive resistance to the troops of His Britannic Majesty, +at the dawn of the Revolution, had affected his choice. But this memory +of twenty-five years ago was of far less importance than the promise +of the forests of pines and oaks and the fields and the footpaths +along the slopes for a man who knew he was ill and was looking for a +retreat where he could recover the strength of his lungs.... In the +pine-scented air of Concord floated the hope of a cure. And here he had +indeed found himself at rest, forever. The pure air of the valley had +not been able to restore the consumptive to health, no, nor the whey he +used to take at the houses of his friends on the days when they made +cheese, nor the simples from which he had made a syrup for his evil +cough. A man of moderate height, but broad-backed, who would once have +seized a barrel of molasses and carried it on his head. An old seaman, +in short, dying now of consumption, at the age of forty-seven, in the +year one of the nineteenth century, in the house on the square that he +had just bought the year before, and going to his rest in the cemetery +of a New England village, twenty miles from the ocean that he had put +between himself and his kindred, the Thoreaus of Saint-Helier. + +For he was a lad from the Old World who had set out to seek his fortune +in the colonies, leaving behind him at nineteen a little green island +in order to attempt a great continent of mystery and chance. In Jersey, +where he was born, his family lived in comfort as people of substance, +of good Norman stock, speaking the old _langue d’oïl_. How would the +old family name sound in another tongue? The mother was a certain Marie +le Galais, who had had nine children and was in her seventy-ninth year +at the moment when her John, over there, had just been laid, without +her knowledge, in the Concord cemetery, laid there by the children he +had left behind him. The late Philippe Thoreau, her husband, had taken +over the business of his father, a wine merchant, with a branch in +London, where two of their daughters had married extremely well. They +belonged to the solid bourgeoisie, these Norman Thoreaus. + +The younger son of a numerous family, John had not waited for his +twentieth year before yielding to the invitation of a sailing vessel +that plied between Boston and Saint-Helier, and he had set out, leaving +his family to their casks on the little Channel island. John had gone +to sea. On his first long voyage he was shipwrecked and suffered +much. At Boston, along the docks, he found employment with various +ship-chandlers. Then the war broke out; no more work. The Harbour was +blockaded by the British fleet. He dug in the trenches round the town, +under the fire of the guns. Then he shipped on a privateer that set +out in pursuit of English vessels: for a Jerseyman, this was to follow +one of the hardiest traditions of his race. At the end of the war his +share of the prizes enabled him to open a shop on Long Wharf, where, +with one partner, he carried on business for twenty years. John had not +discredited his family; in the sale of molasses and other substantial +products, he had resumed the family path of business and sound +principles. + +At twenty-seven he married Jane Burns, the child of a Scottish emigrant +to Massachusetts and of the daughter of a Quaker who was a sailor too. +When she died, after fifteen years, he owned, aside from the proceeds +of his prosperous trade, the town-house which Jane had inherited from +her grandfather David, the Quaker: a fine house worth all of $10,000. +A widower, forty years old, with a houseful of children--the eldest, +eight years old, still a little girl--John Thoreau, the merchant of +Long Wharf, took for his second wife a certain Widow Kettell. Shortly +after this, finding his health affected, he sold out his business and +retired to the country to live on his income. + +And now the house he had bought on the square at Concord, thanks to +the handsome fortune amassed in these twenty years of trade, sheltered +a woman widowed anew and the little children of whom the oldest boy, +John, second of the name, was fourteen at the death of his father--and +four others bearing in their breast a heritage that weighed more +heavily than the few thousand dollars that were to come to each of +them.... + + * * * * * + +A child was born on the Minot farm, on the Eastern edge of the village, +by that road down there, a little to one side, which they called, no +one knew why, the Virginia Road. Perhaps because it dived down into a +vague country, in the other direction from the road that led to the +market-place. + +But there was no need to take the child to the market-place. The father +with his wife and his two chicks, Helen, not yet five, and John, +who was three, found themselves there, for want of anything better, +because his mother-in-law Minot, left a widow for the second time, had +given him a chance to turn his ability to account on the farm. This +agriculturist by accident was the eldest son of the old sailor who had +come to Concord to die: John Thoreau II, now thirty years old and a man +upon whom fortune, far from smiling, had turned its bare teeth. + +No luck yet for good little John. Nevertheless, the paternal shade +had guided him along the right path: he should undoubtedly have been +a merchant, like his father, like the Thoreaus of Saint-Helier. Good +blood would tell. After a year of school to complete his primary +studies begun in Boston, he had lost no time in apprenticing himself +to their neighbour, who kept a store and added to the dignity of a +merchant that of parish Deacon. Thus the potent sisters Grocery and +Piety took the little store-clerk by the hand. Then he enlarged his +experience of the world and affairs at a small dry-goods store in the +little town of Salem. The kindly epoch still existed when people were +not afraid of humanising trade by offering you a glass of liquor over +the counter, when you had made a sizable purchase. + +At twenty-one, rich in practical knowledge acquired elsewhere and with +a few bank-notes borrowed from his good step-mother, John had returned +to Concord to open a store. The beginning was most promising, but he +took a partner with whom he had a misunderstanding--the result was a +law-suit, which he won. Meanwhile the store had failed. He had to begin +all over again. Elizabeth, his older sister, had married and gone to +live in Maine. John followed and joined them, establishing himself at +Bangor with his brother-in-law, on the edge of the wilderness, where +the Indians were their best customers. Was John homesick, or was the +trade insufficient to maintain two managers? However it was, Concord +soon saw him back again, and at twenty-five, like a wise little man, he +married there. + +This charming, sprightly Cynthia certainly brought our brave John the +greatest happiness of his life. But she brought him nothing else; so +the two of them set out together to try their fortune in Boston, the +great city. Who could tell, if one had had no luck thus far in villages +and small towns, perhaps one was cut out for success in a capital. Not +in this case, not this time. The solidest wealth they acquired was a +new baby, John, third of the name, following Helen, born the same year +as their marriage. And then they returned to Concord, to the house of +Cynthia’s mother, the farm where Cynthia herself had been living at +the time of her marriage. Home enough for a young family without any +definite situation; before tempting chance elsewhere, a little farming, +to help the mother-in-law, would serve in the interval. And then the +maternal presence would not be unprofitable for Cynthia, during her +imminent confinement. + +Little chick, born by chance on an out-of-the-way farm, when your +grandfather died in a big house on the town square, are you as poor +as all that at the moment when you are cast upon this earth where he, +the old privateer, has been resting for sixteen years? In your veins +the calm blood of the Thoreaus is united with the impetuous blood of +the Dunbars; from this mixture you will be able to make something +perhaps, if you have a touch of fancy. Your father is a fine, sturdy +fellow, serious and kind-hearted, who is doing his best to make his way +with his three little children. If he has not developed into a great +commercial strategist, fate has made up for it by giving him a superior +wife. A very good thing, for your arrival in the world has not improved +their fortune. + +No more than her husband was Cynthia a child of Concord. They were of +the same age. Just as he had come as a boy, with his people, so she +had come as a little girl, with her mother, from New Hampshire, where +the father whom she had never known, Asa Dunbar, had died. Cynthia was +the daughter of a minister, a minister who had been at the same time a +counsellor-at-law and a zealous freemason. On the maternal side, the +great crisis of the Revolution, which had given the first John Thoreau +an opportunity to amass a handsome capital, had ruined the family, +who had once been important and influential gentlefolk. Colonel +Jones, her grandfather, who, with his eight sons, had taken the side +of the Crown, had shared the lot of the vanquished: confiscation of +their land, imprisonment, banishment. The chivalrous and adventurous +race of the Joneses had left their mark upon Cynthia in traits as +pronounced as the obscurity of her husband’s character: a taste for +elegance, a gift of eloquence. She knew how to talk, and there was as +much conviction in her words as in his silence. She loved to set the +lively tone of a bow of ribbon singing on a piece of cloth, like a +declaration of independence. She was not afraid to startle people by +a freedom of speech that was sharp enough to be malicious. It was a +handsome girl with dark eyes that John had taken for his wife, with +the calm assurance of these little serious, sedate men. Her charming +voice, when she sang, the animation of her talk, the vividness of her +replies had made up for his abysses of silence and self-effacement. +Happiest of harmonies, secured by an unassuming man whose wife talks +and is cheerful and has enough wit for two. John and Cynthia formed one +of those happy unions to which one brings genius, the other his lack +of genius, and both have courage enough to meet the ups and downs of +existence. + +Cynthia, the youngest of her family, had two sisters, Sophia and +Louisa. She had the luck to possess a brother also, the gem of the +Dunbars, the rare flower of generations that had multiplied their +branches to blossom at last in the alliance of a minister with the +daughter of a gentleman-farmer. Charles Dunbar had taken the sunny +side of life. He had not asked it to make dollars grow on the counter +of a shop or in the furrows of husbandry where a man strains his +back, greatly to the detriment of his good-humour; he had let it go +its own way, since it was full of amusing things and he himself was +a strong man, capable of mastering it. Not stupid enough to settle +down, he rambled from village to village, an eternal apprentice whose +apprenticeship pursued its course especially in taverns. A splendid +voice, bursting from his athletic frame, was enough to assure him +success among his jolly comrades. But Uncle Charles was also an +incomparable wag. It is not enough to draw the long bow and talk well +in a tavern to put the company in a cheerful mood: you must show what +you are. Then you do astonishing tricks with cards, toss your hat into +the air and catch it again on the top of your head, swallow your nose, +or juggle away the knives, forks and plates on the table, refusing to +restore them until the landlord agrees not to charge you for your meal. +And as if this were not enough, you seize a ten-foot ladder, stand it +upright without any support, clamber up to the last rung and descend on +the other side, pushing it back with your foot. Yes, and handsomely. +Would any of these gentlemen like to have a try?... But old Charles’s +great feat was wrestling. With him wrestling was a primal, necessary +function, like eating and drinking. In the most natural way in the +world, he would walk into your house with the flattering remark, “Come +along, I’m going to throw you. Out with you.” And you had to go out, +spread some straw in the yard and place yourself in position. Of course +he did throw you. And then he was as pleased as if you had invited him +to the best of dinners at your house. This passion for wrestling seized +him suddenly as sensual desire seizes people who are badly brought +up. And you never had to be afraid that he would break your ribs: an +accomplished wrestler, he would displant you neatly, like an artist and +a gentleman. In this vocation he had lost all his teeth at the age of +twenty-one, which did not prevent him from having every blessed one of +them later on. Perhaps they had grown again--you never can tell with +these fire-eaters. + +To judge him from this unconventional manner of living, anyone might +suppose that Charles would have been the victim of bad habits. A +great mistake. He did not gamble, he drank only in reason, he did not +smoke--at most, for the sake of politeness, he would take a pinch +of snuff if you offered it to him. His dress was always correct and +his language free from coarseness. Among his rare privileges Charles +possessed that of suddenly falling asleep in the very midst of whatever +he happened to be doing. Sometimes, with his razor in his hand, before +his mirror, without any reason he would succumb to sleep; and in order +to conform to the strict observance of the Sabbath which, as we know, +prohibits sleep, he found it necessary to devote himself on that day +to some absorbing occupation, such as sprouting potatoes. In pursuing +these artistic hobbies one does not gather very much of this world’s +goods, but he had found more enviable advantages: a reputation solidly +established in various public places and the promise of restoring +to the Lord a soul as fresh as on the day when it had been confided +to his care. Charles Dunbar, you are the salt of your family. Your +kindred should bless you. And as for this baby nephew who is just +born, to have an uncle who can hold himself in equilibrium on the top +of an unsupported ladder and possesses that formidable voice which, +from the strand, hails a ship at sea--what self-command this will give +him later, and what carrying-power for anything he may have to say or +proclaim.... If he is seized with a desire to leap over some obstacle, +his legs will remember you who, while leading your oxen, sprang over +the yoke with your feet together, once, twice, a mere nothing to amuse +the lads of the saw-mill whose eyes popped out of their heads at this +phenomenon. + +When she was eight years old, Cynthia had set out by sea on a +ramshackle boat, with her mother and her two sisters, to see her +Jones uncles, the refugees in Maine and Canada. It was shortly after +this rather risky voyage that the mother and the daughter had come +to Concord, where the former had remarried and the latter, fifteen +years later, had fixed her destiny, sought her fortune, by uniting her +poverty with John’s. + +To their possessions had now been added this youngster born on the +farm. The 12th of July, 1817, was inscribed on the tablets of the +household. Also the date of baptism, three months later, when, +stoically, uttering no shrill cries, Henry David (this latter name in +memory of Uncle David, who had just died) entered upon the Christian +life. One enters as one can. But whatever might be the virtue of the +baptismal water and the minister of the parish, Dr. Ripley, would it +prevail against the farm and the old deserted road on the edge of +which the child had been born? Glance at this farm: it is an ancient +two-storied dwelling, with plank walls discoloured with age, a setting +as appropriate for the birth of a god as for the coming of this poor +little soul. It stands on a knoll where the grass grows at will. No +fence. In front, a running brook. Around it, meadows and orchards, +where you smell the good soil and the turf. The nearest neighbour is +a long way off. The old winding road leads to no point whither the +interests of the villagers call them; and left to itself, it smiles at +its turnings, its ruts, at all the weeds on its banks, inviting the +fields it passes to share its delightful futility. The family occupies +one wing of the dwelling, the other half being inhabited by some people +who also have a little boy, in whose company John, with the authority +of his three years, drives the turkeys to pasture. + +For the rest, the revenues of the farm were so small that the +mother-in-law had barely enough to live on. Eight months after +Henry’s birth, the household went to rejoin her in the red house +where she lived at the end of the village. The head of a family whose +peregrinations had not yet brought him wealth tried to think of some +better means of providing bread for these three little importunate +beaks. One must manage somehow. What remained of the paternal heritage +was scarcely worth talking about: the numerous minors having once +grown up, the lawyers and the trustees had left it nothing but a pale +memory. At the death of the Widow Kettell, each of the children of +the old sailor had pocketed a few crumbs, and that was the end of it. +And John’s share of the Boston house was already mortgaged. He had to +put his wits together. John had an idea. A vocation is not so easily +renounced, especially when it is confirmed by the voice of one’s +ancestors. Suppose they were to try Chelmsford over there, ten miles +away, and take a store. Cynthia could wait on the customers, while +John, who was very fertile in manual resources in spite of his modest +air, would try to find work outside. He could paint signs and do odd +jobs, and they would get on somehow. + +Henry’s Aunt Sarah had already taught him to walk when, at sixteen +months, he took part in the exodus to Chelmsford. They remained there +two years and a half, keeping a grocery with a bar, near the church. +They sold spirits. They were honest and upright. But it’s always the +same story: fortune, which so joyously allows herself to be captured +by dare-devils, has not even the shadow of a smile for these honest +and reserved little Johns, even when they offer it a glass over the +counter. A pity, but there was no need to be discouraged because a +fourth child had been born. This one was a daughter; she was going to +bring them happiness and they would call her Sophia. Once more they set +out to try the capital, where people were rolling in money and might +be willing to let a few crumbs drop into the till of an honest man. +They found a perch in the southern part of Boston, calling on the way +at Concord. During this journey a pair of infant eyes that were hardly +open as yet to the images of the world were impressed by the glimpse +of a wild pond in the setting of an immemorial forest. The gaze of a +tender little creature, who knew nothing about the gold they had set +out to win among the rich, secretly absorbed the lustre of this pearl. + +In two years of the great city they had three abodes. The town offered +every facility for sending to school a little boy of five, but there +was no great harvest for his parents to reap there. They were obliged +to give it up as hopeless. These removals had brought the young +household no success. + +There was nothing to do but to return to the fold, to the house on +the square in which Thoreau the father had died, the father upon whom +fortune had smiled, and where John’s two sisters lived. It was the last +resource. John had been an apprentice in the village, he knew everybody +there, and there the little ones had been born. After all, it might be +better to live in poverty in Concord than to tempt chance elsewhere. +Off for old Concord. An honest little man, pursued by ill fortune, with +four chicks and their mother, was to seek his destiny henceforth in the +shadow of the great elms. + + * * * * * + +You will soon be six years old. Your parents have toiled and tried +every expedient to make ends meet, but for you who do not enter into +these domestic considerations life is a long holiday. All Concord is +spread out on your lap, like a great book full of pictures and songs. + +You go forth and meet the adventures the roads offer. A dog passes, +a man, a cart. The great elms sigh. A cock calls in the distance of +the grey-white village. Two neighbours are soberly gossiping. The +first beautiful drops of a shower drum on the leaves and the wooden +sidewalk. You have no desire to turn back. The little girl ahead of you +is hurrying to the store. All these and how many other marvels, from +morning to bedtime, the long stretch of unmeasured hours, are all for +you, you who are not a king’s son, but the little Henry of the man who +lives on the village square, in the centre of a bustling, confused, +spangled universe, striped with sun-rays and surprises. + +You are growing, and about you as you grow the world takes form. When +you are big and able to stand firmly on your feet, people depend on +you and entrust you with important commissions: leading the cow to +pasture, running on errands in the village. When you are very big you +are allowed to do everything; and if you have a brother who is much +bigger than you there are no limits to the conquests you can make +together. You are bound only by the four points of the compass. The +country about the village stretches away to the impossible. You have a +knife in your pocket, with which you can whittle anything you please, +a whistle, a weapon, a slingshot, a wagon. You make a trap. You rove +on wild adventures through the sunny meadows, gorge yourself with +huckleberries, run about, playing Indian, dig a cave, build a hut and +store it with provisions. At twelve you go hunting with your brother. +To feel the fowling-piece hanging from your shoulder, to be the crafty +master of the life and death of the creatures who have no suspicion +of your overwhelming power, to lie in wait for them, press the gun to +your shoulder, take aim, see the animal roll or tumble over: fearful +joys. There will be others later, but will they have the pure taste of +these? When you penetrate into these deep woods, a swarming world opens +before you that probably has no end. No village, no houses, no parents, +no fences any more; nothing but the great pines and the solemn oaks, +assembled like conspirators to hold counsel far from listening ears. +You are alone and very small under those heads touching one another +up there, but you feel no fear. You are armed, and, besides, your big +brother is with you. In the middle of the woods there is a pond towards +which the arches of foliage bend amid their garlands of wild vines. You +come there to fish for pouts and breams. You have brought your lunch to +spend the whole day there, as if you were on a desert island, on the +edge of this smooth water that mirrors the patriarchal trees. Night has +fallen; you have made a fire on the stones and before going away you +seize the red brands and shake them, describing fiery circles in the +air, then throw them into the water where they hiss and go out. Then, +when the flames are dead, you find yourself once more in the dense +night, in a darkness thick enough to cut, and groping your way you +return to the village with your fish--two Concord boys, who scour the +earth barefoot the better to possess it. + +To be a Concord boy is to be intoxicated with the joy of the river, the +two rivers that unite here, the sluggish one and the lively one, and +pull as well together as John and Cynthia. It is to swim by the hour +in the cove with your comrades, under the arbour of pine branches that +shelters your duck-like sports. In the spring the overflowing river +floods the meadows--an immense sheet of water from which the trees +emerge: it is no longer fifty yards from bank to bank but half a mile +wide and more, like a great lake with gulls flying over it. There is +hay-time and the cranberry season; there are the Cliffs from which you +descry the faraway peaks where you have never gone, where perhaps the +world ends--since over there is the empire of the setting sun. You sail +a boat with a paddle or a mast, drink in the fragrance of the banks, +the waterplants, the crumpled mint-leaves, or you carry your line +with you and are engrossed for hours, dividing your attention between +the mystery of the depths that spread quivering up to your float and +the squadrons of clouds that cleave the great sky spread out over the +meadows. At these times you encounter now and then an old fisherman, +leathery and taciturn, who blends into the bank of the river, his +ancient cloak having taken its colour with time, and returns at evening +with slow steps to his little shanty on the edge of the village. When +he is fishing you have no desire to disturb him; he looks so grave. +He is not amusing himself, he is conducting a rite--the rite of the +compleat angler. No one pays any attention to the old chap: but Henry +knows him well and is attracted by his silence. Perhaps he has been +there since the time of the Indians; he is ageless. This must be old +Father Musketaquid, who is on the most intimate terms with all the +fishes. + +And then the immense charm of the passage of an occasional barge on the +river, come who knows whence?--the rivers, whence come they? whither +do they go?--floating soundlessly towards nowhere. One day you see +that barge moored at the edge of a meadow; the following day it has +disappeared. To what race do these men on board belong? What language +do they speak? They have come from the world outside and yet they know +the river so well.... When will they pass again? On these boats are +piled hogsheads full of lime or bricks or iron-ore, with wheel-barrows. +How do they manage not to sink under this formidable weight? And yet, +when you climb up there, it is firm, it does not give. Strange. And +these men who, they say, sleep in their boats and live there as Henry +lives in a house on the village square.... How he would love to sleep +in a boat too, eat there, light a fire, spend the whole night on the +water! There are people who insist that these boats have sails like the +boats that go on the ocean; they have seen them. How can you believe +that? They pass like the birds, conjuring up other lands and a whole +unknown world to which the river may lead, a world that is certainly +impenetrable. Henry dashes off with his brother to feast on this +marvel. But he has still more beautiful sensations. Once a year a group +of men with reddish brown faces, altogether different from the men +of the village, come and camp under a tent in the meadows. They make +baskets and offer you collars of glass beads. Among themselves they +speak the language of sorcerers. They have a canoe which they manage in +the strangest fashion. The big people tell you that they were once the +masters of the country, in the days of old Tahataivan, before such a +place as Concord ever existed. If you had a canoe and were one of the +Redskins, you would not make baskets; you would spend your time hunting +and fishing and making expeditions; you would be one of the kings of +the country. + +There is, of course, a school to which they send you, for it is a fine +thing to know how to read straight off, like your father, who reads +the newspaper. But the class is only an interlude between two sessions +of school out of doors. The river, the ponds are hard and smooth as +steel; it is the season for skating and sleighing-parties on the snow. +What does it matter that your sled has no iron runners and the other +boys make fun of it? You love it just the same because it is your own, +and nothing in the world could induce you to give it up. When you know +how to read, write and cipher, you still have a great many things +to learn, for your family dreams of a more brilliant future for you +than that of a store-keeper. So you enter the Academy founded by the +well-to-do for boys who want to become learned men. You must master +Greek, Latin, French, plunge into the classics, and grind away till you +are sixteen. + +To follow the course at the Concord Academy and become better educated +than your parents is all very fine, for Concord has so many ways +of compensating you. But afterwards? These ambitious parents have +conceived the bold project of sending their younger boy to college to +learn what the Concord Academy cannot teach him. To leave Concord.... +Ah, how desolate the Greek, the Latin, the French, this stupendous +human learning looks at the thought of all you must leave behind in +order to fathom its mysteries!... How heavy your heart is, at sixteen, +Henry, with these early tender affections to which you are to bid +an abrupt farewell as you set out for Harvard ... you, the son of +the little store-keeper, to serve your time in a department store of +learning. + + + + + II + + +At the age of twenty the student Henry Thoreau left the university with +his bachelor’s degree. This was the recompense for four years passed +away from Concord, four years save for the vacations and the time he +had returned to spend with his family because of ill-health. As for +this title, he may have given it its due--he was certainly not inclined +to over-value it. + +Upon entering college, he had left a village environment where equality +was not a joke but a daily observance--left this environment to find +himself, the child of small folk, suddenly thrown among the offspring +of the fortunate ones of this world. In spite of the part-scholarship +which they had obtained for him, his parents, his sister Helen, his +aunts, in order to provide for the cost of his studies, had been +obliged to deprive themselves. At college also, to be sure, a kind of +equality prevailed among the students; but there it was an equality +with a difference. He was a country boy among these wide-awake young +men in whose eyes he was from the village indeed. Since his parents, +his sister, had been obliged to scant themselves to purchase his right +to a share of learning, he was inclined to feel certain things a little +differently from the way he would have felt them if he had been the son +of a senator. + +He was assigned to a little room on a top floor of the hive. This was +natural enough. Natural too that the young men in the neighbouring +rooms liked to kick up a shindy when he wanted to work. But it only +made him react the more strongly, and he dreamed. + +This environment exhaled an odour that rather annoyed him, not so +much because it had nothing in common with that of the new-mown hay +of the Concord meadows but because it was the odour of an exclusive +humanity, comfortably quartered in first-class state-rooms while the +common passengers made shift as they could between decks. No doubt +there were some charming fellows among these young men, and most of +them were generous enough to treat a poor comrade as if he were one +of themselves. And was it their fault, these college boys, if their +papas travelled in the first class and the atmosphere that surrounded +them was a first-cabin atmosphere? Among these sons of the well-to-do, +future lawyers, future ministers, future diplomats, captains of +industry, pillars of society, Henry felt out of his element. He was +anything but in tune with them. With a secret pride in his plebeian +hands, he exaggerated his reserve, his remoteness, his stiffness in the +presence of these boys who knew so little of the world of toil. The +hand he held out to them was nerveless. He was a Henry always absorbed +in his own thoughts, with his eyes on the ground as if he were seeking +something that did not grow there. He was, indeed, somewhere else. +If he had hardly any real comrades, it was because he had no desire +to make them. These well-dressed, jovial souls, with their special +recreations, their fine parties, their student manners, left him +surprisingly cold. Their sisters, their mothers had not had to deprive +themselves to pay for their studies. He was the son of a little village +shopkeeper, with a soul that already aspired very much higher than the +great stores where they were to lord it. + +Besides, he was decidedly rustic in his appearance, this oddly dressed +scholarship-holder. He should have been dressed in black; it was the +rule of the institution. The colleges see the world in black and he was +here to adapt himself to their vision. But the only suit Henry had was +a green one which his father had had made for him at great expense, +and he was obliged to put it on every morning. There were evenings +when, as he undressed, he wished that its greenness were still greener +so as to be even more conspicuous among all these black backs. A good +olive green is less shabby-looking than a black coat that is always +threatening to let you see the thread. You must never let the thread be +seen in this fine black-coated world. + +And then in his secret soul homesickness tormented him. Everything he +loved was out there, and it left a great void in his eighteen-year-old +heart. When he heard the thrush singing in the college yard, Harvard +ceased to exist, the library, the examinations he was preparing for.... +Nothing remained but a dejected prisoner in his prison. Sometimes, as +he bent over a textbook, the meaning of the words he read was lost +in the sound of the wind that came to him in gusts from the woods of +Concord, and with a wild bound the fancy of the exile leaped over the +wall and sprang towards those dear haunted spots. It required a great +effort to recall the heart-sick fugitive and set himself to work again +in the cell of that austere building. At such moments as these, when +he compared the quality of what he had left behind him and the cost +of what he was acquiring, how could he help feeling in his bitterness +that what he was missing was beyond price? The only remedy was to bury +himself in study. All his free time Henry passed in the library, in +the company of the classics or the old English poets, from Chaucer +to the Elizabethans, who spoke to his solitary heart, a habit that +rendered him still more unsociable and so isolated him that he felt, +in this buzzing community, as if he were doing penance in the desert. +That natural gravity, which had caused him to be nicknamed “the +Judge” by his little playfellows of the village sleighing-parties, +had not been softened by solitary study, his impressions as a college +boy, his loneliness--far from it. The already taciturn child, who had +given himself up to play passionately but with an utter seriousness, +ultra-sensitive to everything that pricked his self-esteem, became +still more self-absorbed the more he grew during these lean years. The +hedgehog remained rolled up. It was as if he had something as precious +as his life to safeguard and was protecting it fiercely. This student +in his little room on the top floor was not one of those creatures that +people tame. + +Henry was not conspicuous for his success. He had made a good record in +his studies, working hard to please himself. But in the examinations he +had not shone. It was even remarked, not without surprise, among his +professors, that this studious, gifted boy took no particular pains to +distinguish himself; in the holder of a scholarship this was almost an +offense and they had made him feel it. Thanks to the benefactors of the +college his studies were partly paid for by the revenues of an old farm +which he had to go and collect himself, braving the watch-dogs and the +ill-humour of the unwilling farmer. In any case, it was a favour. A +beneficiary should show his gratitude by exerting himself to the utmost +and carrying off all the honours. When you are poor, you are expected +to make up for this fault by your vigorous performances in composition. + +He had read enormously aside from the curriculum and his preparation +for examinations. And he had learned how to express himself. His early +prose exhibits that firmness which is only acquired through a certain +quality of mind after much thought and the assiduous following of the +old masters. In some of his compositions and letters he reveals a +surprising independence, that of a boy who sturdily believes in another +civilization than that of the “civilized” and turns aside from the +beaten roads to follow a road of his own where his instinct directs +him better than the guide-posts. Hear this: “Our Indian is more of a +man than the inhabitant of a city. He lives as a man, he thinks as a +man, he dies as a man. The latter, it is true, is learned. Learning is +Art’s creature, but it is not essential to the perfect man; it cannot +educate....” Words of a solitary in the midst of the crowd, written +in a temple of knowledge with the accent of faith and the pungency of +revolt. At eighteen, he does not fear to make an apology for extremism, +denouncing half-way solutions, the herd-spirit, the fear of being +singular, the cowardice that follows the fashion and makes men “mere +tools in the hands of others.” Henry wearing his green coat among the +black costumes, far from apologizing for this incongruity, vigorously +translates it into a rule of conduct. “We are a nation of speculators, +stockholders and money-changers,” he writes before his nineteenth year, +hinting at a native literature still to be born in the New World, “the +establishment of a pure and nervous language.” And at the moment when +he leaves Harvard, he attacks in his Commencement oration the spirit +of lucre, the cur-spirit, with a vivacity, a conviction that slightly +oversteps the tone of university controversy: “Could one examine this +beehive of ours from an observatory among the stars, he would perceive +an unwonted degree of bustle in these later ages.... Where he found +one man to admire with him his fair dwelling-place, the ninety and +nine would be scraping together a little of the gilded dust upon its +surface.... This curious world which we inhabit is more wonderful than +it is convenient; more beautiful than it is useful; it is more to be +admired and enjoyed than used. The order of things should be somewhat +reversed: the seventh should be man’s day of toil, wherein to earn his +living by the sweat of his brow; and the other six his Sabbath of the +affections and the soul....” + +He had emerged from the factory, but it had not succeeded in casting +him in its mould. On the contrary, “the Judge” had judged it. It formed +one of the wheels of a society which he was beginning to understand. +Between mathematics, literature, the classics, the dead languages, some +living truths had crept in, upon which Henry had seized, and he brought +the latter home rolled up in his diploma like some happy find. With +that society there, as it appeared to him, he could have very little to +do. It was a machine of which the fly-wheels, the chains, the pinions +were all too apparent to him. From the whole apparatus falsehood leaked +like a sickening oil. Look sharp, my boy: if you do not, you will be +snapped up. + +All this knowledge which he had acquired in his four years of probation +in the factory he measured with a lucid glance. An untutored fellow +with the right quality could put in its place all the science of the +colleges. A flash of the most everyday reality was enough to expose the +poverty of a culture that formed such ignorant beings, such paupers in +the face of life: little gentlemen with white hands who came there to +be confirmed in the pale tradition of their class, “to study chemistry +and not learn how [one’s bread] is made....” + +At the same time he had undergone victoriously the ordeal of this +famous culture. It had done him no harm. He regretted nothing: +everything he had acquired, scanty as its weight might be in the +destiny of a man, he would be able to put to his own use, employ for +his own ends. He was going to dispose of knowledge; knowledge was not +to have the best of him. It was a very good thing to possess, as an +additional qualification, like a garment you put on when you need it +and hang up again later when it burdens you. Others might take home +from Harvard the beautiful uniform that people don for a lifetime. +Henry had returned with his old green jacket. + +Since he had come back, his family had observed a certain change in his +replies, his attitude, his judgments. This decisive tone of their Henry +and his radical views on the world were a little disturbing to those +good people who had scraped together their dollars to send him off to +college but had never possessed themselves an ounce of rebelliousness. +So that was what they taught at Harvard? Insubordination? His aunts +could hardly believe their ears; their nephew, expressing himself in +this condemnatory fashion? His sister Helen who loved him dearly and +firmly believed in him, Helen who, from her salary as a teacher, had +contributed to pay Henry’s college expenses, even mildly urged him to +moderate his expressions a little. The good girl had her illusions +about the fond authority of an older sister: with his uncompromising +sincerity he ceased for a while to write to her. She had not suspected +that her brother would come home from Harvard with other resources +besides “the old joke of a diploma.” She had remained the same Helen as +ever, and he, after these years, had become a Henry multiplied by four. + +In this month of August, 1837, a boy of twenty returned home who had +mastered everything that college had to offer, in the books and outside +the books. No need to press on to an A.M.; he knew quite enough. In +this respect, if not in others, the years at Harvard were certainly +worth the sacrifices that Helen and the father and the good aunts had +made. The certitudes he had brought back were even worth the sacrifice +the college boy had made of his free years of adolescence. + + * * * * * + +And now the problem was to earn his bread. The “old joke of a diploma” +might help him just the same in finding a livelihood. + +Since his final return to Concord, his father had undertaken a new +business. He was manufacturing pencils. After the grocery and the +odd-jobbing, this was a step up: a manufacturer, the creator of that +beautiful thing, the hard casing with its marrowy flesh that a pencil +is, destined to the noblest uses--reckoning up accounts, taking notes, +drawing. For twenty years a pencil factory had existed at Concord when +John Thoreau cleverly bethought himself of setting up in competition. +It was rather bold for a little man who had been so unlucky hitherto +and had such slender resources. + +Before his college years and during his long vacations, Henry had lent +a hand in the paternal workshop. It was their means of livelihood and +the aid of the two boys was necessary. They worked together under the +name of “John Thoreau and Son.” At the end of the summer of 1836, when +a serious illness had obliged him to return home for several months, +Henry had even accompanied his father to New York, whither they went +to put their merchandise on the market. It was his first visit to the +great metropolis, this visit as a commercial traveller who had come to +offer the city folk an article that had issued from his village hands. +The people of the metropolis obtained the softest and most perfect +pencils directly from Europe; would they have any use for his stuff? +Wait, you people of the metropolis, you spoiled folk who are so hard to +please, one of these days we are going to show you something just as +perfect, something better than your beautiful pencils from abroad. + +But this was no sort of destiny for a college boy. Not for the sake +of manufacturing pencils had he spent four years in college at the +expense of his family. It would be disloyal to defeat their hopes, +and circumstances at home were in rather a bad way. Now that he had +his degree he would have to try something else. His Aunt Louisa was a +schoolmistress, and so was Helen; John was very clever at teaching. +They set him his example. Why should not he attempt the same thing? +Why not, indeed? This was the first experiment to be tried with the +armament of the “old joke.” + +As a matter of fact, he had already had some experience in teaching. +During his long college vacations, to assist his family in paying the +other half of his expenses, he had followed the custom of students who +are not born with a silver spoon in their mouths, and taught a little, +as an assistant master, in the neighbouring villages; visiting in this +way at Canton, just outside Boston, he had even learned a little German +from the minister with whom he had stayed. This had brought him in a +few dollars, and he had studied himself while he was teaching others. +And now the time had come to find employment as a schoolmaster. To find +such a position at Concord itself would be ideal, and it so happened +that there was a vacancy in the Town School and he was accepted. In +September, the month after his return, he was established there. + +So there he was, one of the wheels of the machine. The respectable +citizens had confided their children to him to teach them, not simply +the three R’s, but sound principles as well. It was the immemorial +Christian custom to inculcate sound principles upon the young by means +of the rod. Henry, however, was not the flogging kind. He was going +to talk to the young hopefuls as young hopefuls, appealing to their +feelings as good boys. Everything went well or seemed to be going well; +but there were eyes on the watch. These eyes saw what this innovation +was leading to, the ruin of the moral foundations upon which Concord +and the world rested. The master, this enemy of rods, had to reckon +with the committee in charge of the school, one of whom was a certain +Deacon--that same worthy man perhaps who also kept a store and with +whom, not long before, the elder Thoreau had served his commercial +apprenticeship. He or his like, it matters little: a guardian of the +sound traditions. Whereupon His Morality the Deacon represented to the +young master that his method was a menace to the discipline of the +school. It was inadmissible. Henry had been appointed to a function +that included the ritual distribution of the rod to scholars who +deserved it. There were always in a class scholars who deserved the +rod. He did not see them. He was not carrying out his function. + +Very well. Since flogging formed a part of the work ordained in +exchange for a salary, that very day the master took at random and +punished conscientiously six boys of whom one at least was never to +know what had suddenly seized this gentle master and was to cherish a +bitter memory of him.... So there, Henry has earned his money. And now, +good-bye, Deacon, good-bye, all of you. Go and find another master who +will flog your school for you.... Henry had been a teacher for fifteen +days. The wheel had hardly been put in place before it had sprung off. + +Too bad, but he could go back to pencil-making. It was not exactly the +thing he had dreamed of, but it was free work into which the Deacons +did not thrust their pious noses. If he was obliged to ply the ferule +to earn his living, he would go and pick huckleberries and sell them +in the market. Or fish for pike and peddle them in the village, or take +up any sort of work that wouldn’t oblige him to report to committeemen. + +In spite of all this, he still wanted a school. He had the ability and +it meant independence. Working with his father, he was a help, but he +was dependent on his family, and they found it hard enough to make +ends meet. The fall, the winter passed. How much he would have liked +to go out and snatch a little air! There were moments like that. The +surroundings of his childhood had been so dear to him that, stoical +as he was by nature, the tears came to his eyes at the thought that +some day he might have to leave them. But people had affronted him; he +loathed his fellow-villagers. He wanted to push out into the world. +But he wanted to go with John. To set out without John would be to +sacrifice the best part of himself. For John was much more than his +brother, he was the cream of all possible brothers. John the third was +a delightful being who made him think that his grandfather, John the +first, had crossed the ocean simply to prepare for his coming and make +Concord an inestimable gift. John was a true Thoreau like Helen but +with an exquisite charm, a flavour that belonged to him alone. Gifted +as he was, none of his other gifts was equal to this faculty of making +himself loved. He was a warm presence like a ray of sunlight and the +freest-hearted companion to work with or to go off with, hunting, +exploring--the two of them, Indian chiefs, older brother, younger +brother, similar in their tastes, the gaiety of the one multiplied +by the happiness of the other. Everything became possible, easy, +everything brightened up, when John was with you. Would Concord have +been Concord if Henry had not explored it and made it his own, during +the whole of his childhood, with this perfect play-fellow? + +Spring broke. Helen and Sophia would soon be leaving to take up their +teaching at Roxbury. John was at present a schoolmaster at Taunton. +Henry wrote to him. A friend of the family, settled in the West, +assured him that they could have a fine situation if they were to go +out there and open a school. What if they were to set off together?... +What do you say, brother? If we were to go out there and set up a +_real_ cabin, far away from these deacons and respectable numskulls, +in some raw, half-built town or out on the open prairie? We could +borrow money for the expenses of the journey, and as for the rest we +have workingman’s hands, we are not afraid of adventure, we could pull +through. What couldn’t we do, the two of us together?... Henry was +pressing. Stagnation weighed on him; on the river the ice was breaking. +He longed to undertake something. It was high time to begin. And if his +brother was willing.... A few weeks later he heard of a school that was +going to be opened in Virginia. He was certainly going down there if +they wanted him.... And soon after the question of another school came +up, in Maine, where his cousins were. He went up there and came back +the same hungry Henry as before, in spite of the brilliant certificate +he was able to show, signed with fine names, among them R. W. Emerson. + +Well, then, if they didn’t want him and his diploma anywhere he would +change his plans. That was settled. His father and mother lived in a +house in the centre of the village: it was big enough for them to open +a private school there. John and Henry would teach at home, free from +all prying committees. They counted on finding pupils. + +They did not count in vain. They had four already, and the promise +of a fifth. Henry, urged to begin in June, had not waited for his +brother’s arrival. As soon as the latter came he took over the +direction of the school. Henry took charge of the Latin, Greek, French, +physics and mathematics. They were so successful that they were obliged +to think of moving the school for the following year: their father’s +house was no longer big enough to hold it. Just then the building of +the Academy, where Henry had been prepared for college, became vacant, +and they took up quarters there. It looked as if the Thoreau school was +going to become the Academy. But not to underrate its masters, when had +the latter ever had such a director? A John, with this art of teaching +children and understanding a school as John understood it? + +Very strange, the method of the two brothers. They obtained discipline +without punishment or threats. How did they manage this? All the +deacons in New England might well ask. They interested their pupils, +won them, attached them to themselves by a living bond, that between +the man-child and the child-man. Study ceased to be a mere heaping up +of ennui and constraint; it was a conversation between brothers. With +the money which the rod would have cost they had bought a little common +sense and good will; and though the pedants could not pardon these two +presumptuous souls, the pupils worked, the pupils stayed. Boys of ten +to fifteen came to listen to the two young masters, the elder of whom +had made them promise, when they entered, to do their best, and the +boys kept their promise because they were listening to a master who was +their friend. If they missed now and then, the punishment was to remind +them that they had not kept their word. No one dreamed of playing +pranks, yawning with misery or pulling wings off flies when the master +told stories or prolonged the recess playing with the boys himself. +The delightful invitations of the out-of-doors were less tantalizing +in a class where penal tasks were unknown. Outside the lessons there +was an attachment between the young master and the pupils created by a +thousand little subtle bonds such as ordinary pedagogues, with their +crass ignorance and their ferules, cannot imagine. + +You arrived at school in the morning and, opening your desk, you found +a beautiful slice of melon there. You thought it was a joke that one of +the boys was playing on you. Not at all: John, your teacher, knowing +that you had a sweet tooth, was unostentatiously offering you a taste +of the melons from his garden; he was proud of them, for he and his +brother raised them, and this year they had a wonderful crop. A slice +of melon adds to study a taste which the poor imagination of the +pedants knows nothing of. It is refreshing, delectable, and the flavour +lingers in the lesson you are reciting. Especially the kind of melons +that John and Henry raised--those succulent citron-melons. + +Besides, the school did not consist entirely in the lectures, the +lessons and the compositions. It spread out to include the more +familiar concerns before, after class, during recess, in the street. If +you came across John outside school, you ran to meet him of your own +accord, joined him and went part of the way with him. He was grown up, +your professor, but you were not afraid of him, for his friendliness +effaced these distances. Henry, who taught the big boys, had a colder, +soberer air; when you saw him going by, you had no desire to joke with +this personage who knew Greek and Latin. But you had only to wait till +you became his pupil. When you knew him better, how much you wanted to +overtake him too in the street after class and walk along with him, +hand in hand, and how much you were rewarded by the stories and the +amusing things he told you! Henry was as much your friend as John. + +At school they also studied surveying--a beautiful chance to go out +for a walk and have lessons in the open country. Henry was the one who +showed the boys how to draw up a plan. And one afternoon each week +they had school in the open air; the whole crew, masters and pupils, +poured out into the woods, plunged into the meadow grass, for the most +enlightening of object-lessons. Then which of them all was more of a +boy than Henry? Which was the fastest runner? The most indefatigable +gatherer of huckleberries? The most enraptured of them all? Anyone who +saw him exulting with this troop of schoolchildren would have said that +it was he who poured this childlike zest into the others, as if he +possessed an inexhaustible store. You, teacher of Greek and Latin, will +never be, under your grave airs, anything but a youngster. They are not +mistaken, the good people who say this, smiling disdainfully as they +see you pass. For they are men, austere, dignified men, weighed down by +cares, exhaling an odour of old prayer-books and warranty deeds. + +Sometimes Henry carried off a pupil for a swim in a pond or a boating +party on the river; they made discoveries; they landed on unknown +shores. All this was part of the school and helped to keep up the +spirit of comradeship. One day young Edmund Sewall took his place in +the boat--Edmund, who was so like his big sister Ellen of whom John and +Henry were particularly fond. Ellen was the daughter of the minister +of Scituate. Her grandmother and her aunt, old friends of the family, +boarded with the Thoreaus; and when the girl came to Concord to see +them, gay parties were organised and they had beautiful evenings at +home. Ellen’s fresh seventeen years had made an impression on the two +brothers. But it was the lovable John especially who made an impression +on her. Presently he had in his class this young Edmund, whose charm +haunted him and to whom he was devoted because behind the child’s face +rose that of the big sister, his play-fellow, the thought of whom +sometimes made him dream and gave him the desire to say to the pupil +tender things that might have been addressed equally well to her. + +At home they met again, for the Thoreaus boarded and lodged those +youngsters whose parents did not live in the village. They sat at the +same table, masters, pupils, boarders, old friends, and the vivacity of +the mother presided over the family meal. It was no banquet, for they +had neglected to be rich, but the bread tasted better than elsewhere, +and the vegetables came from the garden. The school was only a step +from the house. They carried the homelike atmosphere over with them. Is +that why the memory of these years--years in which two brothers, in a +village, taught them what they knew--was to flavour the whole lives of +those who had passed through the Thoreau school? You worked well there, +better than anywhere else, and the study left no musty taste behind +it. What was John and Henry’s secret? They were no lesson-mongers. And +so when the parents of a pupil who interested them found it difficult +to pay for his studies they asked the parents to let them keep him for +nothing. Let him come and work with the others; time enough to talk +about money later. + +Nor did the pupils take up all their time. The day is long when you are +twenty-five; it knows how wonderful it is and turns slowly, slowly, +so as to give you the leisure to admire all its aspects. The hours +of school left a beautiful margin of independence: the morning, the +very early morning, the glorious late afternoons in summer, and the +Sundays, and the vacations! When Henry had finished in the garden, put +to rights this or that little matter in the house, off he went! All +the surroundings of Concord awaited him. The woods were waiting for +him, the fish in the river, those luxuriant plants, swollen with sap, +which nobody ever looked at, on the edge of the marsh. He had to go and +get the latest news of them. So Henry seized his gun and set off on a +stroll through the woods. Perhaps to-day he would bring back some rare +bird to study, for he had a true passion for the birds, the plants, and +all the creatures of the open air. In any case, he would undoubtedly +bring back something, if only the certainty of his own happiness in +the woods. This man who was setting out, with his gun on his shoulder, +for the fields, was no common huntsman in quest of game; he might +not take a single shot with his gun, but he would not return with an +empty bag. There are different kinds of good hunting. The discoveries, +the surprises, the confirmations, an attention awakened by a certain +phenomenon do not fill your game-bag, but fur and feathers would not +satisfy you half so much. Henry would pick up an Indian arrow-head to +add to his collection. His brother and he were immensely interested +in these finds. One day, as a token of their respect for the red +aborigines who had once been the kings of the country, they raised a +cenotaph to the memory of a sachem on Fairhaven Hill, where they had +often come as boys to watch the sunrise. They were fond of the names +the former rulers had left everywhere, full of the calls of animals, +twittering birds, murmuring winds, gliding waters, roaring cataracts. + +Henry took his fishing-rod and set out through the fields in search of +a good nook on the river. He might perhaps bring back some fish. But to +catch fish, when he went fishing, was not, after all, the finest part +of the adventure. The river had many other presents to make him besides +its fish. He even had fishing-parties when the fish were only an +unimportant incident, as, for example, on a calm, warm evening, when he +set off with an eel-spear, at the break of spring, before the fish had +begun to hide among the tall reeds or in the deep water. He fastened a +grating to the bow of his boat, a yard above the water, where he burned +resinous roots. From a distance it looked like a will-o’-the-wisp in +the meadows. For himself, in the boat, armed with his long harpoon, +it was like sailing in the midst of enchantment. The water was so +violently illumined over a large space all round the bow that he +could stare down many feet into the depths and surprise the fish in +the inmost recesses of their hiding-places. Strange sojourners, some +of whom seemed to be asleep or dreaming, others very wide-awake, the +latter ferocious in their aspect, the former on their backs as if they +were floating ... They had so little fear of the monster who brandished +the iron and the fire over their abodes that he could have caught them +with a fork, as you spear a potato in the pot, or could even seize +the sleepers with his hand. But as he was not a mere brute, the most +thrilling thing was not the basket of fish he might have brought home +but the spectacle itself, the supernatural beauty of the reflexions +of the flames in the water, on the willows and the pines on the bank. +Surprised by this brutal dawn, a song-sparrow wakened and began to sing +as if it were morning--singing for Henry who, in this raw glow that +cut the shadows, rowed along in silence, groping his way, listening, +meditating.... + +Most radiant of all were the times when he left gun, fishing-rod, boat +and harpoon behind for a simple ramble on foot when the earth seemed +to respond to the pressure of his soles and his being dilated as if +all the good news carried through space were addressed especially to +him. This is what Henry felt every time he explored the country of his +childhood, in hours of liberty, finding once more the old confidences +and secret favours in those nooks he had left behind in the days of his +homesickness. + +Invariably the schoolmaster’s day closed with another escape. Every +evening, before going to bed, he gathered together, worked over, +expressed with the greatest exactness to a sure and discreet confidant +the most secret impressions of the day. Since his return from Harvard +he had formed the habit of this daily rendezvous with this other self +who never betrayed him and would never bore him with complaints and +expostulations but accepted everything. Later on, this was going to +be an unexceptionable witness when, published to the world, it would +reply to those who questioned it. The solitude of the college years +had developed in him a natural tendency to examine himself--the taste +for the inner dialogue. All the knowledge we acquire through study or +the society of others will never compensate for our indifference where +our own souls are concerned. This is a subject for study that is worth +all the pains you devote to it--a book that is of more importance for +you to read than those that lie on your shelf. And this over and above +the fact that when you have read it you will be prepared to understand +other books and other men. Henry was anxious to know where he stood in +relation to himself. An orderly man does not go to bed without making +up his accounts. + +Henry confided to his Journal his intimate thoughts, his discoveries +of the day. He reckoned up his stock. To what end? He would see later +on. In the meantime, a man who was aware of what he possessed slipped, +with his spirit at peace, into sheets that were as white as the page of +to-morrow. + + * * * * * + +To have the good luck to be born on the brink of two rivers, to be +twenty years, twenty-five years old, to have a hearty, open-air +appetite, and not to have a boat, is a flaw in the happiness of a man. +Fishing or swimming, loafing about the banks or skating on its firm +back, you have never known the joy of the river if it has not taken you +and rocked you, led you, carried you off, made you dance at its own +will and pleasure. + +If you were to build a boat?... You can find the timber, you have a few +tools and fingers that know how to handle a piece of wood. A real boat. +Not a mere dugout such as Henry had made when he was nineteen, a dugout +that looked like an oblong trough, though even that was better than a +tub in which you drift with the current; it was delightful; it did not +move swiftly, but with patience and skill you could risk yourself in it +for a quarter of an hour’s adventure. No, a real boat this time, a boat +that really travels over the water. If you bought one, or had it built +by a boat-builder, you would spend a lot of money and have nothing but +the joy of the boat itself; whereas if you made it with your own hands +you would also have the joy of building it. + +To assemble your materials for building a boat in the open air, in the +first days of spring, is a very different pleasure from expounding the +Odyssey; you feel as if you were living like a man of Homer’s day, you +inhale in advance the scent of discovery. To wield the saw and the +hammer, take your careful measurements, fit together the pieces of +the body, see the work taking form, to be two brothers under the sky, +busy in your dock-yard, among your tools, your timber, striking with +precision, trimming neatly, responsible to nobody--schoolmaster as you +are, the gods that roam New England on their tour of inspection might +envy you, those gods who have never had the joy of building a boat +themselves. John and Henry’s hearts are in their work. At the end of +one week the masterpiece is finished. It is a dory, heavy and strongly +built, with a sharp bow, such as fishermen use; it is fifteen feet +long by three and a half in breadth at the middle. A real craft: you +can move about in it, sail it, stow away a little cargo in it. A good +coat of paint will protect it and give it a tidier appearance. As it +is destined to take part in open-air holidays on the water, it must be +painted green with a blue border. The painting is done in a jiffy, and +then comes the glorious moment when with a final glance the creators +survey their creation, weaned at last from themselves and ready to face +the broad daylight of the world.... For legs the dory has wheels that +will enable it to be rolled around falls. + +Nothing remains now but to equip it. It must have two sets of oars, +poles, two masts; you must foresee everything when you have these vast +projects in your head. As the boat is going to carry you a long way and +you are going to camp out under the stars, the tent is indispensable. +Then there is no limit to your dreams. With a boat and a tent you can +sail round a continent, coast along all the shores, disembark on an +island, set up your tent there, light a fire and survey the landscape +with that knowing air: It’s I, exactly. Do you recognize me?... Yes, +you can do unbelievable things with this boat. You can begin to enjoy +the world, measure the amplitude of the earth. You can carry Concord +with you to all sorts of strange countries, scour the land, found +colonies. + +Meanwhile, you begin experimenting with it, you lose no time, you are +prouder of being a good mariner than a good schoolmaster and you invite +the boys on board to teach them things that are not to be found in +the books. New aspects of the world are revealed, you make important +discoveries, for you are the man who has a boat. + +To think there were so many unknown things around you: brooks, +mountains, buildings, men, flocks of ducks, and all the people on the +banks--unsuspected neighbours! If it were not for the school, you +would like to follow the watery road as far as ever it could lead you. +Concord widens into a vast province, as if newly peopled with animals +and landscapes and surprises. In the succession of the springs and the +summers, this spring of the year 1839 will always bear for you the +colours of the boat--green and blue, will bear a sail swelling against +a mast, which two brothers have planed with their own hands in an +open-air dock-yard. + +When you really know your boat you are ready for the decisive +adventures for which it has been fitted out. The long vacation has +come. Your departure is fixed for Saturday, the last day of August. +This is to be no mere airing before supper: it is the great embarkation +for a week or two weeks, for good and all--who knows?--for the fabulous +regions where men speak another language. + +John and Henry have made plans to go all the way to the White Mountains +by water, from little Concord, their village, to big Concord, the +capital of New Hampshire. It is a plan that requires some reflexion. +They have thought it over and made up their minds, and they are to +set out to-morrow. Preparations, the cargo. First the tent and a +buffalo-skin; then a few tools, some utensils for their cooking; as +provisions in reserve some potatoes and melons from their own patch. +Do not laugh, you sceptics. You don’t know what it is to have at hand, +under all circumstances, a fruit whose virtues are perfectly known +to you. And isn’t it like having on board a friendly presence, a +remembrance of the garden, that will bring the pilgrims good luck on +their perilous voyage? Like the boat itself, the melons are the fruit +of their own labour, and thus, without borrowing anything from anyone, +they set forth, side by side, for the conquest of the world. + +At last, the thrilling moment. Vain for you your Harvard diploma, +vain your teaching of Greek and Latin this August afternoon, when you +finally jump into the boat that awaits you, all provisioned, and gently +gives under your feet. What are your learning and your evening dreams +beside the certitude that floods you with happiness like a child, +beside the glamour of this dazzling day and this running water that +is going to carry you to the beyond?... Books? The most beautiful of +them all is a thousand times less beautiful to you than that which this +rude dory under your oars and your sail is eager to bring you. Wisdom? +Listen to that rippling along the bank; the river whispers to you as it +passes that she herself is wisdom--and how your soul responds to the +invitation of the voyage! + +It has rained in the morning, as if the gods of the Concord had wished +to thwart the plans of two good boys who are setting out in search of +them; but this only makes the smile of the afternoon more calm. Come +along, off we go! Good-bye, friends. A cup of air to your health! A +little further on, as a final farewell from the navigators, a salvo of +joy which the forest echoes after noting it on its leaves. The sounds +of the village are stilled, you sink into a deep dream, rhythmical +with the gliding of the oars. You slip along this road that runs, +buoyant, fresh, through the recesses of the landscape. You surprise it, +as it were, gently, in its privacy, not seizing it by the throat as you +do on those beastly, dusty roads where the world leaves its dung and +the imprint of its iron feet. The watery way flows on and carries you +past the willows, the waterplants with their white and rose-coloured +flowers, the meadow grass with the faded tints of the closing summer. +A bittern sails away, a tortoise drops into the water. From afar the +familiar heights salute you courteously. Farewell, village, farewell, +last fisherman with your motionless line and your dog. + +We are rowing towards fresh promises: see how the river widens out. +We pull straight ahead, in cadence, not like apprentices. The evening +draws in; it makes good rowing, and what good haying it ought to be at +this hour for those reapers over there, almost lost in the grass of the +meadows, where every blade they cut seems to exhale a sigh of gladness +and commit it to the breeze, the courier of the evening. It is time to +look for a good place for the night. We are seven miles from Concord. +Billerica already.... It is astonishing what this name stands for when +you have been rowing for hours and are ready to pitch your tent on +_terra firma!_ And here are some ripe huckleberries for dessert The +fire crackles. A good cup of cocoa, some bread. And sunset to finish +the meal. Before you, as far as the horizon, nothing but a solitary +farmhouse, far away, lost in the glorious wilderness, amid the clumps +of pines, the hills, the rocks, all the squatting people of the brush. +Fireflies in the grass. The good night awaits the two of you under the +cotton tent that is fastened to one of the masts. But the hour is so +captivating, this August evening is so charged with messages in the +depths of the silence, that you have no desire to go to sleep at once. +Neighbours betray their presence. A fox makes his rounds; some creature +fumbles among the potatoes and melons in the boat, disappearing into +the water when you go to see what it is. On the horizon a great blaze +from a fire over in Lowell; the fire-alarm reaches you in snatches, +mingled with the barking of the watch-dogs from invisible farms. Two +lads who have rowed with a will roll themselves up in the buffalo-skin +and close their eyes on the thought of the boat moored by the clump of +alders for the next day. Good night, brother. Good night, Henry. How +about the school?... And the eight, ten, twelve, fifteen days like this +one to look forward to? Blow out the lantern. + +Sunday morning. You come out of your tent into the mist of the dawn and +light the fire for breakfast. Then, like the pagan you are, oblivious +of the fall of man, fold up the tent and embark with your Sunday soul +in the rising sun that disperses the fog. You give names to the spots +along the way, the hills, cliffs, woods, as fresh as if no human eye +had ever touched them. The river is a mirror: it is Sunday on the +water, too, and you hesitate to disturb it with a stroke of your oar. +A skiff passes with two men, gliding so lightly that it seems almost +unreal among the reflexions of the foliage in the water. The meditation +of the frogs, motionless on the reeds, contemplating the day of the +Lord’s rest, is tinged with the grave Sabbath beauty. + +Just above the Billerica Falls they take the canal through the woods, +and one of the two mariners pulls the dory with the rope along the +tow-path as far as the dam. The people are coming out of church in +the village and the good folk look down from the height of the bridge +upon these two good-for-nothings who are voyaging along, just as if +the Lord’s day were not made to cement the nothingness of the week +that has passed with the nothingness of that which is dawning. But the +lock-keeper is more liberal-minded: he knows two merry souls, out for +adventure, when he sees them, and he opens the locks for them, in spite +of the Sunday rule. The lock-keepers of this world are broad enough to +redeem its narrowness. + +And now they find themselves on the Merrimac, the great river. The dory +is a mere insect striking out on this sheet of water, one hundred, +two, four hundred yards wide, over which every sound glances and +comes to you with a marvellous clearness. Those children repeating +their catechism in a cottage are a good third of a mile away from you +who catch the murmur of their voices; or is it that the words of the +catechism have a miraculous carrying-power? The cows in the meadow do +not know their catechism; they are content to be beautiful in silence +and enrich the look of those villages with their tiny harbours and +their fairylike setting. The boat has burst into a new part of the +world; this is the valley that leads up into the heart of New Hampshire +by a succession of natural dams, with a rapid, leaping current of +yellowish water cut by falls. When you have rowed since morning +against the current, your nooning is very precious in the shade of +an apple-tree. It is Chelmsford here, the village where your parents +came once to seek their fortune. The hour is so beautiful under this +apple-tree that you would like to read a poem as ample as the landscape +of the valley; when Sunday chimes within you and as far as the horizon, +you would like all this music to be crowned in that of a poem. + +See those islets. High up on one of them are perched two men who hail +the little craft, asking to be taken off. But there are the melons, the +tent, a whole outfit on board, and with this cargo the dory already +has enough trouble making headway against the stream. Can’t be done, +boys; you will have to make _terra firma_ and Nashua on foot. Good +luck! Further on, what is this enormous fish whose back rises and sinks +in mid-stream? A sturgeon? A monster? Look out there: with a blow of +that assuredly formidable tail it could send to the bottom two brothers +and their fortune. But no, this old fraud that is going to capsize us +is nothing but a wooden spar fixed there as a buoy to warn sailors of +sunken rocks.... + +The sun sets, twilight creeps in; shall we think of resting, like the +fish who, save for a few that prowl all night, are preparing themselves +for sleep? You have stretched out the most beautiful of Sundays as long +as you could between the two shores and rowing hard against this strong +current. You have well earned the favourable spot for pitching your +tent and tasting the sleep of adventurers. + +The earth is firm and sweet under your feet when you trample it after a +whole day tossing about in a walnut-shell. You unload the provisions, +like conquistadors who have reached a far country after countless +perils, arrived at a shore where you will make yourself understood by +signs to the natives, if any appear. Once the lantern is hung to the +tent-pole, the fire ready, the kettle on the fire, you are at home; +nothing is missing to make life solid and satisfying. After closing +the tent, Henry scribbles a few notes in the glimmering light of the +lantern: the shore journal of the navigators. And after a little chat +they go to sleep in the buffalo-skin. On the opposite bank, some +Irish labourers on the railroad are celebrating the Sabbath with wild +shouts, whirling up and down the track. But their brawling is not loud +enough to disturb the sleep of the two oarsmen who soon forget where +they are. The two lads are dead to the world among all the sleeping +creatures who, like them, have drained the happiness of Sunday on the +banks. Alone, the river, eager to reach its end, pursues all night its +course to the sea; its adventure will brook no delay. + +But why does this evil beast traverse in a dream the sleep of a happy +man, torturing him after a blissful day?... Happily, in the same +buffalo-skin sleeps his good genius, with a sleep that is peaceful and +unbroken all night long. The phantoms of agonizing dreams are dispersed +by the brotherly voice sounding under the tent in the early day. And +listen now to this little world of oak-leaves, under which you have +slept, saying their morning prayers in the breeze. + +It is enough to hear the rippling of the river, when you emerge from +your tent, and to see once more the boat that is calmly waiting for +you, to feel a hunger for adventure. So off you start again through the +fog to devour the beautiful week that lies before you, round and new; +you have not yet broken the loaf, you have merely nibbled a few crumbs; +the country you have passed is only a tiny morsel of the territories +you plan to annex. + +Occasionally, when you have watched the banks gliding by for a long +time, the desire seizes you to draw nearer and explore a little the +hinterland of the country you are skirting. Nothing easier for you who +are at once the commanding officer, the crew and the passengers. One +of the two coxswains runs along the shore, while the other continues +to row and a little further on picks up the explorer and hears him +recount his discoveries. There have been surprises. By good luck the +rover has happened into a cottage, and because he looks well and it +is a summer morning when hearts are softened with generosity, the +farmer’s wife has offered him a bowl of milk which he has tossed off, +while the children have watched the stranger amorously plunging his +big nozzle into the little bowl. During this excursion the other one +on board, if he is thirsty, halves a melon and dispatches it, drawing +up under the bows on the bank, where he waits for the explorer. In the +heat of the day, a New England lad whose muscles are hard enough to +manage the oars feels himself invaded by an Oriental indolence, with +a great pity for the vague humanity toiling and moiling down there in +the world. Amid the delights of the siesta, with a succulent slice of +melon in a boat in the shadow of a willow, he can find some apology for +pleasure-lovers, even for smokers of opium. + +The river seems to flow solely for the joy of these two comrades who +have set out one fine Saturday for the conquest of the world. Just this +side of Nashua a fleet of great canal-boats appears, with sails set and +high bulwarks, like junks. Have you really been asleep on the stream +and actually reached the Orient? Let’s make the most of it. The rowers +will enjoy a little idling. From the dory they throw a rope and get +themselves towed a bit of the way like pashas; it has grown so hot that +two schoolmasters, who are not of the soft kind, can allow themselves +to be towed by a great merchantman. They toss into the water some of +the melons that remain on board; they have seen enough of them, and +the fish may like them. These jovial boatmen with whom they chat do +not break the beautiful harmony of the landscape; they belong in it, +and their language has the flavour of the river-grass. When they have +passed and you find yourselves alone again in your dory, oars in hand, +the solitude has almost a new taste. + +Noon suggests a swim and a siesta under a tree. Suddenly a boatman’s +horn, echoing from bank to bank, rouses the sleepers, and they set out +again. The linden trees on the shore are a revelation. Nashua drops +behind, the bridge, the junction of the rivers, the mills; they are +in the woods again, and the evening clouds are reflected in the water +like a warning. This evening the gods have planned for the encampment a +beautiful, solitary spot on the border of a pine-wood, under the rocky +walls of a deep ravine. The gods that voyage along these shores know +how soft is the carpet the pine-needles make and what a fragrance they +will add to the fire and the smoke. The song of the kettle, like an +incantation, calls up this evening the friends they have left in the +village; their images prowl and linger about the tent, bending over the +shoulders of these two companions on the edge of the forest who are +trying to discover on the map in the centre of what universe they are +this evening and what country they will annex to-morrow. If you are +awakened to-night by the shrill grating of a cricket, or the rambling +of a spider over the peaks and passes of your face, the brook that +flows at the bottom of the ravine has a cradle-song that will lull you +to sleep again. Later, through a restless night at home, you will think +of the quality of this sleep close to the earth after a day on the +water. + +Far away in the night someone is beating a drum--some tyro preparing +for a country muster--and this trivial rat-a-tat-tat, ennobled by the +distance and the darkness, seems, in the warmth of heroism that pours +through the buffalo-skin, strangely to arm you for the most extravagant +deeds. What will the coming dawn suggest, the Deliverance of the Holy +Sepulchre or the Quest of the Golden Fleece? And has this high wind +that shakes the tent a mission to inform the sleepers and publish the +great news along the banks and under the pines? In any case, you are +awake before dawn to be ready to welcome the great day, whatever it +may be. Hand me the hatchet, I am off for fuel. The birds are still on +their roosts and the kettle is already singing like a nurse. They haul +the boat up on land, upset it and empty it and give it a good rinsing. +At three o’clock everything is reshipped, stowed away, ready for +departure, with the tent spread over the bow, for it is drenched with +dew. The heavy morning fog, the curtain that had fallen to conceal the +surprises to come, promises a glorious day. + +As the banks are cleared of their velvety coverlet, sparkling with dew +under the first rays, and the pines on the shore reveal their outlines, +the river appears as large as an arm of the sea. The day of glory +announced by the drum rises between the high slopes of the river: not a +village in sight; you might think you were in the days of the Redskins, +in the midst of a primitive country. You row with a will. Drummer of +the night, the meaning of your rat-a-tat-tat becomes clear. We are +going to review landscapes and men. + +First, at Cromwell’s Falls, the lock-keeper, with whom the boys +exchange some wholesome gossip. Several canal-boats are waiting to +pass. On such a morning, if you encountered humanity in the form of +some fellow with affected manners, a crabbed face and the look of a +deacon, you would bless anyone who would force his respectable head +under the water. But as for these shapely, strapping boatmen, in their +shirt-sleeves, bare-headed, slouching or leaning on a pole, they have a +sort of accent that heightens the meaning of the proud word on your own +lips, fellow-creature. See that flaxen-haired brother there, with his +skin tanned by wind and sun, young or old, you could never say which, +but rugged and beautiful as a tree. Don’t put yourself out to be +polite; it doesn’t go with these fellows. A few words of the language +of men and everything is understood. The banter you shout back to them +as you pull away is as cordial as a farewell. With all the boatmen you +meet you exchange a friendly greeting. + +Happy souls.... To be the two men on board these canal-boats, pushing +with the pole when you are going up the stream, steering with the aid +of an oar at each end when you are in mid-stream, hoisting the sail if +the wind is favourable, transporting wood or bricks and bringing back +odd freight: what could be jollier on a rustling September morning like +this on the water? You contrive a little shelter under the cargo, where +you may retire from the rain. As you sail your boat along in this way +you do not seem to be toiling for wages or an employer; it is as if you +were playing some very ancient game. The day’s work ended, you get your +supper and lodging at some house or other by the water-side, breakfast +in the morning with the lock-man, load your boat, travel all day, +unload, receive your pay, take a drink at the inn, where you hear the +news of the world, and then off again. A fine life, blooming with songs +that sound over the river. + +These were the people the marvelling eyes of a child had seen now and +then, when a canal-boat passed the village. Their fabulous race, as he +has come to know it better, has lost none of its glamour in the eyes of +the man. Sometimes when the high road approaches within a few hundred +yards of the shore, what a sorry, absurd figure the parti-coloured +stage cuts beside these barges, as it sweeps past in a cloud of dust! +Good luck to you, my fine fellows, who are in such a hurry to get +there, piled in together, busy, with your worries and your trunks +heaped up on the rack behind.... No doubt you are making good time, +but you have not the least notion of the sights we are passing, that +cottage bathed in a patriarchal atmosphere, with the well and the +barn, and the old grandfather sitting on a bench; and those shagbark +trees, unlike anything to be seen in Concord or where you live, in all +probability, and those magnificent maples. See that scow there turned +up on the bank, which those carpenter boys are mending. The joyous ring +of the great strokes of their hammers, echoing from shore to shore, and +the glittering of their tools in the sun, are not for townspeople who +take the stage. These things that make work as beautiful as a festival, +the work that nourishes the soul and the muscles of a man ... repairing +a boat, building a hayrick, woodcutting in the forest, setting up the +frame of a house under the benediction of the open air ... what have +they in common with your infernal routine, you passengers of the stage? + +The burning sun plumbs the landscape. That large island with the shade +and the cattle, at the mouth of a river, is too inviting to be ignored. +They put into port, and as the flesh is weak they no longer resist the +temptation of those pigeons that have also stopped there, during the +heat of the day, and are innocently cooing among the branches, heedless +of the two savages that approach with their engines of death. One of +the pigeons has fallen. You savages, wash in the river the hands that +have killed in cold blood one of these beautiful pigeons that had also +set out on a journey; do penance, eaters of innocent flesh, who have +already brought down some squirrels for your supper, and now, in sheer +wantonness, replace them with a pigeon: boil a bowl of rice. After the +feast, recite some poetry, since you have no music, and yield in your +satiety to idleness in the shade of this island where you have been +behaving like abject creatures of civilisation. + +But it is time to re-embark. They raise the sail to take advantage of +the breeze. From the top of a hill forming the bank, some lumberers +are rolling down timber that falls into the water with a thundering +roar; their axes and levers glitter in the sun. That cottage, with +its dooryard blossoming with sunflowers and poppies, smiles with such +confidence that they skirt the bank to see it better. This is a wild +region that makes them want to explore it a little. Those old oaks +welcome them as friends who do not often receive visits. A lonely horse +in a pasture, then some cows grazing in the shade, after the warm day, +and some wild apple trees with the sourish fruit that Henry knows +so well and likes. That ruined mill shrouded in creepers, which the +pedestrian discovers while following a torrent through the woods, sets +him thinking when he regains the boat of the life and the dreams of the +old settler who lived there once and the taste that his flour must have +had. + +At Coos Falls, in a solitary part of the river, some stone-masons are +repairing the locks. They stop for a chat. One of them, a young man, +questions the voyagers about their adventures, examines the little +craft and its outfit with a confession in his eye. If he only could +set off with these two fellows to explore the world! What a trio they +would make, a mason and two schoolmasters, who are not more than +twenty-five.... A wild desire seizes him to throw away the chisel +and mallet, leap into the boat and say to them: “Take me! I have had +enough of stone-cutting. Now I want to cut into the stuff of the vast +world....” But the stones remain, little mason, weights heavier than +your vision, which soon disappears with the two explorers, leaving you +pensive at your work. + +As they continue to ascend, the watery landscape becomes more rugged, +interspersed with rapids, rocks, falls. On the fifth day they are +between Manchester and Bedford. There are many locks to pass through, +and sometimes no lock-keeper is at hand. Then they have the fun of +manipulating the lock themselves, no easy task but so amusing.... They +are at once the passengers and the all-powerful being who locks the +boat through. + +Contemplating the cottages of these lock-keepers, gloriously lost +before a vast stretch of whirling waters, roaring, foaming, you are +filled with envy at the thought of the good soul who lives his life +there as a lock-man, almost as solitary as a lighthouse-keeper, and +the desire seizes you to go in, just to ask for a glass of water and +hear the sound of a human voice as a contrast to that of the river. +This one seems to be asleep on the earth under the benediction of the +summer sun, like an infant in the warmth of its mother’s breast. Henry +crosses the little garden and knocks at the door. A woman opens it: +he can’t have such a shaggy face, after all, in spite of five nomadic +days, or she would not invite him in so prettily. The freshly scoured +floor has a fragrant odour; the visitor is afraid of soiling it with +his big boots. He takes a glass from the dresser, then goes to the well +where he catches a glimpse of his hairy face, the face of a voyager who +has not had the leisure to shave himself like a true Christian. The +lockman’s wife offers him a little molasses and ginger to temper this +hard water, for the day is warm. Nearby her brother, the sailor, who +seems a little out of his element among these freshwater folk, dandles +the family cat; with his sea-dog’s eye, filled with the horizon, +he scrutinizes the visitor curiously, sympathetically. Oh, these +lockmen’s cottages, with their fireplaces and their door-yards, in +this solitude!... What honey one could make here, a wild and exquisite +honey, with that lingering suggestion of bitterness in the taste which +is so grateful to healthy palates. + +The oarsman is a happy man who turns his back on his discoveries, lets +them come, and only enjoys them after they have well passed. This +wooded island is the largest they have encountered thus far. It seems +to say: I have been here since the beginning of things, waiting for the +day when you would plant your tent-pole for the night in the shelter +of my great elms. Who knows but I shall yield myself to you with such +trust that you may decide to conclude your adventure and set up your +hearthstone here? Between the world and myself there is nothing but +a strip of water: would not that protect you from it and connect you +with it sufficiently?... But as it is still morning, they leave behind +them the great island and the great dream, to resume the course of the +big wonders that are offered two poor devils who scan the world from a +little boat of their own making. + +After Amoskeag Falls, as steep as a staircase where they are in danger +of capsizing every minute and have to jump into the water to right the +boat, the river opens out into a lake. They make fast under a grove +of alders for their lunch and siesta. A good breeze blows up. Boats +pass, with their sails set, great, heavy, one-winged birds advancing +with a stately solemnity. The boats pass which they saw before lunch +and the last of which offered to take the two navigators and their +traps on board and carry them the rest of the way; when the brothers +are resting in the shade, the wag at the helm calls out a proposal to +take them in tow. Many thanks, my boy, not just now; it is too good +under these trees. When lunch is finished, John and Henry also raise +their sail and, rowing vigorously, catch up with the big canal-boat +which has hardly advanced at all, the breeze having fallen. Now then, +my barge-boy, would you like us to take you in tow? Here’s a piece of +rope if we can oblige you. The little dory you laughed at a while ago +has the laugh on you. And one by one the oarsmen overtake the other +monsters that are painfully dragging their bellies in a file along the +watery road. + +They have become once more the sovereigns of the river; but this does +not make it less necessary for them to look for provisions before +night. Their stock is low. John jumps ashore and sets off to find a +farmhouse where they can revictual, while Henry explores the other bank +for a suitable haven for the night. Again the canal-boats loom behind +them, advancing with much effort, for the breeze has quite died away. +John comes back with a loaf of bread and some melons, accompanied by +a little flaxen-haired boy who wants to have a close view of the boat +of these people who have set out for adventure on the water and have +brought nothing to eat. He too, like the little mason, would love to +go with them; who would not love to go with John? They would be happy +to take him on board, this lively boy with the sparkling blue eyes, +who would not weigh very much among the cargo; but his father will not +allow it. But he is a very good-natured father, just the same, and +he invites the travellers to come and visit his farm the next day. +With pleasure. Are they not colleagues? Who knows more about raising +melons than they? They might even be able to recommend some seeds. They +taste his products, one of which, set in the water to cool while they +are pitching the tent, has taken it into its head to go off with the +current, like a melon on vacation that has been seized with a desire +for the sea; they have to jump into the boat to capture it, for it is +already far away. They taste his melons, sitting on the bank, facing +the glow of the sunset in which the river wishes to share, to light its +depths on its evening journey. The song over there, close by, is that +of the brook at the mouth of which they have pitched their camp, and +which hastens to confide to the great confused current a few secrets it +has brought from afar. + +That night Henry’s dreams under the tent file past amid the babble of +this neighbour and disappear as he awakens at the soft tapping of drops +of rain on the cotton roof. A sparrow trills cheerily in the morning: +a good omen. They set out with this promise. More locks. And then +the last one: nothing beyond but impassable rapids. A pity, for the +navigators, who have set out from Concord, Massachusetts, want to push +on by boat to Concord, New Hampshire. It would be more of an adventure +but it can’t be done. Since their goal is the White Mountains, they +will leave the boat here and continue along the shore on foot. Before +they became great navigators, they had been great walkers. + +So they cut a pair of sticks and set out like pilgrims in the mist and +rain. If they are to have no more the joy of the river and the boat, +they will have the pleasure of the hard earth under the freedom of +their big boots. The earth and the watery meadows have a sweet smell. +All the frogs in Christendom are sounding the hymn of deliverance and +the toadstools smile with joy in the starch of their little collars. +The travellers resolutely drench themselves. Are you afraid of a little +wetting? Then stay shut up at home; stay where it’s dry, dry souls. You +are not cut out for sitting in the rain, on the side of a brush-covered +hill, happy even if your clothes are soaking. Perhaps it will clear in +the afternoon; but what if it doesn’t clear? + +A good welcome to big Concord. To save time they take the stage (yes, +like those other idiots) as far as Plymouth, where a friend lives +with whom they want to shake hands; then they resume the staff and +the road. They come to a little sylvan inn where, in the evening, the +people of the neighbourhood gather to discuss their business and hear +the news over a glass of whisky. They wonder where in the world these +people have come from when all day they have not caught even a glimpse +of a roof. On the inn-table lies an old newspaper. At home Henry has +little use for this kind of literature; he leaves the paper to his +father who enjoys it so much. But in this poor, solitary inn, when +you have tramped all day through the woods, it is astonishing what +savour an old newspaper that gives you the stale news of the world +acquires, a newspaper that has been rumpled by all sorts of rough +hands, astonishing how your eyes fasten on a paragraph and you are led +to believe in the virtues of the soap recommended in the advertisements. + +And then, in this lost country, you have surprising encounters. Along a +path in the woods a young soldier advances in full regimentals, going +to muster no doubt with his musket on his shoulder; he marches with +military step, with an air of being very sure of the importance of his +mission. He must carry himself well, you see, before these civilians, +and safeguard in the depths of the forest the prestige of his military +apparel. Poor little soul! As he passes close to John and Henry his +martial mask falls, he becomes a little boy again in his absurd harness +in the presence of these trees that are judging him, and, crestfallen +under his warrior helmet, he steals away unheroically, embarrassed by +the greaves that chafe his legs. Honest little lad, we wish you well! +They can send you off and dress and drill you in the barracks or get +you killed for no reason at all. Your ingenuousness consents to it all +in advance. + +As they leave Sanbornton the mountains appear. They spend several days +exploring them. It is a great revelation. The culminating point of the +journey is at an altitude of 6288 feet, that of Mount Washington, which +the two comrades climb. On the twelfth day they are back again at the +place where they left their boat. Everything is in good condition, and +the tent, the blankets, left in charge of the melon-grower, are quite +dry. This lovable man expects his friends to carry off an immense melon +to ballast the little boat: see, this one, which he long ago gave his +flaxen-headed heir permission to dispose of as he chose. John carries +it off, to the satisfaction of the owner, for he is the friend to whom +you give whatever is dearest to you. + +They are not homesick in the least, but they must return southwards to +their own anchorage. The return is beautiful too. They set off spinning +like an arrow, with the current, as far as the confluence of the +Concord. The departure is at noon, this very Thursday. The river smiles +under the fresh mid-September wind; they raise the sail, they can +rest on their oars occasionally without loss of time. And everything +drifts past them again, in the other direction. As they see the funny +little dory repassing with its two savages on board, the people +recognize them and give them a friendly halloo. To watch the sail, the +lumbermen, rolling their timber down with an immense splash into the +water, pause for a moment. From their boat the two adventurers salute +every nook of the landscape, banks, islands, mouths of rivers, like +old acquaintances. They must set up their tent once more, at least: it +shall be opposite the large island of the slaughtered pigeons where +they took their siesta on the way up. The boat is drawn up on the +sand. Not a sail in sight; nothing but the spiders of the grassy jungle +which come out curiously at the light of the lantern, and explore the +mystery of the buffalo-skin spread out on the ground. + +It is fragrant this evening, and every blade of grass, damp with dew, +seems to be on its doorstep taking the air. They have journeyed far +to-day and are tired; and after dipping their slices of bread in a cup +of cocoa and scribbling the main things down in their journals, they +blow out the lantern and bid farewell to Thursday. A high wind in the +night flaps the curtains of the tent. In the morning, the heavy fog +rolls away over the water, uncovering a landscape suddenly tinged with +autumn. In the flitting clouds, in the look of the cottages, in the +lowing of the cattle in the meadows, in the flying troops of flickers, +the death of summer is confirmed. And when they set foot on earth and +clamber up the bank to cast an eye over the countryside, they catch +almost everywhere the prevailing yellow note of the asters, coreopses, +tansies, golden-rod, little flowers of autumn already burning with the +flames of the declining summer’s sun--the little candles left lighted +all day long for the pilgrims in the church of the meadows. + +But they carry on at a good pace, with sail stretched, one steering +with an oar in the stern, the other rowing. The boat, seized by the +autumnal ferment, speeds along; in the rippling of the water before +them they seem to hear it laughing to itself at the promise of the +splendour the season is preparing to bring forth. They are invigorated +by this brisk wind that obliges them to sit muffled in their cloaks. +See how they bound along; they are almost home again already. Here +is the beginning of Massachusetts. They pass--rare spectacle--a +pleasure-boat with a young man and a girl, and a dory, a commoner +sight, with some people who are gathering driftwood for the winter. +As they sail, they munch an apple-pie they have bought at a farm; it +is rather tart. Driven by this famous breeze that bends the trees +on the bank, they scud merrily along, with a devil-may-care look in +their faces, at a speed that astonishes the men on some scows which +they pass. Already the locks of the canal through the woods that gives +access to the Concord. Yes, here we are, dear old Musketaquid! We shall +have to row hard, against the current, and try to arrive this evening. + +The sun reappears to make Chelmsford and Billerica smile, and sinks +magnificently, filling the valley with a flood of soft light. High +overhead, in silence, two herons pass against the sky, on their way +to the North. A good journey, comrades up there; our home is to the +Southwest. If you feel as we do, at this heavenly hour of the end of +day when two lads, returning from a long expedition, are filled by +the beauty of the familiar landscape, you are two very high-hearted +herons. The night falls, they row in the light of the few candles a +kind providence has set burning above, far higher than the track of the +herons. There is no sound on board but the monotonous cadence of the +oars, for John and Henry have no desire to talk; silence alone can draw +out the thoughts that fill them. They mean to arrive to-night, Friday +the thirteenth. + +And indeed, late in the evening, the boat of the two argonauts draws +up very smoothly alongside the shore whence it had set out fourteen +days before, and rubs its wet cheek against the bearded bank. They have +completed a stage of fifty miles this day. + +John and Henry leap ashore, draw up the boat and fasten it to the wild +apple tree. And then! A last look at the dory that has borne them so +far out into the wide world, and laden with their traps they turn their +steps towards the house. For them now the sweetness of civilised +life and soft beds. They are ready to face them with visages bronzed +by the wind and the sun of the river. But to-morrow morning, when +they awaken, how surprising it will be not to hear the flick-flack of +the cotton tent over their heads, to smell no longer the warm odour +of the buffalo-skin! What a surprise and what a disenchantment to +find the four walls, a motionless ceiling, the glass window.... How +sad. Meanwhile, a ramble in the woods to-morrow, just to see what +preparations are on foot there for the festival of autumn. + + * * * * * + +The school will soon have lasted for three years. In spite of all, the +masters have inspired confidence, and there are now twenty-five pupils. +There would be more of them if the building were not inadequate. For +others are awaiting the first vacancy, to be taught in their turn. And +those pious personages may well ask whether the good morals of the rod +are not in peril. + +Then, towards Easter, they hear that the Thoreau school is going to +close. What has happened? John feels shaky, unable to continue. For +some time he has not been well, but he has said nothing about it, in +order not to discourage the pupils in their work. But now he is no +longer able to keep up the pretence. Whatever the regrets and the +consequences may be, everything must be given up abruptly, on the high +tide of success, so that John may take care of himself, for it is +he who steers the ship. Henry, who had begun the school without his +brother, would no longer have the same reasons for keeping it if the +latter retired. To keep school with John was perfect. Without him, it +was not to be thought of. Better to look for something else. + +John is ill, consumed by a slow, tenacious disease.... Is the +grandfather, lying down there in the graveyard, demanding him back? +Already three of his daughters--Aunts Sarah, Nancy and Mary, and one +of his sons, Uncle David, whose Christian name Henry bears, have died +young of consumption, like their father. Is his grandson going to have +the same fate? Or is John to be confronted with a demand more brutal +still? To be condemned without appeal, because sweet souls like him +are out of place on this earth? Yes, for the poor fellow, as he drags +along, is finally carried off, with a refinement of horror. In shaving +himself he makes an insignificant cut. Lockjaw sets in; and the smile +of this loving soul is extinguished amid atrocious convulsions. John +dies in torture. + +In the house of mourning, on this February day of 1842, the younger +brother is the most miserable of all. What is the use of fortitude, +of this mask of impassibility, when you are stricken in the tenderest +depths? How survive the best part of yourself? A boy, crushed under his +suffering, does not know.... John, my brother, after these years we +have enjoyed together, and all the secrets we have shared, how can I +support alone the weight of this grief that once was joy? My comrade, +my inspiration, my good genius, my brother. You whom one read as a +beautiful story that everyone loves to hear retold. You never had to be +deciphered laboriously to yield the meaning of the tale.... + +Henry remains sitting in the house, with this weight that overwhelms +him. He no longer cares for anything: everything, in the garden, in the +woods, on the banks of the river, in the neighbourhood of their school, +cries out his destitution. His sisters try to take him out to distract +him. He does not object, he is inert. He is indifferent to everything. +It is as if he had lost the highest reason for existence, love. + +Will he regain his poise, his taste for life? Possibly--apparently. +But there is in his deepest depths an incurable wound that will never +endure being touched, however lightly. He cannot make the slightest +verbal allusion to his bereavement, so greatly does it pain him. To +deceive himself he plays the stoic, writing to a friend that a musical +air has brought back to him the sense of the harmony of the universe +and that he wishes never again to see his brother in life--that he +wishes only for his ideal prototype. But in the confidences of his +Journal how much truer he is! “Where is my heart gone? They say men +cannot part with it and live.” That delightful intimacy they had +shared through childhood, boyhood, manhood, he knew very well he would +never find again, _never_. John’s grave enclosed the youth of two. +Twelve years later, trying to describe to a friend those moments when +his brother had disappeared in torture, Henry turned pale and almost +fainted. + +There remained the boat they had built, with which they had unrolled +the beautiful watered ribbon of their adventures. To see it rocking +against the bank was simply to have before him a sharper image of his +grief: John taking sail to face alone a terrible adventure. He would go +no more in this boat. That was ended. + +In the following spring he gave it to a friend who wanted it. + + + + + III + + +When the Thoreau school unexpectedly closed, Henry was only twenty-four +years old. But he had moved forward since he had left Harvard. His +convictions, already clear, the presentiments of the college boy, had +acquired more force. He had ripened early in solitude and study, and +his experience of the world had enlarged. He had had some taste of it, +and the face he presented to it held little promise of friendship. + +The aversion he had felt in college for an atmosphere dominated by the +young gentleman was extended now to the village atmosphere, the realm +of the young gentleman’s self-satisfied country cousin. The dear little +town, preserved in a syrup of sweet conventions, smiled with an air of +inviting him to add to its sweetness. The church-tower there pointed +toward heaven the sacred meaning of its anxious cares: observance, +decency, mediocrity--store-keepers, farmers, townspeople, honourable +souls one and all, cast in the same mould, more or less orthodox, good +folk, honest folk, so very honest, in almost perfect agreement, as if +they were acting together some excellent amateur comedy of manners. +Join in the dance, my boy. As he watched them performing their parts he +had no inclination to figure in the play. These farces bored him and +left him cold. Henry felt within him a disobedient soul. + +Where in the world had it come from, this little seed of rebellion that +had sprouted in the soul of the child and sprung up in the boy? It was +to-day, at any rate, a fine, tough-grained shrub, well-rooted in the +soil. The school-less schoolmaster had no inclination to share in the +social mill that blissfully revolved about him. Under his hat there was +not an atom of the will that animated his forebears, the merchants of +the Norman island, or his grandfather, the store-keeper of Long Wharf. +A sad fact, but so it was. As naturally as they breathed or said their +prayers his family had put on the harness in all docility and taken +the road like good domestic animals who never dream that anything else +exists in the universe than the shafts, the rack, the halter, the +town-square and the street-corners where one turns every day. Doesn’t +this attract you, this cab-horse’s life, with the certainty of a bag of +oats at the end of the journey? With a beautiful plume on your head? +With your diploma you could easily be the master’s horse. + +Many thanks. This may very well be, as the doctors say, the good old +wisdom of the ages, with an assured recompense in this world and the +next, but for me it has a disagreeable taste. If I listen to you and +nibble the good oats now, I shall soon find myself grazing in the +field and obliged to chew dry stalks. No doubt about that. I don’t +propose to let your wisdom catch me. It is soft and subtle; it is so +powerful because everyone, wherever he turns, not only breathes it in +himself and is impregnated at its touch, but passes it on, willy-nilly, +to the next fellow. It has its agents at work in the four quarters +of the world. To this marvellous wisdom, the crown of centuries of +civilisation, Henry gives another name, fraud. It has made itself at +home in the village as in the great city. And it has that smile because +it knows it is universally accepted. + +Henry smiles too, for he is thinking of another universe than that of +the hay-merchants. What alienates him from their brotherhood is the +ugliness of their existence, pure derision. His own seems to him true, +fresh and full of unexpected things, lived in the quick beauty of +every moment, demanding no other profit than itself. Munch away your +life, then, good citizens of Concord, and permit me to _live_ mine. +The shadow cast by our elms is not sufficiently enveloping to sweep +me along after you into the paths of honourable stupefaction. I know +what your society makes of a man by taming him. It will get along very +well without my help. If it has held me for a short time, while I was +groping my way, trying to get my bearings, you may be assured that this +is over and done with. I have no desire to be a bad neighbour to you; +you are very worthy members of this parish. But don’t count on my aid +in making your merry-go-round go. I have my own corn to grind. You say +that in refusing to adapt myself to your rhythm I condemn myself to +poverty. As you please; why not? He laughs best who laughs last. I am +not afraid of my poverty. But I should have a terrible fear of what you +call your respectability, your industry, your virtue, if I were ever +threatened with having to share them. + +But his whole race, all this little world about him, modelled in the +image of the great world, had obeyed the commandment: Look after +your business, increase your wealth. He listened to the mandate from +within--listened in his own fashion. Yes, exactly, look after one’s +_own_ business, increase one’s _own_ wealth. Interpret this freely, in +your own way. This boy does interpret it in his own free way. He counts +as much as anyone on “making a position for himself.” There are many +fine formulas of this kind that pass like counters from hand to hand, +from one shop to another, from father to son, while no one suspects +their true value. “Make a living” is one of them. Do you mean, make +a living and lose what makes it worth while? Then make it, makers of +money. We shall see in the end who is rich and who is poor. There is +nothing the matter with your formulas. I shall take them and give them +a good cleaning before I use them, for your hands have dulled them, +soiled them. They will have to be bright and new for my poverty. + +Henry is no frivolous boy, make no mistake about that. The great +business of existence occupies his thoughts too. He asks himself if +life is not too precious an affair to be sold in pencils or lessons, +or measured out behind a counter, or at so much the page at a clerk’s +desk. Yes indeed, the great business of existence.... Exactly. But in +quite another sense than that of all these poor souls who are much +more aware of their dollars, their cattle and their land than of their +essential poverty. Henry is quite willing to be poor, but poor like +these people, never. By _no_ means. Not at any price. He intends to +pile up day by day the wealth to which all these well-to-do people, who +think they are so comfortable and so shrewd, pay no heed. The great +business of existence, in his twenty-five-year old eyes, is to create +oneself, to _live_, develop oneself, with respect for this gift that +one is--respect and love for this material that has been placed in +one’s hands in the rough for one to make of it the most beautiful of +works of art. Is that clear, you poor souls, with your minds on dollars +and cents? + +As he watches this world, so diligent in its little wiles, its little +thieveries, Henry has no disposition for recriminations and dark +thoughts. He is too full of happiness. He feels his own strength. Let +them have their gains! A tissue of trivialities, their days, whose +comings and goings form the woof and the warp of their life. It amuses +him vastly to behold the beautiful acquisitions they pile up around +their mediocrity, like so much worthless bric-a-brac. Dull souls, +not to see that the first step to wealth is to simplify one’s life, +disencumber it of endless useless knick-knacks that prevent it from +growing. Money, to Henry, represents a pair of stout boots, a straw +hat, corduroy trousers. These elements once acquired at little cost, he +feels that all the other things--the savoury things the earth freely +offers--are given him in addition, as a bounty, as to anyone who +trusts. The apples in the orchard and the pike in the river and the joy +of the banks are all thrown in. Your money, your absurd money, thanks +to which you think you are assured of the enjoyment of the world, +simply prevents you from getting it. Your incomes are your jailers; +they stand on guard night and day about you. You serious men, you +sensible men, perpendicularly set upon your principles, you sly old men +of business, dignified heads of families, with an iron belief in the +sanctity of your motives, how ludicrous you are in the eyes of a boy +who strips away your mask.... + +A certain mustiness, for the rest, which he finds everywhere in this +Puritan atmosphere, offends the taste of the savage and the soul of +the pagan that have come to him heaven knows whence. He is not adapted +to the moral sanctity which these wooden sidewalks exhale. From his +childhood, the meeting-house, the pulpit, the Sunday school and the +tedious Sunday itself have made piety unpleasant in his eyes. How +does it happen that the church is generally the ugliest building in +a village? Is it a symbol? And if, some fine Sunday, in place of the +preacher, shouting like a herdsman whose herd is refractory, some +honest soul, some simple wood-cutter from the backwoods were to begin +to utter, with his accent, before the congregation, a few of the words +of Jesus, do you imagine that a single pane would remain in the windows +of the edifice, that a single worshipper would stay in his pew and +brave the crash? That old story refers across the ages to a fine, +frank character who must have been as simple as a wood-cutter, and who +could never have suspected, poor soul (otherwise how quickly he would +have stopped talking!), that after eighteen hundred years his name +would be invoked by all the brawlers of New England and creation to +confuse men and women. A splendid fellow, this Jesus, the carpenter’s +son--too beautiful for us to be able to doubt, in spite of the +vagueness of his story or of his legend, that he really existed in the +flesh--a boy come from the people to recall the bigots and hucksters +to decency, close up the vestries and the temples, put a little manly +pride into the heart of the poor, and obliged, after his time and in +spite of himself, to be the patron of the most flourishing business of +emasculation. + +I know you are going to say to me: this is no substantial nourishment, +this old gospel of Judea, for a hearty lad who has worked all day and +likes to put a juicier morsel into his mouth. I agree. It does not +alter the fact that in spite of all the efforts of Christianity to +disgust you with him, Jesus, my brother, spreads about him an aroma +of godlike humanity. As you read the almost unknown book in which his +life is told, you wish, just because you are a pagan yourself, that you +could call your friends and say to them: Look here, I want to read to +you some pages you probably don’t know--they enchant me.... What do you +think of my discovery? Isn’t it fine? Isn’t it a splendid heresy, with +enough revolutionary force in it to crack the shell of this antiquated +world? And how happy you would be to welcome as a comrade the friend of +the vagabond if ... if the fanatic in front did not need him to thrust +into his sermon and shoot him at the worshipper at his feet.... Poor +fellow, soul of love, heart of the poor, what have they made of you?... + +The famous Pilgrim Fathers, who embarked on the Mayflower to free +themselves spiritually and found a new England--did they imagine that +in doing this they would be liberated from themselves? It was hardly +worth while making this long voyage when, in the hold of the famous +boat, the Son of Man was in irons. They had really come to organize, +among other solid businesses, that immense conspiracy against life with +which every child born under a roof in any of the Atlantic States is +supposed to associate itself tacitly, and which he must never betray +till death, under pain of eternal damnation and a damned existence here +below. What a black responsibility Plymouth Rock bears! + +This particular mania is what the posterity of the Pilgrim Fathers +call their religion. It taxes with sin the innocence of a boy who sets +off for a Sunday walk in the woods, or takes his fishing-line to the +water-side at church-time, to feel religious in his own fashion: the +Brotherhood of Sunday Bores sneers as the Sunday Walker passes. This +religion, with its church-tower, is broadminded enough to tolerate +the guile that gets the best of your neighbour during six days of the +week.... Ugh.... Come nearer, good people, and let me tweak your noses +and then turn my back and enjoy a good laugh. Your pious, mercantile +existence is too dismal; a little gaiety would not ill become you. Your +Sabbath bell strikes death into the soul; it sounds as if the continent +were groaning in the unending misery of the terrestrial abode adorned +by the Smug. + +How was it possible for Henry to feel that he belonged to the same +parish as these parishioners? As a matter of fact, this refractory +soul had early declared his position. Soon after his return from +college, at twenty, he had refused to pay the church-tax of the parish +and officially separated himself from it with a written declaration +in which no deacon caught a hint of humour: “Know all men by these +presents that I Henry Thoreau do not wish to be regarded as a member of +any incorporated society which I have not joined.” This was plain and +precise. Take that, clerk of the parish; put this disavowal away among +your old papers, so it can bear witness in case there is need for it +some day. The parish has carelessly counted one parishioner too many. + +This was about the time when Henry, master in a parish school, flatly +refused to form the character of his pupils with the help of the +rod. Naturally this double rebellion, against the authorities of the +village and the church, made him a suspicious character. The following +year, when he reached the age for voting, he openly refused to perform +the elementary act of a good citizen of a great democratic Republic. +Moreover, the very success, for three years, of the Thoreau school +had brought him the marked hostility of the mandarins of the village. +This stiff little schoolmaster ... this whipper-snapper of twenty-one +who permitted himself not to have recourse to corporal punishment, who +taught in an independent, lively fashion, who took the children off +boating or gathering huckleberries instead of holding them by fear! +Impudent! We shall have to be on our guard against you. + +All right, be on your guard, mandarins. If the world speaks through +your lips, I shall let the world go. From childhood Henry has been used +to walking alone, at his own pace. He will try to find whether there +does not exist somewhere another world of which he carries the image in +himself. His one ambition, and it is a great one, is to make the finest +use of the marvellous gift that he has received--life. He has received +it, he is sure of that, and he knows its value. He must find out how +to employ his faculties, that is all. Perhaps he is destined for some +uncatalogued employment. He will see. But it must be an occupation that +dispenses him from conniving with this world of universal huckstering. +That’s settled. Every line he has meditated in college, every one +of his impressions since the time when he drove his parents’ cow to +pasture, has confirmed him in the resolution to remain himself, cost +what it may. The inflexibility which he does not dissemble and which +renders him insupportable to the mandarins is merely the outward sign +of this will. + +In any case, he desires to work only at what is useful, with his +hands or his brain or his idleness--fruitfully, that is all that +matters--according to his own idea of the useful. Those numberless +absurd or degrading interests that absorb the human race he puts aside +with deliberate design. He can easily make shift with the little +sympathy that is felt for him in some quarters. If he had piled up a +lot of rubbish in a shop and sold it at a good profit, like a true +Thoreau of tradition, he would certainly have accomplished a work +agreeable to the Lord. It’s a pity, but he has no desire to please the +Lord or his servants. He wants to please himself. This is certainly +not the way to get up in the world; but for the moment, so far as that +is concerned, to be planted on his two legs and to stand on the top of +the Cliffs and watch the sun setting behind the mountains seems to him +sufficiently happy till something better turns up. + + * * * * * + +And then there was another side to the story. Since college Henry had +been working with definite aspirations, drawn towards a path that led +heaven knew whither but solicited him with an authority as sweetly +irresistible as the open spaces, out there, on a morning when he had a +hunger for discovery. + +This dated even from the days before college. At Harvard some of his +compositions revealed an intellectual curiosity, a boldness, a turn of +mind that did not suggest the future lawyer or the embryo minister. +Henry was already trying to express himself. As a growing boy he had +devoured eagerly the scraps of new thought that came within reach of a +villager. They had a fresh, exquisite flavour that left a good taste in +his mouth. One day the friends of culture had inaugurated at Concord +one of those Lyceums which were being founded almost everywhere in +Massachusetts. Henry was only twelve years old at the time; but in +future, before going to college, he followed assiduously the lectures +and debates. The most beautiful of these lectures was the one he heard +there when he was eighteen, delivered by the step-grandson of old Dr. +Ripley, the minister of the parish, and a former minister himself, +who had come to settle in the village after a difference with the +ecclesiastical authorities. + +What seized him, exalted him, was not so much the oration itself, +composed for the occasion of the second centenary of the founding of +Concord, as the sight of the lecturer, his expression, his eyes, the +indefinable charm of his words. How right he had been to give up the +church and its nonsense, this fellow of thirty-three, to come out +as a man among men and talk to them with that voice and that smile +that invited you to close your eyes to the wretched spectacles of the +world and contemplate the figures which the spheres describe in their +sacred dances. This man spoke as one inspired, with a simplicity, a +nobility that carried you away. It was said that he had made a journey +to Europe and had met a great many people over there, talked with +Coleridge, Wordsworth and this Carlyle who was about to publish an +astonishing book. He was just going to marry a second time. The year +after the lecture, they had recited a poem of his in celebration of +the anniversary of the famous battle of Lexington, a historic date +from which Concord drew most of its lustre. It looked as if this new +inhabitant, who had come to enjoy the natural charm of the little +town, had brought it in exchange a superior charm capable of raising +it above itself: short as the time was since he had settled there, +he already cut a great figure, second only to that of his venerable +step-grandfather, the spiritual director of the parish. Henry was +nineteen years old. And this very year the poet published a book +that was even richer than the most beautiful lecture. What a book! +A revelation, a gospel, the music of which made you melt with pure +admiration and joy. To think that this man was your neighbour.... That +simple title _Nature_ touched Henry at the most sensitive point. He was +captivated, illumined, confirmed in his own aspirations. If he himself, +some day, could only write pages that had a little of that subtle and +luminous quality!... + +If he could become a writer, one of those people who have something to +say and know how to say it! At certain moments when he found himself +really face to face with himself, Henry had the impression that there +was something more than a great desire within him, that he had the +power as well. Before his twentieth year and aside from his college +dissertations, he composed, as an experiment, a few descriptive pages, +wrote a rhymed ballad. And since his return from college, his Journal +had always been there, scrupulously written up, to receive the secrets +of this desire, the more urgent inquiries, the first attempts of a +beginner who does not really know if the vein is rich but is heartily +resolved to pursue his exploration, even if he is to have at the end +nothing but the joy of exploring and contemplating the beautiful veins +of the earth cut away by the drill. + +Whenever he was not too dissatisfied with a page he had written, he +read it to his little sister, for when you have a sister like Sophia, +who feels just as you do, a true Thoreau, you can let her into the +secret. It was at the beginning of the autumn that followed Henry’s +return home. A sister-in-law of the new great man of Concord was +boarding with his parents. Henry liked her very much: one day in the +spring of this year, while passing under her open window, with the +gesture of a shy young boy, he had even thrown her a bouquet of fresh +violets gathered on his walk, wrapped up in his apprentice rhymes. +Yes, Henry liked Lucy Brown very much and he told or wrote her of +things that he would never have been willing to confide to anyone +else. In talking with this friend, Sophia, who had gone to one of the +great man’s lectures, could not help remarking: “That is very much +like something that Henry has written....” It was easy to verify this +singular concordance, which Lucy Brown mentioned to her brother-in-law. +The great man wanted to see this young neighbour whose thought was so +much akin to his own; had he progressed so well, then, the college +boy whom he, as an influential and charitable man, had recommended +to the benevolence of the President of Harvard? And so Henry found +himself face to face with the man whose words, whose expression, whose +beautiful book had stirred him. + +And now that they had met they were delighted with each other. Each +had understood the other at a glance; and before long they felt as if +they had always been friends. Waldo was the elder by fourteen years, +but Henry’s maturity of mind made one forget that he was only twenty. +Practically speaking, they were of the same age. The great man, who +also kept a Journal, observed in it: “My good Henry Thoreau made +this else solitary afternoon sunny with his simplicity and clear +perception.” Happiest of moments were those when they set out together +for a ramble in the woods. At such times it was as if Henry was +introducing his lady-love to the author of the beautiful book on Dame +Nature. There Henry was at home, his companion was only on a visit. But +so happy, this latter, to become acquainted, thanks to his guide, with +so many things he had only perceived from a distance, things he had +touched in thought but not through the senses. This boy knew everything +that a philosopher did not suspect and introduced his friends of the +forest to you in such a way that they counted henceforth among your own +friends. In an excursion with Henry you were the guest shown about by +the master of the estate. The great man became the student once more +in the hands of this initiate. Charming student. Charming walks when +these two were happy together, the one penetrating into the secret life +of the woods with this sylvan creature, the other showing his intimate +friend the cherished marvels that had been familiar to him from his +childhood. How could a friendship rooted in the mould of the forest +fail to shoot up high and thick? When the great man’s family planned an +expedition to the Cliffs, they sometimes begged Henry to go with them +and not to forget to bring his flute. + +Who can say what either one or the other of the friends reaped from +these walks, these conversations, this exchange? Who gained the more? +It would be hard to say. For Henry, in any case, in return for what he +brought the great man--an influence that was tonic, real, strong as +the taste of some crumpled aromatic plant or even the pungency of a +thought impregnated with the raciness of the soil--how comforting it +was to find in his elder such a wonderful response to his own youthful +meditations ... to hear, for instance, such perceptions as these: “Life +is an art. When we consider what life may be to all, and what it is to +most, we shall see how little this art is yet understood.... The work +of life ... is self-culture ... the perfect unfolding of our individual +nature,” when, at his own entrance into life, his instinct had repeated +to him in every key this very admonition.... To hear this from the lips +of a sage whose personality was so magnetically impressive was to yield +to the purest appeal of oneself while gathering the sweetest fruit of +friendship. + +In the warmth of this exchange, which transformed old Concord and gave +it a new relish, Henry’s tastes were developed, along with his peculiar +ambition. From an assiduous listener at the meetings of the Lyceum he +had become a lecturer. At twenty-one he read there the fragment he was +just then writing on _Society_. It was as bold as the first attempt of +a young man is likely to be, and not very thrilling for the village +_élite_, who had come to listen to a little schoolmaster on his first +appearance on the platform; especially as he made no elocutionary +efforts to win them. He read his paper to them as he would have read +it at home to his sister, without any further adornment; it was their +business to listen and profit by it. When people do not understand +you there always remains for them the resource of guessing at your +drift. In spite of this, the following year, because he was actively +interested in the maintenance of this centre in the grey village +existence, they made him the secretary of the Lyceum, in charge of the +lectures--without remuneration, which gave the post its value and charm +in Henry’s eyes. Whether the audience followed him or not he meant to +go on speaking, even if the things he had to say were a little beyond +the horizon of Concord. Why should Concord not permit itself to shed a +little light, even from afar, upon those who lacked it? + +So from now on a luminous centre existed here in spite of the good +people who were so busy, here as elsewhere, digesting the dough of +their days, without disturbing themselves about an art of living. +There were philosophic symposia at the great man’s house. A few choice +men and even a muse met there, deeply interested in lofty problems +and united in the same disinterested worship of the ideal. Towards +the third year of the Thoreau school, various wise personages were to +be seen there, Harvard graduates, men of learning, a poet, most of +them young, attracted from various points in the neighbouring country +through their love for a certain new thought. Especially to be noted +was one who had the air of presiding over the conversations, with the +authority of a man of forty; a pure spirit, lodged by mistake or a +singular taste for antithesis in a carnal envelope--thin, lanky, with +a pale skin and a head crowned with weeping hair, already white, named +after one of the minor prophets, Amos. Amos Bronson Alcott. This noble +dreamer had just settled in Concord with his terrestrial family, for +he had taken a wife and begotten daughters, after the human law. As +for the muse, her thirty summers had brought forth a bony visage and +masculine features; her fascination was due to her great learning and +her fancy and enthusiasm. Her name was Margaret Fuller. In such company +you soon felt disburdened of your clayey mediocrity. You were ready to +embark for the various points in the sky which the programme of the +meeting indicated. The smile of the master of the house was enough +to give you full confidence. Adventurous, intoxicating expeditions +on which, after soaring through the clouds, you were never sure of +being able to recover your path on the earth. They were veritable +skylarkings of the spirit. + +Henry listened, sharing in the discussions. Allied as he was to these +choice spirits by the noble interests that were common to them, he +did not feel entirely in harmony with them. Alcott was very eloquent +and said many beautiful things. But while these tours of the heavens +have an irresistible attraction for young and generous souls, Henry +had never lost his plebeian habit of feeling the grain of the earth +under his boots. In this refined game it was the stakes that mattered +to him; the game for the game’s sake struck him as a little academic. +They were neo-platonists. But as these new aspirations required a +new name they had adopted that of Realists or Transcendentalists, +which the great man had selected with his friend George Ripley, who +lived in Boston. Realists, those who pursued the reality behind the +appearance--Transcendentalists, seekers of the infinite through the +finite: this had the right sound, it told the story, and it was +unorthodox enough to disturb all those pious heads that were congealed +in the ice of their formulas. The smell of heresy is sweet to the +nostrils of one who is fond of sniffing the wind. + +Henry rejoiced to feel in himself the soul of a Transcendentalist. +A good word this, Transcendentalist. It is long but it goes a long +way. He was not quite sure that this “ist” had just the same shade of +meaning for the whole gathering. Perhaps it was pale and crowned with +white curls like the noble Alcott. Or curved in an exquisite smile like +the lips of Waldo. Perhaps Transcendentalism, like its brother isms, +had no more value than the individual who happened to pass it round his +neck like a collar. Perhaps it was nothing but a tool in the hands of +a worker, good or bad. Henry was going to use it as a worker who knows +what to do with a tool. As for the word itself, serious as the matter +was for him, there were even moments when Henry was tempted not to +take it much more seriously than did the outsiders who lost no time in +ridiculing the new gospel. Besides, he always had the resource of being +a Transcendentalist in his own fashion. Let his friends seek for the +real and the infinite as they chose; he was going to seek for it first +under the soles of his heavy boots. Of this he was transcendentally +sure. + +As they were a circle of apostles revealing a new life at the heart of +the old withered Puritanism, it was necessary for them to propagate +this outside the work-room where they gathered. They founded a +magazine; it appeared every three months and the muse of the group +assumed the care and the expense of editing it. The great man gave it +many pages that ought to have won for it subscribers by the thousand +if the public could only have altered its detestable habit of ignoring +a magazine supported solely by a belief in the beauty of humanity. If +you publish, for instance, noble old bits from the classics, how can +you expect to catch readers who ask for things that are amusing and +sensational and up-to-the-minute? In the opening number of the magazine +Henry had seen himself in print for the first time. A small emotion +compared to that which was concealed, to all save one or two persons +perhaps, in this poem entitled “Sympathy,” under the signature Henry +Thoreau. The author was twenty-three years old. He had published. +He had emerged from his Journal. He was in a circle of friends who +were initiating the renaissance of mystic idealism that was going to +renovate the thought of New England and America. This was no reason +for giving up his big boots or chinking in his pocket the dollars he +had not received, since the magazine paid nothing. But it gave him the +desire to write, to collaborate in this rare magazine in which his +friends welcomed his manuscripts so cordially--or, when they refused +them, refused as friends. They had not refused his “Aulus Persius +Flaccus,” his first public attempt as a writer of prose. And an unpaid +article will sometimes earn one a friendship that is worth more than +money. Often one is not to know of this till much later. + +But to whom was he to give these little verses, the scribblings of a +sentimental and philosophic schoolmaster, since the great man, who did +not like them very much, advised him not to publish them? They had the +archaic flavour of the old English poets who had helped him to endure +his exile in the college library. They were like the work of a boy +who amuses himself collecting little wanton butterflies and pinning +them on equal lines on a card in some harmonious arrangement of their +tinted wings. It was a game at which boys amuse themselves, boys and +those older children who re-translate Horace after sixty. Henry was +not yet twenty-five, and he was only a child in the sense that his +childhood was inseparable from him; but he loved these soothing little +old-fashioned verses, just as he loved to play a little air on his +flute or whistle the tune of some organ-grinder in the street. Not +“smooth and flowing” enough for the taste of the great man of Concord, +who made rhymes too now and then. There was nothing to be done then but +to keep them to himself, since their rhythm was dear to him in spite of +all. There would always be time to throw them into the stove. + +But what was he to do with those great chunks of prose interspersed +with the little verses in his Journal? And when did he first realize +that he was the writer, the poet, in them, and not in these rhymes +of an elderly amateur? Aside from the pages that he had used in the +composition of his first essay, “Sound and Silence,” there were those +he had copied and sent to Margaret Fuller, the editor, who did not +want them for her magazine. Yet they had rather a strong quality. +In a tone of juvenile grandiloquence, but with a firm accent, Henry +pronounced his vows, notified society of his refusal to collaborate +with it, and dedicated himself to the service of the cause. The editor +did not perceive that a writer of prose had been born, prolix and not +yet sufficiently sure of himself to break through the weight of words, +carried away by his love of paradox, but rich in savoury fantasy, a +creator of bold, fresh images. Her copy had been returned to him, with +a graceful note of refusal. He would wait, then. + +Henry stored his harvest away. Henry worked. Outside his father’s +little factory, where he made the pencils, there was a labourer at his +toil, awaiting his audience without anxiety. + + * * * * * + +How does it happen that Henry, yesterday a schoolmaster, should be +living at his friend Waldo’s house? Ralph Waldo Emerson, yes. It has +come about quite simply. + +His friend, finding him free after the closing of the school, has made +him a proposal. + +He is greatly in need of someone to look after a hundred and one little +matters, in the house and outside, which he cannot attend to himself. +When he is away, off on lecture tours, it would be very pleasant +to feel that he was leaving at home someone he could trust to see +that everything went smoothly, as it should go in the household of a +philosopher. He thought that such a man as Henry, who was a famous +gardener and understood everything, would be just the person. Was he +mistaken? Henry could come and live in their house without sacrificing +any of his cherished liberty. How did Henry feel about it? + +The latter had accepted. Not as a young man of twenty-four, only +too happy to yield to the desire of a great elder, but because this +proposal had a sound that pleased him. In that house at least he knew +they would accept him, discerningly, at his true value. They were +not appealing to a workman whose arms or brain one hires; they were +appealing to Henry, raw as he was, with his qualities and his defects. +That is why he had said yes. An ugly word becomes clarified when you +take a “job” with people who understand you and love you as nature has +made you. Heavens, yes, he had agreed without a single reservation. + +The arrangement was quite simple. The steward was to work as he chose +in the garden or elsewhere, at any hours that pleased him and whenever +work seemed good to him; in return, he was to have his meals and his +room as if he were one of the family. He was to be one of the family. +Wasn’t that clear and above-board?... If you were a great philosopher, +illumined with a serene wisdom, but little fitted for all those small +material affairs that have to be reckoned with just the same in the +daily life of a philosopher, would you not be very happy to have +engaged a trustworthy man to shoulder all these little troublesome +tasks and be on the spot, with an alert eye and a sure hand, during +your absences? And suppose, at the same time, that you could converse +occasionally on the noblest topics with your confidential man, as a +brother, an equal, who is prepared to accompany you, to follow or +precede you, up the highest peaks of thought: would not this be a +famous combination?... And if you were a penniless young man, seeking +employment for your faculties or your skill with people who would not +make use of you simply as a tool that one takes up and throws aside, +a tool that one oils or allows to rust, would you not be overjoyed to +be the confidential man of a sage who wants to place in your hands +all the odd tasks about the house? A sage who knows perfectly who you +are and appeals to the man as well as the worker? Would you hesitate? +Hardly, for it would strike you that to work for such an employer, +such a friend, would be like playing even if the work sometimes were +hard; it would be the highest form of collaboration. Your friend is a +philosopher divinely adroit in the field of ideas, but far from handy +in the practical domain; he needs your workingman’s hands and allows +them to exist side by side with the soul of a poet. Your friend opens +his house to you as an equal. + +All right, it’s settled, friend Waldo. This environment, this household +are sympathetic to Henry; the house itself smiles on him. Coming +to Concord, Emerson, after visiting his step-grandfather, in the +delightful old manse built by his ancestor where he himself had written +_Nature_, had had the luck to find and establish there, as the home of +his second marriage, the true dwelling for a sage. At the far end of +the village, on the same side as the Poor Farm, it was called, from +the name of a previous holder, the Coolidge house. The benediction of +the great trees along the road prepared you for the grave smile of a +little white dwelling among the pines whose modest porch seemed to +say to the new master: I give myself to you for eternity. Be faithful +to me. We shall always understand each other. And the nine windows +in front approved and the two chimneys took the oath; the Mill Brook +in the great meadow was the witness of the engagement. And you felt +immediately that what the porch said was true. From there it was only +a short quarter of an hour to Walden Pond, where you found yourself +in the wild woods; a spot haunted by Henry since his childhood, where +the Sage particularly loved to air his thoughts under the pines. It +was a house after Rousseau’s heart and after Henry’s heart. And when a +house pleases you, everything you have to do that depends on the house +is tinged with pleasure. It was only a few weeks after the closing of +his school that Henry had come to occupy the place offered him in this +home, nestling in the joy of the fields at the end of April. + +There is nothing like a little white house and its out-buildings in +the fields for giving you work to do. This is Henry’s business. From +the kitchen-dresser hangs a door the hinges of which have come off. +Just in his line. The hinges of the door of eternal life are in the +best of order, but the genius of a philosopher does not understand +kitchen-dressers. The stove draws badly; it must be taken apart. This +is in your line too, man of all work. The disfigurement of hands soiled +with soot is not indelible. And who is to assume the important labours +of the hen-house? A philosopher, of course, possesses like the most +ordinary mortal the art of eating a soft-boiled egg; but before and +after this beautiful fresh egg is laid for you to go and take it out of +the nest, how many little details there are that demand the skill and +experience of a man well up in other tasks than the tasks of the study! +Fowls have their own life and their own ideas; there is the practical +philosophy of the poultry-yard on which neo-platonism has made no +profound impression, and there is the hand that knows how to make just +the right twist to restore the broken roost. An idealist especially +needs good roosts and hens that lay. Not necessarily golden eggs; +simple, soft yellow eggs are the thing for your philosophic breakfast. +And who but a gardener-poulterer is to prevent the blessed hens from +marauding among the flowers in the garden? Then there is a pail that +leaks, and here is the tinker. You have everything under your hand with +that wonderful boy. He is the universal repairer. The neighbours know +him well and have recourse to his knowledge. And he is a great hand +at chopping wood. When you see Henry handling the wood you feel that +his friend Waldo is going to gain a good deal by this exchange. His +trusty man does not measure the pains he takes, he is indefatigable and +performs his labourer’s toil with the same conscientiousness with which +he has elaborated a page of prose, for himself alone, in his Journal. + +But Henry’s real kingdom is the garden. He understands not merely +how to raise melons, but how to prune fruit-trees; he knows how to +graft, and how to catch moles and field-mice; he is ready if there is +a stake that needs to be strengthened with heavy blows of the mallet, +vegetables to be transplanted or trenches to be dug. Sometimes the +philosopher and the gardener work together in the garden. Near this +invaluable boy, who is like a brother to him, the Sage is happy; it +is not merely the garden-work that does him so much good, but Henry’s +presence acts on him like a tonic. The stroke of this little man’s +spade seems to stir the roots of his own philosophy; on the clod that +he turns up a worm is wriggling. The spade plunges into the secrecy +of the combinations of the earth that will make the seed of the idea +germinate. + +Henry is in a fortunate position. He can really share in such a +household. He feels at home there. In their leisure hours the master +and his confidential man have long conversations in the study, where +the plain board shelves do not look as if they held the books merely +for the charm of their bindings. At these moments their everyday +intimacy rises to the loftiest comradeship. They prolong these +fine excursions in which Waldo remembers that he is the son of a +mighty walker before the Eternal. In the open fields and amid this +full-hearted intimacy, they make astonishing discoveries. Yes, they +are happy, and neither of them would be able to say what it is that so +enlivens the landscape when they set out together. The Sage does not +walk on Sunday; on that day it is more suitable to stay at home. + +So now the master of the Coolidge house can set out with a mind at +ease when he is going to give his lectures. He can depend on his young +friend, from whom he receives letters that have the fragrance of their +garden days together. In his absence the confidential man becomes the +protector and the stay of the household. Other ties unite him to the +family than those of the hen-house and philosophy. If Lidian, the +mistress of the household, loves him like a grown-up son, it is not +merely because he looks after the flowers in her garden that she has +brought from her parents’ house. In the same month in which Henry had +lost his brother, she had lost her dear little Waldo, her eldest, five +years old. It was to John, the charming John who had brought Emerson +one day a bluebird-box for the barn, that she owed that daguerreotype +of the child who had now vanished with him.... This poignant double +loss had touched depths that the Transcendentalist doctrines never +reached. From the bereavement they had simultaneously undergone there +had sprung up, in the mistress of the house, an affection like that of +an older sister for the big boy of the house, which he returned with a +deep, tender respect. The good gardener who took such pains with her +garden and her flowers gratefully accepted the authority, extending to +all sorts of small daily observances, of this woman who confided in him. + +They led a very frugal existence in the home of the philosopher, who +was familiar with narrow circumstances from his childhood, his mother +having been left a widow with five small children to bring up, and he +had kept the taste for simplicity. This mother with her wholesome face, +always smiling, had come to live with her son and daughter-in-law. As +for Aunt Mary, who was also to be seen in the house, still so young at +eighty years, Henry had simply won her heart. And it was a holiday when +Lidian’s elder sister, Lucy Brown, the gardener’s very dear friend, +happened to be there. Yes, Henry, the philosopher’s right-hand man, was +very much at home. + +Nothing was needed but children to make him feel completely so, for +between Henry and the children there was a tacit alliance. There were +only two of them, Ellen and Edith, babies or practically so, since the +death of little Waldo, but with Henry they formed a new trio. With +the children as in the garden he was in his element. Their innocence +brought out several Henrys, for he was never at the end of his wits. +There was the inexhaustible teller of wonderful tales, a wizard who had +no equal for making them little flutes and whistles with the simple +reeds they collected in the meadow. And all those tricks he showed +them: how to manage the warming-pan in which they heated the pop-corn +till it burst and fell in showers like fire-works, the jack-knife that +he swallowed and took out again through the nose, with a skill that +would have made his Uncle Charles jealous, and the trick of the apple +divided so cleverly that it seemed to be intact till he asked you +to cut it and it fell into quarters. And how many other inventions! +The only person whom Ellen and Edith never saw with their friend was +Father Spoil-Sport. When they were bigger he was going to take them +out in his boat, and they were going to be Indians and camp out in +a hut of branches and live on huckleberries and sour apples and make +music. Meanwhile, after supper, they could go on strange journeys on +the carpet before the fire; play horse and gallop astride his knee, or +perch perilously on Henry’s sloping shoulders, standing straight up +taller than Grandma and almost touching the ceiling. When Ellen said, +“Papa may be coming home this evening,” little Edith, who was beginning +to talk, would repeat “Papa” and look at her friend Henry. He had a +big nose like her real Papa and they were quite willing to accept him +as a second Papa. He was not a grave gentleman all in black like those +whom they saw coming to the house and who remained shut up in Papa’s +study. He at least was willing to lend a hand and was not afraid of +soiling it. He was a Henry after their own heart with whom they could +exchange a knowing smile, for he understood the mysterious meaning of +the onomatopoeia of children who create a language of their own before +accepting another ready-made; a Henry whom they respected though he did +not growl at them and was not one of these respectable people; a Henry +who was on secret terms with the world of fairies, strange plants, +astonishing animals and corn that burst in the fire, and with the +little folk who were in ecstasy before these marvels. + +Do not try to play the child with children if you lack the proper +physique. Henry’s figure contributes greatly to his success with young +people. Small, thin as a wolf, with a narrow chest, sloping shoulders, +he looks like a wise and cunning gnome. No matter if he is ugly, of an +ugliness for which not one of the seven deadly sins would accept the +responsibility, for this really makes no difference to them. At the +ends of his long arms are veritable workingman’s hands; a spindling +trunk, rather short legs planted on big feet. His markedly aquiline +nose points to a mouth with singularly expressive lips and knows +nothing of the receding chin. Sunk beneath the saliant eyebrows are +large, clear, wide-open eyes, grey with a tinge of the blue of the +sky, that look you through and through. Light-brown hair, abundant and +fine. His sunburnt complexion, a certain rusticity of manner, which +his association with Harvard and its fine gentlemen has not corrected, +would make it very easy to mistake him for some longshore-man on a +visit up country. As you see him pass, with his rough clothes, worn +alike on weekdays and Sundays, his hob-nailed boots bound with leather +laces, with the long, swinging step of a man who is used to walking +great distances, hands behind his back and fists clenched, often with +his eyes on the ground, the impression of physical resistance this thin +little fellow gives is in flat contradiction to the meagre frame. When +he lifts his eyes and looks at you it is as if a jet of implacable +sincerity and perspicacity had struck you; the whole man is revealed in +those eyes. Not a very easy fellow to teach, you say to yourself. But +the twinkling of the grey eyes has another meaning which the children +and his few friends know; under the bold features of a face that can +be serious to the point of desolation, they know what fancy, what a +vein of caustic humour and sober gayety is waiting for a chance to be +released. And these diverse impressions melt in the aroma of open air +that breathes from his whole person. + +Not easy to get on with, assuredly no. You can look to him for adhesion +or resistance, but never for submission. You can do nothing with +him unless you accept him as he is, with his mulish obstinacy, his +final “noes,” his likes and his dislikes. They know him well at the +Emersons’: sudden bursts of frankness, resistance without any reason, +fits of combativeness, a bluntness that does not always conform to the +code of politeness are to be expected from this right-hand man, who +shocks them now and then. But it is always wiser to let him follow his +own fancy, singular as it may be. If they had engaged a gardener by +the year or a day-labourer, he would have done his money’s worth--his +money’s worth exactly or a little less, done his job like a duty that +enables you to live. With Henry you always get more than your money’s +worth, because money to him means nothing--or something so different. +You have only to let him choose his own hours and his own way of +working. There is no one who will do a job better than he, as long as +it has none of the grey tinge of a duty. + +For the rest, who could deny the excellence of the arrangement? A man +who can do everything about the house and yard is very valuable: how +much more so if he can be your literary collaborator as well! Margaret +Fuller, who is finding it very difficult to make a success of the +_Dial_, the Transcendentalist magazine that only needs subscribers to +be the first magazine of the continent, has finally turned over the +editorship to Emerson. The latter asks Henry to help him. They will +work in the garden and the magazine together. They have to assemble +the copy, send it to the printer, read the proofs, put it into pages, +canvass for new subscribers. A task not quite so familiar to Henry +as grafting and pruning, but he sets to work and does it. Under his +hands the magazine takes a new turn. It associates the old Oriental +sapience with the fresh wisdom of the Atlantic shores. Henry likes his +work as editorial secretary. Here he is at the heart of the movement. +And now it is he, whose manuscripts the amiable editress had refused, +who judges and inserts the manuscripts of other people. He profits +by the change to extract from his Journal, revise and publish long +fragments--accounts of excursions, impressions of nature, studies of +the fauna and the flora of the country. The editor thinks very highly +of this gardener-subeditor who helps him so earnestly in preparing the +magazine and filling out the table of contents. + +Can you imagine a boy looking back later upon this time of his +twenty-fifth year, passed thus in the confidence of a little white +house, and not finding in the recollection the happiest of tastes? +The best part of it was not so much the privilege of having lived on +such intimate terms with a great man as the liberty they had given +him, the trust they had reposed in him in this household. Henry, +their confidential man--how wise they had been in giving him their +confidence!... In return for his board, they had permitted him to live +in his own way, giving what he was able to give on this condition. They +had not asked him not to be the Henry that he was by the grace of God, +with all his oddities and his pig-headedness and his nonchalance. + +Everything else could be forgotten, but this noble and affectionate +indulgence, this magnanimous faith in him, a young man who had not yet +shown his best, had warmed his heart at a time when the future seemed +dim to a boy who had nothing to offer the world but what the world had +no use for. Whatever this future might be, there would remain between +his elder and himself the magnetism of this friendship, the tie of +these fraternal years when they had cultivated the garden together. +Even if he said little about it, he carried this always in the bottom +of his shy, remembering heart. + + * * * * * + +After a visit to New York in February, 1843, Emerson was at home again +by the end of the winter to welcome another spring in Concord. It +would soon be two years since Henry had come to his house to live: or +had he always been there, and was he to remain always? It was time +to do a little thinking. William, the philosopher’s older brother, +was looking for a tutor for one of his children. What would the +confidential man, the Harvard graduate, say to this? He would have +to give up Concord, for William Emerson was living near New York. A +serious resolution, to leave his kingdom and his own people. On the +other hand, the neighbourhood of New York would be favourable to his +literary ambitions, and might help him, who could say, to sell a few +articles. This chance to try was perhaps the most tempting opportunity +that might offer. And then he would see a new country, another horizon +would stand out against the setting sun. Henry had had no further +glimpse of New York since he had gone there on business, at nineteen, +with his father. + +So it happened that, in the May of this year, the confidential man +found himself on Staten Island, the island with its back to the +continent like an animal advancing to sniff that much larger animal, +Long Island, which has come out of the Atlantic, with the bay of New +York crowding between their two muzzles. It was on the north side of +the island that William Emerson had his residence. A beautiful house, +worthy souls who did their best to be amiable. But one who had just +left a house like that of Waldo and Lidian recognized by the smell, +the moment he entered this house, that these people were of another +species. It was imposing, grave and stupefying. Henry felt like a +stranger among strangers; even the title of Judge, borne by the master +of the house, weighed upon him. They did not understand one another, +they never would understand one another; but for all that he would +do his work as well as he could since he was a tutor and it was a +question of Waldo’s brother. Later on, he would see; meanwhile, the +tutor was obliged to stay in his room. For on arriving he had caught +a violent cold that kept him shut up for a week. A misery to have had +such a weak chest ever since that bad case of bronchitis which had made +him so ill when he was eighteen. + +A bad beginning at the Judge’s, in an unknown country. In front of the +house, deep woods, and a mile away the sea, which he heard roaring +when the wind blew. The house stood with its back against a hill a +hundred yards high, from which you surveyed the immense panorama of +the Bay, the Narrows, Brooklyn, New York in the distance, the coast of +New Jersey. The first time he climbed it and took in all this horizon, +he was sure of one thing: this was the place he would come to for +the nourishment he would never find under this roof, where there was +nothing to hold him aside from his duties as a tutor. His real daily +repast awaited him on the hill. He could live for a few months in a +strange house, situated at the foot of a height that commanded such a +quarter of space. Alone, up there, he could collect himself towards +evening, watching the boats and the sea or reading a dear letter +received from far, far over there, beyond the boats and the sea--from +old Concord of which he dreamed and the forest paths that preserved the +imprint of his feet. + +Henry felt a void in his soul. A stoical boy has remedies against +homesickness and, wherever he is, his own company helps him to endure +it. Just the same, the soul suffers from a sudden change of diet; it +is slow in acclimatizing itself. Over there were his own people and +the face of his own country, the voices of the two rivers and the Mill +Brook and the smell of the upturned earth in Waldo’s garden. Here, +everything breathed of exile, and the summer had a different language; +in spite of the sun he shivered. + +When homesickness prowls about, seeking for some chink by which to +worm its way into you, the best thing to do, when you are not shut up +between the walls of a college, is to set out for discoveries over the +island, to see what it has to offer you. When you are a mighty walker, +a born vagabond, you hold homesickness at a respectful distance. From +nine to two o’clock Henry makes his pupil work, then he is free. +You can see him setting out in his good Concord boots to seek his +fortune. The interior of the island is like a great pleasure-park, +with its valleys, its woods, its verdure; fruit-trees abound there, +cherry-trees are common along the hedges, the tulip-tree flourishes, +and the magnolia in July is enthroned like a supernatural bride. A +park in which some care has been taken for the views; through the long +clefts in the earth you suddenly perceive, over a field, a ship under +full sail, passing thirty miles out at sea--as in a magic lantern. In +the valleys, shielded by the foliage, are the farms of the Huguenots, +the first colonists; the old elm on the shore still marks the spot +where they landed, after placing the ocean between themselves and the +Dragonnades of Louis XIV--the great-great-grandparents of your own +people at Saint-Helier, brought here not by the desire to make fortunes +but by their passion for spiritual independence. In the northeastern +corner, not very far from Castleton, where the Emersons’ house is, +there is another Concord. You find them everywhere. The Sundays are +free for long excursions. The vast kingdom of an island seems still +more vast, for you are surprised that the seashore can surround so +much country. The walker annexes it methodically. Everything is new +to him. They raise tomatoes and potatoes in the open fields. Henry +has not left at home his old vigilance as a rover. Crossing a field +he stoops and picks up an arrow-head. It is really almost laughable. +At Concord or wherever he may be, when a flint-flake emerges, however +imperceptibly, from the earth or a heap of pebbles, you may be sure +that Henry, tramping in that neighbourhood, will fall upon it. He +smells it. It is as if in his shrewd glance there were a magnet that +makes these arrow-heads emerge for his benefit from the earth where +they are hidden. + +Henry scours the island. A surveyor, no doubt, this lanky fellow whom +people see crossing and re-crossing the fields, examining everything +with his old habit of inventorying a piece of land, as if he were +going to buy it: he cuts across it in a bee-line, whether the ground +is good or bad, regardless of the regular road. Or perhaps a man +looking for a good site for some speculation. He must be pretty well +acquainted with the state of things. A poor devil of a tutor, you say? +Come now!... More attractive still than the interior of the island are +its watery shores, the salt marshes, the approaches of the sea. Henry +wanders along the beach, waiting for this enormous presence to define +itself. Never before has he had such a chance to be impressed by it. +Perhaps it has things to say to him which the pines about Concord +have forgotten to convey. He has the whole of space to himself; there +is nothing frivolous to distract him, the hidden musicians play for +him alone, and he can walk and walk and walk to its ritornello in the +dazzling marine daylight. It is grand enough to overwhelm him if he +were not made of tough gristle. A pack of half-wild dogs scours the +beaches in quest of carrion thrown up by the ocean. The smallest of +them stops and barks after him. He has surely rubbed against mankind, +this cur, for he was the one you took under your protection yesterday, +driving off with stones the big fellows that were chasing him. The +only people you see are fishermen who have drawn their boats up on the +shore--herring-fishers, with great nets. Far away glide the boats with +men on board who think as you do. You feel as if you were one of these +boats, and you too long to spread your sails, instead of leaving your +footprints on the wet sand or walking on the shingle like the crabs. + +Concord, you are in no danger of being forgotten, but confess that you +have no such sight as this to offer. The best place from which to take +it in is some height where you are the monarch over this immensity. +Then, though you are too far away to reach the shore, the ocean seems +to you so near that you could touch it. The whole radiant panorama of +the sea, islands, bay, shores, marshes, converges towards your own +small self that receives it and feasts upon it; your landsman’s soul +drinks in the sea and the sailors. From an old ruined fort, Henry +watches the arrival of the vessels; the health-officer climbing on +board, the messenger who has come for his bundle of newspapers. Best of +all is the hill-top behind the house which he can ascend every evening, +the ideal observatory from which to count the sails in sight as the +sun sets, revealing more and more of them the lower it falls--passing, +returning, departing, sometimes in a long procession, busy, stately, +as if they were coming here, between the muzzles of the two fishes, to +conclude their tour of the world. + +Before this huge spectacle of the bay of New York, this incessant +passing of vessels, this amplitude of ocean that is offered to the +eye of the little tutor, sitting and musing there on the ridge, his +rustic Concord soul communes with itself and wonders if it could become +acclimatized here. This hour is the best of the day, and on this +hill-top he recovers his balance. Yes, the sea alone can mitigate the +separation. It is like the winds that blow in the woods at home. But +if, at the foot of the hill or on his return from a walk, there were +only some friend with whom he could talk as a brother! Or if he could +merely find himself again in some circle of familiar silence bathed +in an atmosphere of trust! For Henry solitude is an old and honoured +acquaintance: but never till now has it wearied him as it sometimes +wearies him here. There are no human faces about him on the island--for +all these New York families who come over to spend the summer--save an +old fisherman, a neighbour, who invites him to come to the beach and +see the beautiful shad he has caught. So Staten Island is not a desert +island; it is inhabited by old Smith in whose presence he feels happy +as a man and a fresh-water fisherman himself. + +In a rapid, sloping hand, cut with dashes for punctuation, Henry +writes affectionate letters to his family and friends in Concord--an +extraordinary number of letters for him. This cheers him up when the +unsavoury food of his days, served on the Judge’s table, leaves on his +palate an after-taste of exile. He entreats his mother for details of +the life at home, for news of everybody, including Aunt Louisa, whose +benignant face smiles upon him like an apparition from the wall of his +room, and Cousin George Minot. The lonely boy ingenuously commits all +sorts of enormities: he, with his sovereign contempt for newspapers, +asks them to send him the Concord paper. Of course it is perfectly +idiotic there, but how good it would be here, alone on the hill in the +evening, or in his room, to have a taste of the printed news from home! +And business, the pencils? And the vegetable garden? Henry is still so +full of Concord that, when he wakes up at night he can hardly believe +that the sound of the neighbouring sea is not that of the wind among +the woods of his childhood. In his dreams he sits under the poplar +behind his father’s house, sure that he is going to spend his whole +life there. He has bought a new pair of pantaloons which have cost him +$2.25 ready-made; the stockings are wearing well, for they are properly +made--knitted at home. His mother need have no fears: his outfit will +not have to be renewed yet--it withstands the new climate as well as +its master’s frame. Henry is going through a period of strange mental +lethargy, which makes him think of his waggish Uncle Charles, the +famous wrestler who was so speedily overthrown by the demon of sleep, +in the very middle of a conversation or even while he was shaving. +And he also thinks of his brother, in his grave now for more than a +year.... He writes to Waldo. How conceal the fact that he grates upon +William and Susan Emerson as much as these excellent people grate upon +him? His pupil is clever and is making progress, but nothing about him +wins the affection of his tutor. He takes after the Judge. As for your +brother, your sister-in-law, your nephews, dear Waldo, you can’t guess +how much further away one feels from them, thinking of you and yours +and the years passed in the little white house! He writes to Lidian. +How are the flowers getting on in her garden? Are the weeds coming up +too fast? She must have a new gardener. And the chickens? And do they +go huckleberrying as they used to do? The poor woman is not well and +she has told him about her difficulties; and in his own solitude, in +his affection and respect, her old right-hand man feels more grateful +than ever to this noble friend. Henry has a heavy heart, but as he +breathes these dear odours of Concord his hand does not tremble. His +advice to a sick friend is an exhortation to fortitude; his letters +to Waldo are as luminous as the conversations they had had when they +were off together on some excursion in the fields. The exile dreams, +collects his thoughts, struggles against his debility. The penholder +and the pocket inkstand which Elizabeth Hoar, Emerson’s friend, had +given him for his journey, are there like a feminine invitation. He +translates the “Seven Against Thebes,” and even composes for the _Dial_ +a piece that is full of visions of dear Concord, _A Winter Walk_. If +it comes out well he will send it off for the next number. He can only +follow from afar the little review they are making among themselves, +imprinting it with a style all its own; but how he loves it as a ray +of light, an annunciation--and how he loves its disdain for commercial +methods. + +As for the nearby metropolis, visible to the North, Henry was not +satisfied with observing it from the hill-top when his evening thought +interrogated the horizon. Since the first month of his arrival he had +profited by his Saturdays to go over and see New York. It was easy: +a half-hour’s walk on the road that passed in front of the house, +then three-quarters of a mile along the shore to the village of +Castleton, where you took the boat. In the city he went at once to see +two young friends of Emerson, clerks in an office. They had a drink +together. Thanks to these pleasant boys he did not feel alone in this +pandemonium, where everything shocked and grated on his country nerves. +Then he went to see a few sights that would serve as landmarks, the +Station, the Reservoir, the National Academy. He was not living so far +away; he would come back. Such a big morsel was not to be swallowed at +one mouthful. But there was one sight that had struck the Concord boy +much more than any of the monuments mentioned in the guide-books: the +crowd, the flood of faces in this Babel of a metropolis. The churches, +the Stock Exchange, the great pretentious buildings were mean, vulgar, +insupportable. But the crowd surging through the canyon-like streets +was a phenomenon that surpassed all these monuments, whether they were +dedicated to the worship of gold, God or the devil. Nothing like this +in Boston; it was a revelation. He would not forget the name of this +power. The crowd, yes, the herd that counted for so little beside +the individual. But what if the hum that rose from these swarms of +nobodies, this surge of faces in the great arteries, did correspond to +the waves that he had seen rushing together in the Narrows, or beating +the shores of the metropolis? He had the impression that this human +flood could, when it wished, submerge these stupid cubes of stone. The +crowd had imposed itself on little man. + +Henry returned to the city whenever he could. He would have returned +oftener were it not for the expense. The boats left every hour, but you +had to pay your fare, and he was in rather bad straits. The distances +were great in the city, and he would have taken the stage often had +it not been for this miserable impecuniosity. If only that wretch of +an editor who had published one of his articles with a promise of +remuneration and who pretended to be dead would only have paid him! +He was obliged to space out his visits to New York. He went to see +Henry James, the Swedenborgian, a little plump, rosy, lame man who +looked like a broker. Henry spent three hours talking with him: in the +questions the latter asked he came into touch with a soul of wisdom +and goodness that refreshed him. One of those men who were able to +enliven a city whose tawdry buildings disheartened him. By degrees the +villager became used to the monster. He went to read in the libraries, +where he found the magazines and one or two substantial mouthfuls like +Carlyle’s last article; especially the Mercantile Library, the keeper +of which, an old Harvard tutor, had given him a card of admission +for a month. Moreover, in spite of this mental lethargy from which he +suffered, he did not forget one of the reasons that had led him to try +New York. He had come with the idea of seeing how the land lay in the +literary world. Horace Greeley, the editor-in-chief of the _Tribune_, +upon whom he called, made a good impression on him. They talked over +the experimental phalansteries, in which Horace had more faith than +Henry. Horace was a strong and important connection. He recommended +the beginner to the _Democratic Review_ which accepted his paper “The +Landlord,” for its October number. This was no great source of wealth, +for the magazine was poor and only paid famine prices. So he thought +it would be a good thing to find something else, for there was always +this irritating question of money. Henry held his lethargy in check +and boldly called upon publishers and editors; there might be one who +needed a young writer like himself, just fresh from his village, a +fruit of the orchards of Concord with their bloom still on him. One +of them proposed some work that an honest man could not do. Another +jingled the $50,000 in profits which he made year in, year out, just +by letting well enough alone. No doubt, no doubt. This chinking of +dollars made Henry feel that he was rich enough to despise them. There +was nothing much to tempt him indeed among fellows like that. It was +just as it was in Concord; no one needed him, and those who would +have liked to give him a welcome were unable to pay him. He had gone +the rounds of the magazines; those that he had thought of as possible +had obliging contributors by the dozen. There was, to be sure, the +_Ladies’ Companion_, which paid; but he was not likely to stray into +that company. Ask somebody else, dear lady. And yet he was absolutely +obliged to earn a little money. So Henry spent a whole day hawking +_The Agriculturist_ about New York. This was less humiliating than +scribbling for a trashy publisher. If there was nothing for a writer +to do in New York, he would wait for luckier days. The Republic of +Letters would not die, nor would Henry either. He would retire in good +order, as light in money and the hope of money as when he arrived. His +flat purse, on his return as on his departure, would serve to identify +him.... + +But have you reckoned up exactly what you are bringing back, my friend? +It is more than your purse would hold. Or even your portmanteau, +between your socks and your books. Your wealth, young man of Concord, +is solid and durable in a different way from the ready-made trousers +you have bought in New York. The experience of the literary market--how +much do you think that is worth? You have watched these shopkeepers, +big and little, at their counters; while they were talking, you have +caught the odours from the back-shop. These few glimpses were enough +for you to divine the flavour of their cooking, their motives, the +quality of their trade. The most generous of them could not pay for +your collaboration a more royal price than that of this experience. +At twenty-six, when you are beginning, to know once and for all that +the literary market is a market like other markets, to which you bring +your merchandise, which will remain on your hands if it does not suit +the taste of the customer; to know that the career of letters as you +understand it is not a trade that enables a man to subsist and that +there is no profit of money for you to hope for in this way ... tie up +this truth tight in your handkerchief and keep it as the rarest of your +arrow-heads. + +And this ocean of faces in the streets, on the wharves, the human +flood of New York--how much is it worth, from your point of view, to +have coasted along that and felt it beat against you? The passionate +individualist is in rebellion against the power of the mass. But it has +fascinated you, disturbed you; its magnetism has impressed you at the +first contact. A mob, undoubtedly. But with a movement as grand and +sweeping as that of the clouds and the winds and the waves. And the +watery surroundings of the city, that luxuriance of ocean and horizon +and ships, absorbed from the hill-top, and those long walks on the +shore--do you imagine they have not affected you also? Recall those +crowds of immigrants you have seen passing, stopping for a day or two, +pent up on a wharf, men, women, children, tattered but so very human, +so real, washing their linen unconcernedly, cooking their dinner in +the open air, whole families come from the four corners of the Old +World to seek their fortunes in the hospitable West. Always the mob, +observed with a distrustful sympathy by a savage who will never admit +that man can keep his quality as a man by mingling in the mob. Yes, +but in this swarm of poor wretches, encamped on a wharf, among these +playing, whining children, these mothers sitting on their bundles of +clothing, has it not occurred to you as you observed them with the eye +of an artist fascinated by this picturesque parade, that there might be +some Henry going West with his tools and his fortune and a soul as rich +as your own or even greater? In any case, your glances have scrutinized +this horde on the march and recognized human faces in transit. And what +remains to you from this must not be forgotten when you balance your +accounts. + +Have you lost your homesickness? Has even your health been strengthened +by the air of the bay? When you go home, you will remember, with a +leaping of the heart that will warm the November air, how much you +have been repaid for your months of exile by all that those crowds, +that ocean, those wharves, those steamers have left in you--yes, and +those hours of solitude when, from the top of the hill, your sick soul +was fed by the play of the storm and the sunlight and the moonlight at +midnight over the bay. And that sound of the sea which you have heard +in your bed in the silence of the Judge’s house, and the spectacle +of the sun rising from the Atlantic--do you think they will not add +something to the magnificence of the sunset when you have contemplated +it anew from your riverside heights of Musketaquid? + + + + + IV + + +The dear presences are ranged about you there, in the centre of that +universe for which you have longed; it is good there, and what does +the rest matter? For a lover who has been nourished exclusively on his +dreams for six months, the joy of return surpasses everything. It is +winter; but what warms Henry is not merely the sticks in the stove. All +Concord offers its warmth for his return. + +He finds his father still busy with the pencils. What if he were to +turn in and help? All right, the pencils. The lead seems less grey +in the delight of his return. Since he has nothing to look for in a +literary way, and no opportunity offers for the moment, he will stay +at home and attend to the pencil business with his father. Doesn’t it +occur to you that a miserable little piece of lead imprisoned between +two sticks of cedar-wood may be unworthy of your attention? It is not +quite what you have dreamed of, perhaps. But Henry knows the secret. +For there is a secret. So much so that it would be a mistake for anyone +who has no business there to approach the workshop where the Thoreaus, +father and son, manufacture their product. + +The business had made progress since the time when the unlucky +store-keeper had bethought himself of competing with Monroe, the +Concord pencilmaker. It was quite a story. The native pencils were +not good for much, even Monroe’s, in spite of the process he had +invented; they had the disagreeable grain of poor, scratchy, brittle, +inefficient pencils. No chance of holding out in the market beside the +imported English pencils, and especially the incomparable Fabers from +Germany. So something better had to be tried if they were to satisfy +people who liked good pencils. To obtain a good pencil, everything +depended on the treatment and the preparation of the graphite, which +came from Sturbridge, then from Canada, and which the elder Thoreau +had especially ground for him at Acton. The first thing was to reduce +the graphite to a very fine powder, which was obtained by means of an +ingenious, primitive machine that enabled them to collect exclusively +the finest dust from the material ground in the mill. This was a great +point gained. After this the softness of the pencil depended on the +product mixed with the pulverized graphite, upon so composing the paste +that, once hardened, it would produce that delicate, firm substance +that glides on the paper between your fingers, leaving a fine, vigorous +mark, of a beautiful grey-black, and not that dim, vague mark that bad +pencils have. Hitherto the elder Thoreau had produced this effect, +like his predecessor Monroe, by the use of spermaceti or bayberry +wax mixed with glue, while there entered into the composition of the +Faber pencils a certain clay that was found in Bavaria. They succeeded +in procuring this. The result was remarkable. After much groping and +difficulty they at length arrived at the goal of their efforts, the +perfect pencil. It was awarded a first medal at the exposition of +mechanical arts in Salem. Henceforth they could hold their own in +competition with the English pencils of pure graphite or even the +Fabers with their skilful proportioning of graphite and Bavarian clay. +But they could not think of turning out a pencil as cheap as these. The +Thoreau pencils cost twenty-five cents, in spite of which many teachers +of drawing who saw how excellent they were recommended them to their +pupils. A friend, Horace Hosmer, was the traveller for the house. So +the business was not bad. But they also had to watch carefully lest +someone else should steal the process. This explained the mystery that +surrounded the great work--the mystery of the mill at Acton where +they ground the graphite, the mystery of the very primitive workshop, +adjoining the house, where, with a workman who could be trusted not to +give them away, they manufactured, finished, packed and shipped the +choice article. Six dollars a gross, and the daily bread of the family +depended on it. + +In these researches, these experiments, this final success, +Henry played an ample part. It was he who had found out in some +reference-book about this clay which the masters of the pencil industry +used in Germany, and who had contrived two or three pieces of apparatus +of capital importance, notably for the cutting out of the slabs of +hardened paste and the drilling of the blocks of wood that were +destined to receive the lead. So long as it was a question of producing +a fine pencil that would be satisfying to exacting draughtsmen, you +could count on his skill and his zeal; to conquer a difficulty was the +business of the admirable Henry, master of ingenious arts. But when the +end was attained the pencil-factory left him rather lukewarm; it was +a simple affair of exploiting an invention and reaping profits. All +very well for his family who lived by it. But if the equilibrium of the +family rested on the lead-pencils, his equilibrium had a less friable +foundation. He would help his father, yes, as much as was necessary. +But sell his entire life in pencils, no, thank you; he had other fish +to fry. With his life he wrote poems--even without a pencil. + +Working in the paternal factory was then, after all, only a makeshift. +Always the same story: the pencils were his father’s business. Even +though it was enough to keep them all afloat, Henry was unwilling to +be a charge on his family. He must earn a little outside and butter +with a little independence the bread that he ate at home. But how? +School-teaching, tutoring, already had a rather stale taste. A page +turned--look further. + +This thing that is rolling in his head, turning over and over, this +trifle of one’s daily bread, is a great problem when you don’t follow +the beaten track that leads to ease and self-disgust. He is not +stupider or clumsier than other people; he is qualified in all sorts of +lines and has plenty of good will. Who is going to profit by employing +him in some way in which he knows he can do a good job? Mystery. Unless +you are looking for a flogging schoolmaster for your children, or a +scribbler of copy, or a clerk, or a servant by the year, or an animal +that will place himself in the shafts, here I am with hands at the +ends of my long arms, five strong fingers on each hand, a trade at +the end of each of my ten fingers, and a head full of resources. I am +twenty-seven years old and have not travelled very much, but I know +enough about the world and myself not to sell you my beautiful liberty, +except in bits. Ask me for a day, two days, three days of work; from +childhood I have been used to manual labour, I have always been a good +gardener, in a house I have taken the place of several workmen, I can +build a boat, and in the woods I am as much at home as a wood-cutter. +Give me the tools and you will see. My hands and my brain and my good +will are for anyone who wants to take them for a dollar a day. + +And you will get something for your dollar, I promise you. _Noblesse +oblige._ When one has the honour to be called Henry Thoreau, one +doesn’t do one’s work by halves. One respects one’s work, whether it is +for someone else or for oneself, because one respects oneself. At your +service. + +After various experiments, Henry, graduate of Harvard, son and grandson +and great-grandson of merchants, has already made his choice. The lot +he desires most, as the happiest and the freest, and the worthiest as +well, is that of a day-labourer, who cuts off a slice of his time to +sell, when he must, but takes good pains not to sell the whole loaf. +He knows that fifty days of work a year will be enough to pay for his +keep, such as it is. And all the other days, six each week, will be for +God and himself, for his own private affairs. + +Manual labour is not only the most congenial to his tastes: it is that +which agrees the best with an intellectual worker. Above your toiling +hands, the spirit cheerfully pursues its free play, thanking the hands +for placing it in so cordial a relation with this beautiful material +world, so richly veined, the sight of which refreshes and attracts +it. The day-labourer who treasures his time escapes from the damnable +routine of the salaried work that devours your soul. When you engage +me, I shall do for you everything that a clever, skilful man who puts +his heart into his work can do. But when your work is finished I shall +go back to my own which requires no assistance. I append to my offers +of service a programme of the things you can ask me to do: fence in +your land, plant your young trees, dig, build a wall, set up the frame +of a house, cut your wood, whitewash your walls, hang wall-paper, etc., +etc., etc.... And if you have a leaking pail or a door that is off its +hinges, I shall attend to them into the bargain. I am not particular. +Work has no terrors for me. There is not an Irish labourer of them +all--you see those strapping fellows who are laying out the ground +about the village for the new railroad?--who has waded in the swamps +as much as I have done, for my own pleasure. It knows me well, that +mud. Tilling the ground for Tom, Dick and Harry for a few days for the +sake of earning five dollars is what you call servile, back-breaking +work. (You tell me this, you who spend the day adding up figures for +an employer, you who bow and scrape to customers from behind your +counter, morning and afternoon, sunshine or snow....) Come! Do you +expect me to shudder at this rough work? Feel the callous on my palms. +You don’t know how cheerily the handle of a pickaxe or a hoe slips +between fingers that have smoothed and stroked it as fellow-diggers and +delvers. Servile labour? Fine masks with white hands, look at Henry +toiling out there in the field if you want to see a fellow whose work +does not enslave him at all. While you are adding up your ciphers or +calculating your phrases, I am adding up my strokes of the pickaxe or +the billhook, and smelling the earth and the turf and the bark around +me. Yes, hire me to do work in my own line and I shall do it less for +the money than for the love of the labour of my hands. Don’t worry, I +shall not give you time enough to disgust me. So take me for what I am +worth, and you will have a workman who will treat you as he would like +to have the other fellow treat him. + +Henry looks about him. Who wants a fellow like this? Don’t all speak at +once. If he could secure a day here and a day there it would encourage +him to believe that it is really possible in this world for an honest +man who can do everything to earn his bread. But the lovers of good +work do not seem to be very numerous. Only the friends at whose houses +he drops in for a meal or who stop as they pass him seem to appreciate +the varied talents of a clever young man. And if you only knew what +a pleasure it is, for a fellow who flatters himself that he is no +bungler, to feel that he is appreciated, without any compliments, at +his real worth. As a general thing, you have to work for some dull soul +who naturally takes you for a creature of his own kind; all he wants +for his dollar is the strength of your hoofs and your back, without the +slightest regard for the real extent of your competence. The employer, +in short, in all his worldly splendour. + +Suppose he were to try some of those little trades that do not catch +a man up in the greedy machinery of their routine, only to leave him +at the end empty of his pulp, flat as an apple in a cider-press? Henry +has often thought of this. In summer when he sees the boys bringing +back baskets of huckleberries to sell to the important villagers whose +dignity or lofty occupations prevent them from running about the +fields, he says to himself: I am as much of a vagabond as they are.... +I should like to do that too. Or he could make baskets, trays and all +sorts of fine, durable, useful things out of birch-bark. Why not? The +manufacture of sand-paper would be lucrative if he could get a few +customers. He invents various contrivances that might be exploited, +such as a rule for measuring cords of wood. But the superintendent of +the city hay-scales in Boston tells him that the wood-dealers would +never hear of this because it would put an end to their swindling. No, +the best thing is to try surveying. Henry has devised his own compass +and chain and is ready to measure other people’s property to the very +confines of the earth. He can be relied upon as a surveyor. + +But whether or not the world offers him employment for his faculties, +it will never get him into the mill of “wholesome work,” extolled by +the preachers and held up as an example to the sons of the family. Let +the parish make the best of its bereavement: he has not the makings of +a respectable citizen. “You must get your living by loving”--isn’t that +so, Henry? And not earn your bread by being turned into dough? That’s +the main thing. He will make shift as he can on the ragged edge of +society, if society has no place for an individual like him. Meanwhile, +far from groaning over his lot, he loves it to the very marrow and +would not exchange it for an empire. Concord is richer than all the +empires in the heart of old Asia, and Henry Thoreau, a day-labourer +without a job, feels that he is in the heart of rich Concord, the king +of a limitless country of which every day he brings back a little +of the earth sticking to his boots. Though he may end his days in a +poor-house, nothing can take away this triumphant happiness which he +experiences in living responsive to the instinct that rings in him like +gold. + +If you are industrious in your own way and not in the accepted fashion, +you must not be surprised if you pass for a loafer. That is the way +of things. In the eyes of the sober folk around you an inaptitude for +business is the very mark of inferiority. Think of it, an American +who cares nothing about getting on.... What’s more, a Yankee, without +the slightest relish for trading, who seems to be positively bent on +remaining poor.... It’s preposterous, it’s even rather presumptuous. +Among the mandarins of the village there is scant sympathy for this +little whipper-snapper of a schoolmaster who has audaciously pronounced +against the rod and holds aloof from church, charitable circles, +politics. And that surly eye, the gruff tone of his replies and his +cutting words.... When they see him passing down the village street, +under the dome of the great elms, or crossing their fields, a Henry who +lives heaven knows how and seems to have his pockets full of leisure, +the good people sneer, smile knowingly or shrug their shoulders as +much as to say: “You bleed yourself to send a boy to college.... He’s +been spoiled.... Behaving like a millionaire ... running about the +woods all day like a schoolboy, lounging in his boat on the river.... +If he had no brains it wouldn’t matter, but he’s clever enough when he +wants to take the trouble, the lazy good-for-nothing....” + +If they were able to read the mind of this “lazy good-for-nothing” +who marches along, with head bent, sloping shoulders, clenched fists, +in his old workingman’s togs, they might hear a much finer sermon +for their own sins present and to come. But the good people are a +little hard of hearing, and they would not understand, anyhow! On +the other hand, he has taken their measure as exactly as if he had +used his surveyor’s outfit, when surveying their precious land for +them. If they are “society,” Henry, the simpleton, the ne’er-do-well, +the good-for-nothing, the village fool, is of the unsociable kind. +He sets out for adventure in disgust at money and the evil-smelling +varnish with which money covers existence. There is no spite in this +retirement, none of the peevishness of the misunderstood soul who +has been deceived in his hopes. He goes simply to seek elsewhere the +feeling of another humanity that must exist somewhere, perhaps under +the bark of the trees. Even in the main street of the village, how much +more moving is the presence of the great elms than the fronts of the +neighbouring houses! + +Come, good people, would you like to see a savage, a real one, not one +of those of whom your grandfathers told you, whom they perhaps never +saw? Watch this little man passing at the bottom of your pasture, +avoiding the habitations that are set about like snares through the +countryside, on the way to his daily rendezvous. Do not waste your +precious time attempting to follow him, natives of Concord. His +savagery would soon leave you behind. + + * * * * * + +When you are neither the lawyer nor the doctor, nor even the principal +shopkeeper of the town, you naturally have to go without the legitimate +prestige that attaches to these functions. To be a day-labourer, even +though you are the son of a pencil-manufacturer, is to be condemned to +live outside the luminous circle in which these incontestable powers +move. It is to dedicate yourself to an obscure destiny. + +No doubt, but this has its compensations. They are insufficient, you +will tell me; but are you sure of this? The great advantage of being a +day-labourer, free to hire yourself out as you please and cheerfully +pocket your dollar or two, is that you keep the brightest of your +time for your own affairs. These little personal affairs are nobody’s +concern; but, great or small, they are your own. Admit that they have +the same claims as a vocation and everything yields to what is most +important. + +Henry’s vocation is to start out every afternoon, rain or shine, for +half the day, three, four hours or more, according to the occasion and +the season, half for adventure, half with an object, in search of.... +In search of what, indeed? Does one ever know? Simply in search. + +He does not set out for amusement like a sedentary man who is taking +his constitutional; he sets out like an artist towards the studio +where his work is awaiting him. This excursion is the very core of +the day, the condition of the creative hours that will give him his +knowledge and his reward. Ask Henry for anything you wish, money, a +good pencil, a helping hand, but do not suggest that he might sacrifice +his precious afternoon; he will send you packing. The afternoon is +reserved for work, his work. Amid the little tasks of the day, this +is the big affair. Henry punctually responds to the call of the hour, +which has no sound of duty for him: it has a commanding charm. If some +obstacle interferes with his outing, some urgent task or illness, he +is as miserable as a lover who has missed his rendezvous. The day is +spoilt. It is the empty day of one who has failed in his work. And if +he is forced to keep to his room for several days running, he is as +despondent as a girl over a sad story. Henry in a cage feels himself +becoming soft. It is as if he were deprived of his food. + +As a rule, he goes off alone, for labours of love demand this strict +intimacy. No annoying person, no idler, no lover of the “joys of the +country” to pester you with his questions, his chatter, when you +are out on business. Not at any price. But when your friend, who +is a congenial soul, accompanies you, there are three of you, for +William’s dog is of the party. The dog hunts for his profit, as the two +companions seek for theirs. + +On occasion Henry devotes himself to fishing, but this is rare. He +never hunts any more; he has sold his gun. The game that he starts +to-day is no longer that which he pursued in his boyhood, with his +brother. Instead of the fowling-piece on the strap, he is likely to +carry under his arm, if it is the season for flowers, an old music-book +in which he can press specimens of plants that he wants to keep. And in +his pockets, which are as roomy as wallets, you will be sure to find +his field-glass for observing distant objects, his magnifying-glass +for examining the ground, his big knife, a ball of twine, and perhaps +a bite to eat, if he has set out for the whole day. But you don’t +know him if you think that without the old music-book he would have +any difficulty in bringing back some occasional vegetable discovery. +He drops in at your house for a moment on his way back from some +expedition, and you notice the care with which he sets down his +old straw hat in the hall; its interior is skilfully arranged for +receiving frail plants or flowers without bruising or crushing them. +Henry carries his herbarium on his head and braves under this friendly +protection the rain and the sun. He is indeed equipped from top to +toe for the most perilous expeditions, for the leather of his brogues +is proof against mud and brush. His trouser-ends are thrust into his +boots, a sign that he is not going out for an afternoon call or even +going to follow the main road. + +Concord is connected with the world by the roads. A villager only sets +out from the village when his business takes him to some neighbouring +village. What lies between the roads is indifferent to him, unless +he happens to have something to do there. For this reason there are +vast, empty stretches between the roads and around the farms where you +never meet a soul, for no serious man could possibly find anything +worth his while there; haunts of animals, weeds, thickets, mud-holes +and trees that are allowed to grow as they please. The surroundings of +Concord abound in solitudes, and these are Henry’s studio. He has his +favourite nooks and corners where the soil is bad or barren, untilled, +abandoned, chaotic, marshy, with clumps of trees, large ponds, cliffs. +The luxuriant, aromatic vegetation of swampy ground is a feast for him, +for he is a regular glutton, this lean little fellow. Around Fairhaven, +to the South, there are stretches of country that will return to +haunt him in his last hour--Conantum, Baker Farm; and over there, +towards the west, as far as Second Division Brook, one can walk in a +veritable cloud of revelations. It is just the same to the north, the +Easterbrook country, and Mason’s Pasture--abandoned orchards that have +surrendered again to the moss, the rocks and the underbrush, fields of +huckleberries and barberries, and wild apple trees among the birches +and pines. And the Great Meadows and Walden Woods.... And those old +grass-grown roads, wandering at their own will, without a living soul, +without a house or a landmark, their forgotten tracks leading heaven +knows whither, but where you feel so much at home; brotherly roads that +take you by the arm as you leave the village behind and lead you along +till they are lost themselves in the wilderness. The wild grasses that +people call weeds seem sweeter to you than the tractable plants of good +family. They belong to your own family. They like to straggle along the +old roads, just as you do, far from the little gardens where the sober +box-wood grows. + +Concord is also united with the world by two rivers, the lively one and +the sluggish one, which are not navigable for trade. The domain of the +waters which, in the spring and autumn floods, lops off an inordinate +amount of the surrounding country, belongs to no one and is free to +all. The two rivers are yours if you want them. Accept their gladness +and their freshness; no one will dispute them with you. That fisherman +over there wants nothing but their fish. + +It is towards one or another province of this domain that Henry, freed +from the little tasks of the morning, turns each day with the soul of +an explorer. The house where he has slept and spent the morning between +four walls has a musty smell. He must leave it behind to get the poison +out of his system, set out at midday to receive the shock of the wind +and the sunlight. He is off for discovery. Soon the village and its +rancid taste are far in the walker’s rear. + +The point now is to keep clear of the tilled lots that bore him, like +those people who are so cultivated that he wants to turn his back +on them. It is to foil the eye of the house-fronts that are watching +among the trees, to avoid the roads and those people who, flourishing +some phrase of village wisdom, are capable of spoiling his whole day. +By foot-paths and short-cuts known from of old Henry steals between +the farms, like a marauder who is anxious to escape the owner’s +observation. At last he has emerged from the danger-zone; he is on the +threshold of a region where his studious sauntering will be troubled +by no further undesirables. The beautiful hours of the day begin, +the fruitful hours. The inspector visits a corner of the bad ground, +pauses, examines, calculates the harvest. How much this poor soil +yields! And how vast the domain is! Within a radius of ten miles about +the village, the surprises that await him are so marvellous and so +numberless that his whole life will not suffice to exhaust them. + +So Henry is the busiest man in Concord. The rest of you on your little +farms cannot imagine the concerns of a great farmer whose lands cover +more than the whole township. Nor can you imagine them, you men of +business. Henry does not close his store on Sundays and holidays. Henry +has no master who employs him. He is an incomprehensible donkey who +works for himself and never stops. In other words, a skulker. Such is +the opinion of those great toilers who, after the day’s work is over, +twist about in their chairs with their newspapers in their hands, +enjoying their poor hours of liberty and fulfilling the rites of the +Sunday boredom. This fellow seems to pay no attention to the rites. +Active in his silence, without appearing to be so, he is off at his +work. He alone knows the demands of this work and the wages. A true +loafer, this lad after whom a certain farm-hand, emboldened by drink, +shouts: “Hello, Mister, what do you think of the walking?” + +Henry’s work? Yes, walking, just that. But how explain to this country +simpleton and his kind what walking means for a born walker who +practises the art of walking, with all its emotions, its discoveries, +the great expectations that it arouses and the work at which it aims? +Two, three miles away from the village square you are in the midst of +the unknown, familiar as the place may be to you. In you there awakens +a world of relations that Main Street in Concord has never been able +to set vibrating. It has a reality so strange that sometimes you ask +yourself if the country of the Arabian Nights begins on the outskirts +of Concord or if it is the village ant-heap itself that is unreal. +These streams of living things flowing beyond human control for the +mere joy of being are fragments of a great poem that will find their +completion perhaps only in you--strange man who comes day after day to +surprise them, observe them, weigh their words and penetrate to their +rhythm. All the confidences of which you have been the depository since +childhood have woven between this wild life and your own (less wild?) +a web of intimacy so strong that to break it would be to tear yourself +to pieces. In what language, through what images, can you make the tame +people understand the force of this old passion that drives the heart +of an untamed man into the heart of this wild nature? + +The object of your expedition? What does it matter? At the end there +is always some conquest, big or little. Follow the direction that is +indicated by the magnetic needle of your instinct. Perhaps the thought +of some particular chum that you have promised to go and see has +decided you. For you have well-tried friendships out there amid the +waste of trees, weeds and ponds. To-day Henry has passed and heard the +news from this old boy that lives far away over there, like a squire +on his lands. He walks with an alert step, stops, his eye watching, +listens, bends over, picks some flower, examines it, full of spirits, +transformed, his heart high. All these familiar faces salute him as he +passes. He has acquaintances on every side. No one who has known him +at such a moment as this could ever see him as the stiff, purse-lipped +fellow, bored and hardly concealing it, who has to keep such a tight +hold on himself and his sarcastic impulses in polite company. It is +a new man that these friendly presences stir into life. Among his +own kindred he has recovered his humanity. He keeps his wry face for +society. Here he expands, he is himself, he is real. Sometimes it is as +if these open spaces were all one fast friendship that intoxicates him +like a drink between old cronies. + +Does all this astonish you? Perhaps the only things you know are the +four walls of your room, the doormat that lies before your threshold +and receives without a tremor the petty dust of your routine, and the +grey ribbon that leads to your daily bread. This may be enough for your +imagination. But confess that you have never set out for an adventure +beyond your dooryard. You have never risen well before dawn to go and +watch the awakening of the water-lilies and bring back a dozen or so +to put in a dish of water; you have never got up at the first peep of +the birds to climb the Cliffs and watch from up there the white sea +of fog strewn with the crests of the mountains like islands of which +you wonder if the inhabitants are not at this very moment watching +your own. At the end of the day, when the summer moon is in its first +quarter, you have never turned towards Conantum to listen to the sounds +of the twilight, while you study through your spyglass the neighbouring +slopes that look as immense as the Andes: a scrap of the song of a +boy on his way home, the trumpeting of the bull-frogs or a horse in +the distance neighing in a meadow. You have never walked miles and +miles at a stretch to go and watch, from one season to another, the +growth of a plant, as many as ten times in a fortnight, making detours +and digressions to pass other great friends of yours. You have not +scrambled up to the summit of a pine-tree to balance there, facing an +astonishing horizon, and climb down again to the ground besmeared with +resin but proud of having picked the unknown flower that opens up there +every summer for the sole joy of adventurous man. You have never even +bent your spine--not once--to study the landscape through your legs and +observe the surprising things in a sky that is hung with pictures of +the earth. No, you have never dreamed of the resources that procure for +a born walker a thousand means of feeling himself live. + +Surprised by a heavy rain, he remains for hours under a tree, in the +shelter of a roof of bark that he has made in an instant with his +knife, delightfully occupied in studying the texture of the fiber or +the minute vegetation at the foot of the tree, while the shower tumbles +and splashes the earth about this man who feels a strange well-being +(he never feels less alone than in this laughing cascade of merry +drops). + +He finds himself before a clump of shrub-oaks, as compact as a thicket, +and instead of going round it he plunges into it like a savage, going +through it in a straight line, bending down, pushing aside these +branches that are as hard as iron, regardless of rips and scratches on +his hands, regardless even of blinding himself, lost in the embrace of +the foliage but happy in bending its tough arms. + +He becomes so infatuated with a swamp that he thinks of remaining for a +whole afternoon weltering in the mud, not to doctor his aching limbs +but for the sheer delight of breathing the rich aromas and listening +to the hum of the insects, not as a stranger, an intruder, but as an +equal, as if he were himself a sweet-flag meditating on the strange +happiness of its fate. + +He listens and listens again to the ineffable evening song of the +woodthrush ... _hi willy willy--ha willy willy--o willy oh_ ... which +sounds continually, like a tender prayer to the heart of man that he +may remember, or the _de-de-de_ of the chickadees, trooping about him +as if they were in a playground. + +He watches the departure of the balloonists when the ripe down of the +milkweed embarks, free at last, on its great voyage, after having +awaited this moment all summer, one seed crowded against another. He +returns from his expedition in the brush, covered with clinging burs +that absolutely insist upon travelling with him. + +He remains for three-quarters of an hour motionless in the most +uncomfortable position to watch a turtle laying its eggs, or to observe +a female nighthawk, rigid on its nest and peering at him through its +all but closed eyelids. + +In mid-July, he takes his bath walking, as if on a road, down some +shallow river, his straw hat on his head, the water up to his knees, +then suddenly up to his neck, observing the incidents of the road, +the wayfarers whom he passes, the irregularities of the ground, the +waterplants as shapely as sea-weeds, the molluscs, moving along +like himself, a turtle shambling by, the entrance to the apartments +of a musk-rat and that mother pout advancing toward his naked self +with her procession of infants behind her ... a thousand of them at +least and all so credulous, so confiding ... the mother, frightened +at first by the monster barring her way, returning to them, then +becoming accustomed to the monster ... the little ones approaching and +examining his legs, tickling his toes.... They form such a cloud that +he can no longer see his feet in the clear water. + +He takes his boat and listens to the grinding of the oars in the +locks, which evokes for him all the odours and sounds of a harbour, +the swinging of the vessels in the docks, or spends hours on the water +fishing up driftwood that he will carry home and use for making a +trestle to pull his boat up on the shore. + +He feels, as he witnesses the felling of a great pine-tree a hundred +feet high and four feet in diameter at the base, as much anguish +of heart as if he were present at an execution, and he curses the +executioner. + +He leans with his companion over a rippling brook and sees their double +image, two black heads, as big as thumbs, William and Henry, looking +as if they were bending towards one another in this mirror of convex +bubbles, with the reflexion of the branch of a young elm crowning them. + +He feasts like a blackbird on those huckleberries which they call low +blueberries and carries them home by the pocketful, thinking that if +he were a Canadian he would also call them “bluets” and that if he +were a native of the country about Oulme in Normandy, not far from +the home of his great-grandparents, he would say to the little girls: +“Let’s pick some _maurettes_; we can eat as many as we like and keep +the rest for preserves.”... As a connoisseur he runs the whole gamut +of the whortleberry family, the wild grapes and the cranberries, not +forgetting the barberries. + +Best of all, in the old abandoned orchards, he gathers those wild +apples that are sour and crabbed enough to set your teeth on edge but +that later, when you eat them after they have been softened by the +frost, refresh your palate with a delectable cider. + +He inhales the fragrance of the plants in the moonlight when the +earth is breathing and the sounds have a supernatural delicacy in the +silence, or listens to the hooting of the screech-owls whose wisdom is +older and greater than that of all the sages. He would like to trifle +away the whole night. + +He feels that everything has a message for him and is awaiting his +response--the layers on the sides of the railroad cut, the fireflies in +the meadows, thistles, puffballs, migrating birds, and the immutable +mountains that he sees over there by the setting sun with their grassy +slopes where he pastures so often the flock of his thoughts ... as if +the vanished Indians still spoke to him, those Indians who sprinkled +the soil with arrow-heads (look here, one more for his collection) and +left the very embers of their fires intact under a crust of earth. + +He is like a trapper who sets his traps after sunset and visits them +before dawn, a skilful trapper who knows the likeliest places and +varies his bait, and keeps from his catch only the thing he is looking +for, a thing that is better than fur or meat. + +You think there is nothing here to sustain a man, saturate his life, +fill him with the desire to spend in such company not just a few hours +of afternoon but the whole day? The beings whom Henry comes to visit +may not communicate with the aid of articulate language, but they +have a soul just the same: how happy he would be to find a soul so +expressive among his own kind! Did you suppose that such company was to +be found only in drawing-rooms or the halls of the hotels in the city? +Pretentious human race that regards itself as the salt of the earth! A +little modesty, my neighbours. Out beyond that stretch of space where +the murmur of your words is no longer heard, a man sees and hears many +things, but never one that is absurd. + +Think of calling oneself impecunious with the great, beautiful day +before one and this swarming life around Concord! This poor fellow +goes off every day on his visit to the waste lands to watch the +growing things their two mingled poverties yield.... Henry enjoys that +elemental happiness which is the breath of the soul, freed from the +load that burdens it--knowledge, morality, prudence, laws. If he did +not have so much respect for the skin of a tree, he would like to cut +with his knife in the bark of that oak three simple letters: + + H H H + +_Henry Happy Heathen._ It would be a curious design on the bark and +would recall those mysterious signs which the Indians engraved to mark +their passing. Or Three Hatchets, to puzzle passers-by still more. And +then dance a wild jig around the tree at the thought of the beautiful +epitaph there, to be cut off some day and set on a flat stone among the +crosses and urns in a graveyard. + +He is happy without reason, because things are as they are ... happy +just as the river is happy as it hastens to join its great sister +and run with her down to the sea ... or as the leaves of the poplar, +fluttering as they prattle the news which this gay little wind has +whispered to them as it passed. In the delight that he shares with all +these things he strews the landscape with imaginary beings after his +own heart. There are whole families of them of whom he has never caught +so much as a glimpse, but who, as he knows, live there in the spots +where his dreams place them. From afar he greets them as he passes, +sure friends who must not be disturbed at their work or in their +serenity; it is enough to know that they are there. Their presence +helps him to endure cheerfully the misery of the town. + +With his own happiness chinking down in his pockets like an arrow-head +against the steel of his knife, Henry marvels that he never encounters +anyone on his expeditions. So he is the only one to profit by all this? +Not one of his own kind dreams of disputing his pleasure with him. I +am greatly obliged to you all. How kind of you to abandon the earth +to me, while you, sober souls, measure cotton behind your counters +or spend the whole afternoon sitting with your legs crossed on your +bench like a penitent! Take care or some green sprig may thrust itself +between the pages of your existence; this would spoil the pious images +that slip into your book. Work on, and let me carry off in peace what +you despise. You will not prevent a lad who is up earlier than you +and passes your yard in the moonlight without waking you from drawing +from your land the profits he is pleased to put into his own pocket. +Let each have his own share: you bear the costs and the risks and take +the money, and he in his poverty will collect the tithe. The hail that +ravages your harvest will be music in his ears. You will never believe +it; but unaware of it as you may be, it is for him that all your work +is done, good people. You think you are the possessors, but it is he +who possesses you. + +Henry exercises with impudent freedom the privileges that are common to +all men. He has not surrendered for the ownership of a miserable field +or two his claims to the whole earth. Henry knows his rights. He will +build a fence for you now and then at so much a yard, but you cannot +talk to him about Holy Property. + +Henry is the largest farmer in Concord. He collects the revenues of +a whole township. There are other men in this world who, through +carelessness or lack of skill, utterly fail to perceive what belongs to +them by right. They are the indifferent souls who forget to take their +share of the spectacle of the setting sun, the beauty of men and women, +the sea, the day, the night, the trees, the lands of their neighbours. +Well, it is for them that the little god with the big boots, the great +nose, the thin chest, the long arms and the sloping shoulders collects +the inalienable share of the common property. + +Suppose, some day, the village authorities, perceiving the value for +everyone of these journeys of a little god who so carefully keeps up +the forest paths and maintains the right of way wherever men might +like to go, were to coax him into accepting an appointment, as, let us +say, Conservator of Waste Lands or Inspector of Swamps or Curator of +Indian Relics? Something like a liaison officer between the wilderness +and civilization. Of course they would have to be tactful and appoint +him without any formal appointment. For in what form could they make +him accept the frightful idea of being any kind of town official! +With a little imagination they might be able to find the formula that +would permit him to remain his own free self and yet receive a small +allowance just the same. Perhaps a little fund, or a commission, as +in the case of an explorer.... Yes, assuming that you could find +in the bosom of the town-council the slightest sense of these fine +shades. Hm ... let’s not be too sanguine about it. But what a fine +thing it would be for the town to be assured for some trifling sum of +the services of a young man who has an eye for these treasure-chests +to which everyone can go and take what he likes when he feels his +soul in a cage behind the bars of his dull days.... Have you no sense +of your own interest, you poor silly people? He demands nothing, he +complains of nothing. He has had his choice and finds that he is amply +indemnified for having squandered all his capital in tilling the +wastes; but it would be rather nice now if they were to assure him a +pittance.... So Henry dreams and scatters his fancies to the wind along +his path. Yes, of all possible employments it strikes him that this is +the one he would have accepted most gladly, for he is prepared for it +by a long apprenticeship, and he could put into it so much of himself, +so much love. + +If it is for the sake of one young man of Concord that the seasons +arrange and vary their pageants, you may imagine what obligations +this favour imposes on him. Henry sets out in all weathers, from +one year’s end to another, favoured by a porous soil that is sandy +enough to absorb the water. The festival of summer offers the most +plentiful programme, of course, for there is room then for the longest +of processions from dawn till dusk, and the manager of the show is a +spendthrift. It dazzles us and leaves us with the impression of an +unequalled pomp when, after its mad extravagance, it has vanished in a +golden stream, sounding a glorious fanfare amid the blazing bonfires +of October. The illumined brow of the tiniest hill is a murmur that +mounts, swells, ends in a clamour of farewell to the great artist +who is disappearing. Every tree unites in this in the words of its +own language and the accent of its spot of soil. Listen.... The +hickories express their thanks with orange words, the oaks cry out in +scarlet that makes the blacksmith’s forge seem pale, the maples shout +with a mad note of crimson and yellow that spreads panic among the +sober-minded. A red flag unfurled would disappear in the fires of this +conflagration. + +It is as if a whole wild race of beings at the point of death were +confessing at last without reserve the delirious thoughts of the +year that have ripened in the August sunlight. Every weed, to the +very rim of the forest, every leaf tries, before it vanishes, to be +as sumptuous and beautiful and tempting as a flower. Even in the +streets of Concord, under the golden ruin of the great elms, one asks +oneself how the passers-by can still cherish such beggarly thoughts. +Then Henry’s eyes, gorged with the purple, the red, the lemon-yellow, +the flame-colour, do not lose a crumb of the feast. They devour the +oriflammes of the great flag-day, offered once a year to children and +barbarians to satisfy their joy in lively colours. And at this season, +when the villagers no longer go into the woods and he is alone under +this great rose-like oak, the deep scarlet of which forms so intense +a contrast to the green of the pines, he feels stirring in himself +a veritable troop of bohemians, good-for-nothings, ne’er-do-wells, +burning to join hands and dance, shouting as if possessed.... The +long festival of summer at its mad end! It returns later, appears +for a moment to offer a last farewell, with a calm, purified serene +magnificence, in the golden days of Indian summer with their flavour +of ripe fruit, ruddy, sweet and sunny.... Yes, the summer bears on its +brow the assurance of its triumph; it has the easy pride of wealth. But +the other seasons.... Are you so blind as to ignore them? + +Admit for yourself that you have never discovered what a different face +the seasons wear at home from that which they wear in the calendar. +You may know what it is to walk with great strides over a bed of dead +leaves, hearing them whisper like a crowd in a church at the entrance +of some expected personage. But it is a safe wager that you know +nothing of the real quality of those naked, desolate, paralysed days +at the end of November when a man feels that the best thing he can do +is to stay in his own hole, that there can be absolutely nothing for +him to glean amid this death of all things. But Henry has set out just +the same, without much hope in his heart; and lo and behold, in the +course of the journey through this windy desert a beautiful surprise +is waiting to feed and enchant his imagination. He returns with the +sunlight in his heart, “as if from an adventure.” What he has seen it +has required the nakedness of this dying November to permit him to +discover, and it is the very thing perhaps that he has been vainly +seeking so long in the abundance of the year. There is not a living +thing abroad but himself, not an insect, not a flower, not a reflexion +of real light, and here is this wandering lunatic, marching along with +his hands in his pockets, waiting for the dismal day to confide to him +for safe-keeping the particles of illumination and warmth that are +hidden under its desolate exterior. At this season, when the wild geese +pass in echelon, a thousand sometimes in a single day, the fancy seizes +him, when he is out of doors, to imitate their cry. The means are at +hand. You flap your elbows against your sides, then utter through your +nose, with your neck stretched out: _snowack_. It is so good that a +flock on their journey up there are positively deceived by it and do +you the honour to take you for a goose--a wild goose, let us hope. + +Winter has come. His visit is due, and since the first snow-flakes +a new joy has come to take the place of the little old pleasures +that still linger on. For this jolly newcomer, who has the blood and +strength of youth, needs all the room there is. Henry’s fingers are so +numb that he cannot open his knife, and he buries them in his pockets +to feel the pulse of this youthful joy. He puts on his cloak and +mittens: it is time for him to start. Walking is hard work; he has to +plough his way, and he turns round now and then to look at the furrow +he has dug in the melting snow that covers the earth. In this cheerful +little soul who walks along with padded steps, the warmth of this +pleasure is like a log-fire in a hut in the woods in January; it is as +if the evening crickets had left their snatches of song in some nook in +the timbers to keep it cheerful till their return. Weary of all this +whiteness, his eyes fasten upon a twig of brier glimmering with such +an intense green that it seems to be the bearer of all the memories of +the shrouded earth. Two men, seen from afar in this frame fishing for +pickerel through a hole cut in the ice of the pond, look as if they had +come out of some legend. + +Henry has walked into the land of metamorphoses. The pine-tree, in +its contentment, has deepened to a brown green; with its arms trimmed +to support the weight of the snow, it rises like a mass of fantastic +architecture. The miracle has spread even as far as the store in Main +Street, where the arborescence on the shop-window makes you forget the +beautiful Christmas presents that are on show there ... spread to the +very panes of your own window, which are being covered with a fern-like +growth. Winter is blossoming like the orchards in May with these +miraculous trees, each one wrought like a shrine. + +He has put his boat up for the winter. But the river is still there +for those who enjoy the wind, for them more than ever. It has prepared +for them a solid floor on which they can whirl as if they were on a +race-track. The skater has a double joy; he is the horse and the rider +at once. He moves swiftly wherever his fancy takes him; the best runner +is the merest lout beside him--the man on skates makes him look like +a fool. The heavy boat was not of much use, anyway; its clumsy body +was never able to follow all the windings of the river, and it was too +timid to lead you to all the things you discover as you dart over the +immense ice-sheet of the flooded fields where the little wooden bridges +emerge like islets. Henry, an accomplished skater from childhood, can +make fifteen miles an hour against the wind without straining himself. +While the good William is covered with perspiration from the strenuous +efforts he makes to keep up, Henry merely has a little watering of the +eyes from the wind of the race. No, without winter and the kindness of +the river offering its hard back, the master would never know many of +the aspects of his domain. + +Winter, the severe winter that is not a mere picture in the almanac.... +When the snow-storms block trains and roads and shut people up in their +houses.... When there is not a single sleigh to be seen in the village +square, nothing but a saddle-horse that has just brought a farmer into +town, Henry has gone out just the same, as far as the post-office.... +The bitter cold creeps into the house, freezes the bread, the milk and +the food in the pantry till you dread the moment when you have to go +upstairs to bed, thinking of those sheets as stiff as boards against +your cheek.... Indeed, you no longer know just how cold it is because +the mercury of the thermometer has taken refuge in the bulb, as a snail +in its shell. The earth cracks and splits; in the house the wood-work +creaks. This is no reason for ignoring what goes on out of doors; after +all, your skin is somehow related to the skin of the earth. If it +cracks too, well, you will look through the cranny. + +No need to go far to find a polar landscape. Here is Baffin’s Bay, +there is Nova Zembla. The snow is waist-high. No longer any trace of +the embankment of the railroad. The farmers have become cave-dwellers; +the houses are buried half-way up the windows, but the smoke rises +from the chimneys. The houses breathe. The silence is prodigious, it +hums in your ears. The colours sing on the white sheet, red, blue, +straw-yellow, purple, green, orange, russet, tawny. The light is pink, +and your shadow a deep indigo. + +What has the finest log-fire to say to those slippered folk who have +never left the chimney-corner when the moonlight on the snow leads you +by the hand through an enchanted palace, or on those days when the +south wind melts the snow and the uncovered earth exhales an odour that +invigorates you like the scent of strong meat, or on those evenings +when you come back armoured in ice because it has rained while you are +out and you are coated with rime like a gingerbread man? + +Is there any romance comparable to the events of a walk on a winter’s +day? The song that rises to your lips ... the echo that comes back to +you deadened because the snow has kept a good share of the sound of +your voice ... those vermilion berries sparkling with ice ... that +hardened ground offering you a footway in all directions where you were +never able to take a step in mild weather ... the living warmth that +smoulders under the red catkins of the alders and in the blue of the +silhouette of that Persian, with his hatchet in his hand, so tall, so +imposing, so admirable that you would like to present your respects to +him, just as if he were not your own shadow on the ice of the pond.... +Winter, hard winter, great banks of snow without which you would never +have known that downy intimacy in the padded hollows of the old earth, +season of the warm, quick heart under the frost! Now, remembering the +summer, you ask if winter is not also a person of substance, concealing +under his white furs the rarest jewels of the year. + +And that matchless moment when the spring breaks, just begins to +break--what do you make of that? If you remain in the back of your shop +while outside the wings of the swallows brush a man who is seeking for +an answer to the disquietude he has borne within him in the bleak +February or March landscape, you are a poor wretch who has deliberately +deprived himself of the cream of earthly emotions. You are to be +pitied if you have never prowled about then to receive the surprise +of the first signs. The winter for you has been merely a torpor, and +the end of winter will only be a renewal of the same old play, Rubbing +Along--with the same old scenery. + +The first bee has come out with numbed wings in search of the first +calyx. This man has come forth too, for he has been on the alert ever +since that day at the end of February when he found on the willows and +the osiers an unusual lustre of red and green. He is expecting great +news. Amid the dead leaves and the melted snow of a ditch he has seen +two yellow-spotted turtles moving. He is greatly stirred because of a +certain quality in the air which makes him think he is going to hear a +bluebird sing. He looks for signs that will bear out his presentiment. +On the watch from the ridges, he scrutinizes the deep blue of the +inundated fields where cakes of ice are drifting about, and upon this +mass of water which covers a good quarter of the land of the township +there is a little shining white spot that catches his attention: he +discovers through his glass that this is a little sheldrake which, with +its companion, has taken possession of the waters. So one couple is +already there, awaiting the coming of the procession. No more does he +himself intend to miss the first measures of the music announcing its +approach. + +March thrills with the anxiety of a man who is following the steps of +the resurrection. A robin has called, _svit, svit_. The black waves of +the river have almost a grassy smell. There are sea-gulls in the air. +The lookout-man scrutinizes the earth: bare and tawny, it reappears +in spots, its bosom exposed to the rains that are going to fertilise +it. The buds of the red maples are swelling. On a beautiful clear day, +after a night of frost the sap flows if he makes an incision. Henry +collects the sap to make maple sugar. He draws from his tubes four and +a half pints, boils them down and obtains an ounce and a half of sugar. +Fine. But his father cannot understand why anyone should bother to make +bad sugar when it is so easy to get good sugar at the grocer’s. His +father is right, as fathers always are. It is because he does not feel +the maple-sap flowing in himself. There is no sap in his pencils. + +Walking along his favourite path, the railroad-track, towards the +middle of March, when he hears the bluebirds and sees them flying, +Henry has a feeling of deliverance, as if some band that confined his +chest had burst. He would like to fall on his knees and embrace the +earth. The sound of a wood-cutter’s axe in the forest lightens his +heart. What doubts can he have henceforth? From a pool deep in the +woods comes the faintly perceptible _wurrk, wurrk, wur r r k wurk_ of +a frog, a treasure to this keen ear that catches it. The air grows +softer, an overcoat becomes troublesome. When the brooks break up, the +saunterer sets out along the banks to hear the song of their awakening +and watch the floating procession of the little rafts of ice. The fish +hasten up-stream, for they too have heard the great news and wish +to have the details. New arrivals are to be observed on all sides, +a procession of travellers returning after a long absence. How many +things they have to tell one another! + +One day a boat appears, freshly painted, setting out to reconnoitre in +the cold clearness. In the distance the village looks like a low island +lying in the water. The wind brings you an odour of musk. The note of +a bird that has come back sounds joyously in the woods as if he were +giving a house-warming there. Since the birds have returned, there is +one man in the village who rises before daybreak and goes out to hear +them in the dawn of things, a man who can sleep no longer when he has +heard that call flung from the tops of the elms along the street. A man +who must needs inhale the scent of the earth in the early morning, a +gardener who, when he plants his spade in the soil of his garden, once +released from the frost, has a feeling of victory, not so much perhaps +at the thought of the seeds he is going to entrust to it again as +because of this new life which, stronger than the shoots of April, he +feels germinating in himself. + +No use for you to say, to excuse your own inertia, that this man +owes to the unique quality of his senses the enjoyment he derives +from a spectacle in the midst of which the village is monumentally +indifferent. For nature has made him all nerves--visual, olfactory, +auditory, gustatory, tactile. Henry, the virginal New Englander, is +repaid for his chastity by the most voluptuous delights of the senses. +It is a great pity if you have not been repaid for your own; but is +that an excuse? The voice of sex has remained silent in him, or he has +silenced it by a strict discipline for reasons of his own--because his +race, his temperament, the gods of Concord demand it, and then because +... because that is the way things go, it makes no difference: nature +will have her due. Henry drinks water, but the essences of the waste +lands intoxicate him. There is no symphony orchestra in the village, +but a common accordeon or a hand-organ in the street is enough to wring +his heart, and a simple music-box enchants him. He eats little or no +meat but no epicure could scent with a more delicate nostril the savour +of a solitude that is peopled with secret lives. If carnal emotion at +the sight of the human body has not been annihilated in him, it cowers +in the darkness of so deep a cave that you will never catch a glimpse +of it. But he has at his command five scouts who always have marvellous +things to relate when they return to their master. They are able to +put such delicate perception, such freshness into their reports that +he could listen to them forever. Seeing, tasting, touching, hearing, +smelling are a matchless intoxication when you are served by such +stewards and have a soul in which their least declaration echoes and +re-echoes. + +Henry’s virility lurks in his eye. He has a look that envelops and +penetrates pitilessly a piece of the landscape and probes you to the +bottom if you form a part of it. Among the plants, the dead leaves and +the debris he distinguishes some tiny creature which, to the ordinary +passer-by, would be lost among the colours of the soil. But this man +with the senses of a savage relies especially upon his ear and his +sense of smell: a thing betrays or confesses its presence by the sound +it makes or the odour it gives off. The thrush’s song in the woods +touches the depths of his soul, but all space is strewn with fragments +of music that ravish him, as a child is enchanted by the tinkling of +crystal or the tick-tack of a watch. When he wishes to hear the news +of the world Henry puts his ear close to the telegraph-poles along +the railroad. You could never explain how astonished you are by this +murmur of the ocean that reaches you from the heart of a vibrating +mast. It is the same continuous story that a shell tells you when +you put it to your ear, but far greater, infinitely richer and more +sonorous. The listener, alone at the foot of the pole, far away from +the post-office, receives a flood of communications; he cannot make +out the words but their music is enough for him. It is as if they had +been round the world before coming to ring through the pores of the +wood; they have travelled so far that to receive them you wish you had +a larger frame. The dispatches vary according to the humour of the day, +the direction of the wind, the quality of the air. Henry never fails +to stop as he passes and listen to see if there is a message for him. +Very strange, the playing of this harp. You might pass twenty times +and hear nothing but a vague trill; and then, all at once, some fine +day, as if tremendous things were happening in the world, the wires +begin to vibrate with an unheard-of intensity and volume. What you hear +is yours alone; you may be sure that no one is eavesdropping at any +other receiving-pole unless some youngster is amusing himself as you +are, listening to the music, so much more beautiful than that of the +locomotive passing along the track. + +Henry’s big nose is no useless ornament: when he breathes the smoke +of burning leaves or the first waterlily of the season that has just +opened at dawn, all his quick sensibility flows into the sense of +smell. Of the five messengers, this is the most faithful; its report +carries conviction. When he picks a plant, Henry first smells it to +see if he knows it; and even in re-reading some page he has written he +_smells_ what is good and what ought to be rejected. The surrounding +country is full of floating aromas that have come heaven knows whence, +varying with the hours and the seasons but always there, and sometimes +so fragrant as to make you think that your adventure has led you to the +shores of the Moluccas, the Spice Islands. + +And you speak of renunciation in connection with a penniless man who +has for his daily bread such delights as these! When you see the +wanderer returning from his rounds, perhaps chewing a stalk, you +would not fling him a glance of contemptuous pity if you knew what +he has brought back with him. First of all, good folk of Concord, the +satisfaction of a man who has not wasted his day. A good walker, he +has zigzagged about for miles. On the way back he has spent a quarter +of an hour perhaps on the cliff, watching the sun sinking behind the +Peterboro hills and blazing in the windows of the first houses in the +village. Wachusett, all by itself over there, looked like a whale this +evening at sunset. And with this sumptuous vision he returns, as the +bats are flitting about, just as you are on your way to the post-office +to get your own news. + +In his pockets he carries the spoils of the day: notes that he has +scribbled on his walk as a painter jots down a hasty outline in his +sketch-book, and perhaps a few lucky finds, plant or fruit, egg or +bit of moss, flint or bark. But among these finds there is one you +would never count, if you were allowed to plunge your hand to the very +bottom of his big pockets or even into that surprise-hat. It takes up +much less room than a handful of huckleberries or chestnuts. The best +of the spoils--can you guess what it is? It is the invigorated mind, +the soul that has been stretched by the adventure of the day.... This +imponderable that he has brought home from the wastes to fertilise +his life and enrich his humanity is a rather big affair, you see, +brothers.... This lesson he has received from the plants and the trees +in the art of self-expression.... These spoils that a rambler has taken +from your orchards and fields, you farmers of Concord.... This barely +visible green which the plants and the mosses have left on his elbows +and his knees.... This earth that he brings back on his boots, full of +things to be born which have made the journey with him and for which he +cares so much.... + +In the evening, in his room, when the shopkeepers are making up their +books and the farmers are counting the loads of hay that have been +brought in, Henry does not forget to note down these discoveries. +They are not expressed in figures, hardly in words. They are not even +palpable. But they fecundate the page that he is adding to his Journal. + +For is it not a Henry-still-to-be-found that he has followed as a +hunter follows the trail through all the zigzags of his walk? Is it +not, after all, a reflexion of himself, in these faces in the verdure +and the water, in these cries, this silence, this wildness, these +odours, this swarming growth, these blue shadows on the snow--is it not +himself that he has glimpsed at the end of the path? + + * * * * * + +Extraordinarily enough, one April evening in 1844 the man of the wilds +returned from his walk not alone nor with one companion but accompanied +by a whole troop of villagers. What was the meaning of this unusual +spectacle? + +It was Town-Meeting Day, a serious ceremony in a democratic community +and one at which every loyal citizen, proud of being a necessary unit, +was expected to be on hand. Henry, who had no love for voting and +debating, nor any pride in the exercise of his civic rights, did not +feel that his presence was indispensable. If he failed in his duty as a +citizen and a unit, well, he could survive it. This little celebration +was not for him. Let every man mind his own business. This day was +plainly intended for a spring-time exploration; young Edward, still in +college and Henry’s comrade because he was the brother of his friend +Elizabeth Hoar, was going with him. They were to set off by boat on the +river, and they were not coming back till they had found the sources +of the Sudbury River. They were going to camp on the bank unless they +found a farmhouse where they could spend the night. They were taking +their fishing-tackle with them, having decided to live like savages +on their catch. A magnificent prospect, while the citizens, conscious +of their duties and their rights, were worthily spending the day +palavering. + +So they had set off, light-hearted, as in the old days when the big +brother had gone off with the younger on a long adventure. They had +forgotten the matches for the camp-fire, an omission that could be +repaired happily at the cobbler’s, near the point of embarkation. It +would be no sort of day without matches for two fellows gaily setting +out over the world. + +As the spring had not been rainy, the river was low and they caught +some fish. When the time came for lunch they landed on the shore of +Fairhaven Pond, the big bay with its little island adjoining the +richest provinces of the domain. The two explorers had started a fire +in a sunny hollow, a long way from the woods; they were about to eat +their fish and they had the appetite of cannibals. But, lo and behold, +if the tall, dry last year’s grass didn’t catch fire like tinder about +the camp! They tried to put it out with their hands, then by beating +it with a board, but all in vain. The flames were already eating their +way up the slope and the underbrush was crackling.... They were stunned +for a moment. “Where will this end?” asked young Edward, whose father, +the old Senator, was one of the bigwigs of the village. The flames in +their headlong joy were rushing towards the top of the slope and the +woods in a transport of victory and Henry was sure they were going to +devour everything. The woods once reached, it would certainly be the +village next; the fire would descend upon the assembled citizens who +were debating and voting. So there was nothing to do now but to run +and charitably warn them of what was threatening. Edward, very much +excited, leapt into the boat to go back by water. Henry, speeding +through the woods by his usual short-cuts, would reach the village +before him and give the alarm. + +It was a bad business, but how could they have foreseen it? Many and +many a time they had lighted a fire out of doors and burned a little +of the surrounding grass without doing any harm. These furious flames +had the most definite and perverse intentions: they were like a tidal +wave of red rebels, even surer of their rights than the citizens over +there. Henry raced through the woods, and, looking back, saw the great +cloud of smoke behind him. The first man he met was a farmer driving a +team who, when he was told what the smoke meant, cheerfully jogged on +again: it was not his woods that were burning. But that other man over +there in his field happened to be the owner of the woodlot where the +flames were crackling at that very moment. He followed the messenger +on the run towards the fire: but what could they do, two men, even if +one of them was the owner, before that crepitating wave of assault?... +A hundred cords of wood, ready for delivery, were threatened with +disaster. They must go for help. + +Henry was out of breath. He was going to stay there and wait for +events, while the owner went for reinforcements. The battle-front now +extended over half a mile. Henry watched it rushing on. It was a fine +spectacle. He had forgotten all about Wheeler, the man to whom the +largest of the threatened woodlots belonged. He was a deacon, yes, +just so, as chance would have it. You go off fishing and light a fire +to cook your catch and innocently set fire to a deacon’s woodlot. Just +Henry’s luck. It was too bad about that fellow--but the devil take him +anyway! Perhaps these woods that praised God in their own fashion +were tired of belonging to a deacon. So crackle, beautiful flames, be +as red as you like, beautiful logs! It will take away from you the +taste of the deacon. Henry climbed to the top of the cliff to enjoy +the spectacle better; and sitting on a rock he watched the flames +leaping for joy, escaping with a hiss from their old prison under the +bark, spreading so rapidly that they threatened to surround him, high +up as he was--watching with the satisfied eye of an artist. The fire +licked the roots of the pines, then sprang with one leap to their tops. +The squirrels beat a retreat, the wood-pigeons flew away through the +smoke. He heard the alarm-bell in the village. This was a moment worth +living. Just before, when he was running to warn the people, Henry +had felt rather sheepish; but now a pure joy blazed up in him at this +conflagration that seemed to have been decreed by the solitary Nero +calmly seated on the top of the rock, enjoying the spectacle while the +rescuers were approaching. + +For several hours he fought the fire with the others who were dashing +about. Result: a hundred acres burned over, including many young +trees. He had no reason to feel so proud--or to be astonished at being +called a “damned rascal” by those whose woods had suffered. As for the +crowd that had rushed up from the village, they seemed to be tacitly +grateful to the good-for-nothing who had provided them with this free +conflagration to crown their Town-Meeting Day. + +After all, if anyone had reason to be grieved, was it not Henry +himself, thinking of the beautiful young trees that had been destroyed? +He who owned the woods by a different right than the persons who had +paid their market-value in mere greenbacks? He who loved them for +themselves and not for the number of cords of wood that could be got +from them? Walking through the burned woodland alone that night to see +if the insurrection had been entirely quelled, the incendiary thought +of the fresh shoots that would spring up with new life through the +charred surface. + +On the spot where they had had their interrupted lunch lay those +blessed fish, shamefaced and shrivelled, as if they were the real +culprits. + + + + + V + + +In spite of all, dear Concord, a man would have to be very perverse +and strangely made not to accept you with all your faults, your +absurdities, the petty prosaicness of your townspeople.... Not to +embrace you as heartily as the river-bank embraces your Main Street, +without debating your good and your evil.... Not to respond with a +smile to the smiling unison of this little world where farmers and +citizens, tradesmen, workmen, store-keepers, educated people, after the +purest tradition of democratic equality and simplicity, are scarcely +distinguishable from one another.... In the shade of those great +elms that spread harmony over all, how can one fail to feel tenderly +sympathetic with this family of honest souls? + +See the two white churches there, the tavern and the jail, where they +will receive you without the least compunction. Few of the things are +absent from the village that make the solid happiness of the world. +Not even a bowling green and a centre of high culture. There is the +Mill-dam, where the people gossip and munch the news of the day, the +blacksmith’s, the post-office, the shops. And the little wooden houses +with their Doric pediments, painted white, with the gardens stretching +down to the willows to reach the water. Everything is in its place, +everything in concord. The village sings in its grey-white, in the +green of the meadows and the pine-crowned hills, with the approbation +of those beautiful big maples on the common, as serene as philosophers. +And on Sunday, when no townsman would have the bad taste to abuse the +peace of the Sabbath by playing the piano or taking his skates to +the river, and an awful silence reigns over the wooden sidewalks, how +good it would be to allow oneself to be carried along by the godly +simplicity of the town, dozing blissfully to the sound of the clock +that spreads the enchantment of submission. + +Yes, indeed.... And there are moments when Henry could envelop in his +affection all the households of dear Concord. For example, when he sees +the roofs smoking far away over the crests of the young elms; when +humanity melts into the landscape or is only heard in the sound of an +anvil, the shout of a ploughman with his team. At such moments as these +he was in concord too. From a distance it was so easy to believe that +people lived there whose daily life flowed like the river that bears +you along as it gives you its freshness. Why, when you have taken part +since your infancy in the activities of the village, are you not the +dupe of appearances? The smile of Concord hides so many ugly thoughts, +mean habits, dull conventions; there is so much tacit deceit in its +simplicity. Why has not nature made you complete by granting you the +adaptability that accommodates itself to the little frauds of ordinary +life, to the devious path that discreetly spins the thread of its days? + +It is not Henry’s fault if he is at odds with it all. Instead of the +treasures of indulgence that nature might have given him, she has +provided him with a sense of smell too subtle not to be offended by its +odours of routine and rapacity. He thinks of that old farmer, living +alone on his big farm with a man to do his housekeeping for him, who +gets up every morning in mid-winter, when everything is frozen hard, +between three and four o’clock, puts on his boots and his coat, lights +his lantern and goes out to the barn to milk his seventeen cows. Of +course it is warm in the stable near the cows, but just the same.... +Rich, without heirs, he yokes himself to this task of milking, his one +satisfaction in life being to fulfil punctiliously the function of a +miser. You see him returning to the house, his morning task ended, and +eating the breakfast his man has prepared while the master was at work +at the seventeen udders. All very fine, you say. But how surprised he +would be one of these nights, when the animals begin to talk, if he +heard a sisterly cow say to him: “Go back to bed, old man, and when +you wake up glance over your accounts again. See how much cream your +life has given you for all that your pails of milk have furnished.”... +Obstinate soul, perverse rebel, not to be able to forgive these +virtuous farmers because, while their first concern is to fill their +barns with good hay, they think they absolve themselves from the sin of +avarice by posing as protectors of letters and the arts. + +In the good society of Concord he finds himself among notables of +Philistia who like to feel that they are the choice spirits of New +England. These are the upper spheres of the village. Henry avoids +them, for his lungs are not adapted to the air they breathe there. The +language and attitudes of society people have the unfailing effect of +precipitating the mercury of his thermometer to the bulb. On the rare +occasions when he has been exposed to the hostile and malign influences +that float in the humblest parlour, the experience has left him with a +bad memory. It is there that you encounter those people who say to you, +with their faces shining with amiability: “Oh, my dear fellow, how well +I understand your love of nature.... It is so poetic....” + +The victim has his ferocious words or silences for cases of this kind. +If the lover of “nature” and “the poetic” were shrewd enough, he could +collect a good pint of the most acid disgust this mouth and these +pursed lips are able to distil. + +He cannot always avoid the peril under its most artful forms. When he +has charge of the lectures at the village Lyceum, he cannot refuse to +carry the manuscript of the distinguished lecturess who is going to +discourse this evening on Woman: she has rolled it up in a handkerchief +and he has thrust it into his pocket before returning it to her. He +would be very glad to fulfil with stoical politeness for half an hour +the obligations of ladies’ man, but he would be happier if his pocket, +the next morning, did not retain such a fragrant reminder of the lady, +of her manuscript and her dressing-table. Feminism and perfumery have +craftily conspired to get the best of his lining. Similarly, when he +has allowed himself to be taken across the threshold of some stifling +room where, under the pretext of a “soiree,” thirty-odd idle women, +young or not so young, are chattering, simpering, warbling, in company +with various gentlemen who are dumb with admiration, the sad thing is +not merely the two mortal hours that he has passed there, wretched and +humiliated: the worst is the shame afterwards of his own weakness which +has prevented him from fleeing on the spot or committing some enormity +that would spread panic in this dovecote. The pretty girl to whom they +have presented him would have been charming perhaps if she had been +willing to keep still among all these ladybirds. In masculine society, +after a social dinner well seasoned with anecdotes, he feels just as +unhappy till he is past the door and free. In vain Henry holds himself +on the defensive: on another occasion there is that benign soul who +intrudes upon him with an oily affection for his person, an odious, +vulgar familiarity. + +In the presence of these samples of cultivated humanity, Henry’s +natural stiffness is intensified and he becomes so icy that it is +difficult to imagine him ever laughing--as a good lady had the +hardihood to remark to him one day: she had never heard him in his +gay moods, for she had encountered him only during a call in a region +where, owing to the atmosphere, the laughter of this laugher was +extinguished. The polite people of the village, the church-goers, +those upright and self-sufficient folk, provoke his curt witticisms, +the sharp rejoinders that suddenly rivet a fellow, with outstretched +wings, like an owl over a barn door. Henry inevitably reaps antipathies +and lasting enmities. The clever ones think that he wants to astonish +and scandalize people by his paradoxes. They think he is pretentious. +His reputation for merciless satire and a cynical misanthropy, odd to +the point of perversity, is of his own making. If you roundly abuse +philanthropy and philanthropists, of course it shows that you are +not very anxious to win the esteem of the world. The plain-dealer +sometimes amuses himself with this game of massacre, delights in +sharpening his sarcasms, but without wasting any considerable time +on the characters who play in the village comedy: the keenest of his +sarcasms is to ignore them. When they come to his attention he packs +them off as intruders: let these fine-mannered gentry air their graces +somewhere else and leave common mortals alone. A substantial citizen, +whoever he may be, is always a slightly ludicrous animal in the eyes +of a workingman like Henry. A man’s virtue is all nonsense if it is +disconnected from his sins. + +Happily Concord has something more than the silence of its elms and +maples to unite it with the true humanity. It also possesses those +congenial souls who gather about the Sage in the household where Henry +has been living, a spiritual family whose friendship has a far better +flavour than all the sarcasms. The pipe and frock of Edmund Hosmer, +that shrewd farmer who knows what the earth is made of, make up for +all these mean peasants. Amos Bronson Alcott, who has returned from +an adventure in which he has vainly tried to consummate the marriage +of dreams and reality in a paradisical existence, may be a cause +of wit in others, but his presence is really like an anticipation +or a recollection of the golden age. Henry has no particular taste +for the sky-blue tint of his idealism, so delightful to old maids +who are devoured by spiritual love, but he feels a brother in this +poor dreamer who is so helplessly unfitted to follow the ways of the +world. He lends him a good hand and digs beside him, when Alcott is +settling at Hillside. In every stroke that he takes with the pickaxe, +as they sweat side by side on the slope, the beautiful Platonic dreams +incarnate themselves in the shape of friendship. Henry is not unhappy +as a comrade and handyman in the service of philosophy. Who knows +but the good Alcott’s immense generosity of soul does not exist to +counterbalance all the miserliness of the neighbourhood? + +With Hawthorne one doesn’t turn up the earth. In the company of this +imposing personage, a simple heart sheathed in solemn gravity, Henry +is inclined to present rather an iron visage: like black cloth and +corduroy, they are somehow unable to be friends. In handing over his +boat to him--the boat of the great voyage, which he manages like a +virtuoso--Henry, the dry joker, remarks: “It’s a boat that manages +itself, you see.” The grave Hawthorne tries it, with the awkwardness of +a beginner, and the boat, deprived of its soul, obeys no more. + +Of this spiritual family, however, the one who is most closely akin +to him is William. They have been comrades since the days before +Henry’s departure for Staten Island. William Ellery Channing, one +year younger than himself, is the nephew of a Unitarian minister, a +professor at Harvard. He has married a sister of Margaret Fuller, the +animating spirit of the _Dial_. An odd soul, whimsical, fanciful, not +very sociable, childlike, hard to please, charming, full of imagination +and in other respects the best companion in the world. William also +writes verses, but in other respects, in spite of his independence, +he is not wholly exempt from a touch of Philistinism. He has a knack +of sharpening Henry’s love of paradox and leads him rather to force +the expression of his cynicism in regard to the civilised; but he is +an invaluable friend for toning you up again when you are feeling a +little slack. And when they set out together for an afternoon’s ramble +they are the happiest of comrades, welcoming the surprises of the road +in the intoxication of an open-air chat. Of all possible cronies he +is almost the only one whom Henry accepts, the only one who does not +throw a blot upon his afternoon landscape; with William he can have a +silent understanding. To whom but William then, and those fields that +are free from fine manners, do you show yourself as you are, with your +boyish zest, your fits of gaiety, the bursts of buffoonery that make +you dance and leap over the ice when you are skating? William is the +witness of those spontaneous moments when the spleen of a young man who +has been frozen by the sight of stupidity breaks and falls into pieces +like a mask of clay. What is under the mask reveals itself only to this +friendly nature, this friend after one’s own heart. + +A lover of the wilds can enjoy friendships like this that establish +in the greyness of the village a few luminous points proclaiming the +presence of his own kind. Why are they not always complete enough to +satisfy him fully? Too often Henry feels a kind of embarrassment in +his relations with brotherly minds. The impediment is not of his own +willing. He asks to be filled to the brim, and these half-unbosomings +leave him dissatisfied with himself and others. When he is away from +them, alone in the woods, it seems to him that the silence of his +surroundings speaks of a truer friendship than that which he feels in +their company: it is a silence whose “yes” melts all discords. A tree +knows the art of winning you without discussion, while in the presence +of a human face you resist, you are a stubborn mule, a bellicose +intransigent who will not appear to approve of what he condemns and +then demolishes his adversary--his friend--with blows of crabbed +speechlessness or bitter irony. A human face is a provocation; at the +least pretext you discharge a “no” that shoots like an arrow. + +Even among such friends as these, if an opinion, a gesture, an attitude +happens not to suit him, Henry rolls up into a ball and erects his +quills. Touch him then if you dare. Look at him, bristling with +resistance, ready to defend his position against all comers, fiercely +resolved not to yield an inch of ground. No doubt the ground is too +precious for him to sacrifice an inch of it. Pride? Conceit? Touchy +susceptibility? It is rather an excessive, irreducible, militant +devotion to various axioms that he identifies with himself. The gods +have made a Henry who is all of a piece, and they have placed him on +the earth among objects and souls that are different and queer. He +reacts. He has no particular desire to please you. But you happen to +be his friend. Well, one owes a friend the purest truth one has. If +friendship ceases to be a perfect harmony, it is a struggle, not an +exchange of concessions. So Henry abruptly says his “no”: forces rush +from all the provinces composing the individual Henry Thoreau, throwing +into disorder everything in their way. He must attest, amplify, exalt +the difference, to establish the fact that he is this and not that. +The Sage, a friend of long standing, knows something about all this: +the ferocity of this instinct of contradiction shocks the man with the +exquisite and conciliatory smile, though it does not cool his affection +for this headstrong soul who sometimes puts his patience to a severe +test. The other friends are also very familiar with their “terrible +Thoreau” in whose eyes esteem seems to be the strongest of reasons +never to capitulate. And they allow themselves to be cut by his plain +speaking or bitten by his caustic spirit, on occasion, since he will +not give himself on any other terms. A naked simplicity is necessary +to this fearfully difficult man. Manners fill him with horror, like an +indecency. If you allow him to see that after all you belong to a world +in which the desire to be correct and respectable taints your gestures +or speech, well, for the moment that is the end of your understanding. +You have shown the tip of the black cloth from which the frock-coats +are cut. To be a man, a plain man, would be so fine and so sincere. Why +this smooth, mealymouthed parlour-talk? Henry retires into his shell of +silence. This is not the sort of thing he was expecting from you. + +As for those people who are as sober as a church-pew, they cannot +understand why a savage wants to whet his fancy and his paradoxes and +gravely make a butt of their respectable heads. Innocent souls who +are skilled in cleaving the interstellar spaces but whose terrestrial +envelope is of a prudently bourgeois cut have difficulty in adapting +themselves to the diapason of an artistic sensibility. That is why +Henry, who is both savage and artist, never feels so fully as at the +times when he is away from his friends the value of a friendship that +would have the serenity of a landscape in which every blade of grass +has a true word to say. + +However it may be with men and their manners, Concord is in the centre +of a territory that is rich in living springs where all deceit is +drowned, and Henry has his home with his own family in the heart of +Concord. In the great kingdom of the afternoons--wind, sun or snow--the +little kingdom of morning, evening, night--shelter, stability, ties: +the house, the garden. + +The little kingdom is peopled, not like the great, with secret lives +and furtive encounters as he passes, but with beings to whom he is +united more closely than by blood: by the memories of childhood and +their sweetness, strong as the memory of a brother, the sharing of +every day, and the tenderness that cannot refuse itself. There is his +mother, lively, talkative, full of geniality, the animating spirit +of the little house, skilful in the art of making a little go a long +way when times are hard, a housekeeper as heedful of the comfort of +the boarders who are entertained at the family table as in mending +the pockets of her son’s trousers. There is his father whom nature +has endowed with a middling stature and an air of prudence, a rather +retiring man because not destined to command but to find his way in a +tacit submission to the justifiable authority of his wife. As nature +has not developed in him to excess the imaginative and poetical sense, +he is the better able to play the part of a cautious, circumspect +little father who looks after his pencils, attends to his work, +silently, sedulously, with a mind set on details, good man that he +is. And then Sophia and Helen, Henry’s two sisters--Helen, the elder, +with the big eyes, the strong nose and a mouth as expressive as her +brother’s. Finally, Aunt Sophia and the devoted Aunt Louisa, when one +or the other happens to be living with the family. + +This is the harmonious household the thought of which filled with such +ardent melancholy the heart of the exile in the Judge’s house, as if +he had heard from afar the shrill sound of the delicious music-box, +the gift of Richard, Margaret Fuller’s brother, with which the family +regaled itself in the evening. At home, the ne’er-do-well, the +jack-of-all-trades cheerfully does his share of the work, taking charge +of all the small tasks that need to be done. + +The valuable little services that he renders his family extend even +to his boat, which not only bears occasionally the two noble dames, +Sophia and his mother, who enjoy a trip on the river in the evening, +but serves him for gathering driftwood to stock the wood-pile. The wood +that he hoists on board with a pole and then carries on his back to the +house, saws and splits with his hands, has a tawny life that warms you +a great deal better than the rotten wood these silly rich people buy +at so much a cord; for you have already sweated in transporting it and +cutting it up, and when you see its flames dancing the trouble it has +given you makes them dance all the more merrily. It is wood which, far +from costing you anything, gives you returns. It is of every kind and +has plenty of stories to tell you--old pickets, old planks, old stumps, +dead trees, condemned, adventurous timbers which, instead of rotting in +their abandonment, are going to give the Thoreaus before they vanish +the last rays of their glowing hearts, leaving beautiful ashes that +will be valuable for washing. + +In the garden, it goes without saying, Henry’s function is as important +as that of his mother in the house. He raises enough potatoes for the +needs of the table and occasionally has some to sell. You can order +them by the bushel from the market, if you prefer. You can settle +yourself in your slippers in a corner by the fire, without knowing +what it is to have logs from your own wood-pile. You can taste the joy +of living like a potato or a stump. But he is a gardener to whom the +potatoes, even before they have been gathered, have given something +more nourishing than their starch. Henry’s work in his garden brings +with it another recompense than the beauty of the melons, the pumpkins, +the fruit-trees, the rose-bushes that he cultivates. Besides, the +garden is that one place in all the world where the home is contiguous +to the earth. + +When the family is obliged to leave the big house where they have lived +for seven years, the Parkman house in the centre of the village where +the school was begun, a scheme is adopted which they could not have +conceived, still less executed, without the boy’s aid. For the question +is one of building a house. They are going to live at the end of the +world, in a lane on the other side of the railroad. A big undertaking, +a man’s work, to excavate the earth and lay the foundations, pave the +cellar, take the measurements, collect the materials. He would be happy +to do it for other people; he is still happier to do it for his own +family. Henry does the digging, the masonry, the carpentry, the slating +with his father. He plants the fruit-trees. There is a fine view from +the house; and besides, it is somewhat sheltered from the routine and +the tittle-tattle of the village. He will be able to sleep well under +this modest roof that he has put up himself. + +Aside from the aid of his skilful and inventive hands, the man of the +wilds does not refuse his family that best of himself of which he +is far from lavish outside. What the chestnut is to the bur the big +child who amuses himself by the half-hour with the kitten or dances a +jig with his intimates is to the “terrible Thoreau” of those sharp +replies. Is he tamed then? Well, perhaps so, if you mean by this that +his resistance, in the family circle, adopts a tolerant and courteous +manner--which his friends would greatly appreciate. If, at table, the +maternal voice occasionally interrupts your dialogue with a friend, why +vent your ill-humour instead of listening till this gifted woman has +had her say? Her son patiently lets the downpour pass, as if he were +under a pine-tree in the woods, and at the last drops acquiesces with a +little bow: “Shall I take the liberty ... my turn?”--then resumes the +interrupted discussion. Because he himself despises the newspapers, is +he going to cast a scoffing or disdainful glance towards his father, +deep in the paper he is reading from the first line to the last, with +the touching faith of an honest shopkeeper? Nothing more natural than +that the good man should like to roll the lollipop of the “latest news” +in his mouth to get rid of the taste of the lead. Let him roll it as +much as he likes and go up to bed: his son will not plague him with +demands for advice, for he relies for everything on his own personal +experience and looks for little or nothing from the knowledge of his +elders. Henry’s indulgence is not blind. He knows the prejudices, the +limitations of this beloved little house, and he notes them on occasion +in his Journal. But his home is an indisputable reality to which he +comes back every evening, on his return from an adventure, finding +there certain special ways that may not have very much in common with +his inner life but that belong to him just the same, exactly how he +could hardly say--his father’s love of good work, for instance, a +perfect pencil or a phrase that hits the bull’s-eye, and his mother’s +vivacity of imagination and lively spirits that are always ready for +a little mischief. And if the sisters, the excellent aunts alone +had been there to warm the wanderer, all his roads would still have +converged towards this fixed light. + +Is the little flame of the family fire fed at the same sources as those +wandering lights that attract his eye on his walks and make him stop +as he stops before his friends the trees? But that is another story. +These lights are not will-o’-the-wisps but miraculous beings that win +the favour of an unsociable soul, as if they had no connection with +a humanity that he has tried and condemned. Go and ask the cleverest +person in the village to explain this strange fact to you: you have +heard of a young fellow who is intolerably conceited, who affects a +gruff, stiff, top-lofty air when he is in company--such is the report +of the polite people--and this workingman here, if you happen to ask +him whether he knows this boy, tells you that he is the most amiable +of companions.... Then there are two Henry Thoreaus in Concord? +The workingman tells you about a delightful boy, sincere, simple, +always ready to do you a good turn and always to be depended upon; in +describing him he uses the sort of words that come to you when you are +speaking of a brother, without the least allusion to his conceit, his +stiffness, his sarcasms. He does not know of any other Henry Thoreau; +there is no other in Concord.... It is simply incomprehensible. And you +will never understand it if you are not of the understanding kind. + +There exist, in fact, among the human fauna of this village, of all +villages, magicians who have the power of calling this other Henry +instantly into life, the Henry whose friendship is gained for all time +by his own kind. There are certain characters who have no part in +Concord society--obscure little nameless people, men who do odd jobs, +farm-hands, small farmers, and there are people of dubious reputation, +bad boys, who are akin to the waste lands, fishermen, Irishmen, +wood-cutters, small fry, loafers, weeds in the eyes of the village +bigwigs. Henry finds them very much to his taste. These latter are real +people, not play-actors. The artist is touched, the heart of the man is +captured. The grain of sympathy that is buried in the depths of this +unsociable soul can rise to the surface just the same. And he shows +them his true face, which is unknown to the prosperous townspeople, the +well-to-do farmers and the deacons. + +When he sees one-eyed Goodwin, the tough old fisherman, making for +the river-bank at any hour of the day, small and thick-set under his +old oil-cloth coat, carrying his basket and pole or fetching home +in a handcart the wood he has collected in his boat, or dressed in +his short blue frock, chopping stumps for his winter after having +laid wall all day, Henry feels less isolated among men. Goodwin, the +vicious character, as the good people call him, puts a little poetry +into their sanctimonious dullness. He lives his life cheerily in the +freshness of the river and the fields, far from all these souls who are +so poor in imagination and sincerity. It is the same way with those +hunters, drunkards, rascals who are periodically sent to serve a term +in the House of Correction, like that big, lanky young blackguard of +a Melvin, with his baskets and his game-bag, accompanied by his lean, +bluish-white, black-spotted hound, who are so much more your own kind +than the village lawyer. Their gunshots sound so free in the woods, +and you remember the time when you wandered about the country like +these blessed pagans for hours with John. Melvin is an antidote to the +morality of the deacons. Melvin is a part of the beauty of Concord. + +And there is Rice sawing the planks in his workshop. He is a master +of the art of living. Whether he is digging in the earth or going off +hunting or fishing with his boy, everything seems to amuse him. The +sacrosanct law of stupefying labour was not invented for him, for he +always consults his own time and pleasure when he works. At the mere +sight of him you forget the ugliness of humanity, you graze the reality +of a life that is strong and leafy as a poem; you are no longer alone +in the world with your dreams and your sadness. Rays of joy that +warm you as you pass, the gift that the poor make to the solitary +walker.... How could you fail to be enlivened after days of misery by +the childlike gaiety of old Brooks who, at eighty, bent double with +age, sets out every day with his basket under his arm to gather a +little wood and whatever else happy chance may offer to cheer his old +days? To-day, dressed in an ancient frock-coat, he has come back from +an expedition, barefoot, an axe in one hand, in the other carrying the +boots that he has filled with apples because his pockets would hold no +more. He has also brought back a thrush with a broken wing that he has +found, and old Brooks is very happy in his find--as happy as yourself +as you stop to hear him tell about it on an autumn evening made still +lovelier by the old man’s delight. Bit by bit he has gathered in two +cords of wood for his winter; but they will certainly warm him less +than this schoolboy’s joy in roaming the countryside which has remained +intact in the heart of a poor old grandfather who blesses the life that +puts thrushes in his path. + +Why are there certain beings of whom it is enough to have a glimpse +to be happy? When you meet old Minot and cross a woodlot with him, +everything seems to sing at his mere presence while he tells you +stories of the days when he used to go hunting. One glimpse of his +little cottage on the hillside is enough to make you forget that there +was ever an ugly house in this world; it is the first to show signs +of the coming of spring and the last to bid farewell to the beautiful +season. How easy it is to understand why old Minot has never wanted to +budge from Concord, when even his rheumatism cannot keep him indoors! +It is up there you must hear him, surrounded by the old furniture that +he has inherited from his ancestors, to the tick-tack of a clock that +was sounding before Massachusetts existed, reciting to you the stories +that he knows almost by heart, stories that are engarlanded with minute +details and good old solid and obsolete words that gratify the ear of +an artist. He has a tiny bit of land that he has always cultivated +himself, without help, mingling his work and his pleasure, drawing from +every inch of ground the great happiness it gives him with his bread +and asking for nothing more. He lives with his sister, and his only +regret is that because of his rheumatism he is no longer able to go out +and cut his own wood. But what a clear flame his life yields! He has +the finest ear in the village for the thread of a bird’s note, however +thin it may be. How you would love to toil away for an employer like +that, to be the man-of-all-work for the master of the little house on +the hillside where the spring first breaks! + +You perceive, solitary walker, how the ugliness of humanity dies away +at the foot of this hill? And how it vanishes at the foot of other +hills than old Minot’s? You may not have realized this, you who walk +with your eyes on the ground, meditating, but look: the sunlit smile +of this old woman ironing at her window, which is full of blossoming +daisies, cleanses the whole earth as you pass, as if you had never seen +it before. Take a good look around you, as you go through the world. +You may find that it is strewn with men and women whose beauty you +have never suspected and who belong to you as much as Goodwin or old +Minot. + +Henry is certainly not at war with humanity when it presents itself in +the form of this wood-cutter who knows the woods so much better than +the finest naturalist: his clothes have a wholesome smell, he is happy +enough for two, and you could work beside him all day. And you would +like to follow old Hayden too as you see him pass and repass with his +team, with the serenity of a good workman. The world of labourers is a +friendly world where you cease to feel that you are among strangers. +There is nothing in them that irritates you; your love of sarcasm +vanishes in their atmosphere; there is nothing awry, nothing that you +could find fault with in them, nothing that is not assured of your +affectionate indulgence. No parlour, no store, no model farm in the +village shelters a face as human as the faces of these Irish labourers, +camping under their plank shanties along the new railroad. Simple +digging-machines, ridiculous louts, in the eyes of noble, pure-blooded +Yankees, are these brawny souls condemned to their killing tasks for +a tiny wage. The scantiness of his own respectability is confirmed +in Henry’s eyes in the friendship he feels for these slow-witted +fellows, navvies, ditch-diggers, scavengers, ice-cutters, indefatigable +executors of the heavy tasks of the earth. To his mind their accent, +their awkwardness, the dirtiness of their big, boyish, sunburnt faces +are far less to be sneered at than the unctuousness of some doctor of +divinity whose hands have never rubbed against anything but a cake of +soap or the Holy Scriptures. + +How could one fail to like that big-hearted Michael Flannery who +toils away all day with such bubbling good spirits! It is as if the +more energy he spent the more inexhaustible were the good humour he +has drawn from heaven knows what miraculous fountain in his native +Kerry. Naturally the respectable exploiters of other people’s work +take advantage of this and abuse his simplicity. Michael has won a +prize at the Cattle-show, and the farmer who hires him has taken the +prize-money away from him, maintaining that his wages pay for his time +and that his good luck belongs to his employer: to swindle a lout of +an Irishman is a good Yankee joke that will never shut you out of +the kingdom of heaven promised to prosperous farmers. But this is an +act that completely upsets Henry’s serenity: he immediately takes up +a collection and returns to Michael the money which the miser has +cribbed. And when he sees that little Irish monkey of a Johnny going +to school all alone through the snow from the shanty where his parents +live in the woods, as sober as a judge under the rags that so oddly +cover his four or five years, Henry thinks of the satisfied air of +the alms-givers and ostensible philanthropists who brave the winter +courageously muffled up in their rich fur-coats. What does a mere +little weed of a wood-cutter’s child matter, toddling along without +stumbling through the intense cold with scarcely a shoe on his foot or +a rag on his back, looking as if he found this world royally well made +for little Irish boys who go to school where there is a bench to sit on +and a fire in the stove? And in his mind he strips these worthy rich +folk and puts the rags of the poor Irish on their backs to drape their +philanthropy--takes their purple and fine linen and tenderly envelops +this little scrap of half-naked humanity. Henry himself has no purple +and fine linen to give Johnny, but what he has he takes to his parents: +an old pair of pantaloons and a coat from which Mrs. Riordan can work +up some trousers and a schoolboy’s cloak so that he will not have to +miss school for the futile reason that the snow is too deep this winter. + +For the rest, whether it is Irish Johnny or some New England youngster, +the world of childhood is an irreducible power that tolerates no +assumed formality nor any veil of reserve. To make an end of the +“terrible Thoreau,” nothing is necessary but the two black eyes of some +little boy under a big cap or the manoeuvres of four small kiddies +bringing back a big horse from the pasture. You will find then that +he is just a big boy himself, touched, captivated, won, a boy whose +shyness feeds upon solitude and wild nature and who, in order to love +you, asks only to be able to find in you that simplicity and candour, +that true and savoury quality for which his childlike heart is greedy. + +Henry feels affectionately sheltered under his own family roof: nothing +in the world could induce him to leave home as his grandfather did for +good and all to seek his fortune far away. But when he meets on his +path these poor, ignorant, simple people, small folk, little souls, a +strange feeling of kinship awakens in him, stronger than the affections +of home, as if at bottom they were his real family. + + * * * * * + +It was an old desire that had haunted him very often, a desire that he +had cherished no doubt from his childhood, when he had been a great +chief who had withdrawn into his cave to inspect the spoils of conquest +and dream of future expeditions, to go and live alone in some solitary +spot--as Wheeler had done, a fellow at Harvard who had established +himself in a shanty on the edge of Flint Pond to devote himself in all +tranquillity to the study of Greek. A well-tempered character, this +Wheeler, who slept there on the straw like a stableman or a soldier and +later went off to study in Germany, where the poor fellow died. Henry +liked and admired him greatly. + +Yes, it was the dream of having some sort of shelter bathed in silence +where he could listen to the things, both within and outside himself, +that were lost in the Babel of the village. He had once been on the +point of realizing it when he had just missed buying the Hallowell +place, the beautifully ruined and solitary old farm he had seen on the +river as he passed in his boat; but he had not come to terms with the +owner and it had remained nothing but a charming fancy sheltered behind +its screen of maple-trees. After all, it was better to have missed this +opportunity, to have been spared the humiliation of seeing his name +printed in the records as a property-owner. + +But the old desire had not died. It spoke to-day with more authority +than ever. At twenty-eight, with some experience of the solutions +the world offered for the problem of a livelihood and no inclination +whatever to adopt any of them, there still remained the old question +of supporting himself. His little jobs as an occasional day-labourer +gave him at best a precarious and insufficient means of living. It had +become clearer and clearer that Concord was not very anxious to employ +the particular talents of an “amateur” who undertook to do his work +with the respect of an artist for his art. Well, suppose he were to +free himself from all these needs that were not worth the trouble he +took to satisfy them? Suppose he were to simplify his life? + +Existence in his own home, to be sure, was frugality itself. But when +you looked closely, how encumbered it was with superfluities! Cut down, +cut down! This luxury perverts the life of a man. It usurps the place +of true values that only ask for a chance to blossom. The truth of +life is a fragile plant that a gardener should protect against evil +intruders. A house brings with it innumerable duties. A village is a +buzzing, trampled thoroughfare, poisoned with gossip and neighbours. +You could get away by yourself for a few hours, but there were times +when domestic thoughts, village thoughts clung so tight to your skin +that you could not shake them off in the open air and they reduced your +adventure to the vulgar proportions of some cockney’s holiday in the +country. You would give anything to rid yourself of these leechlike +thoughts, not just for a few hours in the afternoon but for good +and all, for days and nights together. You would give anything, for +example, if the first sound you heard when you woke up in the morning +were not to come from some neighbour who is clearing his throat. You +would give anything not to squander so many precious hours, sacrificed +for the privilege of being a citizen who is taught his P’s and Q’s +on the lap of a parish. And what wouldn’t you give not to dream any +longer of the beauty of living, but to experience it completely for a +while, without alloy, unrestrictedly, in all its freshness, free as +the open air, naked and real, from dawn to the day’s end, and the same +to-morrow--to feel that you were _existing_ on this good green earth? + +There happened to be other needs that quickened this desire for a +little retirement. Henry had already written a few pages with which he +had reason not to be too dissatisfied. His articles, his studies were +only a prelude, an incentive to exercise himself more rigorously at his +trade as a writer. There too he had to strip himself of vain ornaments +and find out exactly what he was capable of and whether he was really +worthy of doing something. He would work well in this peaceful +seclusion. The outlines of a book were vaguely taking form in the pages +of the Journal. He would see. + +Henry needed a retreat, to audit his books with all care and discover +just where his personal affairs stood, to examine various true, +essential matters, including himself, face to face. + +It was a more serious business at bottom even than the desire to +clarify his existence and live more or less alone, after his own +fashion. It had the charm of a great difficulty to be overcome; instead +of running away from it or trifling with it, he wanted to come to grips +with it and find out, without any beating about the bush, which was +the stronger. It was a tempting opportunity to prove to himself that +he could provide for his subsistence with his own hands, without aid, +giving himself the beautiful margin of leisure that is indispensable +to a man if his life is to have a meaning and yield its flower. We +shall have a good try, my shopkeeping friends. You set yourself up in +business. Henry is going to follow your example and launch out in an +enterprise of his own, at his own risk and peril, with his ten fingers +and the wits of a ne’er-do-well for his capital. When you are the son +and grandson and great-grandson of merchants, you may turn your back on +your patrimony, but you do not discard from your destiny the taste for +certain kinds of operations. On the other hand, you are not going to +puzzle your brains trying to calculate your profits if you succeed. And +if your speculation is unfortunate, you will still have the pleasure of +telling about your failure. + +A boy had been turning these thoughts over in his mind while tramping +over the fourteen acres of woodland which his friend Waldo had bought +for a little more than $200 last September, a spot that had taken +Henry’s fancy above all the paradises of the domain of vagabonds. It +was on the banks of Walden Pond, where the Sage carried his philosophy +into the woods, drawn there by the sound of the name: Waldo ... +Eden.... + +The circle of sombre branches reflected in the calm blue waters was an +impression that he had preserved from his earliest infancy, and later +it had been the goal of many an expedition. As a child, as a boy he +had run off to go fishing, hunting, skating there, or to stretch out +in a boat in summer, letting himself glide over the water to the waves +of wild foliage that enclosed the pond. The spot had an incomparable +charm and wildness, and although it was only half an hour from the +village it was so retired that all the villages of the earth were lost +and forgotten there in a distance beyond the sea for the explorer who +prowled about its banks. An evil fame, a legendary mirage floated about +these regions--an additional attraction. On the borders of the woods of +Walden, on the neighbouring hill, in former times, all sorts of lawless +characters, pariahs, escaped slaves, negresses who told fortunes and +other riff-raff used to live whose presence in the shadow of the church +would have been an offence to the purity of the village. The blackened +remains of their cabins were still to be seen there. Henry liked to +think of black Zilpha, who spun linen and had such a beautiful voice, +and Wyman, the poor potter, unfortunate souls indeed. But the pond +itself! Sunk in the shelving semicircle, a dark green mass drank in the +deep blue of this miraculous glade under a great stretch of sky. The +whole world was still, and he himself was a flood of silent wonder amid +this population of pines and oaks. + +How good it would be to come here and taste the quality of the silence! +Who knew but this pond, meditating in its immemorial solitude, folded +in upon itself in the quiet of the woods, might not have some important +secret to whisper to him, if he became its confidant?... Many a time +on its banks he had dreamed of a Waldenic existence and had taken the +road home again to the village and his old ways. But now the little +voice murmured among the reeds: My secret is not for a boy who has +merely come on a visit. It is for the faithful soul who will come and +live beside me, spending his nights and his days and mingling with +his existence every hour of my own.... The little voice possessed an +all-powerful sweetness for the senses of a lover, a solitary. Yes, to +come and savour there the interminable summer evenings, drink in the +first draught of air before the dawn, allow the winter to blockade him +with snow as he listened to the beating of his heart in the frosty +silence. To plunge into the pond every morning! To feel at home there, +like a wild duck or a skater-insect!... Suppose, instead of the +summerhouse which the Sage planned to set up there, some day, on his +land, he were to build himself at once a house under the pines, on the +side of the knoll that dropped off by a gentle slope into the pond? + +When a beautiful castle in Spain that has been tenderly cherished for +years finds a foundation like this upon which to rest, one hesitates no +longer. The business is settled. Spring appears like a notification. +Towards the end of March, in the year 1845 of the Christian era, +Henry goes to his friend Alcott and borrows his axe; it does not cut +very well, this philosophical axe--perhaps it has been blunted at +Fruitlands, in that unhappy phalansterian enterprise--but he undertakes +to sharpen it. + +The builder has chosen his site, felled the trees to clear the space +where he is to erect the house. The plan is already settled. Those +pines will do for the framework. The other materials can be found +at little cost. Why new planks when second-hand planks will serve +perfectly well? A labourer’s shanty will give him plenty of timber, +and he will only have to unnail it and transport it with all the +accessories, not forgetting the old nails, which will serve a second +time. For four dollars and twenty-five cents, an Irishman who is +working on the railroad is quite willing to sell him the one he lives +in; it will only be necessary to let the planks dry a little so that +the air can absorb their Hibernian moisture. The materials are all +ready for the work. The cellar is dug in the sand, where the provisions +are to be kept. There is nothing impossible about setting up the frame +for a man who helped his father to build their new house the year +before; no need of a gang of skilled hands to plant a post upright at +the corner where the roof is to rest. But if his friends offer to come +and give him a hand with this heavy job of the timber-work, is he going +to renounce the rare pleasure of working in the woods there with a few +cronies who are not such good carpenters as himself perhaps but who are +full of hearty good will? Alcott and Edmund Hosmer join in the party. +Everything they say sparkles in the resinous air; all the preparations +have taken time and it is May already. A philosopher, a farmer and a +ne’er-do-well in collaboration nail together with affection the frame +of a cabin that is going to support the weight of solitude. + +It may be weeks since spring came to surprise old Minot. But it has +been just as long, if not longer, since it took possession of the +heart of a boy who, since the end of March, has turned his steps +every morning, with his lunch in his pocket, towards his workshop in +the woods. The little glade is covered with shavings; the work of +building goes on amid the cheerful clatter of axe and hammer, and the +surrounding pines gaze with a curious eye upon this neighbour who is +coming to live there as if they had never seen old nails driven by +so young an arm. It is only a house that is going up, a motionless +house overlooking a motionless pond, but for the workman, blissfully +alone in the woods.... April, May, June ... the light sings as in +former days when he was building his little boat for those faraway +expeditions--sings a chaplet of songs as long as the work that he +pursues unhastingly on this piney knoll. The cabin is fixed to the +earth by its roots, and it is to shelter the sleep of an explorer who +is promising himself not a week or two but whole seasons of discoveries +and adventures ... seasons that will be reflected in the eye of this +big high window, seasons upon which this door that hangs here will open +with a gesture of welcome and familiarity at the entrance of the cabin +where Henry is going to sleep on this holiday evening--for it is the +Fourth of July. + +Up before dawn on the first morning, the builder stops on his +threshold, goes out, takes a turn around his castle, comes in again, +goes out again, looks up at his roof with perfect confidence in its +power to resist snow, sun and rain, and only asking himself if it is +not going to burst with the happiness contained between these four +plank walls. In the woods some neighbours are singing and chirping. +The fresh air pours through him as if he had come out of a tent. But +the cabin is not a tent, it is spacious: ten feet by fifteen. You can +stretch your legs in it. It contains everything: bed, table, a chair +and, at one end, facing the door, a place for the hearth which is not +yet built. The household utensils are in a cupboard. Under the floor, +the cellar, and an attic above, each with its trap-door. The room is +lighted by two windows, one in front and one in the rear. It has all +the comfort and brightness of a living-room with the compact intimacy +of a ship’s cabin. + +Thirty to forty square yards of ground, which do not belong to him, +offer their immovable base to this new man who has built the home of +his dreams and come here to sleep and means to sleep here to-morrow +and another to-morrow--who has touched with his feet, as he leaps out +of bed, the realization of his vision, touched it with his hand as he +opens his door, as he slowly makes the rounds to reassure himself that +it is all true, as, from the threshold of the cabin, in the innocence +of the earth, emerging from the summer night, he sees down there forty +yards away the rocky little bay, his haven, the great blue lake and +the woods beyond, nothing but water, sky, waves of foliage, without +the least sign of a human habitation, a whole corner of the world that +has kept itself intact to enchant the eye of a newcomer. Like everyone +else he had had his black and his grey moments in life, but he cannot +imagine at this instant a discontent the vexation of which would +not vanish under the benediction of such a morning, in the air of a +hillside where he has planted his cabin to live an eternity there. He +is not cut off from the world: on the left is the road to Lincoln and +on the right the railroad to Fitchburg. But the squatter cannot see a +roof. He can fancy as he awakens that the human race has gone away for +a time to nurse its sorrows under other skies, leaving the place for +the fresh happiness of a solitary. + +Yes, it seems as if one could live here. Everything is clean, there +is none of the litter that encumbers existence. The true wealth is in +the open; you can weigh it, drink it, breathe it; it is solid, fluid, +has a good resinous smell, refreshing as ice-water, fills your arms +like the stones you pile up to build the fireplace. There is so much +to do, in the first place, living is such an absorbing, delightful +occupation, that the most beautiful page you could read would seem like +an impertinence: it would interrupt your collaboration in the poem +of the whole day. You are no longer an afternoon stroller. The slow +task of taking possession of the surroundings demands all your hours, +a continuous employment, going and coming on the path that leads to +the water, observations, saunterings, surprises. But the hours about +the cabin are free from everything you have left out there beyond +the woods, the habits of a household, the family table, the routine +with its taste of pencil-lead, the house-fronts in Main Street, the +regimented faces. They wear new robes, these hours, cut in the workshop +of Walden; they marvel at themselves and their labour is like play. + +What is there to do, all the blessed day long, living alone on the +edge of a pond? That is what puzzles those charitable souls beyond the +woods. Ah, good people, if one were alone!... But Henry has never felt +less alone than he has felt since the day when he put that little space +between the village and himself, not for a few hours but for good. He +can feel alone in a Judge’s house but not in a cabin in the woods which +he has built after his own heart. When is there a moment for loneliness +to worm itself into the course of the day? When he is preparing his +meals? Hardly. His main dish every day is a gruel of corn, rye or +rice; the preparation is simple and pleasant. No need of a lot of +saucepans and ingredients, no need to devote himself to those rather +repulsive manipulations that are demanded in expert cookery. And this +is very nourishing too. If he feels like it, the cook may also broil +a little rasher of bacon. When he wants to vary his ordinary diet, it +is quite simple for him to boil some acorns for breakfast as an homage +to the gods of Walden; boiled acorns are a little more bitter than raw +acorns, but you soon get used to them. And what other bitterness can +you imagine a man feeling who does his housekeeping in the open air, +in front of his cabin, where he eats sitting on his doorstep, with his +bowl on his knees and the lake at his feet and the whole day entirely +at his disposal? He has the best of table companions around him, all +drinking to the health of a happy man. Music plays for him, and it is +a different music from that of the human voice. Henry oversees the +baking of his bread, placed in an oven the mouth of which is covered +with stones as unceremoniously as in the days of the ancient Romans. +But the bread that is baked in this way has no flavour of antiquity; +a savoury odour comes from this rustic bakery improvised on a piney +New England slope. How could a baker like this, watching his ovenful +in the open air, feel lonely? Nor is he any likelier to feel so as +he does his housekeeping, chops his wood or sets to work to give his +room a good cleaning. All his furniture is taken outside--there is a +whole wheel-barrowful of it--the table faces the broad daylight without +flinching, the bed stretches itself in the open air, while Henry +carries up buckets of water and scours and rinses his floor with the +water of Walden. Imagine a boy who does his housekeeping under the eye +of the pines, carries his furniture in again when the floor is dry, +happy as a king who is going to sleep to-night in a room that has a +good, well-washed smell--imagine a boy so happily busy feeling himself +forsaken! Solitude may prowl almost anywhere, on the very pavements of +a populous city, but what could it ever find to pick up in the tracks +of a boy like this? + +To deserve this life he has chosen he must first make sure of his +subsistence. The cabin is not a philosopher’s country cottage; it is +a farmhouse, and the farmer has his mind on his farm and his harvest. +This bread that smells so good when he takes it out of the oven is not +to be earned by listening to the hooting of the owls. On Emerson’s lot +at Walden there is a stretch of waste land which, with a good deal +of work and a little imagination, he ought to be able to turn into +a field. It is a piece of poor, sandy ground which the woods have +covered for the last fifteen years: virgin soil, still full of stumps +but with plenty of vigour and good will, in which he can have some +confidence--even if it did belong, at the end of the last century, to +a great uncle by marriage who was a deacon. It certainly needs manure, +but he has not come to Walden to apply the methods of model farms. The +labour of his own solid muscles will have to take the place of the +manure, after the clearing, ploughing and harrowing of the ground, for +which the work of a man with his horse and cultivator is indispensable. +Certain expenses are unavoidable in every enterprise. + +Henry has sown some potatoes, a little corn, a few peas, a handful of +turnips and a lot of beans, and they all come up--all but the seeds +which the worms have eaten--come up, sprout and form an immense field. +But the weeds, encouraged by the ploughing, also spring up merrily, +and he has to grub them out to protect the life of the beans and his +own honour as a rash adventurer. And what work! The sower has sown his +beans generously, as a farmer who sees things in a large way. He has +rows and rows of them, innumerable rows--seven good miles if he placed +them end to end--four times longer than the distance from the cabin to +the village. On this immense battle-front the general defends the land +step by step. It is very painful for a man of the wilds to see himself +condemned to assuming the defence of culture against these hordes of +barbarians that have grown so beautifully. But what is to be done when +the destiny of a legion of beans, threatened with being surrounded, +hangs in the balance? Since five o’clock in the morning, hoe in hand, +the squatter has been out in his field, first in the dew, then, as the +sun mounts, in the glare of the summer day, weeding, putting fresh +soil about the stems, without giving up till noon, his bare feet in +the burning sand, as steady as a negro in a cotton-field. + +The man with the hoe is not slaving away under the eye of an overseer. +He works with a will, first because that is his way, and then because +he is not a hired man but an obstinate soul who means to carry out with +honour a difficult undertaking; he must justify Walden with the sweat +of his brow. Walden is not a phalanstery; there is only one person +responsible for it, and that is much more serious. The villagers who +pass in their carts on the road see a little skinny fellow bending over +his bean-stalks in his half-wild, half-cultivated field and wonder why +this strange workman is breaking his back over such a piece of ground +at such a season. It is Henry the simpleton, toiling away cheerfully +and letting the world go by. He is thinking, under the heat of the +sun, of the sweet bath he is going to give himself in the pond, after +this glorious sweat, and how good it will be to stretch out on his +grassy bank near the spring, in the shade of a vast white pine, with a +book for a companion ... But it is not enough to work himself to death +defending, weapon in hand, these wretched beans that are surrounded +with enemies; the woodchucks, which are very partial to them, eat up a +quarter of your acre. For these blessed beasts the attraction of the +tender shoots is stronger than any fear of the trap; Henry kills one of +them and eats it in revenge. But in spite of all, as the reward of his +labours, the farmer harvests twelve bushels of beans and sells them for +$16.94, plus $4.75 for potatoes. Something of a result! + +In all, $8.71½, deducting the original outlay, a total that might not +satisfy one of those knowing souls who go by sneering on the road, +but enough to yield the farmer of Walden a good profit--if he adds it +to the others which, shrewder than these shrewd folk, he gathered in +long before the harvest. The sneerers know all about the sort of soil +that produces a big crop, but what do they know of these magnificent +days of combat for the beans? They have no Ganges in which to cleanse +themselves every morning, to begin the day as if with a prayer; they +have no poor field on a hillside on the edge of the woods, where +you sweat for hours scratching the earth to persuade it to yield +well-podded stalks; they do not know the reward for all the toil of the +toilers of the world, or the delight of feeling one’s skin exhale its +gratitude after the bath and the rubbing. They do not have the rest of +the day for dreaming, observing, wandering, turning their laziness into +thanksgiving, listening to one’s own life amid the throng of things. +They are clodhoppers. + +The summer has its great sunny spaciousness in which friendship hangs +like a scarf from every branch. Just wait for autumn and winter, when +some evil animal cowering in the solitude of the cellar comes up +from below or descends slyly from a corner of the attic, in the long +evenings, to clamber up the legs of a solitary in his cabin, or glide +under his shirt and bite him--some insect, some black beetle, some blue +devil of doubt to plague a boy who thinks he can get along without the +village. But there is nothing under this floor but the field-mice, and +they only want the potatoes. And there is nothing in the attic but an +old tent-cloth that dreams of distant adventures and the wide air of +the river-banks. The spiders may have hung up their webs, but they +are the friends of man, weaving decorations for the roof-timbers of a +castle in the woods. + +No, there are no foul creatures prowling about this cabin, not even an +importunate cockroach. Henry has made everything ship-shape. A log is +smouldering in the fireplace and the thoughts it has kept shut up till +its last hour surround him, dancing gaily. For the cabin, finished at +last, breathes. A house without a chimney through which you can see +the smoke coming out is not a living house. It is a mere vulgar barn, +a store-house, a dead thing. Before the bad season William comes and +lends his friend a hand in setting up the fireplace; he stays fifteen +days, fifteen beautiful days of comradeship. From now on there will be +wood in the woodshed to keep Henry warm in winter and in the evening +when he sits up late. He is living here like some old bachelor of a +forester who has just finished his supper, his day’s work ended, and +tells himself stories before going to bed. The latter would probably +have his pipe for company, or some yellow-haired mongrel with grave, +tender, vigilant eyes. Henry’s only companions are his thoughts, the +ladies of the house who brush him lightly as they pass as if they were +sisters who had come out with him to the woods. Henry reads or writes +at his table in the deep silence, where the singing of the fire gives +him the feeling of a presence. He revises his manuscripts, works, +writes an essay on Carlyle. He takes a good measure of his inner powers +in the silence of the cabin and toils over a sheet of paper with the +heart of a workman who has swung his hoe through the furrows under +the glaring sun. There are the weeds to be dug out, the beans to be +defended. Sometimes Henry works at his table in the morning, when he is +in the right mood, in the freshness of his strength. At the approach +of spring the red squirrels come and make love under the floor of the +cabin where a solitary meditates in his twenty-ninth year; when he raps +with his foot to silence them, their squeals redouble, as if the lovers +were affirming their rights in the face of this scribbler whom their +gambols do not greatly disturb. + +And in winter, when the snow covers the paths and the approaches of the +dwelling, weighs down the pines, weighs upon the roof of the cabin, +when the village is further away than ever, in the overwhelming silence +of the snow and its dazzling splendour, what joy to feel himself in +this hollow in the woods, like a nest stamped with the warmth of his +body, and how the stumps he has toilsomely split repay him for the +difficult time he has spent in loosening the embrace of their fibres! +What joy walking on the stiffened pond, making a hole in the ice with +his axe and bending over the opening, lying flat on his stomach to peep +into the aquarium where the hermit fishes look as if they did not find +it so bad living in Walden, even under this opaque glass that hides the +day from them.... + +And now, if by chance a friend comes to call on you in the woods, you +can do him the honours of your castle. When there are two between the +bed, the table and the fireplace, the reception-hall is almost filled, +but it is large enough to make room for this chance accession. One +Sunday it is dear Edmund Hosmer--no miserly peasant, that fellow--who +comes to look in on his colleague, the farmer of Walden; or his son +Joseph perhaps, whom the latter has invited to come for a feast at his +table. On this occasion there is a choice of dishes and the cook has +surpassed himself. You cannot do too much when you are entertaining +one of your own kind. He has prepared a banquet: fish from the pond, +beans, corn, bread from the Walden bakery, all seasoned with that fine +salt of which there is always a full box at Henry’s. It is Sunday twice +over in the cabin. Nor does Alcott refuse to make it the object of a +walk to go and see one of the two or three friends with whom alone he +can embark on one of those endless conversations in which time and +space are abolished. There is not much philosophical talk at Walden; +you don’t press wisdom there between the leaves of an old book; you +live it, freshly every day, as naturally as you turn to the water in +the pond. But with the master of the axe that Henry borrowed to fell +the pines for his house, what a feast he has! The bean-field is soon +left behind; they are in full flight, and in a few hours they have +surveyed numberless continents and unknown archipelagos. If the visitor +is only William, who lives a good three miles from the pond but whom +neither snow nor storm can stop when the fancy seizes him to go and +say good morning to his friend, there are no culinary preparations or +voyages into the empyrean: there are simply orgies of laughter in the +hermitage. They must say and do all sorts of foolish things to express +their joy in finding themselves there in the woods as brothers, free +from bores. How the laughter resounds in the cabin on the hillside! +Listening to the response that comes from the heart of the woods, you +might think it had been built just for this day.... They chatter like +magpies, they chirrup louder than those amorous squirrels, they roar, +their boisterous mirth shakes the plank walls. They have no good old +wine to drink as they eat their dishes of gruel, nothing but a nut to +put under their teeth. But they are able to intoxicate themselves just +the same, with the pure gaiety of old cronies. + +Now and again some prying busybody also comes to the woods. A boy who +has had a little experience of the world knows various tricks for +getting rid of these gentry--though they are not always successful. +But what a charm spreads about the cabin when other visitors pass, +those strolling railroad men, for instance, who are not afraid to +violate the Sabbath occasionally by turning in towards the little house +in the woods. They are quite a gang, half a dozen of them, walking +together and stopping in as neighbours, for Henry often meets them on +his comings and goings along his boulevard, the railroad. They have +put on their white shirts and saunter along, airing their leisure and +waving their Sunday idleness like a little twig one cuts on one’s way, +the older ones with seamy faces, the younger giving you a friendly +greeting and wishing you good luck, without showing the least surprise +that a man prefers the company of the pines to that of the villagers. +The language and bearing of some of these fine fellows reveal that +exquisite, simple, unaffected courtesy that bears the stamp of the +workingman and leaves you with the impression that you have received a +visit from great personages. + +One of those good apostles of the village who knows Henry only as a +harsh, dismal mask should pass at a moment when his tempestuous laugh +is sounding over the knoll; he would understand better then what this +mock hermit has come to seek in the woods. Henry has not broken with +the world. He is simply holding it at a distance for a while in order +to find space for something he wishes to create. Almost every afternoon +the anchorite-in-his-own-fashion crosses the woods and descends again +among men. There is an unimaginable charm in taking a trip of this +kind as a simple visitor into the regions of the civilized, where he +sees human faces. When you have behind you a cabin that is waiting +for you in the heart of a kingdom of your choice, the Main Street of +the village is as pleasant as possible. You see the strangest things +there and you judge everything indulgently, for you see it from another +point of view. You have all the enjoyment of a traveller in a foreign +town, observing the manners of the natives, the sights, the shops, +the fashions, the things for sale. Henry, in spite of his change of +domicile, remains on the same old intimate terms with his family and +stops in regularly to see if everything is going well at home, lend +a hand in the workshop, if it is necessary, or busy himself a little +in the garden. When he goes home again he sometimes has to carry some +tidbit cooked for him by his mother, who is rather afraid that the +gruel at the cabin may be too slender a diet for a boy accustomed to +the family table. Sometimes too, at the end of the day, if the fancy +takes him, Henry knocks at a friend’s door and invites himself to +supper, as the bearer of the latest news from the woods; then if night +has fallen on the road, as he gropes his way through the darkness +after the evening he has passed with his friends, it only deepens the +serenity of his return. And this is not to mention the times when, even +for a man who has no complaint to make of his business, a dollar comes +in very nicely and he undertakes to go down and work for a day or two +in the village as a painter, gardener or mason. It is just so much to +add to the revenue of the farm. + +The farmer of Walden does not deposit his wealth in the bank like big +landowners and prudent citizens. These good people lock their tills +and bolt their doors for fear of robbers. They are so afraid of being +relieved of a crumb of their bothersome money! When Henry leaves home +for a whole day, and even when he sets out for several days on some +distant excursion, it never occurs to him to lock his door. One bother +the less. The door of the cabin has neither lock nor bolt; nothing but +a latch. It is open to all comers. The scorner of men has confidence +in humanity, in the unknown. Come in, gentlemen, if you happen to be +passing, and you too, Mrs. Paul Pry. Inspect the bed, the fireplace and +the cupboard. A little something to eat? Eat to your heart’s content. +You will find a dipper to fetch the water if you are thirsty. Make +yourself at home. And if you have a mind to, after the feast, read a +page in one of those books lying there on the table. It will not do you +any harm. And if you like the book so much that you don’t want to leave +it, take it away with you. It has gilt edges; the man of the woods +makes you a present of it. The principal of his worldly wealth is there +between those planks. But what are the sneak-thieves thinking of? They +never come to Walden. + +One evening, when he sets out for the cobbler’s to take a boot to be +repaired, the village resorts to a singularly rough way of testifying +its regret at no longer seeing him except as a passing stranger. The +town constable places his hand on Henry’s shoulder and takes him off +to jail. He has refused to pay his poll-tax. His intention in doing so +was to protest against a power which protects the purchase, the sale, +the practice of dealing in men, women and children, those colonial +wares from Africa--and which, on the other hand, makes war on one of +its neighbours in order to seize its territory. To say “no” flatly to +the tax-collector is a much more serious matter than to refuse to pay +the tax of a parish of which one is not a parishioner. It is revolt, +disloyalty, the crime of treason, the perverse act of a bad citizen who +disowns the institutions and the enterprises of his country. Off with +his head! + +So here is a boy who only wants to return to his home in the woods +and who is invited to spend the night in the middle of the village +in a beautiful stone house. Modest as he may be, this pressing and +irresistible way of showing him that he is indispensable to the +equilibrium of the village does not fail to touch his pride a little. +They lodge him in a princely fashion, for this is not the old wooden +jail where, in the days of the Revolution, two of Henry’s great-uncles +were imprisoned as Loyalists--and from which their sister, his +grandmother Jones, coming from Weston to bring them something to eat +in prison, helped one of them to escape. No, the world has made great +progress since then, and the jail is in harmony with the world. + +On the threshold of the fine modern building, Henry is accosted by +his friend Sam Staples, whose cheery bluster is not insensible to the +honour of receiving under his roof the son of the pencil-manufacturer. +A former innkeeper, Sam adds to this quality the importance of +the part he plays in the village; he is at once the jailer and +the tax-collector. He is almost everything but a deacon. Sam is +also the son-in-law of the innkeeper celebrated by Henry in one of +his best pieces, published three years before in the _Democratic +Review_. Sam owes it to himself and his father-in-law to be polite +in return to Henry. His first remark is: “I’ll pay your tax, Henry, +if you’re hard up.” The pity is that Henry is by no means hard up +and does not want money. The only thing he wants is to go to jail to +meditate at leisure on the beauty of the institutions of his country. +Walden is not propitious for this meditation; the hours there are +too precious to be wasted in such unclean thoughts. But in this +beautiful stone edifice, behind the stout, bolted door, he is in a +better position to think of his country, and its laws and law-makers, +while he is held there between four firm walls, under the guard of a +jailer-tax-collector-ex-innkeeper who is going to sell him at auction +perhaps like a mere negro for refusing to bow down to an enslaving and +conquering State. + +The noise of Henry’s arrest spreads through the village. Waldo hastens +over to see his friend. The Sage is a little shocked; it spoils the +harmony of his universe to find Henry in such a place. “Henry, why +are you here?” “Why are you not here?” the prisoner replies with the +cool impudence that great criminals have. You can be a sage and yet +never be able to understand certain things. The best thing Henry can +do is to remain in the company of his own thoughts, which, in spite +of this magnificent masonry that seems destined to annihilate them, +have not lost a jot of their serenity and their liberty. Yes, and to +talk with his cell-companion, an honest soul, accused of having set +fire to a barn, who had been imprudent enough to go to sleep there in +the straw when he was drunk with a lighted pipe in his mouth; or to +listen to this other prisoner, whose voice comes from a neighbouring +cell and who never stops repeating in his misery: “What is life?... So +this is life!”... Through the safe bars of the skylight there comes +to you the clear sound of the village bell, a strange sound to hear +in this way from behind these prison walls and this bolted door. You +have never felt so close to the soul of the village, so close to its +citizens, to the beautiful souls of the builders of the prison, the +makers of laws, the buyers and sellers of human flesh, the plunderers +of other people’s territory. This voice of the bell, falling in the +naked intimacy of a jail, is just the one thing necessary to strip you +of the last shred of respect you have kept, without being aware of it, +for these blessed institutions. The prisoner actually has a feeling of +deliverance: when he first came in he did not perceive that the parish +was really imprisoned on the other side of those bars and that he had +been summoned there as a judge to judge it. + +A man can find his happiness anywhere if he has room for happiness in +himself. Many a time Henry has said that he would be able to live very +well in an almshouse, among the humble souls whom one saw about the +grounds of the Poor Farm. He is quite ready to remain Sam’s boarder +till Authority recognizes that it has made a bad blunder. But he has +reckoned without the indiscreet solicitude of his family, who are +all in a flutter over the incarceration of their Henry. While he +is meditating in his dungeon, his good Aunt Maria hastens out after +nightfall, concealing herself in a neckerchief to avoid scandal, and +deposits the sum which the tax-collector demands, plus the costs. All +the serenity which his evening in prison has confirmed in this enemy +of the laws vanishes at dawn when the jailer comes in and tells him of +this transaction. The beautiful stone building is to lodge him only for +one night; he must leave it. Sam is very happy to set this sympathetic +boarder free, but the latter is furious at finding himself betrayed by +his own people. Confound them! So he leaves. The village has become +odious to him. When he goes to the cobbler’s for his boot, he exhibits +on the visage that he reveals to the gaze of his sly fellow-townsmen +the defiance of an army marching, with flags unfurled, through a +conquered country. That evening the discharged prisoner looks like a +man who has come back from a long journey. As a matter of fact, in +order to efface the memory of that night and that awakening and the +humiliation of that enforced release, he has gone off and spent the day +gathering huckleberries. + + * * * * * + +Inestimable hours of Walden! Do you really imagine, you poor simple +souls, that he has nothing to do here, nothing more important than to +contemplate the image of his own blessed purity in the mirror of the +pond, or to listen to himself playing his flute on the water amid this +encircling verdure? It is perfectly true that the pond is a liquid +gem, where the mysterious little rayed breem lives, as perfect as a +jewel. It is not bottomless, as the good people say. Your sounding-lead +touches the bottom in more than a hundred places--a bottom of pure +sand, without mud--and you can draw up an outline of its basin. But +how far the discoveries you make here surpass the miracle of its +limpidity! Why does this prowler about the woods find more soul in +these desert places than among his own brothers, the bipeds of the +villages and cities? Is it possible that a narrow-chested fellow +with sloping shoulders carries the whole load of it on his own back, +scattering it about the roads as he passes? And so saturates the earth +with his own feeling as to make it murmur, sing, pray, utter words, +force it to say what its religion is? Or does the human quality reside +in a diffused state under the bark of the trees and in the sap of +plants for the soul of this vagabond to collect it and feed upon it?... +In any case, every hour at Walden is like the measure of sand passed +through the sieve of a gold-seeker; it leaves enough of a residue to +make a boy comfortable for the rest of his days. + +These fresh things that flow about the cabin surprise him in the midst +of his labours with a beauty so pure and so exultant that he is obliged +to drop his spade, his book or his housekeeping, sit down on the +doorstep and simply surrender himself to the unknown things that are +passing. You would say then that the earth had chosen this poor, shy +boy whom you see absorbed there, on the threshold of his cabin, as an +instrument for thinking in peace of its own unity and eternity. How can +he say where he is? The planet is silent, time and space are strangely +annihilated, the notion of any journey is lost, he may be at the +antipodes. Under the pines of Walden, this man who is lost in his dream +is Mir Mohammed Ali, perhaps, the painter of Ispahan; his American +profile is drawn in miniature in the colours of a precious stone on +the blue of the pond. Or is he some Chinese poet-philosopher in whom +mingle the souls of animals and plants and hermits sitting under an +arbour near a little lake? There comes to this man, as he listens to +sound beyond sound, a music that is deeper and more ample than the +music of his everyday life; he feels on his palate as it were a taste +of immortality--it grows clearer than the clear morning about him. This +beetle that buzzes by, this sweetflag swaying on the pond are like +messengers charged with transmitting to him the friendship of men who +have dreamed the same dreams in the depths of the old Orient. He knows +those men, he has invited them now and again in the evening to come +and bear him company under his roof; they have never felt out of their +element or constrained in a cabin as big as one’s hand in the open +woods. And the beautiful stories they have told him are not discordant +with the cry of the whip-poor-will. + +At such moments as these, you would take him for a fellow who has +laid his hoe aside like a workman about to take his rest. In reality, +he is a man in ecstasy, ravished by this miracle, and his life grows +more and more exalted and ascends in a perfume of thanksgiving till +his contempt for the little men whose stupidity has made him flee is +unravelled like smoke in the wind. Some fine morning he will find them +almost rehabilitated in his eyes: in the first rays of the sun, at the +first notes of the thrush after the winter, it will be the end of all +that; there will be nothing left under the pines of Walden but a man +who is all feeling and who is ready to pardon his kind for being such +sorry automatons, repeating their mechanical gestures in the dullness +of their days. This light of early dawn will be enough to set shining +at the bottom of their poverty a precious spangle which they themselves +do not know they possess, and which redeems all their shabbiness. + +Two such years as these, two full years quite to himself, far from +every discordant sound, impregnate the very tissue of an existence. The +anchorite can leave his cabin. Very foolish would be the person who +supposed that the experience of his life in the woods had played him +false. It had crowned him. To have proved to himself that a man, when +he wishes, can be entirely self-sufficient without hiring out either +his arms or his head, was one result: but he had derived something else +from it as well. He had not only provided for his needs; he had learned +how to economize. He could choose, according to his mood, like a man of +leisure: return and stay with his fellowmen or remain by the pond. + +At the end of the third summer he abandoned the cabin to the squirrels. +Why, exactly? Will those who know be good enough to tell him? He +scarcely knows himself. Changing one’s dwelling-place is a vestige +perhaps of the old migratory instinct. Was he right or wrong in +leaving? Did he have any reason to regret it? Vain questions.... He +simply went away in 1847 as he had come in 1845. But aside from this? +Perhaps because it was better that an all too beautiful experience +should be interrupted before habit destroyed its freshness. Or merely +because he could not resist the invitation of a great friend who begged +his old right-hand man to come and live in his house again during his +second voyage to Europe. + +For Henry Waldo’s house was like another home. He had spent two happy +years there; he would be glad to spend another eight or ten months. +During his stay in the woods he had read to Waldo, under an oak on +the bank of the river, some pages from the book he was preparing. He +would be able to work in the Sage’s house. He intended to include in +this book a piece on friendship that he would be able to write most +fitly under the roof of a perfect friend. On October 5th, Henry went +to Boston to see the traveller off and say good-bye to him in his +stateroom. (How small and dark it was after the cabin!) The boat was +called the “Washington Irving”--a favourable augury. The great man +was going to deliver some lectures before the choicest spirits in +England. He was going to see Carlyle. He planned to make a tour of the +Continent, stopping at Paris. Bon voyage, and may the gods of Concord +protect you, dear Waldo. Have no anxiety about the garden or your +family. + +Once more in the little white house the children find their Henry. +Ellen has become a personage of eight; Eddy, a new personage, is three +and a half. And the parties begin again. The right-hand man has not +forgotten in the woods how to win the confidence of childhood. When +they turn over together the pages of a picture-book, the savage takes +as much interest in them as the little figures perched on his knees. He +is on very good terms with Ellen. He must never ignore these important +details in giving the traveller the news of the little house. It is the +middle of November, a good time for long letters. In a hand not always +easy to decipher but one which the recipient will read without any +hesitation, Henry writes to his friend Waldo: + + I am but a poor neighbour to you here,--a very poor companion am I. + I understand that very well, but that need not prevent my _writing_ + to you now.... + + I have banked up the young trees against the winter and the mice, + and I will look out, in my careless way, to see when a pale is + loose or a nail drops out of its place. The broad gaps, at least, + I will occupy. I heartily wish I could be of good service to this + household. But I, who have only used these ten digits so long to + solve the problem of a living, how can I? The world is a cow that + is hard to milk--life does not come so easy,--and oh, how thinly + it is watered ere we get it! But the young bunting calf, he will + get at it. There is no way so direct. This is to earn one’s living + by the sweat of his brow. It is a little like joining a community, + this life, to such a hermit as I am; and as I don’t keep the + accounts, I don’t know whether the experiment will succeed or fail + finally. At any rate, it is good for society, so I do not regret my + transient nor my permanent share in it. + + Lidian and I make very good housekeepers. She is a very dear sister + to me. Ellen and Edith and Eddy and Aunty Brown keep up the tragedy + and comedy and tragic-comedy of life as usual. The two former have + not forgotten their old acquaintance; even Edith carries a young + memory in her head, I find. Eddy can teach us all how to pronounce. + If you should discover any rare hoard of wooden or pewter horses, + I have no doubt he will know how to appreciate it. He occasionally + surveys mankind from my shoulders as wisely as ever Johnson did. + I respect him not a little, though it is I that lift him up so + unceremoniously. And sometimes I have to set him down again in a + hurry, according to his “mere will and good pleasure.” He very + seriously asked me, the other day, “Mr. Thoreau, will you be my + father?” I am occasionally Mr. Rough-and-tumble with him that I may + not miss _him_, and lest he should miss _you_ too much. So you must + come back soon, or you will be superseded. + + Alcott has heard that I laughed, and so set the people laughing, at + his arbour, though I never laughed louder than when I was on the + ridge-pole. But now I have not laughed for a long time, it is so + serious. He is very grave to look at. But, not knowing all this, I + strove innocently enough, the other day, to engage his attention + to my mathematics. “Did you ever study geometry, the relation of + straight lines to curves, the transition from the finite to the + infinite? Fine things about it in Newton and Leibnitz.” But he + would hear none of it,--men of taste preferred the natural curve. + Ah, he is a crooked stick himself. He is getting on now so many + _knots_ an hour. There is one knot at present occupying the point + of highest elevation,--the present highest point; and as many + knots as are not handsome, I presume, are thrown down and cast into + the pines. Pray show him this if you meet him anywhere in London, + for I cannot make him hear much plainer words here. He forgets + that I am neither old nor young, nor anything in particular, and + behaves as if I had still some of the animal heat in me. As for the + building, I feel a little oppressed when I come near it. It has + no great disposition to be beautiful; it is certainly a wonderful + structure, on the whole, and the fame of the architect will endure + as long as it shall stand.... + + I have had a tragic correspondence, for the most part all on + one side, with Miss--. She did really wish to--I hesitate to + write--marry me. That is the way they spell it. Of course I did + not write a deliberate answer. How could I deliberate upon it? I + sent back as distinct a _no_ as I have learned to pronounce after + considerable practice, and I trust that this _no_ has succeeded. + Indeed, I wished that it might burst, like hollow shot, after it + had struck and buried itself and made itself felt there. _There was + no other way._ I really had anticipated no such foe as this in my + career. + + I suppose you will like to hear of my book, though I have nothing + worth writing about it. Indeed for the last month or two I have + forgotten it, but shall certainly remember it again. Wiley & + Putnam, Munroe, the Harpers, and Crosby & Nichols have all declined + printing it with the least risk to themselves; but Wiley & Putnam + will print it in their series, and any of them anywhere, at _my_ + risk. If I liked the book well enough, I should not delay; but for + the present I am indifferent. I believe this is, after all, the + course you advised,--to let it lie. + + I do not know what to say of myself. I sit before my green desk, in + the chamber at the head of the stairs, and attend to my thinking, + sometimes more, sometimes less distinctly. + + I trust a common man will be the most uncommon to you before you + return to these parts. I have thought there was some advantage even + in death, by which we “mingle with the herd of common men”.... + +Oh, yes, he must also send him the news about Hugh, the gardener, +who has been intending to buy Henry’s cabin and the old bean-field. +The fruit-trees he promised to plant there are not set out yet. Hugh +is busy elsewhere: on the day after the Cattle-show he was among the +missing. The same old story, too much beer.... The field at Walden is +in good hands. + + * * * * * + +They have had a peace meeting here.... Some men, Deacon Brown at the +head, have signed a long pledge, swearing that they will “treat all +mankind as brothers henceforth.” I think I shall wait and see how they +treat me first. I think that Nature meant kindly when she made our +brothers few. However, my voice is still for peace. So good-bye, and a +truce to all joking, my dear friend. + + + + + VI + + +Henry weighs in his hand a book that has just come from the press. A +duodecimo, bearing on its back: H. D. THOREAU--A WEEK ON THE CONCORD +AND MERRIMAC RIVERS. + +From it rises a faintly insipid odour of glue and ink. But it is no +cardboard tomb that he has wished to raise to the memory of the dear +companion to whom these pages are dedicated. He is wondering how the +delight of a week like that, two adventurous weeks passed with his +brother, could possibly be contained between two layers of brown +cardboard, and he has half a mind to fling the volume into the corner. +It is less true than that arrow-head there on the table. + +He is examining his first book, which has at last appeared. It is a +mere trifle of pulp or dirty rags, boiled down, flattened into sheets, +dried and finally blackened with ink. And beyond that? How about +all the things he had meant to put into it? The best part has been +lost between the manuscript and the composing-stick. A book that is +nothing more than a book may be a very attractive accessory among the +drawing-room furnishings of people of taste if the shade of the binding +harmonizes with the hangings and the rugs. To a man of the woods whose +eye prefers to linger on bare boards and plain whitewashed walls, a +book is a useless knick-knack, a rather sorry one, mere dust in a +cardboard box. + +In this scrap-book of verse and prose (the verse--old verse, for he +has ceased to write it--like dried flowers pressed between the leaves) +in which the glorious voyage ... yes, ten summers ago now ... serves +only as a pretext for personal digressions, he would have liked to +put the whole world, with its blowing winds, its floods of light, the +fragrance of the river-banks at dawn and all the surprises under heaven +that had been gathered in by a twenty-year-old heart. A book of which +the first outlines had been sketched under a tent and the chapters had +been assembled in a cabin in the woods was not intended merely for the +mahogany shelves of Mr. Pettifogger the bibliophile. It should dance +and plash like the boat that had borne the two conquerors; it should +preserve a little of the flavour of the melons they had carried on +board. What was the use of it otherwise? There were enough cemeteries +of books already, full of the other kind, with mortuary emblems +watching over them. + +Did they amount to as much as one dip of an oar in a river spangled +with reflexions, these few hundred pages, black on white? (See if you +can find any black in nature.) Well, anyway, the book had come out. +Not without difficulty. The publishers would have nothing to do with +it. In the end he had had to resign himself to a “published by the +author.” Another fling of the adventurer, launching his bark for the +conquest of the world, with the good Jersey blood of the mariner in his +veins. It was for the public now to do its duty by demanding _Weeks_ +and _Weeks_ from the booksellers, enough weeks to make up the life of a +centenarian, or at least the age of the author. Here’s a book for you, +just out, a thousand copies, by Henry Thoreau, out of his own head, +every word of it, from the title to the last period. Quite a different +affair from an article published in a magazine, between a cream-puff +and a sermon. + +When you have cherished from college days an ambition to be a writer +there is naturally a little warmth in the hand that holds the back of +the first book. You have made your bow in the world, you have started, +you have set out for the antipodes; you are off on a voyage that will +never end. You have openly confessed your secret passion, accepted the +ordeal of the daylight that shines on a larger world than Concord. The +Sage has encouraged you to try your luck. You are going to see. The +author is not greatly troubled in advance about the judgment of the +world on the first fruits of a writer of thirty-two. In his silent +communion with his notebooks, during the dozen years that he has been +preparing himself to write, Henry has fortified himself with assurances +that have nothing to do with success or failure. + +Curious Journal, curious confidant, a work that is to be continued +through many volumes--eight or ten already exist--and that will never +be finished till the day when the universe ceases to surprise him, the +day when his two eager eyes are closed at last. As the farmer has been +in no hurry to sell his crop while he was reaping it, his barn contains +the harvest of several years. It has been necessary to add one floor +after another in order to get it all stored away. Heaven knows whether +all this will keep; but he has taken good care that all the garnered +sheaves shall be quite dry. + +On his rambles the explorer scribbles on the spot a note or a few +cabalistic signs, while he is under the direct impression of the +phenomenon or the landscape he is observing. On his return the note +is copied out, more deliberately. Later, in its final form, it will +be incorporated in the Journal. What Henry, the writer, adds in the +evening to the visions and thoughts of the day’s walk in no way +destroys their freshness, for they are thoughts of a true Pilgrim, +flowers that have unfolded in the rhythm of the walk and that he turns +over in his hands at home, in the evening, with his spirit bathed in +the open air, so as to study their tints. It might be called, this +Journal, the account of a journey that never comes to an end, for the +world about Concord is immense and has a genius for metamorphosis; or +perhaps the review of a spectacle that is performed for himself alone, +with a programme that is constantly renewed, action and setting, with +the strange encounters one has after a performance, the people one +likes, the people one laughs at. Or the “love story” of a boy who is +looking for his own affinities and finds them oftener in the world +of plants than in human form. It is illustrated now and then by rude +sketches carefully recording some observation or discovery. But whether +it is to be called a report, a review, a story or the music of the +day, the notebook contains nothing that is not veracious testimony. +A descendant of merchants and like them a hoarder of treasures, +Henry reckons up in the Journal the gains of the day. He too is in +business, and he keeps his accounts with the meticulous exactness of +a book-keeper. You can examine his books. Observe the debits and the +credits. If the profits do not strike you as very clear, it is because +you have singular ideas about wealth, my dear fellow. + +The harvest might well have remained in the barn. No purchasers appear, +but at times the desire seizes him to sell a few armfuls if only to see +whether or not it is keeping well--perhaps, too, for the fun of having +a little cash. Now and then Henry wants to buy some fine old book, if +only to escape the bother of having to go to the library to read it, +or he needs a good pair of boots. Then he draws from his Journal the +substance of an article and sends it off to a magazine. Horace Greeley, +whose acquaintance he has made in New York, has been of great service +in finding a place for his work and has even agreed to advance him a +small sum. But Concordians propose and editors dispose. The manuscript +is too long, or they will not countenance some of his audacities of +thought. Or, what is more likely to happen, the article is printed and +the author is swindled. What, dear sir, you are not satisfied with +the honour of appearing in print in my celebrated sheet? You expect +to be paid for it? You can dig in your own pockets. This misadventure +befell him long since with the editor of a certain _Boston Miscellany_ +and more recently with that of _Graham’s Magazine_, who published his +essay on Carlyle, written at Walden. There you are! You are a Concord +hayseed, and these fine gentlemen are giving you a lesson in humility. +One doesn’t write for money. Pocket the lesson and clench your fist. +And get back to work at your Journal. + +And now it has appeared, after all, this volume he has just brought +back, freshly bound, from his printer Monroe’s, at whose shop he has +been to see it through the press on this twenty-sixth of May. Henry +examines his first book, and he does not feel so very proud. He is +the author of _A Week on the Concord_. It has been introduced to +the public. What next? One must sometimes have confidence in one’s +fellowmen and place a figure before a line of zeros. + +(Yes, a book is born, and almost at once someone close to you dies, +someone whose loss hurts you deeply and blots out all thought of +books. Henry loses his sister Helen, the eldest--called back, she too, +to the grandfather--Helen who had his features, his eyes, and was so +sympathetic with his ideas. Helen has gone, not yet thirty-seven, to +keep John company in the cemetery.) + +The writer also appears in public when he gives a lecture. It is in the +Concord Lyceum that Waldo distributes the honey from his hives. Since +he made his first appearance at twenty-one, Henry has spoken there +every year. He has been chosen secretary. The honour of addressing +one’s fellow-citizens from a chair that has been occupied by a sage +of European fame is worth the effort of trying to do it graciously. +From the fund on which he can draw to organize his series of winter +lectures, Henry can offer in exceptional cases ten dollars to an +orator of note; he himself pockets only the thanks of the committee. +But the neighbouring Lyceums ask him to come and speak in other towns. +Last year his friend Hawthorne, who has left Concord and now lives in +Salem, arranged for him to be invited there and asked him to stay at +his house. Henry received twenty dollars for his trouble. A fine haul. +This year he is taking his eloquence to Worcester, where Harrison Blake +lives. + +What do you think of the lecturer? Hm, hm.... In the first place, he +doesn’t speak, he “reads” a paper elaborately written; he doesn’t drop +his manuscript for an instant, and he utters it all in a desperately +earnest, monotonous voice. A bad method. He pronounces his r’s harshly. +And he is not exactly engaging, this young man. He doesn’t give +himself. The people listen attentively to this sober soul who talks +to them about things that interest them very little; they are not +repelled, they are not indignant, they are simply bored. And the worst +of it is that Henry not only believes in what he says but is quite +aware of the freezing effect his little discourse has upon people; he +plods along with imperturbable gravity. It is as if he had started +with some such little preamble as this in his mind: You blockheads +down there listening to me, what do I care whether I interest you or +not? You seem to think I’ve come here to give you lollypops. Here are +a few sour apples and some acorns I’ve collected for you. Do what you +like with them. What can a man expect from such frozen wits? It’s +quite useless to waste any finesse on these dolts. They wouldn’t see +anything in it. They make no personal effort; they don’t come half-way +to meet you.... If you go on speaking just the same, it is because you +are sustained by the hope of finding one or two living beings among +these mummies, a few simple and impressionable souls thanks to whom +your pains will not be lost. As a rule, no one comes up after the +lecture to tell you how extraordinarily good it is. Well, never mind; +you can go home, ladies and gentlemen. There is something to be said +for you for having listened without a murmur to such a trying pedant. + +No, Henry doesn’t hit it off with the audience at all. You don’t +get very far with these good people with paradoxes and ferocious +affirmations; you must have the art of flattering and tickling them, +putting them into a good humour and touching their hearts. This fellow +here doesn’t know the first thing about his business. There is nothing +these people like better than to be amused in a sociable kind of way, +and he doesn’t even know how to make himself agreeable. He is the worst +bore in New England. If you have all that faith, my boy, hand it out +in little sandwiches that can be taken with a cup of tea. Add a little +water-cress, sprinkle it with a pinch of salt, and serve it with a +smile. See what will happen then. + +Henry, you are no sort of cook at all. You are only up to boiling gruel +in your cabin. It’s pathetic to see a man satisfied with being as poor +an orator as he is a man of letters. This refusal to yield to the ways +of the world gets to be irritating after a while. No use for him to +want to be a writer; he will never enter the paradise of the literary. +He would merely bring to it an absurd respect for his art and the firm +intention of pleasing himself before pleasing others. Henry, the lover +of good work, takes a workman’s pains in perfecting his page. Thanks +to the erasures, this manuscript has become an illegible scrawl, not +because in the first draught the writing was so uncertain but because +the author is so extremely severe with himself. He has a pitiless blue +pencil. No “almosts.” Nothing that savours of improvisation. Every word +that is not alive, that is merely a word, must disappear. Struggle +and toil count for nothing, he must get there. If you could only find +me some sort of eraser that would obliterate from this page the exact +things that ought to be obliterated: that invention would be even more +useful than the best pencil bearing the mark of Thoreau and Son. In +everyday life with your neighbours garrulity is irritating enough; in +art it is intolerable. The work that comes from Henry’s hands is to the +point. You can take it and see how firm the texture is. The man who +made it wears corduroy clothes because they are durable and take on an +exquisite tone with time. Very well. But let me repeat that with these +principles you will never be anybody in the literary world. There copy +is knitted by the yard for firms that do a thriving trade. + +And isn’t it just as odd to have such a passionate love for plants, +animals, minerals, to study with such fervour all these physical +phenomena, and yet to have so little in common with the scientists? +Science consists of shells, stuffed animals, glass phials, long names, +dissertations in musty books, and what interests Henry is the living +animal in all its wildness and freedom, the plant with its sap, the +phenomenon seized alive in its natural setting. In spite of his tastes +and his gift for exact observation, the poet and the lover in him are +too exigent to yield precedence to the naturalist. And besides, there +is a strange animal that interests him enormously; namely, himself. +This is a very poor sort of recommendation among scientists. + +On three occasions, however, he sends Concord fish from Walden to +Agassiz, who is preparing his great work on the fishes of America. +Agassiz is very grateful and promises to pay a visit to his Concord +“colleague.” The latter has been appointed a corresponding member +of the Society of Natural History in Boston; he has just sent it a +goshawk, a rare bird. Even in the village, people have fallen into the +way of consulting him as an authority on botanical and ornithological +matters. This does not prevent him from being very sarcastic whenever +the subject of science and scientists comes up. Just speak to him about +the specialists who write a big book on turtles--to amuse a man who +knows how turtles live! Or about this or that communication to some +learned society.... He says very little about his own zoölogical or +botanical observations; he confides them to his Journal alone, for the +benefit of those knowing persons who are going to jeer some day at the +amateur naturalist and his discoveries. Go ahead and stuff your birds, +pedants. Give them your Latin names. See if you can find one that any +tree or quadruped pronounces with its branches or its caperings. In +this Journal living animals pass, birds call, fishes glide through +the water, the loon flings its laughter over the pond, the sap rises +in the plants, the trees quiver to the tips of their branches, juicy +bay-bushes scent the air: Hebrew for your Latin. These fancies are +enough to show that he doesn’t belong to the profession. Leave him to +his innocent pastimes. + +Besides, this “amateur” places too high a value on ignorance to be +taken seriously by the academies. This man who reads Latin and French +as well as his mother tongue, Greek fluently, German, Italian, Spanish +a little, has a thorough knowledge of old English literature and is +more interested than a philologist in the development of the life of a +word, as a beautiful plant among plants, runs about the country every +day like a schoolboy throwing to the winds the knowledge learned from +books. The consciousness that he knows so little delights him so much +that he is willing to make his ignorance the very apex of knowledge. +Absurd Henry, to be so infatuated with his not-knowing. + +Sometimes, as seldom as possible, he goes to the city, for now and then +he wants to consult some book that interests him. It is a sad business, +reading in a big library. Fresh books, vibrant, vagabond, libertine +books, how in the world can you stay so still among those rows of +shrivelled corpses? The friend who comes to see you at intervals pities +your distress. + +When he has finished his reading, the villager invariably goes off to +consume a dish of boiled apple pudding at some cheap eating-house (he +distrusts their accursed stews), then crosses the town without stopping +till he reaches the end of Long Wharf, where his grandfather had his +store. There he looks at the sea, the ships, the piles of merchandise. +Save for a glance at the market on his way, this is all he sees of +Boston. The stir of the metropolis means nothing to him whatever; the +fronts of the substantial houses and the faces of men seem to shut him +out. Everything here, to the very stones, reeks of respectability. +The windows full of idlers and the brawling vulgarity of the streets +make him ill. The city is a pickpocket who wants to filch from you +the most precious possession you have and leave you on the sidewalk +dejected and destitute in a vast solitude. This is because you were +not born, because you never played as a boy in one of these crowded +neighbourhoods, because you grew up on the bank of a river that wanders +through the fields, bathing the whole world with its freshness. For +others no doubt, among its stones, the city has wondrous gifts; for a +boy who is thinking of old Minot’s cottage on the hillside it is full +of shams and shoddy, and what this boy demands is the real. There is +a club in Boston made up of some very sympathetic people who meet on +the last Saturday of every month; among them are Emerson, Agassiz and +Henry James. But although Henry has been invited he never goes there. +Quick, take the train and put twenty miles between yourself and this +dismal burden of stone house-fronts. Quick, get back to Concord where +the village is merely a shabby excrescence amid the verdure. At Concord +there are no steamers, no Long Wharves, no crowds in the streets, +no immigrants, no big, bustling shops, no special editions; and you +feel as if you were at the heart of the world. In Boston there are no +humming and singing telegraph-poles where you can listen to the news +from afar. Call it parochialism, if you like, but parish towers answer +one another. Concordance is no empty word. + +At Concord you have a chance to remain simple. Suppose you were to +become a great writer or a fashionable lecturer or a light of science +and lose the simplicity of heart that alone permits you to have +access to the unknown riches that surround you. That would be a fine +advancement! There you would be with the esteem of everybody, with +your glory or your hard cash, wondering how in the world you could +get rid of all these substantial advantages and recover your boyish +ingenuousness, and the keen, inquisitive nose, the gift of marvelling +at the commonest object that have always so astonished the good +William. You would have taken a false step indeed. You would have +been transformed into one of those men who are too sober-minded, too +dignified or too intelligent to stop and pick a tempting huckleberry +beside their path. Your eyes would be dead to the miracle of every +day. You would no longer want to be a sailor and skirt the bays and +promontories of “some fair wild island in the ocean,” suggested by an +oak-leaf. You would lose your elasticity. You would become old before +your time, old, respectable and unhappy. You might even pose as a +little saint and cease to feel yourself a man complete with his virtues +and his vices, no better at bottom than the neighbour he scoffs at and +lectures. You would be a success, and you would have lost everything, +while at Concord one never becomes a success. + +There may have been a moment when Henry wondered if the art of writing +could not support the writer; but this moment had passed. He understood +the trade and the taste of its customers only too well. Precarious as +his other resources might be, they were better than that. As a small +boy, running barefoot in the fields and up to all sorts of mischief, +and later as an ingenious older boy, he had learned how to dig, plane, +paint houses, plant, survey. And now Henry continues to work by the +day, as occasion offers. A precious thing, manual labour. It stops +babbling tongues and toughens a frail body. It gives a tone to what +you write afterwards. Your qualities as a workingman reappear when you +come to weigh and balance words. When you have finished a fence of +pickets and lattice at $1.50 for every five yards, or built a woodshed +by contract for six dollars, it is very pleasant to receive the money; +but that is not everything. You must also reckon the pleasure you have +had. And add to this the profit you have received in indirect ways, +such as the quality of the page on which you relate the impressions +of the day. Henry does surveying, and he also helps his father in the +workshop. When he is not engaged elsewhere, he gives him his mornings. +The family industry is being transformed. The Thoreau pencils are +selling fairly well, and a new market has opened for the famous +plumbago powder--the secret. It happens to fit exactly the needs of a +new invention--electrotyping--and the people give them ten dollars a +pound for it. Even though they can sell only a few hundred pounds of it +a year, this is not a bad stroke of business for the little family. The +pencils have become only a side-issue; they work for the big industry. +But Henry makes a trip to New York to dispose of a lot he has made, for +he has a large debt to pay. + +The poorer you are in Concord, the better you know your true wealth. +It is all very clever to create happiness with a thousand costly +accessories, but to create happiness out of nothing, to be happiness +yourself, is much more interesting, and happiness of this kind has +quite a different quality. To have been born poor is a privilege too. +In the most authentic great man, no matter how magnificent and complete +he is in appearance, never to have worn rags or gone without a meal, +never to have been able to toss his dignified respectability to the +winds, never to have known what hardship means is a lacuna that can +never be filled up. Think of that poor, great Goethe, too well brought +up, as he said, to have had any intercourse in his childhood with the +boys in the streets.... Whatever you may say, the boy who has never +set his bare, smarting feet on the hard ground has missed one of the +best of gifts. He has not been judged worthy of experiencing the real +savour of this world. Henry has no inclination to make a profession +of his poverty, to set himself up in the square for the admiration of +connoisseurs. He saves it for himself because it keeps him warm, as a +sheepskin coat warms a driver in winter. It has a taste that he likes +and it helps him to keep up his good spirits. It lives with him like +a comrade in the attic he has arranged for himself in the new house, +the yellow one, where his parents have been living on Main Street since +August, 1850. He is very much at home there and William lives across +the way. At the foot of his garden the boat is moored. + +There in his den Henry lives like a king among the spoils of his +expeditions, his collections of birds’ eggs, mosses, plants, +arrow-heads, his bedside books, his manuscripts--and always a store of +nuts to take the place of pipe and bottle. There he sleeps and works +and talks with his comrade, enjoying the tawny shade of the latter’s +eyes and blessing the fate that has provided for him so generously. +Recently his classmates have asked him for an account of himself for +the record they are preparing of the class of 1837 at Harvard. Henry’s +reply is as follows: + + Am not married. I don’t know whether mine is a profession, or a + trade, or what not. It is not yet learned, and in every instance + has been practised long before being studied. The mercantile part + of it was begun by myself alone. It is not one but legion. I + will give you some of the monster’s heads. I am a Schoolmaster, + a private Tutor, a Surveyor, a Gardener, a Farmer, a Painter (I + mean a House Painter), a Carpenter, a Mason, a Day-labourer, a + Pencil-maker, a Glass-paper-maker, a Writer, and sometimes a + Poetaster. If you will act the part of Iolas, and apply a hot + iron to any of these heads, I shall be greatly obliged to you. My + present employment is to answer such orders as may be expected from + so general an advertisement as the above. That is, if I see fit, + which is not always the case, for I have found out a way to live + without what is commonly called employment or industry, attractive + or otherwise. Indeed, my steadiest employment, if such it can be + called, is to keep myself at the top of my condition, and ready for + whatever may turn up in heaven or on earth. The last two or three + years I lived in Concord woods, alone, something more than a mile + from any neighbour, in a house built entirely by myself. + + P. S. I beg that the class will not consider me an object of + charity, and if any of them are in want of any pecuniary assistance + and will make known their case to me, I will engage to give them + some advice of more worth than money. + +As he sends off this description and thinks of his fellows at college, +he sees this poor devil, at the head of a factory, condemned to sweat +money out of his machines and his workmen ... this poor devil, launched +in politics or absorbed in business, deep in the auriferous mire ... +this poor devil reduced to working as some high office-holder ... this +poor devil, consenting to spend his life manufacturing counterfeit +money stamped with the effigy of Jesus, the enemy of all money ... +a whole list of poor devils, with round shoulders or an air of +satisfaction, who have not wasted the money their fathers sacrificed +to send them to college. He sees them with their positions, their +prestige, their prosperous households, their wives, their children, +their mothers-in-law and heaven knows what, and himself beside them, +the failure, without position, bank-account or influence, with his +workman’s clothes, earning a meagre living by the labour of his hands, +hands which, like theirs, have thumbed so many books. And how glad and +privileged he feels in his attic with his tawny-eyed companion! He +would be only too happy to work in their gardens or split the wood for +their stoves, offering them his pity in exchange for their dollars. +If he met the most fortunate of them all, he would feel like hanging +a placard round his neck: “Have pity on a poor rich man”--for some +passer-by with a generous heart to slip into his hand a pennyworth of +compassion. And if no charitable passer-by appeared, he would gladly +give the poor fellow his own mite. You are magnanimous when you are a +success. + +Is it not from the worst that we often get the very best? Then why not +meet ill fortune with a high heart and refuse, on the dullest day, not +to be happy over a mere nothing, a trembling leaf, a swaying twig, or +the smile of old Minot’s house on the hillside--happy, you don’t know +why, because you are happy, happy as a child who plays with his poverty +as a comrade, finding in its eyes the colour of your own real wealth? + +When you are a rich man like Henry you want to treat yourself, now +and then, to some little trip. For one who disposes of his time as he +pleases, this is merely a matter of gathering together a few odds and +ends. A week or so of surveying, a windfall in the shape of a lecture +or a cheque for an article provides you with the means of surveying +good fortune for many hours, a week, two weeks, not to mention a store +of memories. This is one of the satisfactions of the lot of a man +who is free, as all men ought to be free. It is good to work on your +manuscripts. But you never write a story to be compared with those that +are traced by your feet as you welcome the surprises of the road. + +There are always more surprises in Concord than anywhere else; but the +world is wide and you want to see how the sun shines in other places. +And besides, you want to give your old notions an airing; no matter how +wide open you keep your window, they are always in danger of getting a +little musty.... There are those hills on the horizon towards the West +behind which, at nightfall, from the top of the Cliffs, you see that +blazing reflection. The land of the sunset is a powerful magnet. + +What if you were to explore one of those hills that rise up, like +a challenge and a promise, beyond that stretch of country over +there--climb it, brush your boots on its brow, watch the sun rise from +up there and see if you can discover the faraway spot in the valley +from which you set out? That ought to do your soul good and expand your +lungs. There is that solitary Wachusett, for example, forever crouching +there in the distance, as if it were watching over some treasure; you +would like to go and ask that brother if he finds his solitude bitter +or friendly. His younger brother from Concord is coming to make him a +visit. That blue wall is not a fabulous vision; it is a solid reality, +in harmony with the woods, the fields, the river. It belongs to the +family too. Another time the thirty-seven hundred feet of Monadnoc draw +him up. He has to prolong his visit, live with the mountain a while, +become familiar with the dawn and the sunset on those heights. The +visitor camps for one night, two nights, in the open, on the summit of +the vision that holds him aloft with all its mass till a small man, on +this pedestal, has the illusion of being a somebody. + +On the day before, in the morning, well before dawn, he had set out on +foot with a companion. They passed through villages and woods, with +staves in their hands like pilgrims. The fields were full of fragrance +for the early risers, the farms still asleep in the twilight of dawn; +save for one reaper already sharpening his scythe, they were the first +that morning to tread the July countryside; they passed through the +hop-fields, rested on the fence-rails of a farm from which the sound +of music reached them; and in the afternoon in the valley they sought +shelter from the broiling heat and bathed their feet in the streams +they found there. And at last they arrived together on a grassy +plateau, strewn with clumps of huckleberry and raspberry bushes, in +time to see the moon rising in this tremendous silence--two little +souls, serious, lost in wonder, half frightened at finding themselves +so high above the rest of their fellow-townsmen. And the dawn, the +notes of the birds before the dawn on these heights, the great waves +of the slopes below rise out of the shadows as if they were at sea--on +what a ship!--as the camp-fire pales and the day breaks and the +landscape unrolls in all its unreality: old Massachusetts, the whole of +it, bathed in the sunrise, at their feet, spreading its panorama before +them in the summer morning! The air of the heights intoxicates them; +it has a quality that is unknown to dwellers on the plain. It is not +so much that it acts upon your lungs: its rarity has a strange power +of exalting the spirit. Henry revels in it and feels at home on the +shoulder of the mountain. If he did not live in Concord he would be a +mountaineer. + +And the charm of the mountains persists. Sometimes he goes still +further west, as far as Greylock or Saddle-back Mountain, to pay a +visit to Their Majesties. And then--wonder of wonders--the mountains he +has always seen towards the sunset rise, in a spirit of contradiction, +to the east! Is he a new man who, without realizing it, has taken a +trip round the world?... Before beginning his climb he stops in this +mountain valley at the next to the last house. It would be fun to spend +a week in that house if they would take him in. The mistress is a young +woman who continues to arrange her hair while she talks to him in the +friendliest way, without any fuss, thank heaven; she is dark and her +eyes are full of fire and she questions him with as much familiarity +as if they had been children together. She makes him think of his +cousin in Bangor. And they really are cousins in a way. She has taken +him for one of those daredevil students who often come on trips to the +mountain. On the top he finds bits of newspapers they have left about; +it is strange to read a stray sheet of some old paper alone on the +summit of a mountain by the light of a camp-fire. What wears the best +at this altitude is the advertisements and the market prices, for there +is a bit of real poetry mixed with them, though the advertisers are +quite unaware of it (fortunately); as for the rest, editorials, news, +jokes, reviews, heaven save us! And then, after a cold night that he +has passed without a blanket, the day dawns over an ocean of fog that +covers the three adjoining States as if it were a dream-country rolling +off into infinity.... It is the earth that has become unreal, and you +are planted there as if you were the centre of this tremendous glory +that rises with the sun.... And you descend Tabor again, a little drunk +with this vision and no longer in the least cold in spite of the night +passed without a blanket. + +In the other direction from the land of the sunset lies the sea, quite +close--another magnet. The peaks are silent and contemplative, but the +sea stirs and rustles like a forest of gigantic pines, lulling its old +anguish. On an island in the middle of the ocean you might contrive to +have a rich existence if you could ever forget Concord. Or in one of +those villages about Cape Ann. The whole Atlantic coast and all the +width of the continent lie at the ends of the roads that set out from +the village square. + +Yes, to go off for two, three, four days, according to the occasion and +the plumpness of your purse, to leave Main Street and the church-tower +and the sidewalks of the grey little town behind you and attempt an +unexplored world ... that’s the thing, Henry ... the real holidays of +life. You must have them complete. The first thought of most poor souls +on such occasions is to take the train or the stage. They are poor +souls indeed. When you are rich you have the means to travel on foot. +Henry has no intention of surrendering to a machine or animal the +pleasure of treading the road and devouring it for him; this traveller +likes the taste of it far too much to leave it to a mere auxiliary. It +is a part of the adventure. When a vagabond journeys on foot, the earth +invites him to her table and lets him roam all over her domain; those +other people are mere stupid tourists who follow where their baggage +leads them. Before they set out, the latter are sure to worry about +where they will find a lodging; why do they leave home if they begin a +journey with the thought of lodgings? + +Henry starts off with a pack on his back. It’s a marvel, this knapsack. +See if you can find one like it in the shops! The traveller has +manufactured it to suit himself. It is waterproof and has compartments; +a notebook, the map of the country, his old music-book for pressing +flowers, his change of linen are in no danger of being injured. If +he is going some distance he carries a little bundle in his hand. It +is a package tied up in a handkerchief or a piece of brown paper. He +recommends this to you as preferable to any sort of handbag, first +because it is lighter and swings more merrily in your fist, and +secondly because it causes less trouble. Don’t forget the inevitable +accessory of any expedition, a good stout umbrella. A raincoat or an +oilskin might be more becoming, but they keep you too warm and they are +unwholesome, while under an umbrella you are always exposed to the air +and you have only to shut it up when the shower is over. And then you +have the rare pleasure of hearing the rain patter on your roof, while +you are perfectly sheltered yourself; you are a householder on your own +threshold, and you take it easy listening to the rain dripping from the +eaves. When you are tired of carrying the umbrella in your hand, you +can carry it on your shoulder and even hang your bundle on it, or any +other prize you pick up--a bird or a bit of sea-weed. People may laugh +at you. Let them. They will never have so much fun in all their lives. + +The clever fellow has thought of everything, down to the sewing-case +for mending rips and fastening on buttons that fall off. These accursed +leather shoestrings are always undone and cause endless bother in +walking; they really abuse their right to relaxation. Henry and William +have often exchanged their views on this grave subject, a theme worthy +of philosophers at least who despise the fiddle-faddle of learning. +One day Henry finds the knot-that-will-not-come-undone and triumphs. +If everyone applied himself to solving such problems, the world would +soon stand on a different basis. But above all, do not forget to take +along some old newspapers. You will find them providential. If you +don’t already know to how many uses old newspapers can be put, on a +journey or at home, try some experiments. You are leaving your shanty +for a week or two or for six months and you are afraid that during this +time your kettle will rust. Wrap it up in a newspaper and go your way +in peace. Or you want to give your copper basin a good scouring; take +a wad of newspaper and polish it up as it should be. Your face will +smile at you in the mirror you have brightened so easily. And what +a comfort a few old newspapers are on your trip, if you have taken +them along: they serve as wrappers, as a tablecloth, as a plate, as a +means of starting the fire, or as a light, warm chest-protector if it +turns cold. And there are still so many fools in the world who believe +that newspapers are made to be read, to inform you about accidents +and politics. Among the humble truths that might shed a little light +on their existence, this is not the least important: in spending your +two cents you are making a golden investment if, instead of unfolding +the sheet, you place it carefully on a pile of old papers for the +approaching day when it will reveal its true use. + +The question of provisions also demands a good bit of attention and +experience. Henry has weighed this for a long time. He has been armed +with certitudes ever since he first took the road. For drinking on a +journey nothing equals good strong tea. Because you have seen so many +old souls busy over teapots, brewing and stewing, don’t imagine that +tea is an old woman’s beverage. A grave mistake. Winter or summer, it +is a powerful and subtle tonic. For solid food, carry with you a good +loaf of heavy cake. If it is made by your mother it will be A-number-1. +You will thank me for this advice. Add a little cornmeal, enough to +make some gruel, a small bag of rice, some salt. With a spoon, a tin +quart-measure, and, if you like, a saucepan--not to mention the matches +and the knife that a walker must always have--you are the master of +circumstance. No longer any need to knock at a door, when the fresh air +of the road has given you an appetite, except for the pleasure of a +chat or to add a glass of milk to your usual fare if you want to bring +back your childhood. You are both the inn and the traveller. + +These arrangements are very important for the success of the trip. As +for your clothes, they should be durable and old, preferably brown or +tan--the colour of the earth. They will show the dust and the mud less, +and you will not offend the landscape as the figure of a townsman in +the country does with his funereal black. In heaven’s name, avoid the +“tourist’s” get-up. You must slip through the countryside like an old +family friend, not like an intruder. One more recommendation. A straw +hat is one of those creations in which the inventive genius of man +triumphs. Light and as solid as flexible armour, it places between the +burning sun and your poor skull just the right amount of space for you +to be able to speak of the _good_ sun.... Suppose a shower, a downpour, +surprises you on a day when you have left your umbrella behind. If it +does not last too long the wide rim of your head-covering will shelter +you. If the straw is a little warped after this bath, well, it has seen +plenty of others. It will soon get back its proper shape; your oval, +square or pointed skull takes care of that gratis. And this invention, +you know, costs only a few cents. If some accident befalls it, if it +has not been fastened firmly with your handkerchief knotted under your +chin, and a gust of wind blows it into the water or some ditch, well, +good-bye, old friend.... I shall regret you because my head breathed +its warmest thoughts through you, but I shall find another like you for +a mere song at the first shop I reach. + +If you travel with this modest outfit, you must not expect to be +treated as a rich gentleman travelling for his pleasure. That +humiliation will certainly be spared you. Nor must you be too surprised +if, along the road, you are taken for a pedlar by the women on the +doorsteps or the labourers in the fields. That’s natural enough, and +it will even please you, for nothing could be more creditable. They +may ask you if you are able to mend an umbrella (why an umbrella in +your hand in this radiant sunlight?) or if you are not a tinker. Or a +clock-setter. Or one of those casual labourers who work by the day in +the hay-making season. You will certainly not be offended by anything +of this kind; indeed you will be flattered, for it will show you +that they don’t take you for a fool. This is a compliment you don’t +often receive from your own fellow-townsmen. At home they are not +particularly struck by your ability, but out in the world your ten +fingers are in constant request. Even if some theft has been committed +in the neighbourhood as you are passing through with a friend and they +look at you suspiciously and the constable discreetly walks along with +you, you are not indignant at the inquisition. How could the police, +with their infallible noses, fail to suspect two mischievous-looking +young fellows, roaming about the roads without any apparent purpose, +instead of the traveller who puts up at the best hotel and orders his +dinner in a lofty voice? You and your companion must be the criminals, +or good-bye to the constable and the constable’s nose. + +In case you don’t care to sleep out under the stars, ask for a bed +in some house along the way. It is so much cosier. You will make the +acquaintance of some very good souls. Under their roof, as your wet +boots are drying before the fire, you will feel that you are in the +very heart of the country. And you will not have to refuse the hotel +boy the tip he has failed to deserve, the wretch, because he has +polished your famous boots instead of greasing them with a rind of pork. + +So, no matter where you go, the world responds to your expectations. +It likes to be approached on its own level, and it is for you, the man +with the knapsack, that it keeps its finest stories. Finally, you will +spend less money than if you stayed at home. + +Henry finds the highway tedious, for it is the road of trade and +traffic. He has not buckled on his haversack to perform a military +march. On the highway the gravel crunches under your feet, the dust +gets between your teeth. If his itinerary obliges him to take the road, +he at least walks on the bank, stopping from time to time to listen +to what the wind has to say on the wires. What’s the latest news? As +a rule he follows the paths, taking short-cuts across fields, jumping +over hedges, clambering up the little hills without slackening his +pace. He has a good wind. Once he has made up his mind to reach a +point he has marked on his map, all the obstacles in the world, natural +and artificial, can get in his way: he makes straight for his object, +scaling every one. Obstacles are made to be leapt over--a much quicker +way than going round them. He never loses his sense of direction in +the woods. He is a walker who can count more years of experience than +Christianity can count centuries. A pagan of a walker. + +This time the man with the old umbrella is going off alone. To set out +in company would certainly be to multiply by two or three the pleasure +of the adventure. But where can he find them, the rare birds that +share his tastes? He knows one or two perhaps, scarcely three. Most of +his friends are simply not to be thought of as travelling companions. +People who wear black clothes and are impeccably correct to the very +soles of their feet, people who are charming in their own houses but +whom you can’t imagine eating a bowl of gruel before a camp-fire. They +would make you conspicuous on the road. You can’t go and ask them to +travel like a common tramp, with an old umbrella and a bundle. And +besides, you who are an indefatigable walker and as abstemious as a +camel would soon leave your companion behind. Half-way along the road +you would hear him complaining back there that his boot hurt him or +that he was melting with perspiration. He would have to belong to a +special type, a Henry number 2 or a brother John.... Or a William. But +William does not dare to start out this time; he is afraid of what +might befall him with such an intrepid companion when it is no longer a +question of a mere afternoon’s ramble to Nine Acre Corner. + +Some friends have sent Henry an invitation to lecture over yonder; it +is a chance for a little trip. If he sometimes has to be urged a bit, +it is only for the stupidest of reasons. When he goes to see some of +his friends or appears in public, he has to dress up more or less (a +remnant of respect for the conventions, you know).... His old togs, +frayed by all the thickets of the wilderness, have such a beautiful +patina and they are so well moulded to all his movements and so easy at +the arm-holes that it is heart-breaking to be obliged to give them up +and harness himself in a frock-coat in which he feels as cramped as a +best man dressing up for his cousin’s wedding. The mere thought of it +almost spoils his pleasure in advance. He would like to be his everyday +self, not this promenader in his Sunday best. + +But Henry is ready for any sacrifice. He is going to take the train +for Worcester and pay his friend Harrison Blake a visit. The latter +is an old Harvard man like himself whom he met through Emerson when +he was living at Walden. A little too full of starch, this good +man--Henry would like to pinch him now and then to see if he has blood +in his veins--but a firm and faithful friend. They write to each other +regularly. Henry is a little bored by the correspondence, and he would +be very happy if he could make this excellent Blake, who absolutely +insists upon regarding him as a sage and a great philosopher, +understand how seriously mistaken he is. No, my friend, you are quite +wrong; I am a very ordinary soul and very much at a loss how to reply +to you, for to me two words exchanged with a carter mean more than +all the moral counsels in the world. You insist on asking me for all +sorts of spiritual directions, and I am as threadbare in philosophical +matters as I am in the matter of clothes. You are throwing your respect +away, dear fellow. It is very hard for a pagan, an artist and a savage +to make himself intelligible to a churchman, for he is a churchman, +this good, faithful Blake. It is a safe bet that in fifty years he +would never understand. To appease this keen spiritual hunger, the +great “philosopher,” in his letters--after ten years of correspondence +they are invariably addressed to “Mr. Blake”--copies out for him whole +pages from his Journal, carefully selected from those that are the +most “moral.” Their correspondence and their relations always keep +this grave tone. Henry feels the frock-coat that cramps him at the +arm-holes. But Mr. Blake is certainly the most loyal of friends. + +Henry feels more at home with Daniel Ricketson, who invites him to +his house at New Bedford, the whaling port. On the first occasion it +is mid-winter, and Ricketson, who is a Quaker, is clearing the snow +off his front steps and thinking of his visitor who is very late in +arriving. Up the carriage road comes someone who looks like a pedlar, +in a long overcoat, carrying a little bag and a big umbrella. But it +is the expected personage, and he strolls up imperturbably through +the friendly snow; he has had no thought of preparing a sensational +appearance; they will receive him cheerfully in this disguise as Santa +Claus, for it is Christmas Day. The following year Daniel returns the +visit. He is a new friend. There are good years for friendship as +there are for trees. It even comes to Henry from across the sea in the +person of that tall, fair-haired, distinguished-looking young man, the +descendant of Anglican bishops, who, on his trip through America, comes +to see Emerson who sends him to the Thoreaus’ house, where there is +always room for a boarder. Rather an odd fish, this Thomas “Cholmley,” +and a little hard to swallow just at first, but charming at bottom +under his English patrician’s uniform, fresh from Oriel College. He is +just back from New Zealand, where he has had a taste of cattle-raising. +They go off on several rambles together about Concord; with William to +make up a trio, they set out for the conquest of that old solitary +Wachusett. Henry has very little use for these over-civilized young +blades who respectfully ask him to take them along on his walks; but he +has made an exception of this tall, fair-haired fellow who has been to +New Zealand. Some day he must take him to New Bedford. + +There, at least, there is no constraint. On the very threshold he +shakes off his gloom, the melancholy of the northern pine; he is +himself, he is a child. In this congenial atmosphere he is ready for +any joke, and he laughs and sings. He doesn’t quite catch the tune, +but who cares?--it sounds just as well. The bathing is excellent +and they get up a boating-party. One afternoon--is it the venerable +Alcott’s presence that excites him?--when Mrs. Ricketson is at the +piano, the northern pine, seized with a mad gaiety, actually begins +to execute a Zulu dance around the room, taking pains to tread on the +toes of Alcott who smilingly watches his good colleague’s extravagant +behaviour. If that blessed Blake were only in a corner of the parlour +too, on this occasion, ready for a little nip from the dancer’s boots! +It would enlighten him better than the longest letter on the nature +of Henry’s philosophy. Henry’s face is as long as a night-cap when +he is with ceremonious people who bore him. He writes deep, serious +things because he is not interested solely in trifles. And there he +is, forever pigeon-holed as the most dismal of souls. They haven’t +seen him, brimming over with nonsense, acting a pantomime with his +own intimate friends; they have never heard him singing at the top of +his lungs alone in the woods or surprised him with the children doing +some marvellous trick. No, he is and he will remain the morose ascetic +who went off into the woods one day, full of hatred for humanity, and +pounded out his black thoughts in a rough-hewn mortar. Rubbish!... Let +them talk, Henry, while you go on dancing about the room. And look out +for your toes, Alcott! + +One day, towards the end of July, 1850, Henry sets out hurriedly on +a strange journey. He is not going to spend Sunday this time with a +friend who is waiting for him; he has to find the body of a friend +who has died. Poor Margaret Fuller, whom he had never known well but +who recalled to him the days of the _Dial_, was returning from Italy, +married now and a mother, on a ship that had gone ashore in a storm on +Fire Island. She was one of the victims, after having watched death +approaching for twelve hours till a mightier wave delivered her with +her child and her husband. Henry has been commissioned by all the +Concord friends--Margaret was William’s sister-in-law--to search the +scene of the shipwreck and try to recover her pitiful remains and her +belongings. He scours the beach, questions everybody, pursues his +inquiries. Plunderers of the wreck have been there before him. At first +nothing is found but a few papers, some love-letters and the little +body of Nino.... Then, eight days after the shipwreck, Henry, who has +got his direction from a lighthouse-keeper, finds on a lonely beach the +shapeless remains of a body, ravaged by the rough jaws of the sea--a +few bones with a little flesh still adhering to them.... + +Concord enfolds a man very tenderly in the arms of its river and woods +when he comes back with roughened skin from such trips as these. But +when you are at once a stay-at-home and a nomad, there are few holidays +to be compared to a long expedition when your confounded circumstances +permit you to think of such a thing. And nothing could be happier than +the happiness of the preliminaries when you are making your plans and +studying your itinerary, inspecting your knapsack and your boots, +and reading the books about the country you are going to explore. +Don’t talk about recreation or satisfying some asinine taste for the +picturesque by following the footsteps of other travellers. Henry +sets out from his village to reconnoitre, to get light on some very +important matters and bring back something to fill up his chests there +in the garret. These are his campaigns. + +There is that crooked beak, shaped like a fishhook, which Massachusetts +thrusts out into the sea--perhaps in an attempt to catch that big +greedy fish Long Island, if the latter, tired of sniffing the +unprofitable metropolis, should decide some day to turn to the North +for its food. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to go and see how the wind +blows there and have a look at the old sea-dogs that incrust it +like shell-fish? Cape Cod. A long tongue of land curving out like a +breakwater into the open Atlantic--an immense organ from which the +ocean draws its grandest tones. + +This year, with his book out at last, Henry can give himself a little +extra treat. William has decided to come too. They set out together at +the beginning of October (they are obliged to take the train so as not +to spend an eternity on the way) and stumble straight into a shipwreck +at Cohasset. The train is crowded with Irishmen who are on their way to +identify the bodies--from the beach to the church the farm-wagons come +and go, some of them carrying the corpses, others the sea-weed thrown +up by the storm. Immigrants from Galway in Ireland, and here they are, +livid under their white sheets, arriving, feet first, in the land of +their hopes. The flag of the shipwrecked vessel is drying there on the +rocks with pebbles on its four corners, still keeping its colours--not +dead like the Irish lads. The captain and the other survivors will lead +the funeral procession.... At the base of the fishhook they leave the +train and take the stage as far as Orleans, where the tongue of land +grows so thin: it is nothing but a sandbar sixty-five miles long by +a few miles in width. How good-natured the people in the stage are! +Simple and natural as if--O joy!--no blessed social categories existed +in their astonishing country and they were all old acquaintances. Does +the nearness of the ocean teach people the art of living? + +It rains and blows the next day, when they start out on foot. Never +mind, they are not going to wait for it to clear. They walk along the +shore; the umbrella shields them and the wind drives them on. They are +not loaded down like those two little Italians who are walking towards +Provincetown with their organs on their backs. It is an entirely new +landscape for the lads from Concord. No trees. Here and there a cottage +with a red roof. Octagonal windmills, such as they have never seen +except in pictures. In the fields heaps of clam-shells; the pigs, they +say, are fattened on the clams, those marine acorns. And see there, +those stunted apple-trees sheltered in a hollow, those little old +toy-like trees from which a child could pick the apples by hand. It +would be difficult to creep your way under them, the branches are so +low and shrubby. The little Cape Cod horses are as amusing as goats. +You great Concord farmers, if you could measure the scantness of the +land the people cultivate here--about as much as a miser could hold in +his palm! But it yields a little rather meagre corn and the vegetables +in the tiny gardens actually seem to be thriving. This is the country +of the sea. + +The best thing is to leave the road and march along to this roar that +you hear uninterruptedly on the right. The companions have come here +not to follow a road but to enjoy the ocean. They cut across the +fields in the direction of the three Nauset Lights. Then, in the +wind and rain, they are lost in an absolutely bare plain, shut in by +fog. The smallest object appears immense in this desert and as if +suspended between sky and sand. It is just the way one should see this +interminable plain. Henry feels so happy that he could sing. He is +going to try to keep clear of the villages up to the very end of the +Cape so as not to break the powerful charm. At the end of this vast +plain, and after crossing a stretch of upland covered with shrub-oak +and beech-grass and a strip of bare sand, they suddenly find themselves +at the top of a Bluff: at their feet lies everything they have come +to seek--the beach and the Atlantic. The ocean is dark under a stormy +sky--as Atlantic as possible. Those white lines of foam, some distance +out, reveal the sandbars. And beyond that nothing ... nothing but +Europe, and faraway Jersey ... so people say. It is too beautiful here +for you to have any desire to go over and see it. From this point on +the two umbrellas set out to skirt the shore, as close to the water as +possible where the sand is hardest. + +Twenty-five good miles lie before them to the tip. As they sail along +under the umbrellas that shelter and aid them, with the wind at their +backs, the walk side by side becomes glorious. Two happy souls under +their whalebone turtle-shells travel along so close to the water’s +edge that every now and then they have to leap quickly aside to escape +a great wave that has watched them from afar and flung itself upon +them: perhaps it is the umbrellas that have provoked it into lashing +them with its kelp-weed tails. And when you have played with the waves +it is a delight to scramble up the sandbank that forms the back-bone +of the Cape, so as to have a wider view of the ocean and look off +into the distance and over to the left, to the desert of sand. The +rolling country yonder, covered with autumn-tinted shrubbery, permits +them at intervals a glimpse of the bay. Walking now on the ridge, +straddling the Cape, now on the fine sand--there are no rocks to break +the wonderful monotony of this shore--the wayfarers take their time, +resting now and then; for the sand, soft as it is to their feet, makes +walking difficult after a while. Not a sail in sight, for the sea is +too heavy; not a soul on the beach. It is as if the ocean preferred to +see no one about him when he is roused. Days might pass without your +encountering two natives of the country, those plunderers of wrecks +with faces hard as a stone, a stone that the sea has rolled from the +beginning of time and is ready to go on rolling for as many ages as it +chooses. + +But they do not ask for any distraction. The enormous spectacle fills +the scene. It is better even not to talk amid this continual roar +that obliges them to shout; and if they do it is only to thunder some +Homeric lines to put themselves in tune with this bass voice. Surprises +strew their path, marvellous plants, dragged up from the sunken palaces +of the sea, all of which they would like to carry away if they could +only keep them alive in their flexibility and their lustre. Henry +chews a tip of one of them. The beautiful sea-medusas that strew the +beach in their tattered finery are as if struck with consternation not +to be swinging any longer, delicate and transparent, in the hollow +of the waves: dispossessed princesses whose hearts shrivel on this +alien strand. In spite of the noise of the sea they hear the piping +of a plover. Suppose they have a little lunch? It is noon, time to +settle themselves in a hollow of the bank and eat something, as two +good boys should who have gone a long way since breakfast in the inn +at Orleans and are famished by the salt air. Some dry sticks, a fire, +a superb clam cooked over the sand as the principal dish; the meat is +a bit rubbery, but with a cracker and sprinkled with the cries of the +sea-gulls it is quite edible and even savoury. And look there, the +weather is clearing.... + +By evening the pilgrims have reached Wellfleet. They must think of +shelter for the night. In that little house over there, with the +gable pierced with those small irregular windows, there will surely +be a corner for two fellows who are not hard to please. No one at +home. How about the other? An old woman who has had her eye on these +two suspicious-looking individuals fastens her fence-gate, then +resolutely goes back into the house. Hm.... We’ll see. Knock, knock. +An old man opens the door and asks them with a distrustful air where +they have come from and what they want. They explain. Of course we +might be almanac-vendors, but no, my friend, we’re not. We’re from the +famous Concord where the great battle took place at the time of the +Revolution. The old man is eighty-eight, so he was fourteen when that +historic event occurred. These pedlars who are not pedlars are too +much for him. Well, walk in, since you’ve come from the country of the +Revolution. The old woman relieves the strangers of their bundles and +their hats, while the grandfather grumbles: “I am all broken down this +year. I am under petticoat government here.” + +The hospitable family is composed of a daughter who looks as old +as her mother, and a brutish-looking, heavy-jawed son who goes out +abruptly at the sight of these strangers; there is also a boy of +ten. “These women,” the old man says to Henry, “are both of them +poor good-for-nothing critturs. This one is my wife. I married her +sixty-five years ago. She is eighty-four years old, and as deaf as an +adder, and the other is not much better.” The good soul is an old +oysterman who, since sailing the seas in his young days, has had much +intercourse with oysters and the Bible. He likes to gossip and they +converse in a friendly way about oysters, surveying and apple-raising. +The half-witted son returns and begins to mutter, without lifting his +head: “Damn book-pedlars--all the time talking about books. Better +do something. Damn ’em. I’ll shoot ’em”.... Whereupon, the old man, +assuming an air of authority as if he were used to it, says: “John, go +sit down, mind your business. Precious little you’ll do--your bark is +worse than your bite.” But the sullen imbecile persists in muttering, +goes and sits down at the table, eats up everything that is on it and +reaches out for the apples which his mother is paring for her guests’ +meal. She draws them away and sends him about his business. There are +many of these imbeciles in the villages of Massachusetts. + +But it is a pleasure to listen to the old oysterman who relates his +recollections in a language as salty as the water that you swallow +with an oyster. He well remembers seeing Washington, a man with such +a fine bearing! And to show how well the great general sat his horse +the old fellow strikes an attitude, straightens his shoulders and bows +ceremoniously to right and left, sweeping the absent three-cornered hat +with a wide gesture. It is just as you see him in the school-books, +but in what picture will the general ever have such a grand air as +he has in this little house on Cape Cod, evoked by the mimicry of an +old oysterman? After this they all go to bed. The boy, who is in the +chimney-corner, takes off his shoes and stockings, and as he has a sore +leg they rub it with salve before he goes upstairs. The imbecile takes +off his old shoes and follows. Then the old man, removing his shoes +in turn, without ceasing to discourse on the miseries of the world, +exhibits with pride a pair of calves as plump as a baby’s. + +William and Henry retire to their room. Someone behind them draws +the bolt and fastens them in. You can’t be too careful. After all, +you never know with these clever people who are up to all sorts +of tricks.... (Ah, good people, how right you were to distrust +two strangers who had dropped from the clouds. Two days later the +Provincetown Bank was robbed and the police were looking for two men +who must have done the job. Good heavens, to think you might have had +those two scoundrels under your roof.... Nothing more prophetic than +the instinct of an imbecile who wants to execute them out of hand. +Put this in your pipe and smoke it, you sham pedlars, even if you are +not the thieves. You have been taken for tinkers or almanac-vendors +already--it may be pickpockets next. If you had never left your own +hole-in-the-ground, how would you have ever known that you had in you +the makings of all these characters?) + +The door is unlocked before dawn and Henry runs to the beach to watch +the sun come out of the sea. They have breakfast. The old man begins +to spin his yarns again, forgetting to eat, and says to his wife, who +reminds him of this: “Don’t hurry me; I have lived too long to be +hurried”.... Meanwhile, the two comrades breakfast a little gingerly, +not being sure of the exact spots on the hearth sprinkled by the old +man’s tobacco-juice while the meal was being prepared there. They +pay their score and set out. The weather is marvellously clear this +morning, swept clean by the wind that howled in the chimney. + +They follow the dunes. The tide is coming in. The vessels are skimming +like gulls over the ocean; one, a barque, furls her sails and drops +anchor a gunshot from the shore. In this miraculous brightness of +the ocean how large and strange objects on the sand appear: at a +distance a bit of wreckage looks like a cliff. The most absurd little +rocking-horse here would have the size of some monstrous steed. And +always, under your feet, those gifts of the sea that would go so well +in your collection: a wet pebble, gleaming like a jewel, debris, come +heaven knows whence, rolled by the waves heaven knows how long, roughly +modelled by the ocean, polished or tarnished, a beautiful crab’s +shell, a sponge, a five-franc piece, bearing the image of Louis XV the +Well-beloved. Henry’s eyes, with their Concord habits, even find an +arrow-head, placed there in his honour. They must bathe in that little +basin formed by a sandbar, then sit down to dry and watch the coots +dancing like corks on the waves or the schools of menhaden, with their +back fins projecting two or three inches out of the water. In some +patches the sea is as purple as a grape. That sail yonder comes from +some port of dreams for which you are homesick even without knowing +what it is. It speaks mysteriously to a man, naked in the sun after his +bath, who hears the pores of his skin murmuring together how marvellous +it is to belong to a body that is freed from its braces and buttons. + +It will be best not to stop at Truro but to push on to the Highland +Light where they will find comfortable quarters. Indeed the keeper +receives them without asking them who they are, receives them, in +his simple brick dwelling attached to the white lighthouse, with the +generosity of a lonely soul. They climb with him up the winding iron +stairway to the lantern when he goes up to light his fifteen oil lamps. +(What a job keeping them in order! There are the wicks, the oil that +congeals in winter, the reflectors, the windows, and on warm summer +nights the moths that glue themselves there by the million, dimming +the lights--and yet everything is neat and in apple-pie order in the +lantern.) Think what a fine place it would be for a lad with studious +tastes who was too poor to feed his own lamp! And what a beautiful inn! +There you are, all night, close to the waves, snug in your bed, a part +of the lighthouse, yourself a light towards which the lookout-men at +sea direct their eyes. Wonderful! + +The Cape narrows and is soon nothing but a shrunken tongue of land +along which move two insects in holiday spirits. They are approaching +the point of the hook. Three or four days along the seashore, tramping +in the October wind, and there is Provincetown at last, a mere dot. A +compactly built little town, a barking cur, people going about their +business--all these things cut a sorry figure before an ocean that +swings from one continent to another. The two hundred schooners of the +mackerel fleet that lie there in the harbour are like toys scattered +on a green carpet. There is a smell of drying fish along the plank +sidewalks of the little town, which is engulfed in the fine sand that +filters into everything, into your shoes, into the houses. To bid +farewell to the Cape they push on across the deserted region to the +North of the port. The wind from the open sea stings and caresses them +and makes their skin smart. The whole burden of the Atlantic comes to +die at their feet in the whiteness of the foam and a rumbling as of the +end of the world. + +It is Sunday. Some sailors are engaged in painting their boat at +Provincetown when a tithing-man comes along and tells them they are +disturbing the Sabbath. That’s all very well for you, my friend. On +Sunday you lounge about the house after church, smoking your pipe with +your family, looking at the picture-papers or getting drunk if you +like; it’s easy for you to observe the Sabbath without causing any +scandal. But from where I sit, peacefully watching the harbour and the +sea, I can hear the shouts of a preacher from the meeting-house over +there with its windows wide open to the sunlight. (Wouldn’t you think +he was a drill-sergeant or a boatswain giving his commands?) Now, +tithing-man, why not tell that fellow to stop making a nuisance of +himself? Those sailors are not disturbing a soul as they paint their +boat, but that fanatic poisons the beautiful Sunday air for everybody. + +Monday, the departure. They set off for home by sea, saluted, as they +leave the harbour, by some red-shirted men who, from their boats, watch +the little steamer passing: a Newfoundland dog, with his paws on the +rail of one of the boats, watches them too, watches as a big sailor’s +dog knows how to watch. In no time at all the Cape and everything +over there behind them is a mere pale beak almost level with the sea, +and before they know it they are tying up at Long Wharf between two +big boats ... Boston ... the train for Concord. Oh, to get to Concord +quickly enough to bring home before they are gone that scent of codfish +and oysters and that drone of the sea in the shell at your ear.... + +It is so beautiful, this desolate coast, so powerfully appealing, this +Atlantic solitude, that Henry returns alone to the Cape the following +summer and twice later, alone or with William. Cape Cod has become the +first colonial possession of an affluent lover of the wilds. But the +danger of these long expeditions is that one becomes insatiable. A rich +man always wants more. Having gone to the extremities of Massachusetts, +to the mountains and the sea, he has taken it into his head to press on +to the boundary of the United States, and beyond.... + +Henry, you are ready to throw your money out of the window. William +has agreed to go up to Canada with you, or is he the tempter who +has induced you to go? However that may be, the matter is settled +between the two accomplices. They are going to take advantage of a +special excursion train. It is very disagreeable to travel under such +conditions, packed in with those idiotic tourists, but it enables them +to go a long way for very little money, and once they are there they +can get rid of the other reduced-price gentry soon enough and set out +by themselves on a tour of discovery. They will have a week before them. + +They leave Concord in the morning, before eight o’clock, and by six +in the evening they are on the shore of Lake Champlain, which crosses +the frontier ... on the map. For it crosses nothing on the landscape. +But is there a single one of these fifteen hundred excursionists who, +at this solemn moment of passing from one country into another, is not +looking for some mountain-chain, some gulf, some gigantic gate--heaven +knows what--to show that here one nation begins and another ends? A +frontier, and the face of the earth goes straight on as if it knew +nothing about its own political geography? But they begin to hear +people speaking in a different language (is that the looked-for gulf?), +and already they feel far away from home--on the “foreign soil” of the +romances. + +More than anything else, Montreal is the church of Notre Dame. A deep +cave like that in the heart of a city deserves a visit. It is very +still there. The church can hold ten thousand worshippers, but at the +moment it seems to contain only three women who are praying, and the +latter do not even lift their eyes to look at two fellows who are +softly making the tour of the nave with their hats in their hands. A +troop of natives come in, countrymen on a visit to town whose first +thought is to kneel before the high altar, with the rather awkward +movements--as Henry thinks--of cattle preparing to lie down. The +glitter of the altars, the candles and the images do not impress him, +but he is touched by this ingenuous respect. The silence is good in +this cavern. There reigns here a little of the mystery of the deep +woods; it is open every day to all comers, a retreat to which you can +come and meditate, away from the crowds, and really feel at peace with +yourself. If you were condemned for your sins to live in a town like +this, you would certainly come to Notre Dame, with the same respect +as these good women, to pray in your own fashion between services. If +it were not for the priests and their mummery, this Catholic religion +would not be a bad thing at all. It has such beautiful shrines for +meditation. Even the holy water in the basins would not disturb you +very much if, in the minds of the faithful, it were sacred like the +water of a fountain dedicated to a goddess. This Roman religion merely +needs to be brushed up a little by a pagan. Notre Dame is certainly an +astonishing cave. + +In the streets, priests and Sisters of Charity. These latter must have +been weeping all their lives long to have such scalded-looking eyes; +they have the faces of people who have been buried and dug up. They +all go about with lowered eyeballs, as if they had made up their minds +never to smile again. The sight of them insults the daylight. There are +also a great many soldiers about, mounting guard or drilling. Henry +wonders of what use all these puppets are. They are probably to amuse +the citizens, like a Punch and Judy show. And there are market-women +in the square with beautiful apples, pears and peaches for sale. (It +is the end of September.) Henry buys some, hazarding a few words of +the language of the country. These honest fruit-sellers at least are +flesh-and-blood women, and their apples are apples and not church +ornaments. And the old French names that he reads in the town have as +much flavour as the apples, or as the chronicles of the navigators +who set sail from Saint-Malo in their immense old tubs and landed at +Tadousac, at the confluence of the Saguenay. Henry has read those +chronicles, and they enchant him. + +The zigzag fissures there in the rock are Quebec and its climbing +streets. And the citadel--and the barracks and the barracks. High up +there on the ramparts he perceives from afar a terrible warrior with +an immense cocked hat; he wonders if it is the god of war stuck up +there like a scarecrow, or if that horrifying puppet with its gun is +preparing to destroy the world. These soldiers are the ornament of +Quebec; they are set about everywhere to make it clear that the English +are energetic people. In the citadel the Highlanders are drilling. +They have the graceful, elastic step of mountaineers: strong, healthy +young men, condemned to a humiliating and ridiculous occupation that +is stupefying them and turning them into automatons in the service of +Her Britannic Majesty. Their movements make a sad impression upon a +man who stands there, with his old umbrella and his bundle, staring at +the soldiers, as if they were a new species whose habits are unknown +to him. He is poorly dressed, as his way is when he travels, with a +thin, twenty-five-cent palm-leaf hat on his head and a brown linen sack +to conceal the raggedness of his coat. The spectator compares himself +mentally with that superb officer there who, without his disguise, +would probably look just like anybody else. He would almost like to +hand him his own duster out of charity, so that he wouldn’t have to +look so much like an old bogie. + +But he had better climb down again to the town and have a look at the +milkmen’s dogs, harnessed to the little carts containing a single +immense can, and the market by the water-side, and the old women +sitting in the open air behind their vegetables and fruit--and the +ferry-boats continually going to and fro with their motley, chattering +crowds. The cabmen talking in French to their old hacks remind him of +the ancient France that still keeps its aroma here. In this restaurant +he has just entered what interests Henry is not the bottles and the +glasses on the table but a great map of Canada hanging on the wall. +This table is made of mahogany, and it would be a pity to scratch it. +The guest spreads out his handkerchief, then climbs up on the table and +begins to study the map. When he sets foot on the floor again, without +having broken any of the dishes, he has had his meal; the food itself +will be merely dessert. + +But it is to see the country that he has come to this “foreign soil.” +The two friends set out on foot to explore the Falls of Montmorenci. +They promise themselves a good deal of pleasure. There may be less +uniforms and nuns along the roads. It will be a great experience to see +simple human beings. + +The peasant women are working in the fields, buxom, healthy-looking +creatures with ruddy cheeks under their broad-brimmed hats, and much +more agreeable to look at than the natives of the stronger sex. The +villages straggle along with their whitewashed houses. Thank goodness, +you no longer feel yourselves strangers as you did at Montreal and +Quebec. Isn’t it odd? No matter where you wander on the planet, as long +as there is a tree of any species, a blade of grass, a glint of running +water or a beach where pebbles have been washed up, you are immediately +at home; while a score of miles from your own church-tower you have +only to set foot on the sidewalk of a town to feel yourself an alien, +with all communications cut with the world and your own kindred. A +strange business, this “foreign soil.” + +Evening falls. They have reached the village of Beauport. It would +be much cosier if they could put up with some of the inhabitants. +They are in the heart of the Canuck country, where you have to speak +the language. Even the little curs bark in a kind of French. Henry +courageously knocks at a door, and when they shout “Entrez” from +within some fine little phrases emerge, the fruit of his reading since +school-days. His accent may not be very good, but often enough the +people understand it. The only trouble is that he can make scarcely +anything of their voluble replies. And the blunders are very amusing. +These honest Canucks are full of good will, but unfortunately they are +poor people and have no bed to offer the strangers. So our friends are +compelled to enquire in their best pigeon-French: “_Y a-t-il une maison +publique ici?_” Who would ever guess that these two boys are looking +for a simple inn? The Canucks of Beauport have no inn, as they have no +_maison publique_. But there may be room at the mill or the grocery. At +this other house, where the travellers sit down for a moment to drink a +glass of water, the people politely excuse themselves by showing them +the loft where the whole family sleep, the only bedroom in the house. +At last, under a less poverty-stricken roof, they are offered the best +room and a bed with coarse, unbleached linen sheets. But there is no +coarseness in the hospitality of the Binets, who do not lock them into +their room like that funny old oysterman who had seen Washington; +they even ask their guests if they would like some brandy with their +breakfast. No, good lady, a plain apple will taste better to us than +any drink. + +The next day they set out for the Falls. The spot from which they +can see them best has been appropriated by a mill-owner, who has his +mansion and grounds there. Very sorry, dear sir, but we are going +to cross your land with as little fuss as if we were in Concord. It +appears that you supplanted on this spot a mighty lord of the last +generation. But mighty lord or not, there is a great natural spectacle +here, and the view belongs to the humblest of walkers who comes from +a distance with his bundle to see the Falls. What do we care for your +land-title? Sir William and Sir Henry here have a right to enjoy the +sight to their hearts’ content. + +There should still be time to go and see the Falls of Sainte-Anne, a +simple matter of thirty miles on foot. On the road they constantly pass +wooden crosses and little shrines to the Blessed Virgin with ex-votos. +Now and then they meet some villager wearing a cap of red, blue or +grey worsted who bids them a polite good-day and lifts his hand to +his bonnet. How civil and human they are! Even this fat, friar-like +personage in his black, priestly robe--what can these fellows do for +a living?--who appears at the door of his parsonage, where they have +knocked to ask their way, gives them a friendly greeting. There is no +inn at Sainte-Anne any more than at Beauport, but here too there are +good souls to put them up. The master of the house, in his red cap, +has the true Norman stamp; he talks with his stubby pipe between his +teeth, which makes his Canuck French very hard to understand. Just +the same, two fellows who have come from New England feel very near +home here, very near and very far away at once, much further away in +time and space than the excursion-ticket had given them any reason to +expect. They are in the heart of old Normandy--Henry has returned for +one night to sleep in the cradle of his race. He may not be thinking +of this perhaps, but it is very much to his taste here. The villages, +the streams have such charming names: Rivière de la Blondelle, Rivière +de la Friponne, Rivière de la Rose, Rivière du Sault a la Puce, Pointe +aux Trembles ... How can he help feeling that he belongs to the race +of poets-without-knowing-it who thought of such names as these? All +the little houses turn their backs on the road, perhaps the better to +preserve the fragrance of the old country. + +After the visit to the Falls and a good stiff walk along the Saint +Lawrence, they stop again at nightfall at a farm where they pass a very +agreeable evening chattering French in the great kitchen. It is Sunday. +William’s pipe pays a tribute of incense to the little Canuck gods +who have never died on the cross. What they cannot make intelligible +because of their accent they write. This little girl knows how to +write. Henry amuses them all by drawing a map of the country in chalk +on the old oiled table-cloth. They are the best of friends in no time. +With the few words at their disposal they talk about the soil, for that +subject can be expressed in very simple terms. The good people talk +about “senelles,” and Henry at first supposes that they mean snails +till they show him the little red apples of the hawthorn. They also go +out for some real apples to give the two strangers, beautiful, firm, +glossy apples that have just been picked. In the autumn fragrance of +ripe apples, Mother Earth says thanks in a universal language. + +These poor Canucks, who are so gentle, with their rather humble +politeness and an intelligence that seems to have been arrested in its +development, are pitiful creatures in the eyes of you Yankee tourists, +and you make fun of them because you are so clever and so strong. But +what would you have been if it had been perpetually rammed down your +throat by your father and your father’s father that the one great +thing in this world is to obey our holy mother the Church? You would +have been dunces, and you would have been mean, hard-hearted dunces. +You would not have had the openheartedness, the simple courage, the +good nature and humanity of these people. (Henry is thinking of the +clear, laughing “By gosh” of the wood-chopper from Quebec who had come +to see him in his cabin.) A little of the wealth of these “poor souls” +would not come amiss in your pockets, shrewd fellows that you are. + +But they must rejoin their fellow-excursionists. Quebec. Yes, the +soldiers in red, the priests in black, the nuns, the seminarists.... +You have seen enough of them. To Montreal on the boat, and then the +train that is to carry you home. In the car the inevitable wag of +the party begins to imitate the cry of the cabmen in the streets of +Quebec. Among these prosperous Yankees a silent man is thinking of +the landscape along that tremendous river, so many miles wide, with +its falls, its islands, and the little children who said good-day so +politely to the strangers on the road. Reckoning all the expenses, the +journey to Canada has amounted to $12. A little more, to be sure, than +the net profits of a year of farming at Walden. But he does not regret +his money. + +Henry has cousins at Bangor, in Maine, the stepsons of his Aunt +Elizabeth, one of whom is in the lumber-trade. He has never gone back +there since that time in his twenty-first year when he had wanted so +much to find a place as a schoolmaster almost anywhere. While he was +living at Walden, he was seized with a desire to go up and shake hands +with his cousin and do a little exploring with him in the forests up +there. Henry lived in the woods, and the woods are cousins of the +forest. One special attraction was that mountain which was more than +five thousand feet high and in the midst of the wilderness and still +almost unknown, Ktaadn. A royal mouthful, with that dense primitive +forest he would have to penetrate before reaching the giant and +offering it the homage of a very small cousin who had come a very long +way with his knapsack to dine with His Mightiness. + +On the last day of August, in the second year of his stay in the +woods, he left his cabin (no need to bolt the door) and set off with +his outfit in his haversack. From Bangor, Henry and his relative, the +lumber-merchant, reached by buggy the meeting-point of the two branches +of the Penobscot, where two companions were to join them. On an island +in the river, where some degenerate Indians were living on their lands, +they engaged two of the latter who were to serve as guides. One of them +pathetically called himself Louis Neptune. The real journey began here. + +Humanity, in this region, already presented the rough, honest features +of a wood-cutter in a red flannel shirt. A solitary store stood for +trade; it was filled with all kinds of “sweet cakes” upon which the +lumberers threw themselves like starving men after their long fast in +the woods. They also sold cartridges and toys for the children who were +anything but visible. Perhaps these too were to amuse the wood-cutters. +The road stopped here; they marched forward in Indian file. The forest +had engulfed them; from an elevation they saw, as far as the eye could +reach, nothing but its sombre green bosom. Pines, beeches, birches +fraternized and struggled over the moss. There was no animal so scarce +as man, and what a surprise it was to encounter him in the form of +Uncle George, as he was called, living here on his lands so far from +everyone, with another man and two women and his beasts, like a pasha! +They were to spend the night under his roof, for it was here that the +two Indian guides were to join them. + +Excellent Uncle George, offering his hospitality with such an open hand +to four travellers, and refusing to take any recompense! It was easy +enough to see that his ancestors belonged to the good Scotch race. +And what hospitality! Henry saw them preparing a royal dinner over an +enormous fire with logs as long as an axle-tree: on the table were ham +and eggs, wheat cakes, cheese, salmon, shad, sweet cakes and stewed +cranberries, all in profusion. And butter in such quantities that they +gave it to you to grease your boots with. Henry felt very much alive in +this land of Cockaigne. Henry the sober rejoiced in this munificence, +for it was all seasoned after his own heart and everything was so +simple, so grand and so beautiful in this forest setting. He dreamed +at Uncle George’s of that “larger and more populous house, standing +in a golden age,” where his blessed fellow-townsmen, those dear +little provincial souls whom he knew all too well, had died of their +stinginess, and the large spirit, the magnificent generosity reigned +that he had found here in the remote depths of the woods. + +Louis Neptune and the other Indian did not arrive, and Uncle George +consented to serve as their guide. They would lose nothing by this. +With a neighbouring settler whom they persuaded to join the party, +there were six of them in a boat that played in the cleverest fashion +with the current, the rapids, the whirlpools and rocks on a level +with the water. George and his neighbour Tom were quick and sure-eyed +boatmen. Henry was enraptured with the sport, which was all new to +him. This was the logging country, where the great felled trunks +adventurously jostled their way down the watery road and came to a stop +in piles, waiting for the flood to dislodge them. It was a country of +lakes too, big and little and strewn with islands. They were now on +North Twin Lake; it was evening, and in the moonlight they rowed by +turns, singing, pausing now and then to listen to the voices of the +solitude. Henry no longer knew where he was nor what adventures lay +before them through these interlacing waters and islands.... + +At the loggers’ camp where the expedition halted in the afternoon, they +had had some tea and sweet cakes; this was the last human vestige in +the direction they were going. And now as evening had come they made +camp, cooked their supper, and then, stretching out with their feet to +the fire, gossiped a little before going to sleep while they studied +the starry sky. By daylight, through the clouds that encircled it, they +had already caught a glimpse of the giant’s brow. This was a trout +country too, and the fish fell upon the bait ravenously, shimmering +like flowers as you heaved them out of the water and flung them on the +bank. Henry, the veteran fisherman, had a dream about them. He dreamed +that he was fishing the whole night long in a miraculous shower of +these flower-fishes. The vision was so acute that he was compelled +to get up early in the morning and go and see whether it was true or +whether he had only dreamed it. He went to the bank, cast his line and +in the moonlight caught as many as ever he could want: trout and roach +leaped and fluttered just as they had in his dream. They were like +flying-fish. + +The party was obliged now to leave the boat and turn towards the +mountain on foot. Uncle George had never been further than this spot. +So now it was Henry, rover of the woods, who took the head of the +column. Following his old custom he took the compass and steered +straight through the dense forest for the foot of the mountain, +without seeing it. By noon they had breasted their way over so many +firs and birches that their stomachs were groaning, and they broiled +some trout on sharpened sticks, each with his own fish and stick. +Gathered about the fire, they were like six sorcerers fishing in the +flames. That night they camped within sight of the summit. But the +guide was too impatient to wait for the next day; he scrambled up +alone, on all fours, hanging by branches, slipping and recovering +himself, till at last he reached a rocky plateau where he could reach +with his finger the skirt of a cloud. And the next morning, while his +companions were still struggling in a chaos of rocks, there he was on +the summit, on the last ridge, pressed on all sides by the clouds. + +He had hardly expected to find the Giant in such a savage humour. The +little man who had come to pay him a visit felt rather overwhelmed; the +spirit in him was silent, intimidated. He had hoped for some sort of +rugged smile. But no, the Giant sounded as if he were muttering between +his granite teeth: “What the devil are you doing here, you little worm? +Go back to your mother.” The Giant had no invitations for a little +man who had made such a long journey and run the risk of breaking his +neck to see him. He was a crabbed, secretive Giant who didn’t like +people to meddle in his affairs. Had this rather cold welcome somewhat +disheartened Henry? The country through which he passed on his return, +after having tumbled down the mountain by the bed of a torrent, +drenching himself to his heart’s content, was stamped with an almost +menacing severity that chilled him at times. The desolation of these +dense, infinite forests, without a suggestion of a path, without the +faintest sign of anything akin to this biped who was groping his way +and had to scramble up to the top of a fir-tree to get his bearings was +so enormous that he felt excluded, baffled, effaced--so utterly that +he wondered, as he touched his own body, if it was not itself matter +without a soul.... Had he had to come all this way then to find the +limits of his own wilderness? Was such a region as this, absolutely +devoid of any relation to humanity, outside his domain? Would the gods +of his own wilderness at home refuse to haunt the forests of Upper +Maine? In that case Walden would find its master here. Was that so? +Strange, anyway--very strange. + +He did not become himself again till he heard the laughter of running +water and found the boat once more. That was human at least. The +Giant no longer weighed on him, nor the mighty roof of the forest. +They descended the stream; the rapids were terrible. You should +have seen the two men with their spike-poles, catching hold again +of the empty boat after letting it drop over a fall, leaping into +it and allowing themselves to be whirled down the rapids, cool and +collected, familiar with all the tricks of this crafty water. When they +reached the neighbourhood of Tom’s house, whom should they see but +Louis Neptune and his companion, each in his own canoe! In their old +clothes, broad-brimmed hats, broad capes, they looked like veritable +blackguards. And their explanations were like their looks. It was not +their fault that they had missed the rendezvous; they had been the +victims of a wild jollification and had not yet recovered from the +effects, poor devils. It was all right. And they were welcome to their +muskrats too. + +A glass of beer at Tom’s, a farewell to Uncle George, whose dogs were +mad with joy at the sight of their master and fairly devoured him; then +off for Bangor, Boston and Concord. + +Henry was coming back to see his cousin again. This mass of virgin +forest, with its watery veins, dappled with lakes as the lakes were +dappled with islands, attracted him as a kind of challenge; and this +ursine wilderness disturbed a little the thought of his own. Seven +years later, the pair were off again, in an open wagon, on the road +from Bangor to Moosehead Lake. This time the Indian they had engaged +as guide and paddler met them as he had promised. No drunken Louis +Neptunes this time. Joe was a good-looking lad of twenty-four, short +and stout, with small feet, a broad face, eyes narrow and slanting +towards the temples, wearing the red flannel shirt of the lumberman. +Although he knew all the American slang, he was a full-blooded Indian. + +This time they were not going to disturb a Giant in his stony +meditation. They were setting out by water for Lake Chesuncook, another +solitary majesty but a less lofty one. After crossing Moosehead Lake +on a little steamboat, they carried their canoe and provisions over to +the Penobscot. It was a joy to Henry to watch Joe tarring the little +boat, which was nineteen and a half feet long and painted green. They +sat in the bottom on birch-bark mats, and there were two big paddles +which they used by turns; they sat with their legs stretched out or +tailor-wise and sometimes knelt. Whenever a bird appeared, Joe said +its name in the Indian language--a strange melody, as if the bird were +naming itself. You couldn’t help thinking how happy the creatures would +have been at the Creation if that great poet, the Redskin god, had been +there in his paradise to name them. + +This was the country of the moose, as big as a bull or even a powerful +horse, with two palm-leaves on his head for horns and delicate hoofs +that divide very far up and are flexible when he bends over. It was a +long time since Henry had done any hunting, but his curiosity was too +lively for him not to accompany the two others when they pursued the +moose, whose tracks they saw on all sides. + +Joe, in the silence in which they glided along in the moonlight, +imitated the call of the animal by blowing into a birch-bark +hunting-horn. No reply this evening: nothing but an occasional dry +rushing sound as of the closing of some faraway door in the forest, +a falling tree. But later, as they were ascending a little tributary +stream, a great head appeared which, when they took good aim, dropped +into the water. It was not Henry’s shot, needless to say. The animal +was as big as a good-sized mare; the long fall from the high shoulders +to the receding rump gave it almost the look of a giraffe. Henry +watched Joe, skilfully removing the skin, making a fearful butchery +of what the moment before had been a clothed and perfect form. Henry +was no milksop, but he did not like to see life destroyed. It was true +that this evening he did not refuse to eat a moose steak, which tasted +rather like pickled veal. It was also true that three comrades eating +together fried moose-meat cut directly from the animal and cooked over +live coals in the open wind, in a magnificent solitude, while they sat +with their backs against the towering fir-trees to the sound of the +rippling water that rocked their canoe, was a very different thing +from seeing a similar scene pictured in the almanac or in the tales of +missionaries. You felt as if you were living a mighty life. And as for +savagery, you didn’t have to aspire to it any longer; you were eating +it, you were partaking of it. + +In the moonlight, the fairies had taken possession of the prospect, +erected their scenery, arranged their lighting effects, and Henry half +thought he was some personage of the forest of Arden in the brain of +Shakespeare and not just a little fellow from Concord crouching in a +canoe with Joe the Indian and his cousin the lumber-merchant. Henry +was sleepy and he fell into a dreamy state: he was floating through +prodigious gardens and avenues bordered with fantastic architecture +where he heard the sound of Joe’s horn calling the moose: _ugh, ugh, +ou-ou-ou ... ou-ou-ou_.... The venison had gone to Henry’s head. The +others were hoping for the chance of a second shot. But for him the +hunting was finished. One moose was enough. That great despoiled +carcass had impressed him too painfully, and he had not digested the +moose-steak very well. He had not made the journey with any such +intentions as these. And there were enough of these red-shirted +woodsmen coming in the pay of employers or a company to massacre +trees and animals; the forest should know the face of at least one +disinterested friend. + +Henry left the others to their pleasure and sat down by the camp-fire +to examine the fruits of his own hunt--the botanical specimens he had +collected that afternoon. Then he took out his notebook and jotted +down his impressions, just as if he had been in his own bedroom at +Concord. But his room was vast this evening, and what an evening it +was here for a solitary man with that stream of moonlight on the river +... with those great shafts surrounding him with their sombre profiles +... friendly shafts destined for the axe, destined for the saw, for +the crime of being great and brawny and for holding under their skins +the promise of such beautiful timber. The common destiny of trees and +men, to be doomed to trade, to be sold in planks or pencils, instead +of being understood, loved and glorified. In the dancing light of the +flames the little men and the tall trees looked as if they were bending +over the shoulder of a boy who was writing instead of joining in the +chase. + +At Chesuncook, that great log-house belonged to Ansell Smith, who +had cleared a good stretch along the lake. It was enough to see the +assembled logs of which it was made, lapping over one another several +feet at the corners, enough to see that forester’s broad-axe leaning +by the door to love the fine, manly air of the place and be happy at +the prospect of spending the night there in a beautiful room where +the wooden partition creaked with every movement. On the way back to +Bangor, they stopped at an island that had been left as a reservation +for the Indians. The Governor was a rare old boy whom they found +sitting on the edge of his bed, in his shanty, dressed in a frock-coat +and well-worn black pantaloons, with a red silk handkerchief about +his neck and a straw hat. He was deaf, but he had hardly a grey hair +in spite of his eighty-nine years. His corpulent squaws were gathered +about him. They were tamed, Christianized, slatternly Indians. They +were interested in politics, and were not in agreement on the question +of the school which the priest, the sole holder of the Roman candles, +wanted to close. Henry stopped for some time by an Indian who was +making canoes. He would have liked to spend a whole season there, as an +apprentice, and master this fine, primitive art. But he was obliged to +take the trail for Concord again. + +How was he going to like it after having gorged himself with this wild +nature? Very much indeed, you may be sure. It had variety and all sorts +of fine shades, and he never wearied of his old domain as he would have +wearied after a while of the deep, monotonous forest. These solitudes +of Upper Maine were like a strong wine that he liked to have a taste +of now and then as a tonic. But they would never have done for every +day. Those dear old attaching surroundings at home were ... how was +he to put it?... “nature humanized.” Exactly. You would never have +believed it perhaps: hu-man-i-zed. A fellow does not come back from +Upper Maine, you see, without a curious little memory to accompany the +indigestibleness of the moose. + +Four years later the taste of this strong wine tempted Henry again. He +had made another visit to Cape Cod early in the season and had scarcely +been home a month when he started for Bangor. This time it was not his +cousin who was going to make the journey with him but his friend Edward +Hoar, the beloved companion of many a ramble about Concord--including +the one when the two “damned rascals” set fire to the woods. Rambles +of long ago, for Edward had been living for eight years in California. +They meant to reach the Allegash Lakes and return by the East Branch +of the Penobscot. In this way they would encircle Ktaadn, giving it a +sufficiently wide berth not to disturb the Giant. + +They could not do this without a guide. The Bangor cousin recommended +one whom he had known from boyhood. He was another Joe--Joseph Polis; a +very different sort of fellow from the Joe of four years back. This Joe +was a grown-up man, forty-eight years old, who had spent his childhood +exploring the solitudes around the sources of the St. John. He now +lived with his wife in a pretty house surrounded by a vegetable garden, +just like a New England villager who subscribed to the county paper. +A stoutly built chap, of rather more than middle height, with a broad +face--the true Indian type. He spoke a passable English, using l’s +for r’s. He belonged to the aristocracy of his tribe. Joe was glad to +join the expedition and agreed to the price. He was to carry his own +canoe--literally, for he bore it on his head to the stage, where he +installed himself beside the driver. As an old hand, he brought with +him, along with the great knife that dangled in a sheath from his belt, +nothing but his axe, his gun, a blanket and a good supply of tobacco. +Joe had bought a new pipe. He was very economical with his words; when +you spoke to him, he muttered some vague phrase, as if all such things +interested him very little. At the tavern, when a tipsy man asked +him if he smoked, adding, in reply to a kind of yes: “Won’t you lend +me your pipe a little while?”, Joe looked straight over his head and +answered with an absent air: “Me got no pipe.” Joe’s silence would be +the greatest relief after the palaver and smartness of white people. + +As there were three of them in the bark canoe, with their baggage, +there was no room for them to stretch their legs, but even so it was +better than it was in the stage. And in the evening how much better +than the inn was the little tent, set up in a dense wood where it was +as black as an oven. They were in no need of a lullaby to put them to +sleep as they rolled up in their blankets; but Joe, at Henry’s request, +sang in Indian a slow, rather nasal chant on some well-known themes, +obligingly furnished by the missionaries, about the only and sole +Almighty, ruler of the world. But there was such a fine simplicity +about it that you utterly forgot the flatness of the performance: it +was like a child singing his childish thoughts. Henry, who slipped +outside the tent some time after midnight, saw a bit of phosphorescent +wood. With his knife he shaved off a few chips which, when he placed +them in the hollow of his hand, lighted up the lines of the palm. +It was the first time he had seen this. He was so entranced by his +discovery that he had to go and wake up Edward and show him his magic +night-lamp. + +In the morning, the piercing _ah, te-te-te, te-te-te, te-te-te_ of the +white-throated sparrow ringing through the wood sounded the Sunday +reveille. Joe wanted to stop for the day. Joe was a good Protestant and +he had principles; at home he never failed to go to church. Of course +if they were absolutely determined to go ahead, he would have to go +with them, but the money he earned would be the wages of sin.... Well, +perhaps this could be arranged ... later. + +Joe was exquisitely ingenuous. He was full of admiration for pious +people. He said his prayers on his knees, in a loud voice, in his +own language, morning and evening. If, by inadvertence, he happened +to lie down at night without having said them and remembered it, he +immediately scrambled out of his blanket and said them in double-quick +time. You could see that he had been to a good school. This evening, to +atone for having worked on Sunday, he said a particularly long prayer. +But how much more natural a Joe he revealed when, glued to the bank on +his stomach, he began to talk to the muskrats in their own language, +calling them with a strange squeaking sound with his lips.... Or better +still, when he named in his own tongue some incident of the forest +life. The Indian word for echo was _Pockadunkquaywayle_: kindly place +the accent where it belongs and see if you can find anything like it in +your own language. Henry was quick to note every scrap of this music; +it enchanted him. The words of his own tongue had been worn away like +pennies that have been passed from hand to hand for centuries. Joe’s +words were like butterflies--he wanted to catch them without hurting +them at a moment when they were motionless on a leaf, with their wings +open and still beating. How he would have liked to write a dictionary +of all these earthy words, which had the quality of the pressed leaves +he brought home in his old music-case or those veiny pebbles on the +beaches of Cape Cod. + +Two white men and an Indian plunged into the immense forest of +fantastically shaped larches, where the mosquitoes poisoned them +and made an infernal buzzing din about the fire when they stopped. +Sometimes, in the depths of the night, a man rolled up, still awake, +in his blanket on his arbor-vitae mattress heard in the dense silence +the long-drawn call of the loon, rather like the hallooing of a man on +a very high key. They reached Lake Apmoojenegamook, the goal of the +excursion, and then Heron Lake, where a procession of sheldrakes passed +them. + +But no creature could have been odder than this odd fish Joe. As +sharp as a weasel, by turns lively and taciturn, sparing of words and +gestures, he was always master of himself except when he had made a +good shot, when he trembled with emotion like a novice. If you asked +him the same question twice, his silence gave you to understand that +you had asked him once too often, and if you suggested that he might +explain one of the numerous tricks he knew, he would oblige you to +swallow this reply: “There are some things a man does not even tell +his old woman.” And then sometimes, along the trail, or when he was +paddling, or, more often, in the evening, after he had said his +prayers, when you were not asking him anything he would suddenly begin +to tell you some interminable yarn. You should have heard him describe +his interview with the famous Daniel Webster whom he had gone to see +in Boston. After an endless wait, he was received like a dog by the +great man, so rudely that Joe said to himself: “You’d better take care. +If you try that I shall know what to do.” A humbug, that Webster, +a talking-machine. No Indian would ever have received a visitor so +bluntly. + +Joe had preserved the old Indian custom of leaving a trace of his +passing by making an inscription on a tree or hanging up a bit of +birch-bark. Once all of a sudden he said to Henry: “Me make a bet. We +two follow the path. I take canoe and you take the rest. See which gets +there first.” And he at once pulled off his boots and stockings, tossed +the boots to Henry and set out ahead. To make up a bundle of all the +utensils, the moose-skin, axe, paddle, gun, frying-pan and the rest, +would have taken time for a little white man who merely gathered up +everything he could, dashed off in pursuit, overtook the Indian, passed +him.... But he was forced to stop, for the innumerable utensils slipped +out of his arms, and Joe overtook him in turn. The obstinate little +white man, however, hugging all his traps desperately to his sides, +outran the Indian again and saw him no more. When the man-canoe came +up with him, both were out of breath. Joe explained that he had cut +his feet on the rocks and concluded with a laugh: “Oh, me love to play +sometimes.” + +One night Henry had a bad scare. In a desolate region where a great +stretch of the forest had been destroyed by fire, he suddenly noticed +that Edward was missing. It was inexplicable. Among the standing +or fallen corpses of the trees, he vainly searched for him in the +twilight. Near a waterfall that made the earth tremble, Henry camped +with Joe, but he could not sleep. From time to time he thought he heard +the voice of his friend calling him through the roar of the water. +What could have happened to him? He was nearsighted, and he might have +fallen over some precipice. On the morning after this terrible night, +Edward was found again, smoking his pipe to soothe the cry of his +hollow stomach which had been empty since the day before. He thought +they were ahead of him when they were behind. After this they could +have eaten two moose-steaks each for breakfast. + +The great journey was ended. They were back again among men, or +almost. That evening, the new-mown hay on which they were sleeping in +an open barn was like a foretaste of the feather beds that awaited +them; the hay was full of grasshoppers, but the smell was delicious. +Now, from time to time, they met an Indian in a canoe on the river, and +Joe would exchange a word with him in his own language. Before reaching +the end of the voyage, Joe, who had taught Henry the proper way to +paddle, asked: “How you like ’em your pilot?” There was his house at +last. The two friends stopped there for an hour to rest after the rough +journey. They caught a glimpse of Mrs. Polis, who was wearing a hat and +a silver brooch; but the Indian did not introduce his fellow-travellers +to his “old woman.” + +That very evening, two veterans climbed into the train for Bangor, with +their battered belongings, back again from the lakes of Finland perhaps +or, who knows, from a journey across some _terra incognita_ of the map. + +What a beautiful trip! Joseph Polis.... He was just a poor devil of a +denatured Indian who said his prayers like a theological student--a +fallen sovereign who hired himself out as a guide to strangers. Just +the same, it was Joe who had made of this fortnight the richest of +the three expeditions to Upper Maine. Henry was full of him. He could +talk of nothing else but their guide, mentioned him in his letters +to friends, thought of him every time he ate something that Joe had +taught him to like. Joe had entered his life for good and all. Poor Joe +was going to find himself placed, without knowing it, on a level with +heroic and immortal figures; he had earned on this expedition a great +deal more than his dollar and a half a day. + +Joe had spoken for his whole race, which had always appealed so +strongly to Henry’s heart. Every time he had found himself in the +presence of an Indian--degenerate, catechised, mere shadow as he +might be--the blood had spoken in him; not the old Norman blood, nor +the Scottish, nor the English, nor the Welsh, but this subtler blood +that is mixed, in everybody, with the red blood. There was no romantic +passion in this cult; it was like an avowal of a secret kinship. Yes, +it was of Joe especially that he would think if he was able to carry +out some day the work he dreamed of composing so lovingly on the North +American Indian. Joe’s coat-of-arms should be a bear paddling a canoe. +There were far less proud artists than these to whom America could turn +for the designs of its armorial bearings. + +So many dreams of childhood, affinities, old desires, found their +embodiment in Joe.... The artist’s love of the finest shades of +instinct, admired in a descendant of the race that scattered music +as it scattered words along the way. The taste for the primeval so +ingrained in a man to whom, in spite of college and the classics and +his environment, a valueless arrow-head spoke more intimately than +a verse of the Bible. The ambition also of a writer to secrete the +flint-flakes under his phrases, so that other vagabonds, finding them +there some day, might make a collection of them and keep them in their +dens. All this found something in Joe. + + + + + VII + + +At the end of October, 1856, Henry was asked to go down and survey +an estate in New Jersey, giving some lectures at the same time. +Alcott persuaded him to go. The two friends took the boat at Norwich, +Connecticut, so as to reach New York by way of the Sound. Norwich was +on the Thames: breezes blew there that seemed to come from afar. + +Henry was leading a very dissipated life these days: visits to friends, +expeditions, lectures. For here and there, outside of Concord, people +were inviting him to come and utter those obscure or unpleasant truths +that fell on the fallow ground of their understandings. It was all the +same to him: he sowed as chance directed him, and the sower for his +pains gathered in a little cash that had a more genuine ring in his ear +than the applause of the audience. + +Just two years before, during a brief trip to New York, Philadelphia +and back to New York, he had had another glimpse of Horace Greeley +who had taken him to the new Opera House to hear Grisi. (It was +like a dream when you went to the theatre with a man as well-known +as Greeley; you didn’t pay for your seat, and you even had a little +usher to conduct you to your place as if you were the Ambassador from +Brobdingnag.) He could offer as an excuse the long, long period of +vegetation from which he was just emerging and the natural desire, as +soon as he felt less limp, to get out and see a little of the world. +And yet he reproached himself for this dissolute life. You see what it +means to have a few dollars in your pocket at last; you squander them +as fast as you can, just like the “fortunate ones of this world.” It’s +a foolish business, and you will soon deserve to end your days at the +Poor Farm with those half-witted souls whom one sees planted about the +fields like boundary-posts at the foot of Brister’s Hill. + +Surveying.... For he was not just treating himself to these delightful +outings. He was obliged to earn his daily bread, even if he no longer +baked it in the open air in the woods where its fragrance mingled so +well with the aroma of the pines. Of all the various little manual +trades that Henry had practised since his youth, surveying had turned +out to be the most substantial and profitable. When they spoke of Henry +in the village they now said: “Oh, yes, the surveyor....” You were free +to suppose that there was a touch of malice in these words and that the +good people really meant: “That fool who goes off every afternoon to +survey the waste lands instead of making pencils with his father....” +Well, perhaps they did mean this--not that it mattered to Henry. As +for lecturing, that was just another way of surveying the waste lands, +the swamps, property, propriety and the improprieties. It was even a +preferable way, for it was much less trying to spin words than to drag +the geometer’s chain. + +A surveyor: not everybody can boast of becoming that at thirty-five, +after having tried many other trades without any dazzling success. +Henry was decidedly unjust in accusing his fellow-townsmen of not +finding any use for his talents. The people of the village were +very glad to turn to him when occasion arose, for they knew he was +scrupulously exact in his measurements. To draw up a plan of other +people’s land was to remain free to gather there what seemed good to +himself, without the knowledge of the owner, whose only desire was +to keep within his own little bounds. With his instruments, made to +suit himself and partly with his own hands, the compass, the staff and +the chain, Henry was ready to make surveys for anyone who asked him, +whenever he had the time. It was often in the winter, the slack season +on the farms, and then, when he was aiming at the staff, he could no +longer distinguish so clearly against the snow the white trunks of the +birches which were usually so useful. But the work occurred also at +the season when he took off his coat for greater comfort. Sometimes +it was a matter of a few days, sometimes an operation that required +a week or two weeks of brisk work (a loafer turned then into a model +workman ...). There were times, of course, when, in the face of this +landscape that flouted them, he consigned all these boundaries, and all +this business of fixing them, to the devil; naturally, but no layman +could guess all the pleasure this work brought with it, aside from the +routine and the wages. + +In the first place, you must have a companion to carry the chain, set +up the staff, etc. You shout something to your helper over there, and +the echo joyously replies as if some practical joker had hidden himself +to play a trick on you; whereupon you feel like shouting at the top +of your lungs till the rascal shows his mug. And then, no matter how +seriously you apply yourself to your work it cannot completely absorb +you. You are out of doors and there are two of you; the helper is not +always as stupid as a surveying-staff. Sometimes the work lies in the +woods, where you are most at home; sometimes through a swamp where you +sink in up to your knees. Then at noon you fish out of your pocket a +bit of bread and cheese and have your lunch there on the ground. Or you +happen to have a meal at your employer’s table with the farm-hands. +If your employer is a fool, there is nothing for it but to hold your +tongue and enjoy his vulgarity on a bit of bread for your dessert. +If he is a really decent farmer, as some of them about here are after +all, it is a pleasure to share his simple meal after these hours in +the open. In the evening you are certainly tired, after having tramped +about all day with your mind fixed on your work; you are much more +tired than if you had come back from a long walk. But there is another +self within you who is grateful for your rested nerves and head and +who suddenly appears, after the day is over, refreshed and keen, ready +to catch any sound and gather in any shade of beauty that is entirely +free from toil and wages. No, no, you haven’t the slightest idea how +light the surveyor’s chain is or how pleasant to carry through the +woods or over the wet fields, compared with all those chains that I +see you dragging about after you, my friends, condemned as you are to +the “liberal professions”.... You don’t know how valuable it is for a +writer to survey other people’s lands in this fashion; you don’t know +how much else a man measures as he goes about, without the aid of the +compass and the staff. + +In the mid-winter of 1852-3, Henry had even given himself a stronger +dose of surveying than he could have wished. In his finances the debits +and credits were usually in a sound equilibrium, but at this time he +found himself confronted with a large debt. He had to settle with the +publisher for his book. + +The matter was quite simple. They had printed a thousand copies and in +three years had sold some two hundred. Since the cost of publishing +had not been covered, the author remained in debt for the balance, +according to the contract. It was all as smooth as silk. The method of +publishing “at the author’s risk” is just as simple a bit of machinery +as the “royalty” method: the only difference is that instead of +receiving money you spend it. You see? There’s nothing complicated +about that. Two hundred-odd copies sold of a work of which at least +three reviews (in the _Athenæum_, the _Tribune_ and the _Massachusetts +Quarterly_, all well-established publications) on all the press copies +that had been sent out had served to launch it, was a very impressive +result for an author who was making his debut before the public. But +the summer before, after various disappointments in regard to articles +on which he had built some reasonable hopes, the happy author, in order +to meet a note that was falling due, had been obliged to borrow eighty +dollars from his friend Horace Greeley--merely a small advance which +he had expected to be able to repay shortly. A responsible magazine +had just accepted his _Yankee in Canada_. And then, lo and behold, +after printing the first part of it, without his name (houses like +this are so discreet, you know), and adorned with fearful misprints, +the magazine proposed, for the remainder, to exercise its right to +make cuts--owing to certain bold statements that were too shocking for +a respectable review. The author would not hear of this and simply +demanded that his article should be returned to him, neither more +nor less: in this way the sensibilities of the readers of _Putnam’s +Magazine_ would not suffer and Henry would keep his manuscript intact +for better days. As you please, dear editors. Literature was decidedly +a paying business. Henry was sailing before the wind. Just one more +little effort and he would get there. + +But what was the use of cultivating sarcasm? The thing to do was to pay +his debts. He didn’t owe Horace the whole State of California, but just +the same the sum was large enough for a man who as a rule owned nothing +in the world but his own joy in living, a stout pair of corduroy +trousers and a boat. When you have hands you use them to pay your +debts, instead of attempting, like a mere government, to make a new +loan in order to pay off the first one. A man has more decency than a +government. Manual labour is quite willing to pay for the loving labour +of the soul. + +With a will he set to work surveying in mid-winter for sixty, eighty +days without intermission, at a dollar a day. To pay for that _Week on +the Concord_ he spent fortnights tramping over the snow-covered ground, +measuring and calculating, forgetting all about his reading, his +Journal, everything. It was all in the day’s work. Penal servitude, if +you like. But you take it in good part if you are a man. Deprivations +like this toughen your hide. They are like a long journey into the +land of trivialities--from which you never return empty-handed if you +have the eye of a good huntsman; on your return, you have a better +perception of some things, including your own naked self. Besides, +if literature fed its servitors too well, wouldn’t it be setting a +premium on obesity, on growing fat and flabby? That thought soon +lightens the snow-clogged steps of a man who, while he spends a winter +day surveying, is thinking all the time of the evening when he will +relight his little stove in the attic and find himself alone once +more with his abandoned meditations.... For the rest, these months of +intensive geometry were only a stage along the road he would have to +survey to be quits with the publisher. Two years before, to pay off a +former instalment, he had had to set to work with all his might making +pencils, grosses and grosses of them, which were worth hundreds of +dollars. And then, unable to dispose of all this merchandise quickly +enough, he found himself reduced to carting it to New York and selling +the lot for a hundred dollars. A bad stroke of business, but what are +you to do when you have to get hold of money at any price?... At the +time he had even considered speculating on his friends the cranberries +in order to meet that confounded debt. A vile thought, as vain as it +was impious, for after looking up the market price in both Boston and +New York he had quickly perceived that it was the same with cranberries +as it was with pencils: those mean souls would only take them at the +meanest price. And now, after these bouts of surveying, he had still to +make up the full sum that was due to Munroe. It was costing him $290, +that precious book. + +But after all these troubles he had a substantial reward. For more than +a year Munroe had been asking him what he should do with the unsold +copies that were encumbering his basement. Space comes high in Boston, +as you know. And Henry, who had nothing but his attic, had at last +taken pity on his poor over-burdened publisher and told him to send +all the unsold copies to Concord. So one fine day the express-wagon +unloaded all this merchandise on the Thoreaus’ doorstep, like riches +fallen from the skies. They kept pouring out of the wagon as if there +were enough of these poor _Weeks_ to fill a century. Take them all, +Henry; they are your property. They are like the waste lands; no one +will dispute them with you. In the end the work returns to the worker. +Isn’t that fair? Don’t despise your work. It is a weighty book. You +will have the best proof of this presently when you lug these bundles +up to the third floor. See, there’s the receipt--seven hundred and six +copies--most of them in sheets. This Munroe is certainly an honest man. + +And how imposing these piles are in your attic! Towering there, they +humiliate your few beloved old odd volumes. The latter are quite taken +aback at finding themselves all of a sudden the property of a rich man. +An army of comrades, free and equal companions, has joined forces with +them, and over them all you will henceforth reign, a sceptical and +tolerant sovereign. They bear on their brows the stamp of fidelity, +these newcomers. You can safely wager that they will be your companions +for life. See how firmly their feet rest on the floor. Of course if +some of them now and then are seized with a desire to travel you are +not the man to hold them back; they are free. For now to his former +trades Henry has added that of a bookseller. He will sell his book +directly to admirers who send a small sum of money with their order. +All he has to do is to tie up the package. There is no commission to +be paid to any agent. This simplifies things so much. And the work +acquires all the more value, coming straight from the writer without an +intermediary. It is wrapped up and addressed by the author of the book +in person, and thus you have an autograph in addition for the price of +the volume. Purchasers, book-lovers with a real flair, what more do you +want? You should order _Weeks_ by the dozen, ten, twenty copies at a +time.... Stupid bibliophiles. + +Two years went by before another surprise comparable to this befell +the master of the library in the attic. It was another enormous bundle +of books, but this time it came from across the sea. It smelt not of +Munroe’s basement but of the hold of a transatlantic liner. A surprise +from that English friend, the tall, fair-haired fellow with the silky +beard who had boarded with the Thoreaus the year before and accompanied +Henry on his walks. And what books! “Cholmley,” knowing Henry’s taste +for the beautiful things of Asia, had sent him all the most famous +Oriental books that he had been able to find. Good heavens, what an +Arabian Nights’ dream!... The great sacred books of India, translated +into English, French, Latin and Greek, and even some in Sanscrit.... +This procession entered the house like the three Magi with their +retinue, bearers of gifts for heaven knew what new-born being ... +forty-four rare volumes, most of them not to be found on a continent +that was prodigal in corn and wheat but not in fruits of this kind ... +things of which you had dreamed and that appealed to you so powerfully, +and now here they were, right under your hand, day and night.... The +Hindu side by side with the Indian, your nearest kindred touching one +another! Precious stones flashing their fire about your den, lighting +up the pale arrow-heads. I can laugh at you now, pretentious libraries! + +At first Henry was simply astounded by this patrician generosity, which +had gathered together all these treasures for him; astounded by all +these illustrious personages who surrounded him, who had come from the +other end of the world as friends, come with their veiled faces, great +black eyes, wide with dreams, their dark skins, strange faces, slow +gestures, to offer the son of a pencilmaker the flower of their wisdom +so that he might place it among the flowers of his own country. But +the sages of the Orient smiled at the seven hundred _Weeks_ and did +not seem to be in the least offended by the pile of nuts in the corner +of the little room. Henry soon felt quite at home beside them, and all +these presences, the new and the old, mingled in one friendship in the +warmth of the old stove. + +But when you have distinguished visitors who have made a long voyage +in the belly of an ocean liner, you must offer them lodgings that are +worthy of them. Henry had some well-seasoned wood, gathered along the +river, and he had tools. For these beautiful books he was going to make +a new bookcase, a bookcase of honour that would be a sort of Asiatic +province royally accommodated on the third floor of the house on Main +Street. + +There could never be any question of repaying the magnificent Thomas +such a debt of gratitude as this. Whole seasons of surveying would +not be enough. But he did send him a few American books, among them a +novelty--not a rarity, for nobody bought it--that scandalized its few +readers, a bewildering book, powerful as a buffalo, multitudinous as a +seaport, torrential, insolent, shameless. Henry regarded it as a work +of the grandest kind. Emerson also. Thomas would see. A purely American +product and, what was astonishing, something that made you think of the +Orient. It was written in Biblical verse, like the Song of Songs or the +Rig-Veda, and it had the strange title, _Leaves of Grass_. The book was +not signed. A very slender present, you see, friend “Cholmley.” You +must tell me what you think of my buffalo. + +In a den where stones, birds’ eggs and plants had long swamped the +books there was now almost an affluence of tops and backs. Among the +newcomers there was one which had arrived all alone, quite modestly, +the year between the two surprises. It had not come as a surprise, +however; it was an expected visitor. It entered there familiarly, as if +it had come back from a journey and knew the ways of the house and the +fellow who lived there. Its name was Walden. But it was not a pond. It +was Henry’s latest born. A responsible publisher had taken charge of +it; and this time there was no need to run into debt or do surveying +for the sake of a book which the author was the only one to love. The +name of Ticknor covered it like a flag. + +To be sure, there was no wild scramble to buy it. But it sold a little. +And responses came to the unknown author; new friends rose out of the +ground along his path. You write a book for your own pleasure, without +thought of any good or harm it may do, and lo and behold, it sets out +alone, in its own right, and makes conquests for you all over the +world. Is it possible that you wrote a book in order to discover your +friends? It is as if the book were grateful to you for having brought +it to light and courteously wished to show its gratitude. + +It bears under its title a picture of the cabin (the poor cabin that +will never again be able to gossip with the pines--it is doing penance +now in the bean-field). It is a book that carries a cabin across the +world and invites you to enter and inspect it and inhale the resinous +fragrance. It will not carry you off to dance for a week on the +water in a nut-shell. It requests your company on a ramble around a +transparent pond where you can contemplate your own image in water that +is clearer than your mirror. It is not Narcissus that you will see +there, returning your own smile to you, but the face of a man who is +studying the curious effect of his big nose in the water. + +Between Henry’s two offspring there have been more than five years of +growth. Although they have both been nourished on the same sap that +has been accumulating for fifteen years in the Journal, _Walden_ is +the book of a writer who has reached his full stride--a little too +full, if you like--with the same unpardonable waywardness in his +composition. You will never turn a pate like that into the saw-mill of +a _littérateur_. Well then, call him a liberator instead. That is the +way Henry himself expresses it. + + * * * * * + +To return, then, towards the end of October, 1856, the surveyor set +out with all his paraphernalia for Perth Amboy, New Jersey. He didn’t +want to pass through New York without seeing that good Greeley, but +not finding him at his newspaper office he walked up Broadway, meeting +a friend, and then went and settled himself in the Astor Library. You +can’t study these great brawling cities as you can study a book in a +sanctuary of silence; coming from Concord, you are deafened by the +’busses and the trampling crowds. Whither are all those feet rushing? +Who is waiting for them at their appointed meeting-places? That is, +unless these people are not all simply out of their heads. Here is a +blissful refuge! Let’s go and sit down for a while and read. + +Perth Amboy, on Raritan Bay, faces the island, shaped like a bunch +of grapes, that recalls to Henry the rather melancholy days when he +was a tutor. A mile and a quarter from the town a friend of Margaret +Fuller’s, Marcus Spring, whom he had seen on his journey to find the +poor woman’s remains, owned some property: the estate was situated on +the edge of the bay and was called Eagleswood. They had tried to start +a phalanstery there, and now the eagles had gathered to establish a +“colony.” + +The question was one of drawing up plans for the future village, a +very proper task for a surveyor who had come expressly from Concord. +When you happen to know a good surveyor, nothing can be more natural +than to have recourse to his compass. Henry’s friends had not +forgotten him--for instance, there was Marston Watson, who had asked +him two years before to come and survey his park on the hillside +above Plymouth (no need of a helper that time, for Alcott himself, +with his tall frame, platonically carried the chain, assisted by the +owner in person). Henry assuredly had very noble friends who not only +appreciated his talents but loaded him down with little gifts: in the +space of a few days had he not received from Marston, who had presented +him with those magnificent big glow-worms the previous summer, some +pear-trees the very name of which was like a juicy fruit that melted +in your mouth, and a hummingbird’s nest from Blake, and a box of +mayflowers from somebody else? Quite apart from the Christmas season, +the express-company evidently had permanent agencies in fairyland. + +The surveyor set to work, plunged into the woods and salt marshes, +regardless of rips and tears; before each meal it took him fifteen +minutes to pick off the burs that clung to him. These are the little +pleasures of the trade. While it awaits the promised village, +Eagleswood contains an old farmhouse and a big stone building, together +with Marcus Spring’s private residence, and it glories in some shops +and offices and a school where the teaching is done by various +dignified greybeards. Rather too many people and rather too much +dignity to suit the taste of Henry, who prefers the informality of the +burs; and creditable as the work may be, he longs to have done with it +and get home again. There is an accursed wood-pigeon that begins to coo +every night at the slightest sound from the house. Perhaps it is the +former janitor of the phalanstery. + +Yes, the work begins to drag, and he cannot drop it because it has been +entrusted to him. Nor does the society of these worthy greybeards, the +atmosphere of the “colony,” offer any great attraction. The big city, +where Alcott has stayed behind, is close at hand, and Henry feels like +a molecule subject to the law of gravitation. He longs to make a trip +to New York and go and see his friend and have a little vacation from +these old fossils. Just for one little week-end. On Friday, November +7th, he enters Alcott’s room and finds a guest there, to whom he is +introduced, John Swinton. This young man, a delightful fellow, full of +fire and revolutionary instinct, is a good friend of the author of +_Leaves of Grass_. Do tell us something about your friend. Alcott has +already seen this Walt Whitman who sounds his barbaric yawp over the +roofs of the world. Henry is most anxious to meet him. + +To-day he is invited to go with Alcott to a certain lady’s house, but +he means to let his friend go alone: a drawing-room and a lady in New +York must be very much like a lady and a drawing-room anywhere else. He +knows all about such things even at Concord, in a small way, and he has +very little desire to see them in a large. + +The next day they meet Horace Greeley at the station and go and +spend the day at his farm at Chappaqua. For every Saturday the +editor-in-chief of the _Tribune_ shakes the dust of the city and his +editorial office off his feet and hurries out to look after his little +farm, of which he is very proud (his turnips have taken the prize at +the County Fair). A friend, the poetess Alice Cary, is also one of +the party. For some ten years Horace has more than once shown his +friendship for Henry; he would have liked very much to keep him in his +family as a tutor for his children. (Horace is a great man who has +already had a big book written about him in his own lifetime, and Henry +is fond of him and grateful for all the attention he shows a little +village scribbler, but ... but to give up once more that precious +independence, to leave Concord where there are so many friends, from +Easterbrook to Nine Acre Corner, who have only himself to count upon +... no, never, Horace must excuse him....) At Chappaqua the guests +admire the crops and the farm-buildings, but when he sees how much +trouble and expense it has cost the owner to transform swamp-land into +fertile ground, Henry remarks to himself how much more attractive a +beautiful swamp is than a model farm. And they come back to town for +the night. + +It is Sunday, and they cannot begin the Lord’s Day better than by +going to hear an astonishing man who is preaching at Plymouth Church +in Brooklyn. There are crowds to listen to him, crowds that have come +there to be thrilled by this magician who makes them turn pale, laugh, +weep or exult as he wills, as if he were developing and unfolding +before them the most moving drama. But it is not the art of an actor, +even the greatest actor, that makes such an impression here; it is an +elemental force. It is such a beautiful spectacle in that pulpit that +you forget you are in the presence of a churchman. He is something +better than that--a man, Henry Ward Beecher, the brother of Harriet, +author of _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_. Henry thinks this other Henry deserves +to be called a pagan; the whole ghastly race of preachers is forgotten, +the setting of the church disappears, a great wind has passed over +these people to purify and uplift them, like a rush of autumn leaves. +Henry is thoroughly delighted. + +Such a capital Sunday must have a worthy finish. Suppose they go and +see Walt Whitman, since he lives in Brooklyn? So, after lunching with a +lady who knows Alcott, the two companions set out for his house. Here’s +Portland Avenue, where the buffalo lives, and here is his number. +Disillusionment; he has gone out. The mother, with her kind face, tells +them this and asks them to come in. Henry has a mother too over yonder, +a lively mother who would be only too happy to talk to two visitors who +had come to see her son; and she too would be unlikely to say anything +unkind to them about her boy. He thinks of her as he listens to this +smiling woman of sixty, as simply dressed as a farmer’s wife, uttering +a maternal eulogy on her son Walter. These gentlemen have come to see +him because he is the author of a book; and she, who is the author of +the author of the book, can only tell them how proud she is of this +son, and how much he means to his brothers and sisters, and what a +blessing his presence is to them all at home. “If you can come back +to-morrow morning, not too late, you will be sure to find him, for +he will be very sorry to have missed you to-day.” All right, Mother +Whitman, we shall be back to-morrow, and thank you for your welcome. We +have not seen your Walter, but in the little wrinkles about your eyes +and lips there is something that seems to foretell what he is like. + +On Monday morning there are three of them to take the ferry and make +their way to Portland Avenue, through streets that sound like a +country town after the jam they have left; a lady from Philadelphia +has asked to go with them. They knock at the door and are invited to +come in just as they were the day before. Walter is at home, expecting +them. Presently the three visitors are sitting face to face with a +great hairy, ruddy animal, who has nothing sinister about him at all. +Strange, this fellow is simplicity itself and everything in the room +is quite ordinary, but from the very first instant, seeing him planted +there, you think of a great sailing ship at sea or of a beautiful tall +tree in summer. You would think you were out of doors. Henry feels +quite at home in a house where you drink in the fresh air as freely as +you do the friendly glass on the table. + +It is a house like many other houses that has gathered under its roof +to-day Walt and Henry, the Manhattanese and the Concordian.... But the +walls of the house still stand, they bear up bravely under the shock. +It is roomy, the Whitmans’ house, and built by the hand of a clever +workman, as strong as if the father, who died last year, had set up +the frame himself. But that muffled sound which echoes and rolls away, +very far away, is the detonation of these mingling spirits, though no +one hears anything in the house or the neighbourhood but the sounds of +a quiet street. + +Four persons are talking together as friends in the innocence of Monday +morning, three of them observing and the other, without the least +embarrassment, allowing himself to be observed. The appointments of the +room, the old, worn furniture which has known so many dwellings are +swallowed up in this masculine figure, which is enigmatic because of +its very nonchalance and abundant ease. There are so many questions one +might address to the high vault of that pronounced eyebrow, the right +one. The visitors ask him this and that, seeking to penetrate beneath +the brick-coloured skin of the enigma, tanned by all the suns of Long +Island; all constraint has vanished, so complete is the absence of +ceremony in the man they have come to see, so strong his expression of +virile goodness. In a rich, musical voice, in direct, everyday words, +he speaks of what he loves--the ever-changing crowds of his city, the +ebb and flow at the foot of those cliffs with their myriad windows, the +human flood rolling through the ferry-boats, the stages, the popular +theatres, the squares. The enigma does not give up its secret, but it +becomes more and more attractive. Henry also has loves that he might +confess, but he only asks the lover of the poetry of the streets if he +has read the great Oriental poems. “No, tell me about them....” It is +an encounter in which each puts out these verbal feelers. Their words +are less clear perhaps than their attitudes and the expressions of +their faces. But the visitors do not dream of going away. + +How had Henry pictured to himself the Manhattanese, “eating, drinking +and breeding,” of the _Leaves_--“one of the roughs”? Perhaps he had +not pictured him at all. Perhaps he had thought that this rude sketch +was only the fantasy of a poet who was enamoured of bright colours and +had no prototype in reality. However this may have been, there was +the “rough” before him. And he was beautiful, a little coarse, but +beautiful. With that whole person, in its radiance of life and vigour, +Walt signed his book, signed it with a far more striking truthfulness +than the portrait he had used as a frontispiece. Here was the flesh and +the blood and the colour. Henry looked and looked again, seeking to +fathom the nature of the radiance that passed over him in the presence +of the phenomenon. He did not challenge this thing that bathed him and +seemed to make him float; he noted his reactions, that was all. This +fellow had too much blood in him, perhaps. Perched on a stage beside +the driver, amid the hubbub of Broadway, did he not shout out verses as +if he were alone on some beach! A wild man indeed!--but with a wildness +that did not intimidate Henry’s, like that sullen summit of Ktaadn, but +stirred his curiosity, provoked him. That strong aroma of masculine +health, which he smelled, did not tell him very much. But how did it +happen that with this luxuriance of the flesh, which was brutal enough +to be offensive, there mingled an exquisite perfume that utterly defied +your power to define it? With a disconcerting naturalness this big +fellow spoke or listened (he was a most astonishing listener) as this +invitation emanated from his ruddy body to the three others--the tall +fellow, the little fellow and the lady sitting opposite: “Do take as +much of my health as you like. You can see I shall always have enough. +Call this irritating, if you like, but it’s quite real; and mine is a +presence that does not wait for your consent to warm you.” + +Henry, with his habit of absorbing phenomena, sits there, all +eyes--with those eyes that know how to look--seeking to understand, +to pierce to the bottom. Henry, the dry little animal, all nerves and +tendons, with his drooping shoulders and his narrow chest (look at +that great thorax over there, ready for any fist to strike it, where +the weariest head might lie without covering it ...); Henry, with his +receding chin, lost in the little apish beard which he is allowing +to grow just now, his pursed lips, his big, contemptuous nose, his +absorbed, reflective, alert air, his whole life gazing with implacable +seriousness out of the blue-grey windows of those eyes that are so +round, sagacious, keen, vigilant, shining with perpetual use like a +spade; Henry whose lean body refuses to speak for his soul, with his +frail health and his tempered will, crouching behind his own glance +like a hunter on his knees in some thicket, face to face with this +demi-god beaming with nonchalance and carnal opulence; Henry, saturated +with the woodland life of his village, beside this other whose soul is +peopled with his own Broadway.... And each is trying to catch the scent +of the other. + +With his rather sluggish glance, the big animal absorbs the little +as he absorbs everything--tranquilly. He accepts without any mental +reservations these friendly people who have come to see him--the tall +man, the short man and the lady; there is room for them too in his +universe. The Leaves exclude no one from their shadow; they spread out +as far as Concord and Philadelphia. He is happy to welcome them, though +he sees nothing in them that particularly surprises him. He lets them +talk, as his way is, draws his own profit from what the speakers say +and replies without opening himself particularly or abandoning his +reserve. These two birds have come from the land of phantoms. They are +intellectuals, bred in the colleges. Not much of a recommendation +in his eyes. It would never occur to you to say to this lanky New +Englander: “Henry, let’s go and have a drink.” He’s not cut out for a +comrade. Just the same, these fellows are friends of the man to whom +he owes enough to call him “master” and who has written, thanking him +for his book, that unforgettable letter which he always carries there +in his pocket, like a patent of nobility. They are two Yankees, one of +whom has begun to sing for himself, who have come on a pilgrimage to +greet the boys of Manhattan. + +The great animal is not insensible to such an homage and he accepts it +cordially, in the name of his own people, as a wholesome response. But +Walt’s interest is not aroused. Henry, on his part, would have dearly +liked to be alone with this extraordinary fellow so that the two of +them might start one of those talks like his old talks in the cabin, +when some full-minded friend came to see him and not a syllable that +was not sonorous echoed between the plank walls. But there are four +of them and the conversation begins to wander. They don’t get hold of +one another, and what a pity it is! For surely they have things to say +to one another that are worth saying, points of contact they might +establish together. Henry’s big grey-blue eyes express this wish and +this regret. For isn’t it vexatious to be face to face with such a huge +puzzle and not be able to grasp it and turn it round so as to discover +in the end, as likely as not, that the same flame burns in that big +chest and under that narrow, grouse-like throat? Isn’t it? _Isn’t_ it? + +(Ah, my two friends, the future opens out, furrowed with very different +paths from this hour that brings you together here.... You have +decades to live still, Walt.... You are to pass through the horrors +of the great war; you are to see it lying on beds of torture and to +be tortured yourself. Will you then be the man who stood for a fight +to the finish? In your great ripe heart, a comradeship as ardent as +love will have seized upon you, so painful that you will flee from the +world, you will take flight with your sorrow by paths untrodden to the +shores of pond waters, to gather the fragrant calamus root--(it grows +also on the shores of Walden Pond)--and partake of it mystically with +your known and unknown friends.... And then, when you are past the age +for stormy passions, you will find one day the Passage to India: that +little chap found it long ago, you big simpleton.... And many other +discoveries are reserved for the consolation of your mellow age: after +so many other things have lost their lustre, the trees, the seasons +and the skies will offer you their balm and you will voluptuously +anoint yourself with it, bathing in the mud of Timber Creek to ease +your aching body. Then you will take more pleasure in a squirrel’s play +than in the shuffling feet of crowds. And how well you will understand +the thought of that old chap who said that he was seldom less alone +than when alone! Yes, and then, as you approach your sixtieth year, +you will seek by a little pond what men refuse you, and you will find +it, and you will be stirred through and through with gratitude, my +friend.... And the day will come when, as an old gaffer leaning on a +stick, you will visit Concord and receive a whole-hearted welcome in +the land of phantoms at a time when the land of the living rejects you, +and you will step down from your friend’s carriage and add your stone +to the cairn that marks the spot of Henry’s cabin.... You will have +your florid complexion still, set off by the bushy, snow-white beard +that adorns it.... And you will still be the same Walt, enjoying this +miraculous life and rejecting nothing. You will simply have come to +understand certain things.... + +The future opens out, and in the distant perspective paths take shape +where your feet, my friends, have left their prints.... Is it possible +that lovers like you should never, never meet there? Listen.... How +strange it is!... You might think you were listening to words that +cross one another.... Does it not sound like an intermittent dialogue +in which two voices reply back and forth over some field that catches +their harmony? + + HENRY:--He would be a poet who ... nailed words to their primitive + senses, as farmers drive down stakes in the spring, which the + frost has heaved ... whose words were so true and fresh and + natural that they would appear to expand like the buds at the + approach of spring, though they lay half-smothered between + two musty leaves in a library,--ay, to bloom and bear fruit + there, after their kind, for the faithful reader ... + + WALT:--Roots and leaves themselves alone are these.... Frost-mellow’d + berries and Third-month twigs offer’d fresh to young persons + wandering out in the fields when the winter breaks up, + + Love-buds put before you and within you whoever you are, + + Buds to be unfolded on the old terms. + + If you bring the warmth of the sun to them they will open and + bring form, colour, perfume, to you, + + If you become the aliment and the wet they will become flowers, + fruits, tall branches and trees. + + HENRY:--True verses come toward us indistinctly, as the very breath + of all friendliness, and envelop us in their spirit and + fragrance.... There are two classes of men called poets. + The one cultivates life, the other art--one seeks food for + nutriment, the other for flavour.... The true poem is not + that which the public reads. There is always a poem not + printed on paper ... + + WALT:--Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my + poem ... + + HENRY:--It is no small recommendation when a book will stand the test + of mere unobstructed sunshine and daylight. + + WALT:--Read these leaves to myself in the open air, tried them by + trees, stars, rivers ... + + HENRY:--I would have my thoughts, like wild apples, to be food for + walkers, and will not warrant them to be palatable if tasted + in the house. + + WALT:--I swear I will never again mention love or death inside a + house ... + + If you would understand me go to the heights or watershore ... + + HENRY:--When I stand in a library ... Alas! that so soon the work of + a true poet should be swept into such a dust-hole! + + WALT:--... in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or + dead ... + + HENRY:--The very names of the commodities ... poetic, and as + suggestive as if they had been inserted in a pleasing + poem--Lumber, Cotton, Sugar, Hides, Guano, Logwood. + + WALT:--Land of coal and iron! land of gold! land of cotton, sugar, + rice! + + Land of wheat, beef, pork! land of wool and hemp!... + + HENRY:--I trust that we shall be more imaginative, that our thoughts + will be clearer, fresher, and more ethereal, as our sky--our + understanding more comprehensive and broader, like our + plains--our intellect generally on a grander scale, like ... + our rivers and mountains and forests--and our hearts shall + even correspond in breadth and depth and grandeur to our + inland seas. + + WALT:--... a bard is to be commensurate with a people ... he + incarnates its geography and natural life and rivers and + lakes. Mississippi with annual freshets and changing chutes, + Missouri and Columbia and Ohio and St. Lawrence with the + Falls and beautiful masculine Hudson, do not embouchure where + they spend themselves more than they embouchure into him ... + + HENRY:--There are poets of all kinds and degrees, little known to + each other.... I meet these gods of the river and woods with + sparkling faces (like Apollo’s), late from the House of + Correction, it may be.... What care I to see galleries full + of representations of heathen gods, when I can see actual + living ones by an infinitely superior artist? + + WALT:--Accepting the rough deific sketches ... + + Discovering as much or more in a framer framing a house, + + Putting higher claims for him there with his roll’d-up sleeves + driving the mallet and chisel ... + + Lads ... no less to me than the gods of the antique wars ... + + HENRY:--There is this moment proposed to me every kind of life + that men lead anywhere.... By another spring I may be a + mail-carrier in Peru, or a South African planter, or a + Siberian exile, or a Greenland whaler, or a settler on the + Columbia River, or a Canton merchant, or a soldier in + Florida, or a mackerel fisher off Cape Sable, or a Robinson + Crusoe in the Pacific, or a silent navigator of any sea.... + These are but few of my chances, and how many more things may + I do with which there are none to be compared! + + WALT:--I am a real Parisian ... + + I am a habitan of Vienna ... + + I am of Adelaide ... + + I am of London ... + + I am of Madrid ... + + I belong in Moscow ... or in some street in Iceland ... + + HENRY:--Whatever is, and is not ashamed to be, is good. + + WALT:--I am enamour’d of growing outdoors ... + + HENRY:--When I look at the stars, nothing which the astronomers have + said attaches to them, they are so simple and remote. + + WALT:--When I heard the learn’d astronomer ... + + How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick, + + Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself ... + + Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars. + + HENRY:--A name pronounced is the recognition of the individual to + whom it belongs. He who can pronounce my name aright, he can + call me, and is entitled to my love and service. + + WALT:--What am I after all but a child, pleas’d with the sound of my + own name? repeating it over and over ... + + HENRY:--You may have the extraordinary for your province, if you + will; let me have the ordinary. + + WALT:--The Commonplace I sing ... + +And the rest of the dialogue is lost in the distance like the path +on which the two drinkers of space have walked a little of the way +together, before taking their separate roads, one in this direction, +the other in that. + +Yes, there are these lost paths that both have trodden, paths where +they have only never met because one has followed them a few hours, +a few seasons before the other. It is a thousand pities, my friends. +If you had encountered each other once, not under the roof of a house +in Brooklyn, during a call, but in the fields, while you, Henry, were +surveying, or on a beach after the two of you had been bathing in +the sea, how much the sand and the tufts of grass would have helped +you to the beautiful understanding that is impossible for you now, +Henry, withdrawn as you are in your shell, and for you, Walt, great +unconscious animal that you are. + +But after all, these dreams do not cover an atom of the reality that is +in you. How much better it is that the future should close again, that +you, Walt, should be there in the house on Portland Avenue with your +mother and your family (cherish them, they are so dear to you), ruddy +and strong, and that the roar of Broadway should murmur in your ears! +How much better it is that you should be there, good soul that you +are, the youngest of the three, with your thirty-seven years and your +perfect health, your intransigence, your youthful, inordinate faith, +and that this little creature should not interest you too much. These +are not imaginary beings here but four very ordinary persons of solid +flesh and blood, and how much better it is that they are!) + + * * * * * + +In the course of the conversation, Walt, speaking of his friends, the +young fellows of the capital, to whom he owes even more than he owes +to Emerson, and of the place they hold in his poems, expresses his +conviction that they are America, Democracy, the key of the politics +of the New World. At this the tight-lipped Henry discharges a cutting +remark. They are the mob, and the mob is like peat. It may give out +any amount of heat, but it smokes, it reeks, it goes to your head. A +fellow who can make a fire of stumps in a clearing doesn’t care to +warm himself at any such blaze as that. The mob, universal suffrage, +the rabble marching in procession over the pavements of a big city or +wallowing like pigs to keep warm in the litter of a stable.... Can you +see that clamorous rout of human insects crowding into the porch of +those great W’s that rise at the threshold of your name, Walt Whitman? +Don’t you want to close the portal? + +And the son of Manhattan says to himself: “That fellow certainly comes +from the land of mummies. Those New England people have plenty of +brains--if only the gods had given them a little more guts. That clever +little devil will never be bowled over by the music of the bugles that +grips your very vitals, or the pride of belonging to such a brawny +country. He’s too skinny, the poor little chap.” + +Walt, though he conceals it, has been wounded to the quick in his +affections. The America of his poems is not looking for the homage of +apostles like this: it is a lively, warm-blooded America that responds +to the passion of males. Walt calmly faces the cold disdain expressed +by this little shrimp for a Person whom he loves with a terrible love, +not separating the good from the evil. “You don’t understand me,” he +says simply. From that moment he is enlightened. They can go on talking +amicably enough. Henry can say anything he likes, black or white; Walt +has taken his measure. The “no” has worked. A thunderbolt has suddenly +dissipated the fog that veiled a gulf between them immensely wider +than the East River which the visitors have crossed. + +Would you imagine that such a chasm could yawn between two beings who +are talking quietly there in a house on Portland Avenue--an apparently +impassable chasm, in spite of all the foot-bridges that reach from +one to the other?... Between two poets who are united in a sovereign +contempt for the literature of the literati--two plebeians, each in +his own way--two children who go forth every day, one of whom could +no more do without his daily walk on the populous pavements where, +from their glances, he gathers in the affection of men and women, than +the other could do without his ramble among the people of the trees, +the plants and the waters of Concord, with the track of the railroad +for his Broadway between trains--two loafers who have remained free +and unmarried for “reasons”--both of them drawing as it were from a +spring of elemental joy--both passionate idealists who, with equal +cheerfulness, might so easily “go and live with animals”--both mystics, +with a great appetite for the concrete--both affirming to the point +of arrogance their quality as individuals--both equally secretive and +reticent--both great friends of the Indian--both poor in money and +refusing to earn the bread of galley-slaves--both having to record the +practical failure of their first books, printed at their own expense +(lucky Henry has disposed of more than two hundred copies of his, while +as for that big fellow, his sales can be counted on his ten fingers +...)? Yet there they are, looking at each other, from opposite banks, +while the tumultuous tide rushes down between them, scouting the frail +bridges they have attempted to fling across its violence. And what +an uproar fills the Narrows, as if to affirm that for all time the +continent and the island shall remain as they are, two separate worlds! + +On the continent there are men with whom you feast on friendship, +crowds of comrades, day and night, never too numerous for a hearty +fellow who is hungry for the presence of other hearty fellows like +yourself. There are those who call you by your first name as you pass +or with whom you walk with your arm about their shoulders; they are +as thick as the trees along the rivers and the Great Lakes. They are +the mass to which you give of yourself with immense confidence, well +knowing what will be the return from this investment. Here reigns +the “beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh” that absorbs the +radiance of your own strong, sensual, loving masculinity and sends it +back to you in the flash of the eyes that turn towards you. Where can +one find such delights, richer food for the soul? What should I do in +your blessed retreat, where the golden days pass with one companion? +I should be devoured by homesickness in a moment--for the streets and +faces of Manhattan, their sounds and their vibrating movement. + +Frown as much as you like at these delights, little man on your island +who hold men and women at a distance as if you were afraid of touching +pitch. You, brother of the live-oak that joyously spreads its branches, +alone in the fields, with no companion near it. You to whom the company +of your own dear thoughts suffices. You who crouch in the midst of your +own distrust, with your fists clenched, bitter, satisfied, sarcastic, +devoid of magnetism, without any indulgence for your neighbour. You +whom no one would ever think of calling by a nickname. You who have no +more friendship for your own body than for those of others. You for +whom no woman waits. + +Make your wry face, Henry, but throw out your narrow chest, just +the same! For you have no particular reason to feel humiliated. The +contrast with that great animal may overwhelm your puny frame. Your +head barely reaches to his shoulder, but in that head, little Henry, +burns the flame of a spirit that assures you at least this superiority: +you have felt his grandeur, while he has not been able to see anything +in you. He is not very discerning, the great animal. Go back to Concord +with your head high. + +They parted indeed after two hours of conversation, with a promise +to see each other again the next morning. Matters could not rest +there. Walt was going to return the visit of the two Yankees at +their hotel. But at the appointed hour, the loafer, the dawdler, had +either forgotten the meeting or thought it best to be somewhere else: +there was no big ruddy fellow to be seen. They could not resume the +conversation. + +And on November 24th, Amos and Henry returned to the fold, the one to +Concord, the other to northern Connecticut where he was living at the +moment, full of memories of their call in Brooklyn--still under the +charm of a presence that was vastly more impressive even than the voice +of Beecher at Plymouth Church. + + * * * * * + +Friendship! This had been the torment of Henry’s life also, a torment +revealed to one confidant alone, the Journal, as the great lover +confided it to his Leaves to be spread abroad.... Always with this vast +difference between their two aches: Walt was tormented because he could +never be sufficiently intoxicated with it, while Henry suffered from a +virtual powerlessness to express it at all. + +A sad, sad story and so secret. To whom could this shy soul confide +what was concealed behind the mask of his fierce reserve? The trees +could not understand it, and they were his closest friends. So there +remained only a white page that would receive the confession without +blanching. + +That the mean interests and commonplace cares of ordinary people should +disgust and bore him was natural enough. Should he fall on his knees, +beat his breast and bewail the demands of a stomach that cannot endure +smugness and vulgarity? He is a mighty walker, he can roll off an +infinite number of miles, splash about in a swamp or shovel snow for +hours, weed in the blazing sun for a whole morning, split stumps as +hard as iron: but your accursed society is utterly beyond him. Protest +as you like. He is a lucky chap when he can afford to digest anything +or anybody. + +But with the few who are dear to him why is there so little real +intimacy? As a rule, he finds nothing but disappointment in their +company. He does not get into touch with them. He feels this too keenly +not to suffer from it. Complete friendship, the only sort worthy of the +name, is not the commonplace gossip of good neighbours; it asks to be +able to go freely at all hours into your friend’s house, without even +the need of knocking. Give me the freedom of your friendship if you do +not wish to make me unhappy. + +With those whom, in spite of all, he calls his friends, Henry always +has this feeling of painful dissatisfaction. His constraint paralyses +him. He leaves their company still hungry for what he came to seek; +so great is his discomfiture that he carries home with their strings +untied the packages he had meant to open before them. They were things +before which it would have been such a pleasure to marvel together. Is +there any disenchantment equal to this? Instead of communing together +and admiring one another, it is as if they had put each other out or +wounded each other. It is a collision where it ought to have been a +jubilee. + +So he cares more for his friends at a distance where their image +recovers its shape and petty things are forgotten. He is an +over-exacting man: he refuses to have the most beautiful thing in the +world profaned by being decked out in false ornaments. He insists that +it must be absolutely naked, and thus he has only fleeting glimpses of +it. + +Why is this? Why this lack of sympathetic understanding between true +friends? Is it their fault? Do they lack naturalness or sincerity? Do +they encumber friendship with compliments, manners or shallow words? Or +is it his fault, this fault he imputes to others? Would his friends, by +any chance, like him to be a little different? + +They have often complained that he is stiff, abrupt, that he remains +silent when they expect him to say something. They are not over-fond +of his rather crabbed way of speaking the truth and demanding it in +return. Perhaps they are not entirely in the wrong. But does all the +trouble, all his pain, come from these differences? They have known +him for a long time, they know what a firm friend he is, and they are +as willing to pardon his singularities as he is to forgive their habit +of excessive sociability. Is he asking too much of them--a nobility +that is impossible to human clay? Possibly; but even so there must be +something else that he has forgotten in scrutinizing his conscience. + +Come, my friend, what is it you complain of to your confidant in the +evening? That your friends are this or that instead of being their own +natural selves, that they answer so incompletely to what you expect of +them? You are wounded, you are hurt because they seem to turn up their +noses at the good things you were bringing them, and it is not a wound +to your pride, it is not just a question of wretched vanity. It is +much more serious than that--you are wounded in your affections, poor +Henry.... + +Well, but how about yourself? Are you so sure that you respond to their +expectations? Suppose, instead of withdrawing into your shell, at the +least discord, you were simply to accept what they have to offer you? +Suppose you were to show them a little indulgence? Instead, you roughly +pull away. Must it always necessarily be they who take the first step? +You insist that they should come and seek you out in the depths of your +den, after opening as many locks as if it were an enchanted palace. +And suppose they haven’t the key, suppose they don’t know the open +sesame? You expect your friends to be magicians, seers who can divine +the warmth hidden far down beneath that icy exterior. All very well, no +doubt; but tell us, you who left the door of your cabin at Walden open +to all comers, why you lock yourself up in this fashion. What robbers +do you fear? You can see for yourself that this is no philistine who +stands before you, that his face is the face of a friend. You can be +frank, you can speak out that desire you have in you--which is going to +cause you pain later just because you have obliged it to remain silent +and it has its own way of protesting. To no indifferent person, rest +assured, will you be showing your gifts. + +There you are, so unhappy, with your affectionate impulses shattered, +leaving your friend with the feeling that you have been simply an +intruder. Are you so sure he would have disappointed you so if you had +taken out your specimens, mystery-maker--if you had merely offered him +what you brought, offered it simply, directly? You refuse to explain +yourself because it is humiliating. Friends don’t explain, they +understand. No doubt; but suppose your attitude took the place of an +explanation, made it unnecessary, dissipated the cloud? Instead of +looking for reasons and fining them down like a casuist, suppose you +tried to give a little of yourself? Just a little, why not? + +You stand there, frozen, waiting--waiting for what?--with that +bashfulness, that infernal bashfulness that makes you shrink back from +your chin to your fingers instead of making the gesture the other may +be waiting for--whatever it may be, a touch on the shoulder, a glance +from those eyes that you keep lowered as if you were planning some +dreadful deed, a handclasp long enough to establish the contact, long +enough for the current to begin to flow.... Don’t you realize, subtle +as you are, fool that you have suddenly become, the importance of a +little familiar gesture that will set you both free? Come, you who are +so brave, so resolute in attack, you who profess to be liberating men +who are prisoners of their own sordid existence, confess that you lack +the courage.... + +You should live your friendship a little, you should put into practice +the principles of that exalted affection which you say cannot be +satisfied among men, live it instead of singing its praises, you +infernal New England prude! Your hands are skilful enough for anything, +except when it comes to friendship--hands that are so delicate when +they pick a frail little flower and so clumsy when they lift this plant +that thrusts its pale roots into you. You can’t stick this in the +lining of your hat where you carry your most fragile discoveries.... + +Yes, they may have their faults, your friends. They may be too +intelligent to understand. They have a gift for whetting your spirit +of contradiction, which is so destructive of friendship. But don’t you +see that you, with your antagonism, are most to blame? You who do not +lay aside at the outset, like an objectless accessory in a friendly +house, the mask of that provoking, that insupportable chilliness? If +you are not “incapable of expansion and generosity,” why do you keep +all these treasures hidden for your own morose delectation, why are you +so absurdly timorous, so savagely bashful? When you have given your +hand, why do you withdraw it so quickly, as if your precious ego were +in danger of dissolving in the warmth of another palm? Suspicious! +Distrustful! Infernal idiot! Barbarian, barbarian, barbarian, who +suffer and triumph in being what you are!... Don’t accuse others till +you have accused yourself. + +Whether the fault is his or theirs, it is very sad in any case. At +times this man who is so rich feels very poor indeed, and all the joy +of the river, all the friendship of the woods does not suffice to fill +the void in this imploring heart. + +What a tragedy, for instance, in his relations with his oldest, his +greatest friend, lies behind the appearance of the most harmonious +understanding.... The one man in all the world to whom he is bound by +the brightest hours of his life ... the light of his youth ... not to +be able to love him as he would like to love him, completely, because +... because.... Waldo and Henry cannot quite mingle, as the names of +Eden and Waldo mingle in Walden. + +Because Waldo--the flower of a long line of ministers, so rich a +flower in the garland which the established order wears on its +brow--is offended by inelegances that clash with his philosophical +decorum, a decorum full of grace and suave respect for the venerable +conventions. Because a dry, unalterable “no,” rebellion carried even +into the smallest details, the frank assumption of the character of a +bad citizen, revolutionary language ruffle his serenity. And because +Henry, on his side, is irritated, cannot approve of that timidity, that +spirit of compromise, and will never believe that instead of showing +your disgust for what is disgusting you should cover it up with cream +sauce and ask people to taste it. + +Because, as an illustrious Sage, the elder, with his delightful smile, +slightly--oh! so slightly--patronizes his junior, this dear, crabbed, +odd, aggressive Henry, this cool iconoclast in whom he recognizes a +force superior to his own that he would like to mollify, bring into +line, civilize. This dear Henry who does not want to have the smile +that would comfort his friend Waldo and, like the latter’s, electrify +an audience instead of petrifying it. This dear Henry who is galled +by any touch of protectiveness, faint as it may be, and conceives of +friendship as the region of equals. This dear Henry who had not waited +till a great Sage came to illuminate Concord in order to exist himself, +who is not the sort to allow himself to be worked up like all those +visionaries whom the dazzling star attracts. Make no mistake, dear +Waldo. Yet there is nothing to prevent us from being very fond of each +other, even if we do wound each other. + +Because almost insensibly Henry feels each day a little further from +Waldo, further from his tastes, his habits and the people who surround +him, the more pronounced his own personality becomes, the more it +reacts and frees itself from the influences of his twentieth year ... +till he refuses to write an article on his great friend which Greeley +has been asking him to write for years and has accepted in advance ... +till he at last realizes the uselessness of those conversations from +which each comes away disappointed with the other ... till there are +longer and longer intervals between those visits to the little white +house that merely waste his time and cause him pain ... till the day +comes when the distance is so great that Henry confesses it is dead, +the beautiful friendship, that it lies there, motionless as a corpse, +on a bed of twenty years.... + +For years he had seen this moment coming, but when it was there, in +all the harshness of the confession, what a rent it made! The face of +the dead on that couch spoke of happy hours passed by the fireside, +of those trees and that garden he had cared for ... spoke of those +walks together, that confidence, that life side by side. Henry felt +an intense pain in his head, in his chest, which prevented him from +working and grew worse towards evening. In the confusion, the infinite +desolation of that black hour, all the friendship of all men seemed to +crumble. And yet at the very moment when this affection was vanishing +and he was bidding it farewell, why did he feel so strangely _near_ the +dead friend, yes, in spite of everything, so near, with that pain in +his chest, that it was as if the friendship contained a touch of the +love that eludes death? + +But all should not be lost for a man disappointed in relations +that intellectual tastes shared in common cannot save from ruin. +There remain his friends the simple folk, whom he relishes with a +natural sympathy, without any philosophical seasoning. With them, at +least, Henry feels at ease. No more than himself do they enjoy the +consideration of the world. They are untainted by manners. With them +he can visit freely back and forth. Here he can go straight ahead. +And look at him.... He watches them, in silent satisfaction--from a +distance. What a good sort that fellow is, how close akin to him you +feel.... At a distance Henry admires them, they go straight to his +heart; but does he take a step towards them? Never. And why? What is it +that restrains him from following his inclination and seeing whither +it leads? Among these people are familiar and friendly faces to whom +he has never addressed a word in his whole life, whose very names are +unknown to him. The rover who respects neither wall nor hedge but +walks directly to his goal remains obstinately on the borders of a +land--beautiful, as it seems to him--where he does not dare to venture. + +Strange reserve! Why deprive yourself of the offered feast, epicure +of huckleberries, epicure of a humanity that you are content to eat +with your eyes? One might think you were afraid of all contact, afraid +that everything would be spoiled if you rubbed shoulders with anyone +else. Where are those senses of yours that are so fine, so alert, so +eager to possess things? Do they hold prisoner among them the sense +of attachment? Well, there are so many beautiful things that your +intellect grasps but that you do not know how to untie, strange man who +watch men and women whom you would like go by, and remain apart, with +your tenderness under lock and key. + +Strange or not, it is so, and when you are a Stoic, you stifle your +secret and your grief and go on your way as if everything in the world +were just right. If there are no friends to visit, give them up. You +can visit them in thought, and they will come in the same way and join +you in your walks: only so can you feel really close to them. If they +do not understand that for some people friendship is as serious a +passion as love, if they find you cold, nature at least will welcome +you without vain words. With her you do not feel an intruder; you and +she do not irritate each other; she never disappoints you or provokes +a “no”; she never sends you away with your enthusiasms crushed. And so +you exaggerate your stiffness, you swagger, you carry your head high, +even when you are alone with yourself. You are a happy mortal who has +rid yourself of men; you feast on solitude; it has a taste of nuts +and sour apples; you laud it to the skies. It is a heroic remedy. You +may not always succeed in deceiving yourself. You are not always the +dupe of these pathetic boasts. But this makes no difference. You are a +savage who leaves these idiots of civilized people to eat the dust of +the highway. It is beautiful, this wild life, and you are proud of it, +even if it sometimes makes a shy, silent fellow suffer. You are that +happy man, made in the image of Walden Pond, self-sufficient, having no +communication with the impure waters about it, smooth and serene--yet +dreaming perhaps, now and again in the evening, dreaming in its depths +of the running, singing waters with which it would be so good to run +and sing, thinking how sad it is to be unable to mingle its life with +that of the neighbouring ponds, its brothers. You are as rigid and as +pure as the ice that encloses it in winter. + +And so, because of that impotence from which you suffer, you are +regarded as a misanthrope--just as a deaf man is thought to be +unsociable. Hear that without laughing, enemy of the human race, you +who can laugh, at your own times, so heartily. + +To carry every day, over all the paths of the waste lands, like a +burden you could not do without, your anxious care for men. To return +from your ramble, with the thought sticking to you like a bur. To +cherish Nature in your heart and consecrate to her your best hours +because there is no friend in the world who, like this companion, gives +you the savour of your own humanity, yours and that of all your kind. +Not to despair of others or of this world, even in the moments when you +are bitterest in your scorn--though it would be so easy to send it to +the devil and go your way whistling, with your hands in your pockets. +To feel yourself strong enough to build a tower on a little fragment +of love, ever so precarious and disillusioned but so hardy. To carry +with you that longing for a land where these people who irritate you +would have become a society after your own heart. (Does not a mere +bonfire of dead leaves in the country bring you the news from that +land?) To try your very best to find new words to make your neighbour +understand that he should open his window and let in a breath of the +out-of-doors while he is working. To have planned for the title-page +of your book a cock waking up the neighbours before dawn and dragging +them out of the slumber they call their existence. Yes, and then to +find yourself described as a cynical egoist, to figure among your kind +as the perfect skulker.... Henry, the echo of your laugh sounds at last +on the shore of the encircled pond--sounds and salutes this disguise in +which you see yourself decked! + +And this is your portrait. What can you expect? So it is, so you have +willed it. It is a beautiful portrait. The only objection is that it +is so unlike you. Perhaps they are going to use it as the frontispiece +of your book. You are the enemy of men when you have much to give and +do not know how to give it--when you seek your brothers and do not +find them, or find them so rarely, on such false terms. The enemy of +men, with these yearnings repressed (oh, so stoically repressed!), +this secret hunger which you would not confess for the whole empire of +the Indies--with that need of love crowded into your meagre chest, and +finding vent at times in spite of you. + + + + + VIII + + +A special session at the Boston Court-house, where the Supreme Court +is sitting under the protection of the militia. Free men are judging a +man-tool, the property of another man. Perhaps, under his black skin +and his woolly hair, the tool has a kind of soul--you never can tell: +but since he has run away, the tribunal ordains, in its sovereign +independence, that he shall be returned to the hands of his master. +If, weary of digging up your ground, a hoe for which you have paid +with your good money should take it into its head one fine evening to +scamper off, what would you say? The article that has vanished should +be restored to its rightful owner. The law is sacred and the judges +are there to apply it without flinching. There is no joking with these +respectable judges of the Boston Court-house. They have very grave +faces with white skins and not the least suggestion of wool on their +skulls. They represent His Majesty the Right and His Holiness the Moral. + +Are you surprised? Then where do you come from? Don’t you know how +little it matters before the law whether you are innocent or guilty? +The important thing is not you but respect for the law. The judge is +there to grind out his judgments, the notes are printed in the record, +and at the end of the month the fees fall with all the precision +of music. And you fail to take this way of administering justice +seriously? You feel no respect for this machine? + +Henry’s chief feeling was one of humiliation. He had never cherished +any great illusions about judges and justice, and in a similar case +three years before he had received a painful shock. But this judgment +was beyond anything. _Walden_ was appearing at this moment, and the +book was utterly forgotten in the thought of this negro whom they +were cold-bloodedly sending back to his master, like a package. The +solemnity of the judgment added to this redelivery of the stolen +article a sort of diabolical pomp. In any case, another theft had +been committed, for Henry perceived that they had taken from him an +essential part of himself. In vain had he tried to find among the +friendly fields forgetfulness of these unclean human beings; they had +lost their charm for him, for the baseness of men had blighted them. +The “enemy of the human race” came back from his walks utterly unable +to regain his serenity. He was haunted by the thought of those men +who were in prison for having tried to mob the court and snatch the +“package” out of its hands. He almost envied those fellows. An honest +man belonged in prison in these times of ignominy: at large, he felt +almost an accomplice in the legal crime. As he thought of it, Henry’s +hand went through the motions of touching off a bomb that would send +the machine and the machinists to the devil. + +You strange fellow, what concern is it of yours--one negro more or less +from the plantations of the South? Are you mad? He is just as much +merchandise as a barrel of molasses; he can be sold and used up, but +he has got to stay in the shop of the man who has paid his good money +for him. Besides, all this business is going on a long way from your +village: leave Boston and that good Virginia to their own affairs. +Can’t you see that, after a passing flutter, the people around you go +on with their own little concerns? There is nothing so momentous in +this affair to interfere with the thoughts of a solitary walker. + +To write a few pages in his Journal, in the privacy of his own soul, +is no relief. Faces, not white pages, are what he needs to have before +him in order to express his emotion. On the Fourth of July Henry goes +to Framingham, where the friends of the cause are holding a meeting, +and delivers there the most vigorous speech he has ever written (he +never speaks _ex tempore_), the richest in blood and fire. The Chief +Justice and the Governor of the State take part in the ceremony: the +orator has not failed to bring these puppets along in his bag to +produce them in his Punch and Judy show. The honourable Governor is +playing dummy. Bang! A good rousing whack on his ear. That will teach +him what it means to let the August Work of Justice follow its course. +The honourable Governor refuses to hand in his resignation. A good +smack in the face will root him out of his chair. The puppet catches +it for being Governor; there is very little of him left. He gets all +the raps on the nose that are intended for the slave-masters whose +interests His Nothingness serves. And to crown the festival, they +publicly burn the Constitution of the United States. The organizer of +the meeting is William Lloyd Garrison, the veteran abolitionist, whom +once the mob dragged through the streets of Boston at the end of a +rope. This brave man, who is ready for anything, asks Henry for the +text of the famous discourse so that he can publish it in his magazine, +the _Liberator_. + +Always that fierceness in resistance. Friends who entirely approve +of Henry’s purposes regard this violence, this extremism, as very +unfortunate. Destroy, if you think it good to do so, but don’t bring +into it that savage conviction, as if you wanted to uproot the old tree +of the earth. Keep at least a touch of scepticism. You make no effort +to settle things by arrangement. Always this unsmiling gracelessness. +See what an accommodating smile your old friend Waldo keeps.... It’s +just like the time when you refused to pay your poll-tax and let +them put you in jail, and your friends said it was “mean and in bad +taste.” Is not tolerance the proper thing in a philosopher? He should +accept frauds, great and small, magnanimously, as one tolerates +the faults of old friends. One shouldn’t be so anti-Philistine as +to scout all the respectabilities. One shouldn’t declare, in this +virulent way, one’s utter contempt for the Church and the State. One +shouldn’t go about insisting that the State is the enemy of free, proud +men and the natural protector of the basest elements of a people: +officials, capitalists, flunkies, policemen, speculators, shopkeepers, +moneymakers, gospel-mongers. There are charming people in all these +groups who are offended by this wholesale censure. And suppose you do +consider this court-room--judges, lawyers, public, jury and all--just +as criminal as the accused, is that any reason for calling down thunder +on its head? + +Do you never read the presidential messages in the newspapers? Perhaps +you despise the newspapers too? Of course those who produce them are +more interested in cultivating their subscribers than the truth, but is +that any reason to lump them all together, the liberal ones included, +as the “filthy press?” From your point of view, those sensational +events which our friend the saloon-keeper confounds under the one +name of “politics” are simply ridiculous beside a sunset watched from +Fairhaven Cliffs where you go to get your evening paper and the latest +news. + +Just look at this pitiful specimen of a citizen who has nothing but a +ridiculous “no” for his country in time of war! A war that brings the +conqueror all sorts of booty is, he tells you bluntly, nothing but an +expedition of brigands, sufficiently well armed to impose their will. A +poor, silly isolated thief steals something and is put under lock and +key, but if he swells to the proportions of an army he comes back, with +flags flying and a band at the head of the procession, bombarded with +flowers and hurrahs by respectable men and women. An evil deed, you +see, becomes a great deed if it is conceived on a large enough scale: +the enthusiasm excited by a war is the rapture of a childish people +before this stupendous metamorphosis. + +As for soldiers, Henry has no flowers for an idiot who, whether he +is victor or vanquished, has allowed himself to be seduced by fine +feathers and high pay. He has nothing but a glance to give him, enough +to divine, under the automaton who fires to the right or left at +command and would shoot his brother just as readily, a vestige of a +man who is rather ashamed of the work he is made to do and would be +only too happy to desert if he dared. The instruction which they give a +soldier should logically lead him to distinguish his natural enemy, the +instructor. But this professional brave man is a coward. For the sake +of dressing up in a fine uniform, he has allowed himself to be stripped +of his dignity as a man, just as some young fellows throw their pride +to the winds for a foolish girl. Weak souls, unhappy souls. But in +spite of all this there is less contempt than pity in the look he +gives these fools, yes, even this masquerade of the militia with their +puppets’ gestures. Little as one may sympathise with their stupidity, +everything that debases man is a menace that touches you in your own +person. + +You see how far a village good-for-nothing can carry his sarcasm--a +lover of wild flowers and beautiful trees and the unknown things that +might be equally beautiful. He is not responsible for his country, +this “land of liberty” which is subject to the omnipotences of money +and morality; he despises the majority and the ballot. He is no +pistareen-patriot. He ought to take a lesson from his friend Walt +Whitman, whom he has seen in Brooklyn and admires--Walt who stands +whole-heartedly for the flag and for war to a finish, brigand war or +holy war.... Henry has not read his articles in that wretched Brooklyn +sheet, for he never reads the papers at all. It’s a great pity. Walt is +not the man to belittle the National Honour and cynically ask to see +this interesting creature of which they are talking in the newspapers. + +Henry had never met this famous bird on his walks, or that other +chanticleer, National Sentiment. Among his own people, among those +whom he would like to regard as his compatriots, even among those who +are nearest to him, he often feels as lost as among strangers. The +prejudices of colour and the flag do not correspond with anything in +his geography. Whether you are an American or a South Sea Islander, +whether you wear a cap or a turban, whether your hair is in a queue or +parted on the side is all one to him. All he asks is, Are you a man, +and what can you do? Play me a little of your music, and I shall know. +A man, you understand; that comes first, first. You can tell me later +what kind of dessert you like or what your nationality is, if you have +a moment to spare: those things are very interesting, of course, but +begin with essentials. Talk music. + +You see?... How can anybody hit it off with a fellow who defends his +ideas in this revolutionary way? Henry has only one excuse. If there is +in his sarcasms something more than the pride of a solitary man and the +revolt of the individual, it is because he feels and speaks as a man +whose hands know certain things that philosophers do not know. He has +not allowed himself to be caught up in the machinery of the workaday +world, but he has had to drudge just the same. He knows better than by +hearsay what it means to be exploited. Of all those lies that other +people complacently accept, sweetening them with the honey of a lofty +philosophy, he has felt the effects in his own person ever since he +left college. A man who works with his hands for wages has definite +and personal reasons for criticising these lies a little more sharply +than a humanist in his study or a journalist at his editorial desk. +The elements and materials he has touched have given him a sensibility +of a subtler kind. “_The callous palms of the labourer are conversant +with finer tissues of self-respect and heroism, whose touch thrills the +heart, than the languid fingers of idleness._” This quality, whether +he wills it or not, gives him the more fraternal accent of the comrade +of the poor. Is it a mere philosopher who, as he follows the railroad +that skirts Walden, can ask, as he places his foot on a sleeper, if +it is not going to rise up, if every sleeper is not going to take the +form of one of those hard-working Irishmen who have placed it there and +over whom the train passes at fixed hours, filled with people who roll +comfortably along while the others are rolled over? + +The older he grows the more sensitive Henry becomes to the injuries +which, with the precision of a rite, the armed man inflicts upon the +unarmed. The experience of life avails nothing; instead of blunting, +it sharpens his susceptibility. That nameless one whom the Supreme +Court in Boston has just sent off like a package is an intolerable +humiliation--it is enough to blot out the five continents. It is the +State burying its fangs in the flesh of a fugitive. The victim may +not be a great philosopher, but he has nerves--like the distinguished +Governor himself. His thick lips cannot afford to keep smiling. + +In an age swollen with the sense of its own importance, this negro +slavery was the most brutal form of the exploitation of man by man. +Since Uncle Tom had brought all the lovers of sentimental scenes and +tears-in-the-eyes flocking about his Cabin, the abolitionist propaganda +had made headway. Henry had joined in it from afar, in his own way. To +further the desertion of the blacks, it had developed a whole secret +organization, the Underground Railroad, with its system, its branches, +switches, waiting-rooms, regulating station. Henry had his share in +the administration. He was station-master at one of those little +halting-places in the country where only a few trains stop from time +to time but that are all the safer in the transit of smuggled goods. +Concord was only a middling-sized village, but it was one that counted +in no small way in the scheme of anti-slavery sympathies. At the very +dawn of the movement, when Henry was just preparing to enter college, a +society of women had been founded there for the abolition of slavery, +and several particular friends of the family were members of it. Ten +years later, Wendell Phillips came there, three winters in succession, +and aroused the most violent excitement in the village frog-pond by +denouncing a Constitution that openly supported the ignominy. If the +old people were outraged and scandalised by this audacity, the young +were enraptured by it; Henry, at that time secretary of the Lyceum, +sent the _Liberator_ a paper on the first lecture. On August 1st, 1844, +an abolitionist meeting was held in the Court-house at which Waldo had +spoken. William Lloyd Garrison was there, and Henry rang the bell to +fling to the winds the good news and the challenge. + +The friends of the cause did not forget Concord in their rounds. One of +them, whom a friend introduced to him in March, 1857, made a profound +impression on Henry. A big fellow in his fifties, round-shouldered, +grizzled, rough-hewn, with the rugosity that went with the frontier +type; he came from Kansas, in fact, where with his sons he led, +in those hazardous regions, the far from rose-coloured existence +of a defender of the cause. And what a face he had.... That mouth +like a sabre-cut, the metal of those eyes, that stiff, projecting +hair planted thick on the low, determined brow, those perpendicular +wrinkles between the eyebrows, how much they told.... You could imagine +unforgettable figures like this in old times on a rowers’ bench, +chained by the feet.... That astonishing face, hard as steel, stood out +so magnificently from the crowd of weak masks--the face of a pirate, a +condottiere or a martyr. Another one who did not smile. + +Henry felt at once that he was in the presence of a member of his +own family. They talked. But he did not need to be convinced by +the arguments or the stories of what was going on out there on the +frontier. This presence was enough for him: it carried conviction +with it. What did it matter if the man talked like an illiterate, +narrow-minded, old sanctimonious Puritan pietist? Henry looked at +that face, that naked grandeur, that pure force of heroism and +self-sacrifice. He drank in the wind that had swept that brow from its +childhood, saw all that the horizon of the prairie had left in that +glance. It was arranged that the man should come back to Concord and +give a lecture. His name was John Brown--in other words, he was as good +as nameless. You felt like saying simply the man, for short. + +The little station-master acquitted himself of his duties with the +decision and the punctuality which, as a ne’er-do-well, he always put +into his work. They signalled to you that someone was on the way; you +had to be there to receive the “package,” before dawn or at nightfall, +put him up if necessary, and in great mystery (the whole family was +in the conspiracy and protected the fugitive, but evil tongues and +spies were not lacking at Concord any more than elsewhere), then +quietly ship him off again, to a safe place over the Canadian border. +Pass the ball. One more Southern planter would have to make the best +of his loss. Henry, a veteran with a sure eye, had the qualities of +a smuggler. You had charge of a man with the police on his tracks, +stimulated by a “good reward,” and while you were on the way to +get a ticket for him at the station you would notice a man with a +gallows-face roaming about, looking very much like a sleuth from +Boston; so you would decide to wait for the next train. The runaway +could stay a little longer at the house, where he was in good hands. +While he was living at Walden, Henry had put one of them up in his +cabin. There were certainly risks in this smuggling business. But when +did risks ever weaken the resolution of an honest man? They strengthen +it. + +For the rest, Henry was an abolitionist of an altogether special kind, +very far from orthodox. If the exploitation of the negroes was the most +patent form of slavery, how many other slaves there were beyond the +horizon of the cotton-fields, everywhere, to infinity, whom he would +have liked to free.... The views of the Boston friends were limited by +the famous Cabin. They didn’t see them increasing among the people of +the North, those white-skinned, thin-lipped, fair or chestnut-haired +slaves with heads anything but woolly! Henry saw them all around him, +innumerable and more brutalized than he would have been able to say. He +reckoned fully a million of them in Massachusetts, without the least +suspicion of their state, poor souls--which was the saddest part of the +whole business. + +When are you going to start a campaign to enable all these white +negroes to escape, these slaves who are so busy under the eye of their +overseers growing the evil cotton from which the web of our days is +woven? To make them want to bid farewell for good and all to their +servile habits and gestures? If people would listen to you, Henry, +Canada would be so full that there would be no place to house them. + + * * * * * + +One morning such a big piece of news spread abroad that a man who never +read the newspapers could not help glancing at it. It was the paper for +October 18th, 1859. Henry read it. A handful of men, almost unarmed, +had seized the Federal Arsenal at Harper’s Ferry in Virginia during +the night and intrenched themselves there, after making a prisoner of +a colonel, the great-grand-nephew of George Washington; they had held +it for twenty-four hours. A regular siege had been necessary to get +the better of the rebels, or rather the survivors, for more than half +of them had been killed. It was his friend John Brown’s work.... That +morning and for days to come, Henry could devour more newspapers than +his good father had nibbled in a whole lifetime. + +But if John Brown had struck, it was not solely to enable his friend +Thoreau to give at last the full measure of his egoism. Old Brown had +more substantial reasons than that. + +Henry saw again the face of the old peasant or galley-slave, the +expression of the bluish eyes that brightened up when the man spoke +of the cause. It was not six months since he had seen him the last +time, and his image was as fresh as yesterday. Old Brown was wearing +now a long white beard that gave him a patriarchal look. They had +dined together at Henry’s. Waldo had come over and the three had found +themselves there together. In the evening Old Brown had spoken at the +Town Hall; and as he told them how his son had been made prisoner by +the Border Ruffians, he had even shown them the chain which the latter +had made him wear. The effect was a little crude, but this man so +excluded the idea of anything theatrical that you couldn’t look at this +gesture ironically. As for his plans, Henry had no anxiety at the time; +you could have entire faith in such a figure as that. + +Old Brown’s plans.... That was what had been suddenly revealed by the +incident of the Arsenal, the long, long story of which that low brow +and those inexorable eyes had spoken. Born in Connecticut, of good +English and Dutch stock, he had found himself, a boy of five, cast in +the middle of Ohio, whither his father, a penniless tanner, had come +from New England to seek his fortune. A boy who grew up in buckskin +trousers, among the animals and the friendly Indians; a sensitive boy +who remained inconsolable after losing the only marble he had ever +possessed; a boy who, at twelve, was already conducting cattle long +distances and had learned just enough to read and reckon a little. + +As a big lad of twenty, strong and serious, working in a tannery with +his father, he appeared very shy and rather haughty. The Bible and the +Church absorbed him, together with an anxious fear for the salvation +of his soul, even suggesting to him for a while the idea of becoming +a preacher. He married, moved his tannery to Pennsylvania, where he +had no very brilliant success, ran into debt, remarried, returned to +Ohio and set up in business with a partner. Another failure. He threw +himself into land-speculation, went into bankruptcy, then, a poor, +uncertain soul, tried any and every means of conjuring away his ill +fortune. Long journeys took him across country, buying and selling +cattle and sheep. In spite of everything, divine Providence did not +assist John the Shepherd and his thirteen children--whom, as a brutally +fierce believer, he ruled with a rod of iron: little matter whether +they had any education or not as long as they feared the Lord and +his representative, their father. The wholesale sheep-trade which +he followed for ten years with a partner still failed to bring him +prosperity, and at the end of their enterprise left him the same poor +John as before. In incessant litigation with his creditors, always +clumsy in business, he found himself lost in a maze of speculations, +plans, combines, and was not entirely free from those barely honest +little trickeries to which the perfect devotee does not refuse to stoop +in order to save his worldly goods along with his soul. + +It was in the midst of these vicissitudes, as he was approaching his +fortieth year, that an idea took possession of him, an idea that he +revealed to his family, one evening, in the kitchen of the old farm +in Ohio--to “break the jaws of the wicked and pluck the spoil out of +his teeth.” What he meant in his pietistic jargon was to free the +blacks from slavery, and to free them by violence. From that moment +John the Shepherd underwent a gradual transformation into Old Brown, +Partisan and Freebooter. In Springfield, Massachusetts, he rented a +little wooden house where he stored his wool; his principal object +in coming there was to place himself in touch with the militants of +Boston, whose debating societies and philosophic views, for the rest, +interested him very little. Words, nothing but words. The sheep-raiser +explained his programme to them. Brother Brown was going to strike with +a vengeance, rise openly against the authorities and crush those who +resisted. The direct route this time, no more Underground Railroads. +It was in the South, on its own ground, that the slave-power must be +attacked. Towards the time of his first visit to Concord, Old Brown, +without taking anybody into his confidence, was already thinking, +among the important points he had in view, of that Arsenal which was +so well situated at the intersection of the three States of Maryland, +Pennsylvania and Virginia. After this, he pondered his plan, perfected +it, minutely prepared to carry it out. But in the meantime, as he had +to live, and the market-price of wool had fallen because of the war, +he embarked for Europe, where he hoped to make an advantageous sale. +London--Paris--Brussels--Hamburg: it was a very fine journey for a +Westerner, but the traveller had carried his old bad luck along with +him in his bag; he was obliged to sell his bales of wool at ridiculous +prices. From Europe he returned with a loss of $40,000 for his partner +and himself and the still more firmly fixed reputation of a man who had +no understanding of business. + +Then, one fine day, he bade farewell to trade and went off and +established his family in the midst of the solitude of the Adirondacks, +at North Elba. He would go and see them up there when he had the time, +for he was almost always in Kansas, where three of his older sons +were settled and his mission claimed him. The Border was his sphere; +he was at the front there, in contact with the enemy--the slaver. +Business, litigation, cattle, the price of wool, all these things +counted for nothing now in Old Brown’s mind: it was as if the victim +of eternal combines, the old veteran upon whom earthly fortune had +been unwilling to smile, was meditating a last stroke of business, a +supreme speculation, in which he would risk everything, even his skin, +without regret, for the triumph of a great cause--would sacrifice +as a visionary the rest of his mortal life, the rest of this rough, +storm-tossed, agitated life, for a beautiful share of eternity.... + +Thanks to all this travelling about, managing men and animals and hides +and wool and pushing his famous plan, he was clothed with a kind of +authority that impressed people. He was going to find this useful +enough in holding his own with the Border Ruffians who roamed about +the country, well-armed, in their red or blue flannel shirts, with a +dagger boldly thrust through their leather belts, with an unspeakably +villainous air--cut-throats in the pay of the planters, who were +determined to remain the masters in their own house and protect the +free disposal of their black work-hands. To earn his living, he did +surveying, a trade that permitted him to study the ground in more ways +than one. Between whiles, there were surprises--hangings, lynchings, +tar-and-featherings, raids, cold-blooded butcheries with the sabre--all +work for a soldier. + +Old Brown was appropriately free from sentimentality. For instance, +to avenge the abominable sacking of Lawrence, when the partisans of a +Free Kansas had allowed themselves to be trampled upon like cowards by +their enemies, he arranged a little party of his own. With a sort of +company of which he was captain and cook, he intended to show these +swine that they were not always going to triumph with impunity and +spread among the band a wholesome terror. In the old man’s camp, they +sharpened the cutlasses on the grindstone and got ready for business. A +list had been drawn up of the condemned persons who were to pay for all +the rabble. While he was getting ready, one of his companions who was +a little anxious came and recommended caution to the chief. The latter +replied: “Caution, caution, sir. I am eternally tired of hearing that +word caution. It is nothing but the word of cowardice.” The chief was +greatly excited and ready for anything. Forward, men; let the cowards +stay behind. + +They were soon there; the little troop collected for a moment not +far from Pottawatomie, where the birds they were going to catch +had their nest. There were three brothers here, Germans by birth, +known for their pro-slavery sympathies--big brutes with whom he had +already had a bone to pick as a neighbour, together with a family of +poor devils from Tennessee, a father and his two grown sons, who had +followed the lead of the Germans. There was also a member of that +pseudo-Legislative Assembly which claimed to rule the State in the name +of the slave-holders. At ten o’clock in the evening the little troop +got under way, taking all precautions. They knocked at the door of the +Tennesseeans, made the father and his two sons come out, conducted +them two hundred yards from the house and cold-bloodedly put them to +the sword. A bullet in the father to finish the business and make it +surer. One of the two brothers who had offered resistance had his +arms cut off, his body mangled, his skull torn open, a hole in the +jaw. All this made less noise than a musket volley; it was a thorough +job, swift and stimulating. A little further away, at midnight, at +the “Representative’s” house, a similar scene. The wife was ill with +measles; the condemned man asked to be allowed to stay with her till +they found someone to look after her. “It matters not,” said Old Brown; +“you have neighbours.” And he did not even allow the man to pull on +his boots. Off with him. Shortly afterwards the “Representative” lay +in a thicket, with his head and side run through; they had sent him to +represent his friends the slave-holders in the Legislative Assembly on +high. There remained the three Germans, one of whom turned out to be +spending the night with neighbours. The same ceremonial. The next day +he was found in the ravine, with his skull split in two places and half +emptied, a hole in his chest, his right hand cut off, hanging to the +wrist by a rag of skin. The work finished, they went off and washed +their sabres in the river and the butchers started for home, rather +disgusted. They needed some good hot coffee to settle their nerves. But +it was all in the day’s work and Old Brown regretted nothing. + +The hand of the Lord had smitten these infidels a little roughly. These +were the ways of the frontier, where sober notions of good and evil +were not in vogue. But one of the sons of Old Brown who took part in +the expedition lacked the iron nerves of the old man, although his +Christian name was John also. The night after the deed, returning half +out of his wits to the house of an uncle, he cried to his brother Owen, +who had joined him: “Out with you, you filthy murderer ...” and then +wandered off into the brush, his poor mind gone.... With Jason, another +of his brothers, the demented man was soon captured by the Ruffians, +who had hurried out in search of them. Jason saw the rope that was +about to encircle his neck hanging from a tree over his head. But for +days and days, both of them, chained together by their ankles, their +hands tied like convicts, were led about the roads, while John, who +had not recovered his right mind, imagined that he was the officer in +charge of the troop, shouted his commands and told his keepers how they +ought to kill his brother, the stammerer. And the Ruffians of the guard +bullied and tortured their prisoners with all the more zest because +they thought the poor madman was pretending. During all this time they +were scouring the region to dislodge Old Brown, who was actually not +far away. He was roaming about in the neighbourhood, waiting for an +opportunity to free his two boys. But it was impossible to lay hands +on him. With four of his other sons and a few faithful followers, he +had gained the brush. He had also gained the reputation of a bird +whose feathers it was not good to stroke and who could not be safely +approached without plenty of precautions. Be sufficiently energetic +and people will respect you. When they shouted in the fields: “Look +out! There’s Old Brown!” well-armed people whom you would have supposed +were brave, if only because of their numbers, ran as if the devil were +coming out of the bushes. Old Brown had become a bugbear. And years +followed, full of guerilla warfare, raids and forays, and through them +passed a man on horseback or marching along with bent shoulders beside +a wagon, who was now here, now there, but never where you expected +to catch him. You could burn, destroy the village where he had his +headquarters, but to catch the Old Man was another pair of breeches. + +A new stage in the march towards the goal which Old Brown had fixed. +He published a tract in which he urged the army to disobey orders, +“respectfully and amicably offered to the Officers and Soldiers of the +American Army in Kansas.” He summed up his argument in these words: “It +is as much the duty of the common soldier of the U. S. Army, according +to his ability and opportunity, to be informed upon all subjects in any +way affecting the political or general welfare of his country, and to +watch with jealous vigilance the course and management of all public +functionaries both civil and military; and to govern his actions as a +citizen soldier accordingly: as though he were President of the United +States.” This appeal, signed “A Soldier,” did not win the approval +of the friends in Boston; but the Old Man could get along without +their approval. The Old Man was collecting his wits for a still more +serious action. He set to work, quietly, to instruct a little troop of +voluntary followers. His war budget was not very heavy, and often he +had not enough to eat. Then, on a brief raid in Missouri, he entered +a planter’s house, revolver in hand, killed another man, freed the +slaves, ransacked the dwelling, took two prisoners. All this just to +keep his hand in. In mid-winter, with a single companion, the Old Man +travelled more than six hundred miles escorting to Canada a wagon full +of negro women and children; his fingers and his ears were frozen, +but his skin was tough and he could stand it. There was a constant +reward of $3000 for anyone who arrested him. It was worth the effort, +but no one interfered with him, even when on one occasion Old Brown +calmly entered a town, made a speech, and calmly went off again, after +a glance at the handbills in big letters in which his admirers were +invited to capture him. Didn’t anyone want $3000? + +Much later, on the night of October 16th-17th, a wagon descended the +hill which, on the Maryland side, leads to the peninsula where Harper’s +Ferry rises, formed by the confluence of the two rivers. The horse +stiffened its legs, for the wagon was full of pikes and ammunition. +A round-shouldered old man with a white beard and eighteen other men +accompanied the convoy. The plan, matured through long years, was +being executed. It had definitely ceased to be a question of Uncle Tom +and his Cabin; it was a question now of bayonets and bullets. Do you +understand, Boston friends? + +The plan was to surprise and carry the place, cost what it might. And +then, who could say?... Once masters of this important point, they +could fortify themselves in the mountains, the blacks would rise, they +would run from all the cotton fields; they would arm (they had pikes--a +thousand of them, specially made), and there would be a general +conflagration, the war carried into Africa. They would establish a +provisional government, of which the constitution was already drawn up +on paper and the principal parts were assigned. There was $600 in the +treasury. + +Meanwhile, the little troop advanced, made a prisoner of the watchman +on the bridge, who thought it was a joke, a few passers-by, and then +the janitor of the armory, which they entered with the game all in +their own hands. John Brown’s company were masters of the Arsenal, +in the dead of night. The hardest part was over; from this point +they could strike out. Five miles off, on the heights of Bolivar, +there lived a landed proprietor, a slave-holder who was no other than +Colonel Lewis Washington, a descendant of the great man. He had in his +possession the pistol given by Lafayette and the sword presented by +Frederick the Great to the Liberator. At midnight, by the flickering +light of a torch, the colonel saw, outlined against the door of his +bedroom, four armed men who informed him that he was their prisoner and +ordered him to hand to one of them--a black--the sword of the Great +Frederick. Then they courteously conducted the colonel away in his own +carriage, made the slaves climb into a big wagon, and the procession +turned towards the Arsenal. They stopped on the way at a neighbour’s, +where the scene was repeated. The latter was also treated to a ride, +with his six blacks. At the Arsenal Old Brown distributed the pikes to +the negroes, placed them in charge of their former masters and thus +addressed the colonel: “I shall be very attentive to you, sir, for I +may get the worst of it in my first encounter, and if so, your life is +worth as much as mine.” Then the Old Man calmly girded himself with the +sword of Frederick the Great. The trains were stopped on the bridge +where he had placed a guard. The alarm was given. The fire-bell rang. +The good citizens of the little town took down their shot-guns, since +the more formidable weapons were in the hands of the rebels. The Old +Man, very much master of himself, ordered breakfast for forty-five +persons at the hotel nearby. And the day rose on this astonishing +victory, as clean as the Liberator’s sword. + +Twenty-four hours later, in the engine-room, Old Brown, his body torn +with bayonet thrusts, his head gashed, his hair matted and his face +stained with blood, was stretched out with his son Oliver, who had +ceased to beg them to kill him, motionless at his side, and his other +son Watson dying. Of the twenty-one men involved in the raid only four +remained who were alive. Seven had escaped, including those who had +remained at the farm to guard the stock of arms and two of those who +had occupied the Arsenal, who had succeeded in getting away during the +night. And on a rock, in the middle of the Potomac, was the huddled +body of the youngest of the company, a boy of eighteen who, while he +was attempting to escape by swimming, had been overtaken and riddled +with bullets. There his body was, perched in mid-stream, a fine target +for the troops that had passed in the afternoon. It was altogether +too tempting for everybody not to take a shot at it before dropping +in for a drink at the hotel, which had made a lot of money to-day. In +the bed of the river lay another corpse, and as it was not very deep +in that spot they could see it clearly, with its face drawn in death +and seeming to move with the water. Another fine target for the clever +sharpshooters: this man too was one of the companions of the raid. + +In the Arsenal they were waiting for the Governor of Virginia. Already +officers, reporters, congressmen, curiosity-seekers were filing past +the Rebel, lying there on his mattress. Old Brown did not look at all +like a man who had been beaten; he spoke calmly, weighing his words, +as if he were at home on his old farm. Meanwhile, the town began to +be filled with shouts, brawls and a general fanfaronade in preparation +for the saturnalia when the militia and the brave population would be +fraternizing in an orgy of victory. + + * * * * * + +Henry was agitated to the depths of his soul, depths that one might +have supposed were better sheltered from squalls. Agitated at the +thought of the gallows-rope strangling the tough neck of his friend Old +Brown. Agitated by the cowardice of the worthy disciples with all their +good intentions who, since the raid, the crime against the safety of +the State, had run for cover, desperately disavowing the rebel.... No, +gentlemen, no, gentlemen, we hadn’t the faintest suspicion of it; you +can see we are as white as snow.... It was a stampede of runaways, a +chorus of denials. Even the _Liberator_ treated the raid as an act of +madness. Not one of these people was capable of seeing how beautiful +it was, just because it was mad--with a madness that purged the world +of its reasonable reason! The Knight of the Umbrella and the Bundle +had always been for madnesses like this against the niggardly prudence +of the sham humanitarians. That obstinate, that furious old lunatic, +with his hobby of carrying the war into Africa, had actually carried it +there. That old Trojan who continued to believe, with a belief as tough +as a stump, in other realities than the price of wool, who was ready +to sacrifice himself for an idea.... He himself had staked his fortune +on a folly. John Brown, murderer or madman, was a brother. And that +brother was going to be hanged. + +In Henry’s innermost sanctuary there was no security left--the gods +were tottering on their socles. It was no longer possible to think of +anything else, to resume the thread of one’s dear old thoughts. Nothing +but a few passages from the greatest poems corresponded with the +obsession of this hour and seemed to meet the circumstances. When he +went out his ramble was finished before it had begun: what was waiting +for him at the end of his solitary walk rose up, from the moment he +set out, to demand its due. His eyes no longer saw what they had seen; +when he lifted his head, he saw rising against the woods a face with a +low brow and bluish grey eyes, the hard face of the old cattle-driver, +the driver of a whole people towards the Promised Land, the face of the +martyr, imposing silence on all nature. The sun set behind a gibbet. +Wachusett, over there, was like a judge delivering a sentence. The +beauty of the world could no longer vie with this beauty of the man who +was dying for a mad cause. + +Henry was unable to sleep. At night, he would relight his candle, +seize a scrap of paper within reach of his hand and cover it with +lines. No event, near or far, had ever inflamed him to this degree. +He was another Henry, unknown to himself. Old Brown, what have you +done to a man who had such a beautiful equanimity and such a disdain +for the affairs of the world? What power is this within you that can +arouse such a mad passion? You have thrown him into a pitiable state. +He is much less strong than another fellow who lives in Brooklyn and +whom your fate does not prevent from eating and sleeping. For this +latter at least a man who is going to be hanged for his crime does not +blot out the universe; luckily for him, he remains the master of his +serenity. He is not like Henry, astonished at the sight of all these +villagers, these good citizens who have the heart to go about their +little affairs, as if nothing were burning their vitals. For him the +whole life of the world seems to be in abeyance, as on the eve of a +cataclysm. Will it not rise in one mass to free this upright man and +avenge his defeat? The wildness in Henry’s soul is boiling up, boiling +over with rebellion; it runs to Harper’s Ferry and bars the exits of +the Arsenal. + +He must speak, and at once, dissociate himself from these wavering +souls, these cowards, utter all his admiration for the criminal, while +the latter is still alive. For they have condemned him hastily, in all +the heat of public indignation, as an altogether special criminal. +They have actually had to carry him into court on a stretcher because +of his wounds, of which those in his head have made him half deaf. And +they are waiting, from one day to another, to pronounce the sentence. +It is vain to tell Henry that he is mad, that he is almost alone in +his opinion, for a man who, alone, rushes to the defence of a friend, +marches surrounded by a whole army. To counsels of caution he replies +as Old Brown replied at Pottawatomie. To hell with your caution, you +skulkers. + +Henry announced that he would speak the following Sunday, October 30th, +in the vestry of the parish church. At the last moment, when some +advisers still tried to stop him, he replied roughly: “I did not send +to you for advice, but to announce that I am to speak.” And he spoke. +The defence had succeeded in causing a postponement of the sentence, +but there was no doubt what it would be. Henry’s object, however, was +not to save Old Brown’s neck; it was merely to celebrate the beauty of +his character and his act. Henry Thoreau, fool of nature and the beauty +in man, as Hokusai in his Japan was the fool of drawing, was ready to +maintain against the whole world that John Brown, his friend, convicted +of high treason, was right, and this to the very foot of the gallows if +they judged him worthy of being hanged also. That is what beauty means, +that is what friendship means. It does not consist in lending you +half a dollar in case of need or an umbrella if it happens to rain. It +consists in accepting blows of your own free will and bearing witness +at any risk. In not letting go of your own kind if he has fallen into +the hands of the enemy. Henry spoke. His listeners were all ears. It +was no philosophical lecture this time. There may have been a few +stifled growls in certain corners of the hall. But no one protested. It +was as if his conviction had stirred that soft dough. When it was over, +the few rabid people were no longer talking of the gallows for John +Brown: they held their peace. The general impression was excellent. One +good mark for Concord. + +Henry was very anxious to repeat his “plea” at Worcester, where +his friend Blake lived. He would have liked to repeat it without +remuneration in every county in New England. Meanwhile, he spoke in +Boston, two days after Concord. It was November 1st; the sentence had +not yet been pronounced. Perhaps it would be to-morrow. Half an hour +before the moment set for the lecture, the hall was full. For an hour +and a half the people listened religiously to this fervent little man +who, far from attempting to excuse the crime, celebrated it. Henry had +more expression and enthusiasm than usual. He was no longer a man bored +with the necessity of uttering fine-spun sarcasms and over-concise +aphorisms before rows and rows of eyes that could not make him out at +all: he was an embattled soul, stirred by friendship and emotion. There +was electricity in the air and in the applause. Even in his casual +remarks before and after the lecture it was as if he had lost all his +old savage shyness and discovered how to communicate with men. Henry +spoke fluently, in a tone of exaltation, thundered against the Union, +the President, the State. It was as if there were no more barriers +left. + +As for Old Brown, in his prison at Charlestown, nothing remained for +him, after the sittings of the court, but to lend himself to the little +ceremony that was being arranged in his honour. He was preparing for +it with no ill grace; was it not the final touch of the great plan +that bore his signature? He had formally refused to countenance any +attempt of his followers to enable him to escape. If they left the +prison door wide open he would not go out; he had made this statement +to the warden, who was a very kind man. John Brown was an obstinate +old soul. Even his wife, who had come down from North Elba and was in +the neighbourhood, was obliged, the first time, to go away without +seeing him, broken-hearted but well aware that nothing could avail +against the will of the Old Man; this will might have weakened at the +farewell scene. He had only consented to see her yesterday, at the last +extremity. The warden had invited them both to his own family table. +When the time came to part, after these too happy moments, the Old +Man would have liked to keep her longer. But they had had to bid each +other good-bye, agreeing to meet again at Harper’s Ferry; she was going +to wait there for his body, which was to be turned over to her. The +condemned man had spent his time, since the sentence, writing letters +in his peasant hand to his friends. “Yesterday Nov. 2nd I was sentenced +to be hanged on Dec. 2nd next. Do not grieve on my account. I am still +quite cheerful. God bless you all.” It was a whole month now since he +had been condemned to death; his wounds were healed, and it would have +been good not to be lying idle in prison. A true old stager is bored by +this inactivity. + +On December 2nd, in the morning, he left his cell, surrounded by +uniforms. It was a clear dawn and mild enough for the season. As far +as he could see, on all sides, there were massed troops as if for the +arrival of some great personage. Old Brown was a little surprised; he +had had no idea he was so important. A van was waiting for him. He was +only fifty-nine years old, but as he climbed into the wagon he had the +air of a very old man; his white beard, which he had clipped a little +for the raid, completed his patriarchal appearance. That box there in +the van was quite long enough to serve as a bench for three persons, +and he sat down between his friend the warden and the sheriff on his +coffin. + +The man they had come for was as calm as a traveller who had come out +to see the country after having kept in his room for six weeks. Perhaps +he was thinking that his last great combine was not ending so badly for +him, on the whole, since, at the cost of a few seconds of fluttering at +the end of a rope, he could see as far as the eye could reach fields +golden as glory. But nothing actually lay before him save the winter +landscape of the valley. “What a beautiful country this is,” he said. +“I have never been down this way before.” The journey was not long. +They were there at last. Old Brown climbed down, more briskly than he +had climbed up, and ascended the steps of the scaffold, from which he +descried the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was a spectacle to fill eyes that +had taken in many horizons during their lifetime. When he became once +more aware of the scaffold, he shook hands with the warden and the +sheriff. Then they pulled the cap over his head, tied his arms behind +his back and passed the noose around his neck, taking care not to let +it catch in his beard. In his old trousers, in his old slippers, Old +Brown stood upright there, as if he were in command of the three parade +companies who were taking ten minutes to find their places. Perhaps he +was counting these minutes, but nothing appeared from under his cap. In +a natural voice, he merely said: “Be quick,” and stood there, without a +tremor, awaiting his reward. A signal, the floor gaped, and at the end +of the rope a great body hung, oscillated a moment and was still. + +But Old Brown had come out of his prison that morning with the prospect +of a much longer journey than those few hundred yards to the scaffold. +His wife was waiting for him at Harper’s Ferry. Fifteen men escorted +his remains, which were not unpunctual at the rendezvous. And then the +pine coffin set out, accompanied by the widow and a few friends. In the +towns where the train stopped, the crowds surged about the station, +the bells rang, the reception committees stepped forward, a guard of +honour watched the corpse all night in the court-house. The body of the +condemned man seemed to be armed with an even more formidable strength +than that of the Old Man when his head had had a price on it out there +in Kansas. At last there remained only twenty-five miles to be covered, +feet foremost, by the Old Man who had so often travelled them with his +great peasant strides. And then he was at home, after his five days’ +pilgrimage, at the family farm, under a great rock opposite White Face +Mountain, and very calm as the hymns that he had loved, sung about the +grave by the blacks of the neighbourhood, faded away in the silence of +the mountains. + +Since December 2nd, Henry had been haunted by the feeling that his +friend was the only living man in New England. The others did not need +to have a rope passed round their necks in order to die; they did not +exist. In a number of towns, to celebrate this living man, they fired +a salute of a hundred shots at the hour when he at last received +his full reward--towns where enormous crowds gathered in the church +to pray in memory of him. Concord was a village, but Henry had been +chosen by a few people to request the Selectmen to allow the parish +bell to be rung at the hour of the execution. Did not Concord owe this +attention to John Brown, who had twice been a visitor there? But the +authorities refused for fear of compromising themselves; these people +were among those million slaves who carried Virginia into the very +heart of Massachusetts. So they met in the afternoon at the Town Hall, +among themselves, Waldo, Alcott, William, Sanborn and those of the +Concordians who were not dead, in solemn commemoration of the condemned +man who had already judged his judges. Some words were spoken by Henry +and Waldo, and they all sang a funeral hymn. After the ceremony, +William and Henry vanished into the fields, their minds full of a +figure that would go so well in a triptych, as Henry sometimes thought, +between those of ruddy Walt in Brooklyn and Joe the Indian. + +That same evening, on his return, Henry found his good friend Sanborn +waiting at the house with a word for him: “To-morrow morning, Emerson’s +covered wagon and mare will be hitched up at sunrise. Will you call for +it, pick up a traveller at my door, take him to the station at South +Acton and put him on the first train for Canada? He is a friend, but +he’s a queer chap. Pay no attention to what he says to you.” Henry +did not inquire further. It froze hard that night, but at the hour +mentioned he was at Sanborn’s with the rig, and was soon on his way +with the queer fellow, who was quite a young lad. He had put him on the +back seat of the wagon as a precaution. Starting so early, the poor +fellow had not had time to brush his teeth, and this made him feel +ill. In short, this brother seemed to be a little cracked. He rambled +on in a steady stream. He absolutely insisted that his driver was Mr. +Emerson; and on the way he suddenly flung himself out of the wagon +insisting that he was going back to Concord. Henry, who was bent upon +carrying out his mission, was obliged to place his hand on his shoulder +and force him, with the little arts one uses with a man who is not in +his right mind, to get back into the wagon. Hastening the mare, they +at last reached the station, which was only three or four miles away. +There was scarcely anyone about, the train arrived and the traveller +started off. Then Henry returned the wagon and the mare to the stable, +and before going home for breakfast stopped at his friend’s house to +tell him that everything had gone well. There was no need for either +of them to know more. If someone asked you to do a friendly service +and you were employed in the system of the Underground Railroad, what +difference did it make to you to know whether you had taken to the +station on a December morning someone who had escaped in a raid with a +price on his head or a mere traveller who thought you were Mr. Emerson? +Henry said nothing whatever at home about his early morning drive, and +everything passed quietly, as it should. There would be plenty of time +to tell about these things some day. + +Three months later, his friend Sanborn himself was obliged to decamp to +Canada. Summoned to appear before the committee of the Senate charged +with investigating the great conspiracy, he had not presented himself +and was threatened with arrest as a defaulting witness. As he refused +to testify, there was nothing for him to do but to disappear. After a +short absence he returned, and one fine day in April a police-sergeant +with five men came out from Boston to arrest him at his house in +Concord. The fire-alarm rang and the village was instantly up in arms; +they were not going to allow Sanborn to be kidnapped. The helpless +sergeant and his men were obliged to leave their prisoner in the +custody of a guard of citizens. Another good mark for Concord. + +The following day, he appeared before the court in Boston. The friends +were there, ready for anything, to save Frank Sanborn if the case went +against him. And look over there, by the door, at that big bearded +fellow with a greenish coat: what a florid complexion he has, and how +attentively he is following the discussion! In the name of all the +gods, it’s Walt! Happening to be in Boston, to see through the press +the third edition of his _Leaves_, which Thayer and Eldridge are going +to bring out (these Boston guys are beginning to swallow the satyr +whole), he has turned up to give his comrades a strong hand if there is +any need for it. But there is no occasion to intervene, for the court +declares the arrest of Sanborn illegal, and he returns home in triumph. +It was through his friend Sanborn, who had once been introduced to +Henry by Waldo and who kept a little school in the village, as Henry +himself had done at twenty, that the latter had met Old Brown at the +time of his first visit to Concord. But all the “confederates” in the +plot, or those at least who were accused of having aided it, were not +of the same stripe as Sanborn. Seized with panic, some of them had +placed the frontier between themselves and their responsibility, real +or supposed. There was even one of them, an old friend of John Brown, +whose constitution had been so little able to endure the uproar of the +raid and the fear of being compromised that he had had to be shut up as +a lunatic. + +And a year and a half after the raid--scarcely ten months after the +commemoration of the Fourth of July at North Elba, before the rock +under which the tough carcass of the Old Man rested in the solitude of +the Adirondacks (Henry, who was invited, was unable to go, but he had +sent a few pages that were read)--the same Governor of Virginia who +had come to see the traitor and conspirator lying, a prisoner, on his +mattress at the Arsenal seized the same Arsenal himself, and the next +day, April 10th, 1861, the decree of Secession was voted. War was on. +The troops of Massachusetts, defiling through the streets of Boston, +sang the song of John Brown, the song of the soldiers. The dead of +Antietam were strewn over the earth on the outskirts of the town which +the Old Man had entered with his eighteen companions, armed with pikes. + +It was war, and thousands of young fellows were going to kill one +another for ... for ... for.... You, Walt, you know what it’s all +about, don’t you?... And you, Henry?... Mark you, this is no war of +conquest: it is civil war, holy war. + + + + + IX + + +Early in the month it was delightfully warm: one saw the little yellow +butterflies fluttering about, encouraged by this smiling Indian Summer. +And then it turned cold after the middle of November; it was necessary +to pull up the last turnips in the garden to save them from the frost. +What joyous walks one had during the days when the first crust of ice +resisted the sun! But it was December now. The winter was driving down +as brutally as a wedge. Over the fields the crows flocked together in +vast protesting flocks. A heavy snow covered the countryside. It was +a beautiful soft mantle that you trampled down in silence, carrying +the feathers on your boots and leaving behind you a long chain of +footprints. + +Just one year, day for day, after he had taken that young lunatic to +the station, Henry had gone out for his walk and stopped for a long +time before some old stumps, to count the concentric rings that marked +their age. He liked to know how old his friends the trees were, even +when they were no more. Was it there he caught his cold, in spite of +his overcoat? No one will ever know. That same day, as the day before +had been the anniversary of John Brown’s death, he was talking about +the old man with two fellows who maintained that he had no right to +risk his life. But how about Jesus then? Would he have hesitated if +he had foreseen Calvary? That is what people always say when a man +has made such a simple sacrifice of his life.... But this evil cough +persisted. Henry had certainly made a mistake in paying no attention +to his bronchitis and going off to deliver a promised lecture in the +neighbourhood. He was taking some care of himself, but without any +great results. There was nothing to do but to let the illness wear +itself out. He had had bad times before and pulled through. + +Henry had never been a colossus. In his youth he had had to interrupt +his studies at Harvard for a year because of his health; since then it +had been toughened by the open air of his great farm but it had always +been liable to relapses. A serious attack of bronchitis had kept him +for weeks at home when he was twenty-four. Then, at the time of the +hermitage, he had received a kick from a horse which stretched him on +the earth, and he had felt the effects of this in his chest for years. +His frame had held out well, however, and whenever he needed to be +repaired, well, the cabinet-maker had plenty of odds and ends of wood +in a corner of his workshop. + +Even as an invalid, kept in the house, he was able to profit by his +days and find a good flavour in life. But now and then, especially at +the hour when he ought to be setting out for his walk, it was all he +could do to resist a flood of black thoughts as he dreamed of the daily +appointments he was missing again. At such moments as these, sunk in +a chair or flattening his nose against the window, he was a very sad +little soul whose life had been turned into prose and who, in a fit of +depression, could easily understand how, in some circumstances, Tom, +Dick or Harry would commit suicide. When that accursed frame won’t go +any more, what are we good for, great gods! He would have liked to pull +down the blinds so that the daylight could not offend him any more +with its sneering remarks and slumber away the hours waiting for the +end like a mortally wounded animal that has resigned itself. But these +moments quickly passed, for if the daylight defied him, his guest, the +imagination, marched in and defied the daylight in turn; it had plenty +of ways of making game of that blockhead. And then he had sometimes +undergone those phases when, though he was not actually ill and was +even out for adventure, nothing spoke to him in the spectacle that had +always had such a powerful attraction for his senses; the dulled body +remained cold and refused to touch the offered nourishment. Inspiration +deserted him, as if his friend found the lodging decidedly too narrow, +as if this frame were too puny for him to hang his pictures there. + +As he approached his fortieth year this discord had taken the +proportions of a long-standing quarrel. Since the spring of 1855, +Henry had been feeling rather limp without knowing exactly why. A +great languor spread through him, condemning him to inactivity as he +awaited the end of the crisis. Spoiled were the beautiful plans he had +cherished for this summer, a new trip to the Maine woods. He was good +for nothing but to drag his reluctant carcass along under the elms +of the village, like an invalid. The excursion he had determined to +attempt, in July, to Cape Cod, had not remedied this strange weakness +to any great extent; he had his ups and downs but always the same +debility in the end. Autumn wandered by. And then, towards the end of +the year, the strength came back to his legs and the spirit returned to +the soul of a powerless wretch; perhaps the arrival of the magnificent +Oriental books sent by his friend “Cholmley” had something to do with +it. So he could go out this winter and not lose all his pleasure. +When the first fine days came, Henry could not pretend that he was +absolutely fit for a long excursion, but there was no doubt that spring +had come back to his limbs as well as to the world, and he was seized +with a sudden hunger for the open, for work, for adventures, the more +he felt his strength returning--excursions, visits, the trip to New +York, with those two hours spent in Brooklyn face to face with that +mass of ruddy health. And this continued the following summer, when he +went off to revisit the beaches of the Cape and Upper Maine; didn’t he +have to give himself a thorough cleansing for those seasons when he +had been shut up? His fortieth year had just struck. And this year can +give a good sound if the bell is not cracked. Yes, even if one’s oldest +friendship is broken, like a branch that has had to bear too much snow. + +You too no doubt have gone off on these adventurous excursions, when +you were young, set out for discovery and slept out of doors with one, +two, three companions. But the cooling of the years has relaxed your +ardour, and the comrades of yesterday are too busy to fritter away +their precious time; you only make journeys now by your own fireside, +or by train, very comfortably, and you put up at the best hotel with +your wife. You have become sedate and sober, sparing of your legs +and your enthusiasm. Your beautiful youth has been left behind you, +loitering in some glade. But this fellow has too generous a heart to +leave such a charming companion on the road; he still wants to go off +on a jaunt with him, even if he himself is past forty. This is just +the age when his presence is most dear. So he carries him off for a +fortnight, in July, 1858, to the White Mountains in New Hampshire, +which he has not seen since the famous week when he went off boating +with his brother. + +But to tell the truth, this was not at all the same story. The +suggestion of the journey came from Edward Hoar, the companion of his +last expedition to Maine; and with his friend Edward he had to travel +in a hired wagon like a pasha, stop at inns where he was devoured by +flies and put up at tiresome hotels, crowded with people he would much +rather not have seen. The real moment came when, leaving the wagon +behind, they set out with their knapsacks on their backs to explore a +wild ravine on Mount Washington. But then, in leaping over the rocks, +Henry sprained his ankle and was obliged to rest for several days under +the tent in the bottom of the ravine before he was able to take the +trail again. On returning from this expedition, the companions who had +joined them and who had worn their good clothes looked as ragged as +runaway thieves while Henry, who had set out with old clothes suitable +for the road and the season, looked almost dressed up beside them; and +yet it was he, prudent soul, who provided the needle and thread to +repair their rips. He had more liberty and pleasure on his excursion +with William, the following summer, to Monadnoc. Not that William was +always charmed with his old crony who upbraided him when William, tired +to death, felt his head buzzing and wanted to stop. So much the worse +for him: he should have known what to expect when he started out for +discovery with the intrepid Henry. You don’t go to Monadnoc to have the +fidgets. But they had camped five nights on the summit under a fragrant +shelter of spruce branches; Henry had brought his hatchet with him. +Then the whole world vanished out of their minds, including the hotels +with their orchestras and dancing. They were alone with the mountain, +which did not offer the same welcome to strangers as to intimates. +William could growl as much as he pleased because he did not have all +his precious comforts, but Henry was rich enough in enthusiasm to sow +the whole mountain-top with it. + +Scarcely had the son regained his old strength when another invalid +took his place in a chair at home; it was the father’s turn not to +feel quite himself. Past seventy now, he had begun to cough, like his +own father, and he fell into a rapid decline, so rapid that since the +middle of the winter of 1859 there remained no great hope of saving +this good father Thoreau who, in spite of all, after the bad luck +that had pursued him at the outset, had succeeded with his pencils +in sketching for his family a kind of existence that was not too +unprosperous. With this excellent father, who was so self-effacing and +who read his newspaper so devotedly and did not contain an ounce of +anything that remotely resembled pride and revolt, his boy may never +have had very much in common so far as aspirations were concerned, but +he loved him dearly. And now, seeing him old and ill and more silent +than ever, less and less able to attend to his business and his garden, +he could not do enough for him. His mother was touched by this; well +as she knew the fund of tenderness that was buried in the heart of +her son--deep enough down to be protected from the frost--she was +continually surprised to see him expressing it to the old man with all +the little shades she would have thought peculiarly feminine. Then, +at the beginning of February, fully conscious, after saying good-bye +to his family (he had only been in bed for a week, and on Sunday he +had been up again for a little while), as modestly as he had lived the +little man quietly went out--as a candle of good wax bids you farewell, +after shining for its hour, with no glitter that fatigues the eyes, +leaving behind it only a fragment of sunken wick. So the circle in the +little house, where once there had been half a dozen, was now reduced +to a mother of seventy-two, who had also had her troubles, and her son +and daughter--for the aunts did not live under the same roof. + +Since the last months of his father’s illness, the weight of the +business that kept the family alive had fallen on Henry. He assumed +it without any discussion, since from now on they had only one man in +the family to count upon. An annual income of $1200 to $1500 was not to +be found in a blackbird’s nest. Sophia, his sister, took charge of the +book-keeping and the correspondence, but he had the work of overseeing +the mill at Acton, where Warren Miles did the grinding for the Thoreau +concern, together with the packing and boxing in the workshop adjoining +the house. The plumbago was ground so fine at the mill that, in spite +of every care, it leaked from the workshop into the house, where they +breathed it in every room; you might not have noticed it perhaps, but +your lungs, like a miller’s, had to get used to it and put up with it. +Perhaps too the manual labour amounted to less than it had been in +the days of the pencil-making, but Henry had to devote himself to the +routine of the business and be on hand. And so during the whole year +when his father died he was scarcely able to go out; to steal a moment, +to escape and go huckleberrying was a rare victory. And this caused him +even more suffering than the plumbago caused his lungs. With his always +absorbing personal occupations, the tasks in the workshop composed a +very full existence. Never had the days appeared so short, so precious. +His friends must not insist upon his writing to them often. + + * * * * * + +So Henry carried into the new year this infernal cough that would not +hear of the desires of a rambler who wanted to breathe the fragrance +of winter in his own haunts, on the Cliffs skirting the meadows where +the flocks of crows were lighting. But why worry? With the fine days +all the good things would return. His spirits remained, shut up as he +was, his spirits and his taste for a good, solid book that warmed his +heart. There was nothing to do, in his confinement, but to recall, by +noting it in his Journal, with what skill, what astounding celerity, +the squirrel attacks a pine-cone, crunching the seeds, holding it +between his paws upside down, turning it over like a top as he tears +off the scales where they are soft and nibbles at their base: the vivid +recollection was enough for one who kept coughing to make him feel once +more that he had the soul of a wood-sprite. + +The winter came quickly to a close. The prisoner profited by every +afternoon when the air was less harsh to make an expedition to the +post-office. Great was his desire to go and tell his friends and +acquaintances in the swamps that a cheerful soul who was doing penance +for sins of which he was unaware had not forgotten them, in spite of +appearances, and was only waiting for the sky to brighten to resume his +walks. At the end of February the bluebirds were already spreading the +good news along the roads. He had heard them, one fine day, on his way +to old Minot’s who was now quite alone with his eighty years in the +little house on the hillside, for his old companion, his sister Mary, +had just died of pneumonia. But Henry could not walk far without having +to sit down on the first stump he came to. He had difficulty now in +keeping warm. At the end of March the snow fell in such abundance that +the trains could not run any more; and it had driven so since yesterday +that this morning one side of the houses was covered with a white +mattress that choked the windows; the people were almost prisoners +behind their own doors. Just the time, when he couldn’t think of +stepping outside, to finish that letter to Ricketson he had begun: let +his thought at least escape to New Bedford and the fishing-boats, since +it was utterly impossible for him to put on his best pair of boots and +go and spend a Sunday with his friends. The other day, Blake, with a +companion, arrived in Concord, where they spent the night; they had +walked from Worcester and went back the same way, the lucky devils.... + +William dropped in to see the prisoner and would have liked so much to +be able to pull him through this tight place. Since his strength was +not coming back, in spite of all the little strolls they took together, +stopping constantly (it was no longer the intrepid Henry who dragged +William on), why not try a change of air, a long journey? William +had lived in the West and extolled its tonic quality; this would be +a thousand times better than the climate of the West Indies which +the doctor recommended. They could set out together for two or three +months. You’ll see, Henry, what a gay blade you will be when you come +back. + +Henry agreed, not that he had any particular desire for such a grand +tour as that, but because he had a very particular desire to be a man +again, to lose that perpetual cough, lose it far, far away, so that it +would never find its way back. Let’s go. Then, at the last moment--from +caprice or lack of money--William changed his mind; and Henry, who now +wanted to go, had to find another travelling companion. A son of Horace +Mann, who was also called Horace Mann and had dedicated himself to the +natural sciences, offered to join him. He was a very sober young fellow +and not much of a talker; he didn’t have a particle of that liveliness +of William’s which would have been such a great resource in stirring up +a tottering companion. + +The itinerary was drawn up and the date of departure fixed for the +middle of May. They were going to make several stops _en route_, +for the veteran walker no longer felt that he had the strength to +accomplish in one stage such a journey as this to Saint Paul in +Minnesota, the land of wheat. The two travellers set out, reached +Niagara, the first stage, then Detroit, Chicago, and finally East +Dubuque on the Mississippi, which they ascended by boat for two +days between the high bluffs of the river to Saint Paul, where they +found one of the Thatcher cousins from Bangor. This was the main +stopping-place. They stayed there three weeks, in the course of which +Henry went on an expedition with a naturalist he had met; he made a new +acquaintance, the prairie squirrel, an odd little customer with his +cope of six light and dark stripes, feet like a marmot’s and an air +that was anything but shy, sitting bolt upright before his burrow. Then +they embarked on the Mississippi as far as Redwood, where there was a +Sioux Agency; there were also said to be buffalo in these regions, but +they failed to catch a glimpse of one. It was the annual pay-day, and +the Indians had come in on their ponies; they offered the travellers a +performance of dancing and music and feasted on an ox. Not bad; but all +this was a little stagey and not worth an hour of Joe Polis’s company. +On the return, a stop of a few days at Red Wing on the Mississippi; +Henry wrote “Concord” on the envelopes instead of decorating his +letter-paper with these two dear syllables. The ray no longer shone +from the centre; no, the ray turned back towards the centre. And then, +by railroad or boat, Prairie du Chien, Milwaukee, Mackinaw, with +another stop. It was July, but it was rather cold, and a man who had +become shivery appreciated the chimney-corner in the hotel. At last +Toronto, the long sail across blue Ontario, the Thousand Islands, the +Saint Lawrence and, stop of stops, old Concord at the end of the long, +long railroad. Henry was tired. + +It was very fine, assuredly, the Mississippi, the prairie, and all +those images he had seen filing past. All the same, he had taken few +notes on the way, and they were dry and often very trivial; the points +of interest were dispersed over such a vast distance and unrolled +so quickly that he had hardly had the time to absorb them. And then +his senses no longer took hold of things. This journey had nothing +in common with the other beautiful journeys, when he had carried his +belongings in a handkerchief tied by the four corners; there was the +wearisomeness of the hotels and the cars, not to speak of those vile +medicines the invalid had taken along in his bag. Henry’s hope in this +air-cure had not been great when he started; and in fact, he would have +covered his two thousand miles and spent his hundred and fifty dollars +for nothing if he had not had the joy of seeing at last with his own +eyes the aboriginal crab-apple, that tree which refuses to be grafted, +with its terribly acid fruit, of which he had often dreamed and which +was no longer a myth now that he had touched its branches with his +hands and brought back a flower in his herbarium. + +The sad thing was that he had also brought back his cough and his +weakness. The change of air, the movement, the distraction had roused +him a little, invigorated him in appearance, but at bottom it was +still the same story: Helplessness and Co. He was thinner than ever, +he who had so little flesh to lose, and remained incapable of resuming +his occupations. For a long time he had not been able to walk like a +real walker, dig with any vigour in his garden, manage a boat on the +river or even write to any effect, till health seemed to him a human +attribute that was visible only in dreams. + +But he still wanted to make the most of the summer and go and see +that good Ricketson. Five days stolen from the wretchedness of his +monotonous existence, five good days of intimacy, sea air and relived +memories were a conquest for a weak man who scarcely had the strength +to go to the post-office any longer. His friend took him out driving +and carried him to a photographer in New Bedford, who turned his camera +on a full-bearded Henry, just back from Minnesota, with a rather +wandering eye. Then Ricketson returned his visit, spent three days at +Concord, where they even went bathing together once in Walden, the +water of which ought to have paid off an old debt of gratitude and +friendship by delivering from his cough the unfortunate fellow who had +so often placed on its banks the figure of a lean but infernally tough +young man. + +At Minneapolis Henry had seen some volunteers drilling and a detachment +of others leaving for the front. For war, the call to arms was rising +all about the sick man, who remained sufficiently himself, however, to +keep clear of the collective madness. Insults to the national flag, the +election of Old Abe to the presidency, the whole jingo phraseology was +for him nothing but newspaper talk, and he would not have given two +cents for a hundred yards of it; he did not read the papers any more +willingly, in spite of the upheaval, and the _Tribune_ was much less +timely in his eyes than a book he was reading at the moment: _Six Years +in the Desert of North America_. During the two months of his journey, +he had hardly looked at one of those sheets the people were devouring. +Abolition, yes, that was his cause; but who knew whether the other +interests involved in this war had not brought greater weight to bear +upon it than the question of the four million men to be liberated? You +admire the regiments that march across Manhattan in their brand-new +uniforms--but how about that old ironsides in his seedy trousers and +his old slippers whom they strung up on a gibbet? He did not call the +newspapers and Old Abe and the uniforms to his aid; he simply made a +gift of his own life to the cause, and that was all. + +But this was war, nevertheless, that immense, stupid horror from which +you couldn’t withdraw your mind. How could a sick man get better in +this atmosphere of a people who were entirely absorbed in the business +of killing one another? + +As the struggle grew graver and graver, as the piles of victims rose, +the reality of the war penetrated him more and more; even in the +village, even for one who despised the newspapers and the bulletins, it +floated into the house, like the plumbago powder. After Bull Run and +the panic, confusion and stupor, Concord was plunged in the blackest +gloom. Henry, who had just come back from Minnesota, seemed full of +interest and even enthusiasm. A good defeat, there would be nothing +like it for putting these people into their right minds again: all +these hare-brained souls who have been assuring you with a smile that +it would be over in the turn of a hand, that they would soon see the +famous warriors of the North coming back again leading by the nose the +little swaggering Southerners.... How this good drubbing would wake +them up! + +Then autumn came and this beastly bronchitis had not gone; it seemed +to have settled down to live with him and, finding the house to its +liking, refused to leave. Henry was unwilling to try the experiment of +another climate a second time. And he hadn’t the hundredth of an ounce +of confidence in medicine and doctors. + +The only remedy was to make the most of these last beautiful days. His +walks were at an end; every five yards he had to stop. Mr. Hoar, who +was away, had placed his horse and carriage at the sick man’s disposal, +and he made use of them almost every day. September and October were +very pleasant, and Henry drove out in the carriage like a man of +substance, escorted by Mr. Hoar’s dog preceding his friend the horse. +These drives brought back his appetite and a semblance of strength. +He made a trip to the causeway, his old boulevard; he noticed there +the curious hatchings which the storm of the preceding night had made +by whipping the sand of the road. Often Sophia accompanied him, and +for her he did the honours of some of his favourite haunts. Together +they went and spent an hour at Walden one inviting September afternoon; +while his sister sat down to make a sketch, Henry very gently picked +some wild grapes that were growing on the edge of the pond. These wild +grapes that he picked and ate, for the last time perhaps before the +great winter buried everything, were not as sour as one might have +supposed. And this little trip of the brother and sister to Walden, in +the ripeness of September, had itself the taste of grapes. + +Soon the cold spread over the earth, and the dampness: it was no longer +possible for such a fragile body to brave the open air. Henry accepted +this humiliation which his body inflicted on him. This body, of which +he had demanded so much, would have no more of it and turned a deaf +ear. It had reached its limit. + +Too long had the master expected it to be a thing of steel and obedient +to him, as a sharp plane eats its way jerkily into a piece of tough +wood. He had always treated it without consideration as a bond-servant +that had to march at his beck and call and be silent. Nothing was +too hard for this unhappy retainer: dragging immense logs out of the +river, clambering up trees, remaining for hours buried in the snow or +in the mud of a swamp, climbing the steepest mountain-sides without +resting, sleeping out of doors in the thinnest of clothes, enduring +hunger without relaxing its muscular effort, leaving behind it all +the walkers, climbers, skaters and surveyors in Christendom. It even +seemed as if the master were wreaking his spite on it a little, as if +the overseer took a perverse pleasure in overstraining the strength +of his negro, without tolerating the slightest complaint from him. He +had trained him to make up for the massive strength that his narrow +frame rendered impossible by an incomparable dexterity, by the strength +beyond strength that says “I will” and does it. The drudge had never +demurred: at most, on two or three occasions, it had stopped for breath +in spite of all gee-ups and blows of the whip, like a cart-horse that +comes to a halt, determined not to take another step. But then its whim +would pass and the animal would set off again, resigned to its tasks +like the submissive old servant that it was. Sometimes, as you saw it +working itself to death, you were stirred to an immense feeling of pity +for its lot. But who could make a tyrant like that listen to reason! + +Now at last the body no longer wearied with reproaches the master who +had persecuted it with his demands. It was foundering, it was leaving +him, without a complaint, without any bitterness at having had so +few holidays. You must get yourself out of your fix as best you can, +master, and good luck to you. It was going away very quietly, young in +years but spent with fatigue, to the bourne of workers that can work no +more. And as it went, with little breathless steps, it was going to pay +the toll-gatherer a debt of its master. John and Helen had paid it very +early, that sum owed by the line of Thoreaus in America, though the +father, never very brilliant in his business, had not settled it till +seventy years had passed. Sometimes Henry had felt so happy that he had +wondered if some day the debt would not have to be settled for good and +all. Well, pay it, my servant, since the debt is due, and make an end +of it. + +What is the use of complaining when an old servant leaves you, even if +you are unable to replace him? Henry did not lament over his failing +body. As he had endured without frowning the sunlight that had roasted +his bare arms and the cold that had nibbled his fingers and toes, why +not endure this lethargy with the same equanimity? You never heard +him speak of what he had parted from and left down there without news +of himself, his friends the trees, the ponds, the little coves of the +river, his boat. All these things lay as if in a corner, wrapped up +in the silk of a great reserve. The invalid slept now on the ground +floor, in the parlour opening on Main Street; through the open door he +could see in a corner of the dining-room the garden of green plants +that Sophia lovingly cared for. His good friends would drop in for a +little chat and bring him the scents of the out-of-doors. Sometimes +they read a deep sadness in his emaciated features, for a child-man +who had gone out every day could not help feeling a little dismal to +be lolling here in a chair while others were taking part in the play. +His shoulders drooped more and more, as if they were melting, his lean +body wasted away, his bony nose shrank, there was a little vagueness +in the big eyes. But Sanborn dropped in, or William, or Alcott, and +they gossiped as gaily as in old times--better than ever now that +gossiping had become the sole form of activity and companionship that +was permitted him. An invalid does not speak of his illness, since it +is understood. One doesn’t keep repeating what is plain enough; when it +rains all day, are you one of those people who are perpetually saying +that the weather is beastly? Just once, standing by the window, he said +to William: “I cannot see on the outside at all. We thought ourselves +great philosophers in those wet days when he used to go and sit down by +the wall-sides.” And as William, who had lost his walking companion, +was down in the dumps, the prisoner continued: “It is better some +things should end.” One didn’t feel grief in Henry’s company. One left +him with the impression that life goes on and that a man can easily +attach an exaggerated importance to his own disappearance. + +And isn’t existence still beautiful when you can read, write, dream? +Once Henry would have thought that if he had been deprived of his life +in the open it would not have been life any longer. What a mistake! See +how well you can get along without your body. Another discovery. Go and +take your holiday, my body, if you can’t hold out any longer; I shall +go on my way alone. The mind can get along perfectly well without its +servant. + +Henry made haste to place some of his papers in order and put one or +two of his projects on foot; he worked on his manuscripts whenever his +strength permitted him to do so. This was the heart of his life now, +since he could no longer cling to branches to reach a mountain-top. +He had not learned to indulge himself; on the contrary, he was harder +than ever on himself and more punctilious. You have to dust every +corner with the greatest care when you don’t know what great personage +you are going to receive. Three years before the _Atlantic Monthly_ +had published one of his essays and mutilated it, and the author had +instantly demanded the rest of his manuscript back again, for he was +unwilling to leave it in the hands of such vandals. Now the review, +under a new editor, asked him to contribute again. He could give them +such pieces as _Walking_ and _Wild Apples_, in which he had put as much +of himself as words were able to contain. It was on these especially +that he was working. He also wanted to complete his pages on the Maine +Woods, of which the two first parts had already been published, +so that they might form a whole. If he could only leave behind him +something besides fragments, apart from those two still-born books.... +These were great plans for a man whose strength was ebbing, but the +will to carry them out as well as he could gave a singular value to +the rather insipid scrap of life that was melting in his mouth like a +gumdrop. + +In the warmth of the rooms, sitting in his rocking-chair, the prisoner +dreamed--for his mind in the breakdown of his body remained quite +clear--dreamed, as he watched the cat playing or the plants in the +dining-room that accepted their imprisonment with all that greenness. +He dreamed of many things, things behind and things before him. +Regrets, old Henry, under that calm surface? Why? When forty years of a +full life have left you with this pleasant taste.... What better taste +could life leave in the mouth of one who is about to quit it? The taste +of a shop, of cosmetics, of rare roast beef, of incense, of loving +lips, of rum, of medicine, of an old book, of a mother’s tenderness? +For him, as he thought it over, it had the taste of huckleberries. +Regrets would have been inconsistent with this feeling that he had +spent his existence well. To have preserved the brightness of that +marvellous gift. Not to have allowed it to tarnish. Not to have let it +grow mouldy. Not to have spoilt it. To have remained an artist who, +behind his varied occupations, behind his apparent idleness, behind +his very savagery, had firmly practised an art, trained himself in it, +perfected it unceasingly. Was not that worth the sacrifice of some of +the little things to which men seem to cling so desperately? One cannot +have everything, and as he reckoned it all up he did not repent his +choice. He saw especially what advantages he had had. Certainly they +were very appreciable. For instance, in remaining a bachelor, had he +not escaped the drudgery that usually falls to newly-married couples +in the country? He had not been a hog-reeve, charged by the town with +running after wandering pigs that go about grubbing in the fields of +honest farmers. But during this time he had been able to run after a +good many other animals.... + +Henry weighs the results of an experiment that is finished and finds +them of sterling quality. See, you can turn them over in your hand; +there is nothing unsubstantial about them. To have remained poor. To +have left to others who care for such things the burden of possessions +in order to savour the free pleasure of the world. Never to have been +tempted to sacrifice for a little ease the most succulent part of life, +like those who reach their end without knowing that they have lived. +Yes, to have been this fool who is handling now the returns of wisdom: +how does the reckoning strike you? And not to be any the prouder +because of it. Not even to offer yourself as an example for other +people’s children. To have succeeded in not being for a moment one of +the people who count. Not even a failure. Absolutely nothing at all, +at the age of forty-five. No more a man of letters than a shopkeeper. +Simply H. D. T. A man whose sole desire has been to live, who has +looked forward to nothing but the satisfaction of being alive. To have +dared to live against the grain of one’s whole merchant line and to +find oneself at the end so comfortable. In short, _to have succeeded +in one’s business_, and with such a tiny capital.... Isn’t that luck, +isn’t it almost fantastic? Is it not as if, from the paradise of +merchants above, the sailor of Saint-Helier who made his money in a +shop on Long Wharf were sending you his grand-paternal congratulations? +(We accept them, grandfather, you who are recalled to the memory of +your descendants in this germ you have left them with your blood.) +There are some people who have no right to die, because they have never +lived; but Henry fancies that he deserves it, really deserves this +reward and this proof. + +In a box within reach of the hand of the dreamer, a box that he had +carpentered himself, the silent notebooks confirm him. There they are, +thirty or forty irrefutable witnesses. Whoever wishes to question them +will hear convincing words. + +They contain the biography of a man. Through the jungle of their +thousands and thousands of pages, paths wander in every direction +leading towards other perspectives than a pond where you look at +yourself. They enclose all the wildness of the brush, the swamps, +meadows, running waters that a Saunterer can trace again and again +without coming to the end of them--with vistas over the sea and over +the hills and beyond. From the country of the Rising Sun to the country +of the Setting Sun the whole space is filled with surprises that will +invite him to pause. He will find there fruits to refresh him on the +way--inspirations at many a turning of the path--guide-posts leading +him to precious discoveries--if only the discovery of himself. And +as he walks along he will stoop down from time to time to pick up an +arrow-head, dropped there as if on purpose; he will soon have a whole +pile of flint-flakes in a corner of his attic. This jungle is a present +which the mysterious Henry in his turn wishes to make, a surprise for +his own kindred. Of all he has received he has kept nothing back. It +was given him in trust, it seems. Henry has never believed in private +property; if he has seemed to be collecting and treasuring things +during his lifetime, it has always been with this legacy in view, +always to enrich the common good. + +Especially he owes something to his own parish. To this little town +with its church-tower which has regarded him as a ne’er-do-well he will +show how generous he can be. It is a beautiful thing, a church-tower, +so beautiful that it hides the universe from many of the village folk +who creep confusedly in its shadow. It would never occur to them to use +it as an antenna, set up there to catch communications from the larger +world. A church-tower is a beautiful tower that does not merely sound +at church-time. The tower has a soul that speaks in its own language +to the souls of men and sings because it is beautiful to be a tower +stirred by the messenger winds. When this Concord with its woods and +waters and dewy fields grouped about the tower vibrates and dances with +joy at the great news come from below the horizon and falling from the +tower, the spirit of the tower becomes the master-spirit of time and +space. The bell sounds for the world; it has a sound that is caught +from afar. Yes, the bell of the parish ought to be of a rare metal +when, in these notebooks here, its vibration extends to the remotest +village where men dream in the shadow of their own church-towers: it is +as if it were the voice of their own wonder, their own revolt and their +own love of life.... + +The dreamer does not weigh very much as he sits there in his +rocking-chair. But all this is so evident, so plain, so full of comfort +that even if he is torn by this cough he can rock very happily in his +chair and regard himself with a certain detachment in his decay as if +he were contemplating a tree that has been stripped of its leaves or as +if he were someone else than himself. + +So the winter flows by for a man whose voice is dying, is nothing +now but a murmur (those rolling r’s of old are only a memory now). +To finish the year he has had pleurisy, and he has scarcely been out +since November. Even the post-office has faded away in the withdrawal +of the old world. What remains of Henry is buried in his manuscripts. +The spirit is bent upon proving that, without this miserable servant +who has given it the slip, it can carry on just the same, for a man +who has been dogged so long does not so easily give up his old delight +in contradiction. As for living at this slackened pace, it is, truth +to tell, hardly worth the trouble; his only regret is for those two +women, for whom his departure is perhaps going to make things rather +difficult. But aside from this, it doesn’t mean the end of the world +because a fellow named Henry is going away. You might as well tell us +that the lilacs and the bluebirds are not coming back with the spring. +Rubbish!... See, there it is already. That comrade is quite capable of +getting along without an invalid who once would have run to meet it, +hailing it joyously from afar even before he had seen it. And then, for +a man who is stealing away at forty-five with his fortune made, what a +good thing it is to be thus escaping extreme old age, when you grow fat +if you don’t ridiculously shrivel. Say what you like, Henry has surely +been a lucky dog all along the line. + +From behind the parlour window that comprises his universe, he sees the +children passing on their way to school. Many of them are comrades who +have indefeasible rights over the heart of their old friend. When they +do not come in to greet him as they pass, he complains that they are +not exercising these rights, a custom that is so sweet to him. Since +he cannot go huckleberrying with them any more, they should come and +tell their old friend what they are thinking of him in the outskirts of +Concord, among the little people whose habits the children know. It is +well known, however, that behind this window lies a prisoner whose soul +is hungry for this love that is silent because it prefers to remain +anonymous. It is known, for people stop in to see him whose charitable +words, alas, are so far from being as precious as the simple presence +of three little scraps just out of school. To-day it is the Rev. Mr. +Reynolds, a neighbour, who is astonished to find a sick man working so +assiduously. “You know,” Henry explains, “it’s respectable to leave an +estate to one’s friends.” The following day it is that blockhead who +thinks it is his duty to say to you by way of consolation: “Well, Mr. +Thoreau, we must all go.” To him this departing soul replies: “When I +was a very little boy, I learned that I must die.... So of course I am +not disappointed now. Death is as near to you as it is to me.” Or it +is Sam, the old innkeeper, still jailor and tax-collector, and on his +way to becoming one of the bigwigs of Concord, who does not find him +greatly changed since the night when he had him as a boarder; he is as +cool as ever and almost contemptuous in his calm strength. This time it +is not the poll-tax the collector has come for but the ground-tax, and +to-day he will not meet with a “no.” The tax-payer knows perfectly well +what he owes, he has made his provisions. He has even jotted down on a +paper the names of friends to whom he wishes to have one of his books +or some knick-knack given in memory of their mad Henry. To William, the +Chronicles of Froissart, to Eddy, Waldo’s son, his microscope, and the +shells to his sister Edith. Good Aunt Louisa will receive the sum of +$50, which will please her. There will still be enough for the other +gifts. It is as if the purse of a poor dying man had a double bottom. +In the street an organ begins to grind out an old air that suddenly +calls up the fragrance of his childhood, like a bouquet that has been +placed suddenly under his nose. His illness has not obliterated Henry’s +sense of smell. What neither suffering nor a breach of faith nor a +misunderstanding has ever been able to do this hackneyed air ground +out by a street-organ accomplishes in an instant. He is torn asunder. +All the old repressed tenderness, compelled to remain rigid for so +long, makes wild leaps in his heart that has such a short time to beat, +throws itself against the bars of its cage, tries to escape, poor +thing, get out into the free air, before it is extinguished. Tears bead +these eyes that have so rarely wept, save under the lash of the winter +wind. “Give him some money! Give him some money!” + +In a room where once it would have seemed pure madness to think of +living permanently, a prisoner ends by discovering between four walls +interests enough to create a very good imitation of existence. Insomnia +is a nuisance, but he prefers it to the drugs that would have brought +him sleep. When he slips off, his slumber is engarlanded with fantastic +dreams, as if the doors of an unknown world were opening to enchant +him, in compensation for all he has had to leave. When he was in good +health, he had often enough had dreams at night, very strange ones, but +now they load him with favours, lavish attentions upon him, as if they +could not devise enough ways of amusing a prisoner. Kindly sleep hangs +in curious festoons about the bed of a sick man who has at last dozed +off. Now it is in his lungs that the railroad labourers are digging a +trench, placing the ties and the rails; the train is going to pass; +look out, you man down there, following the track on foot; don’t be +afraid to flatten yourself against the bank. It is Henry’s lung; you +can observe its curious little caverns and, if you keep a Journal, note +them down. The prisoner tells his dreams to the people who come to +see him, and that is one pleasure more. They remind him of a dream he +used to have as a boy in which at one moment he was rebounding from a +surface as hard as rock which hurt him frightfully and at the next was +lying cosily in a feather bed. + +Good dreams, coming so graciously to visit a condemned man, good dreams +not coming with moral counsels but simply in friendship, with beautiful +images for one who has dreamed so often wide-awake, coming when he +is there all alone with his courage and his helplessness before the +certain issue. To receive them more handsomely in his prosaic room, he +asks Sophia to arrange the furniture in such a way that in the light of +the night-lamp the shadows seen from his bed will create on the wall a +kind of phantasmagoria. He would like to conform to the laws of this +strange world which is so comforting to the sick; he wishes that his +bed were in the form of a shell at the bottom of which he could roll +himself up like a voluta, roll himself tighter, much tighter than a +tired spaniel who curls up before the fire after a long winter’s day +of hunting. How much more pleasant to touch than the sheets would be a +sheath of mother-of-pearl! + +The daylight, far from interrupting the phantasmagoria, merely +transforms it. Spring has come back, and as Henry can no longer go +out for the first flowers their fragrance comes to him. Just now some +cultivated flowers are addressing him in the name of the whole floral +circle. They are the offering of the gardens of Concord to a gardener +who cannot wield the spade. It is not merely his intimate friends who +stop in and bring them; village people whom Henry does not know at +all send him bouquets, sweetmeats and even game, which might tempt a +man who hasn’t much of an appetite. People whom, when he was well, he +would have dumped into the same sack and powdered with the salt of +his sarcasms return the sarcasms in advance changed into flowers and +delicacies. Henry is stirred as he had been by the organ-grinder’s +tune. Isn’t this bunch of hyacinths an almost terrible pleasure for a +man who is so soon to disappear and finds so many friends who cannot be +kind enough to him? One reason more for going; it is a simple matter +of decency. “I should be ashamed to stay in this world after so much +has been done to me ...” is the simple utterance of a stricken heart +which even now would bolt all its locks if certain sacred words that +are forbidden were pronounced before it. And there are all the things +of which he knows nothing.... Can he guess that in Michigan a workman +who does not know him at all except through his writings is making +a beautiful walking-stick for him out of a rare wood, with a silver +head and an inscription, and that another man in Indiana.... But no, +enough, enough; this would send him under the earth at once. A wave of +indulgence has spread into the room with the spring and the flowers. +He must pardon a dear aunt who does not understand the language of +flowers when she asks him, with a very confidential air that is full +of responsibility, if he has made his peace with God, and reply that +this is impossible, dear aunt, since he has never quarreled with that +illustrious personage of antiquity. He must pardon even that pious soul +who speaks to him of another world as familiarly as if he had been +there, replying mildly: “My friend, one world at a time....” He who is +about to dive into the black pond thinks rather of the loon that dived +in Walden, and like the latter he has a mind to fling a mighty laugh of +defiance into the face of this honest soul. + +From time to time Sophia writes a letter to his friends at her +brother’s dictation, and she reads to him the letters that arrive--from +unknown persons sometimes. He must not leave unanswered the letter from +that young man in Leedsville who has written such charming things +about the _Week on the Concord_. Just a word to thank him and tell +him that he is getting along well enough, even if he has only a few +months before him. When he does not feel too feeble, Henry continues to +read, jots down a few notes, brushes up his manuscripts. The illness +that consumes him progresses steadily, though he keeps his old calm. +The explorer of Upper Maine was never cooler on the rapids when he +was steering Joe’s canoe. The eye and the hand have not abandoned the +direction on the current that is bearing him on at this moment; if he +capsizes, it will be because the river is obstructed by a whirlpool +from one bank to the other. Most of the time he is silent, like a good +pilot who does not wish to have his attention distracted. But there is +nothing morose in this silence; it is a sort of self-communion, and +so natural. His voice has become so feeble, so feeble, that it cannot +express very much. And his mournful whisper might even becloud the end +of such a beautiful day. + + * * * * * + +Since seven o’clock in the morning, this Tuesday, the sixth of +May, 1862, a dying man has been turning and turning, as if to free +himself.... Tender hands have had to lift him on his pillow.... One +last time, just after eight o’clock, an old mother, a sister, a good +aunt, gathered about the little cot, raise the narrow frame of a man +who makes a sign for them to lift him still higher, upright, supporting +with the pillows his last more and more feeble breaths ... listening, +as they bend over, to the vague murmur of words in which pass “moose” +... “Indian” ... and the Wanderer is at the end of his journey. Or +perhaps he has departed for some faraway hunt in the footsteps of the +Indian, in the Happy Hunting Ground.... + +Three days later, a coffin passes, covered with wild May flowers, on +the way to the church. If it contained Henry, it would almost have +realized his wish to live in one of those tool-chests of the Irishmen +who worked on the railroad. But it is so light that it can hardly +contain the body of a man--unless it is his chrysalis.... Perhaps on +this splendid May morning, another Henry has emerged who has not needed +to go out into the air, to raise the lid of the coffin, because he has +practised so many of the tricks and fathomed the art of metamorphosis. +Another Henry than the one who is there, as they say, under the flowers +that his friends have brought--Henry as he was ten years ago, but quite +new, though he wears his old corduroy trousers. + +For one chap who knows him better than all the people in the procession +has seen him, mingling with those who are looking on, seen him +chuckling because they are carrying this body to the church. (Though, +after all, if it gives them pleasure ... it is all the same thing to +a chrysalis. Those who once had the best of Henry by paying the tax +for him can have the best of him still. And besides, Waldo, who was a +churchman, thinks so much of these things....) But why the devil didn’t +they make the coffin of good, dry driftwood? Isn’t a man worth as much +as all the sacred books of the East? Floating in a wooden shell, a +vagabond might have gone on voyaging so comfortably.... The dull souls! +Then the same fellow has seen him resuming his grave air as he listens +to the fine words pronounced over the coffin and filtering through the +field flowers strewn over it. And when the coffin finally comes out +of the church, he has seen him resolutely follow it, as if it were +journeying towards a familiar spot and one where he also wished to go. + +About the grave it is not the spring daylight nor the company nor the +sad faces of these women that seem to stir this other brand-new Henry. +What attracts him is this open earth, exposed by a fellow-digger. This +beautiful earth. This good earth. It beckons to him. It surely has +something to confide to him. + +He wants to lie down in the earth, deep in the earth, so that it may +clasp him and whisper in his ear its old secret. This must be something +astonishing. + +He is sure now that the earth alone can speak to him the words he has +been waiting for. The earth alone can feel the fervour with which he +thinks of the beautiful life that might open like this gaping soil--of +the great rambles he would take, with a miraculous knapsack on his +back, drunk with adventure--of the page that he would write on his +return, a page too rich for any magazine to publish it--of the friends +from whom no misunderstanding would ever, ever, separate him any more +(friendship, friendship, he would taste it now, for the husk would be +off at last!)--of the joy of unbosoming himself fully--and of all the +men whom he has loved from afar without ever letting them know and who +would know at last, at last.... + +How beautiful it would all be! So beautiful that no notebook would ever +be able to contain it, so beautiful that he would have to fling himself +into this trench and carry it with him like a warm thought under the +earth. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78810 *** |