No More Learning

What softness in its melancholy face,
What dumb complaining innocence appears!
Fear not, ye gentle tribes,-'tis not the knife
Of horrid slaughter that is o'er you waved;
No, 'tis the tender swain's well-guided shears,
Who having now, to pay his annual care,
Borrowed your fleece, to you a cumbrous load,
Will send you bounding to your hills again.


## p. 14861 (#435) ##########################################

JAMES THOMSON
14861
THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE
From The Castle of Indolence
The castle hight of Indolence,
And its false luxury;
Where for a little time, alas!
We lived right jollily.
MORTAL man, who livest here by toil,
O
Do not complain of this thy hard estate;
That like an emmet thou must ever moil,
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date:
And certes, there is for it reason great;
For though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail,
And curse thy star, and early drudge and late,
Withouten that would come a heavier bale,—
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale.
In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,
With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round,
A most enchanting wizard did abide,
Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found.
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground;
And there a season atween June and May,
Half prankt with spring, with summer half embrowned,
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say,
No living wight could work, ne carèd even for play.
Was naught around but images of rest:
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between;
And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest,
From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meantime, unnumbered glittering streamlets played,
And hurled everywhere their waters sheen;
That, as they bickered through the sunny glade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
Joined to the prattle of the purling rills
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills,
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale;
And now and then, sweet Philomel would wail,
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep.
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale;


## p. 14862 (#436) ##########################################

14862
JAMES THOMSON
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep;
Yet all these sounds yblent inclinèd all to sleep.
Full in the passage of the vale, above,
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood;
Where naught but shadowy forms was seen to move,
As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood:
And up the hills, on either side, a wood
Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro,
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood:
And where this valley winded out below,
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.
A pleasing land of drowsihead it was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
For ever flushing round a summer sky:
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly
Instill a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh;
But whate'er smacked of noyance, or unrest,
Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest.
The landscape such, inspiring perfect ease,
Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight)
Close-hid his castle mid embowering trees,
That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright,
And made a kind of checkered day and night:
Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate,
Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight
Was placed; and to his lute, of cruel fate
And labor harsh, complained, lamenting man's estate.
Here freedom reigned, without the least alloy;
Nor gossip's tale, nor ancient maiden's gall,
Nor saintly spleen durst murmur at our joy,
And with envenomed tongue our pleasures pall.
For why? there was but one great rule for all;
To wit, that each should work his own desire,
And eat, drink, study, sleep, as it may fall,
Or melt the time in love, or wake the lyre,
And carol what, unbid, the Muses might inspire.
The rooms with costly tapestry were hung,
Where was inwoven many a gentle tale;


## p. 14863 (#437) ##########################################

JAMES THOMSON
14863
Such as of old the rural poets sung,
Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale:
Reclining lovers, in the lonely dale,
Poured forth at large the sweetly tortured heart;
Or, sighing tender passion, swelled the gale,
And taught charmed echo to resound their smart;
While flocks, woods, streams around, repose and peace impart.
Those pleased the most, where, by a cunning hand,
Depainted was the patriarchal age;
What time Dan Abram left the Chaldee land,
And pastured on from verdant stage to stage,
Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage.
Toil was not then; of nothing took they heed,
But with wild beasts the sylvan war to wage,
And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed:
Blest sons of Nature they! true golden age indeed!
Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls,
Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise,
Or Autumn's varied shades embrown the walls:
Now the black tempest strikes the astonished eyes;
Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies;
The trembling sun now plays o'er ocean blue,
And now rude mountains frown amid the skies:
Whate'er Lorraine light-touched with softening hue,
Or savage Rosa dashed, or learnèd Poussin drew.
Each sound, too, here to languishment inclined,
Lulled the weak bosom, and induced ease:
Aerial music in the warbling wind,
At distance rising oft, by small degrees,
Nearer and nearer came; till o'er the trees
It hung, and breathed such soul-dissolving airs,
As did, alas! with soft perdition please:
Entangled deep in its enchanting snares,
The listening heart forgot all duties and all cares.
A certain music, never known before,
Here lulled the pensive, melancholy mind;
Full easily obtained. Behooves no more,
But sidelong, to the gently waving wind,
To lay the well-tuned instrument reclined;
From which, with airy, flying fingers light,
Beyond each mortal touch the most refined,


## p. 14864 (#438) ##########################################

14864
JAMES THOMSON
The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight:
Whence, with just cause, the harp of Æolus it hight.
Ah me! what hand can touch the string so fine?
Who up the lofty diapason roll
Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine,
Then let them down again into the soul:
Now rising love they fanned; now pleasing dole
They breathed in tender musings through the heart;
And now a graver sacred strain they stole,
As when seraphic hands a hymn impart:
Wild warbling nature all, above the reach of art!
Such the gay splendor, the luxurious state,
Of Caliphs old, who on the Tygris's shore,
In mighty Bagdat, populous and great,
Held their bright court, where was of ladies store;
And verse, love, music, still the garland wore:
When sleep was coy, the bard, in waiting there,
Cheered lone midnight with the Muse's lore;
Composing music bade his dreams be fair,
And music lent new gladness to the morning air.


## p. 14865 (#439) ##########################################

14865
JAMES THOMSON
(1834-1882)
HE strange sombre genius of the second James Thomson found
its ultimate and most perfect utterance in that remarkable
poem 'The City of Dreadful Night,' likely to remain long
the litany of pessimism in English verse. It is a work of gloomy
but splendid imagination, with a rhythmical mastery and sonorous.
beauty of diction which declare its author plainly a man of rare
poetic gift. 'The City of Dreadful Night' stands as one of the
unique productions of nineteenth-century poetry. It is Thomson's
letter of credit on posterity. His other poems shrink into insignifi-
cance beside it; yet they too, while lacking the technical perfection
and sustained power of his masterpiece, have touches of the same
high quality.
Thomson's life was that of a roving bohemian journalist and lit-
erary hack.
He was born in Port Glasgow, Scotland, on November
24th, 1834; was educated in the Caledonian Orphan Asylum, and en-
tered the British army as regimental schoolmaster. His acquaintance
there with Charles Bradlaugh, whose agnostic views were acceptable
to him, led to his becoming a contributor to the National Reformer,
when the former established it in 1860. After leaving the military
service, Thomson gave himself up to literature, writing much for rad-
ical papers.
His earliest work appeared in Tait's Edinburgh Maga-
zine, and his best poems in Bradlaugh's periodical,-To Our Ladies
of Death' in 1863, and The City of Dreadful Night' in 1874. He
came to America in 1872 on a mining speculation of unsuccessful
issue; and while in this country, was commissioned by the New York
World to go to Spain as special correspondent. In this newspaper
work he used the pen-name Bysshe Vanolis, which he shortened to
B. V. ,- the one name indicating his passion for Shelley, the other
being an anagram on the German romantic poet Novalis. When
Thomson was a young man in the Army, stationed in Ireland, he
won the love of a girl whose premature death affected him deeply,
- intensifying what seems to have been a natal tendency towards
hypochondria. Irregular habits in later life developed this; and he
became a victim of alcohol and opium in the desire to escape in-
somnia and drown melancholy. He died miserably before his time,
in the London University Hospital, June 3d, 1882, aged 48. His
poems were published in collected form in 1880. There is a biogra-
phy of him by Salt.
XXV-930


## p. 14866 (#440) ##########################################

14866
JAMES THOMSON
Thomson's spirit brooded on the night side of things, and there
is a weird, mystic quality to his imaginings. He is, in his greatest
poem, a master of the gloomy, the phantasmal, and the irremediably
sad, expressed in statuesque form and stately, mournful music. He
is of the school of Poe in the command of the awful; metrically, he
suggests comparison with Swinburne; and his creed is that of the
Italian poet-pessimist Leopardi, to whom his book of verse is dedi-
cated. But his note is entirely distinctive: there is nothing imitative
about The City of Dreadful Night. ' It stands like a colossal image
hewn out of black marble, to be admired as wonderful art in the
same breath that it is deplored as the morbid outcome of genius. Of
its decided merit there can be no question. Negation and despair
have seldom found a sincerer, a more poignant, and a more majestic
utterance.
FROM THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT›
O, THUS, as prostrate, "In the dust I write
L My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears. "
Yet why evoke the spectres of black night
To blot the sunshine of exultant years?
Why disinter dead faith from moldering hidden?
Why break the seals of mute despair unbidden,
And wail life's discords into careless ears?
Because a cold rage seizes one at whiles
To show the bitter old and wrinkled truth
Stripped naked of all vesture that beguiles,
False dreams, false hopes, false masks and modes of
youth;
Because it gives some sense of power and passion
In helpless impotence to try to fashion.
Our woe in living words howe'er uncouth.
Surely I write not for the hopeful young,
Or those who deem their happiness of worth,
Or such as pasture and grow fat among
The shows of life and feel nor doubt nor dearth,
Or pious spirits with a God above them
To sanctify and glorify and love them,
Or sages who foresee a heaven on earth.
For none of these I write, and none of these
Could read the writing if they deigned to try:


## p. 14867 (#441) ##########################################

JAMES THOMSON
14867
So may they flourish, in their due degrees,
On our sweet earth and in their unplaced sky.
If any cares for the weak words here written,
It must be some one desolate, fate-smitten,
Whose faith and hope are dead, and who would
die.
Yes, here and there some weary wanderer
In that same city of tremendous night
Will understand the speech, and feel a stir
Of fellowship in all-disastrous fight:
I suffer mute and lonely, yet another
Uplifts his voice to let me know a brother
Travels the same wild paths, though out of sight.
O sad Fraternity, do I unfold
Your dolorous mysteries shrouded from of yore?
Nay, be assured: no secret can be told
To any who divined it not before;
None uninitiate by many a presage
Will comprehend the language of the message,
Although proclaimed aloud forevermore.
THE City is of Night: perchance of Death,
But certainly of Night; for never there
Can come the lucid morning's fragrant breath
After the dewy dawning's cold gray air:
The moon and stars may shine with scorn or pity;
The sun has never visited that city,
For it dissolveth in the daylight fair.
Dissolveth like a dream of night away;
Though present in distempered gloom of thought
And deadly weariness of heart all day.
But when a dream night after night is brought
Throughout a week, and such weeks few or many
Recur each year for several years, can any
Discern that dream from real life in aught?
A river girds the city west and south,
The main north channel of a broad lagoon,
Regurging with the salt tides from the mouth;
Waste marshes shine and glister to the moon


## p. 14868 (#442) ##########################################

14868
JAMES THOMSON
For leagues, then moorland black, then stony ridges;
Great piers and causeways, many noble bridges,
Connect the town and islet suburbs strewn.
Upon an easy slope it lies at large,
And scarcely overlaps the long curved crest
Which swells out two leagues from the river marge.
A trackless wilderness rolls north and west,
Savannas, savage woods, enormous mountains,
Bleak uplands, black ravines with torrent fountains;
And eastward rolls the shipless sea's unrest.
The city is not ruinous, although
Great ruins of an unremembered past,
With others of a few short years ago
More sad, are found within its precincts vast.
The street-lamps always burn; but scarce a casement
In house or palace front from roof to basement
Doth glow or gleam athwart the mirk air cast.
The street-lamps burn amidst the baleful glooms,
Amidst the soundless solitudes immense
Of rangèd mansions dark and still as tombs.
The silence which benumbs or strains the sense
Fulfills with awe the soul's despair unweeping:
Myriads of habitants are ever sleeping,
Or dead, or fled from nameless pestilence!
Yet as in some necropolis you find
Perchance one mourner to a thousand dead,
So there; worn faces that look deaf and blind
Like tragic masks of stone. With weary tread,
Each wrapt in his own doom, they wander, wander,
Or sit foredone and desolately ponder
Through sleepless hours with heavy drooping head.
Mature men chiefly; few in age or youth:
A woman rarely: now and then a child;
A child! If here the heart turns sick with ruth
To see a little one from birth defiled,
Or lame or blind, as preordained to languish
Through youthless life, think how it bleeds with anguish
To meet one erring in that homeless wild.
They often murmur to themselves: they speak
To one another seldom, for their woe


## p. 14869 (#443) ##########################################

JAMES THOMSON
14869
Broods maddening inwardly and scorns to wreak
Itself abroad; and if at whiles it grow
To frenzy which must rave, none heeds the clamor,
Unless there waits some victim of like glamour,
To rave in turn, who lends attentive show.
The City is of Night, but not of Sleep:
There sweet sleep is not for the weary brain;
The pitiless hours like years and ages creep,
A night seems termless hell. This dreadful strain
Of thought and consciousness which never ceases,
Or which some moments' stupor but increases,
This worse than woe, makes wretches there insane.
They leave all hope behind who enter there:
One certitude while sane they cannot leave,
One anodyne for torture and despair,—
The certitude of Death, which no reprieve
Can put off long; and which, divinely tender,
But waits the outstretched hand to promptly render
That draught whose slumber nothing can bereave.
Of all things human which are strange and wild,
This is perchance the wildest and most strange,
And showeth man most utterly beguiled,
To those who haunt that sunless City's range:
That he bemoans himself for aye, repeating
How Time is deadly swift, how life is fleeting,
How naught is constant on the earth but change.
The hours are heavy on him, and the days;
The burden of the months he scarce can bear:
And often in his secret soul he prays
To sleep through barren periods unaware,
Arousing at some longed-for date of pleasure;
Which having passed and yielded him small treasure,
He would outsleep another term of care.
Yet in his marvelous fancy he must make
Quick wings for Time, and see it fly from us:
This Time which crawleth like a monstrous snake,
Wounded and slow and very venomous;
Which creeps blindworm-like round the earth and ocean,
Distilling poison at each painful motion,
And seems condemned to circle ever thus.


## p. 14870 (#444) ##########################################

14870
JAMES THOMSON
And since he cannot spend and use aright
The little Time here given him in trust,
But wasteth it in weary undelight
Of foolish toil and trouble, strife and lust,
He naturally claimeth to inherit
The everlasting Future, that his merit
May have full scope; as surely is most just.
O length of the intolerable hours,
O nights that are as æons of slow pain,
O Time, too ample for our vital powers,
O Life, whose woeful vanities remain
Immutable for all of all our legions,
Through all the centuries and in all the regions,
Not of your speed and variance we complain.
We do not ask a longer term of strife,
Weakness and weariness and nameless woes;
We do not claim renewed and endless life
When this which is our torment here shall close,
An everlasting conscious inanition!
We yearn for speedy death in full fruition,
Dateless oblivion and divine repose.
FROM ART)
F YOU have a carrier-dove
I'
That can fly over land and sea,
And a message for your Love,
"Lady, I love but thee! »
And this dove will never stir
But straight from her to you,
And straight from you to her,
As you know and she knows too,
Will you first insure, O sage,
Your dove that never tires
With your message in a cage,
Though a cage of golden wires?
Or will you fling your dove ? —
"Fly, darling, without rest,
Over land and sea to my Love,
And fold your wings in her breast! »


## p. 14870 (#445) ##########################################



## p. 14870 (#446) ##########################################


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## p. 14870 (#447) ##########################################



## p. 14870 (#448) ##########################################

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## p. 14871 (#449) ##########################################

14871
HENRY D. THOREAU
(1817-1862)
BY JOHN BURROUGHS
N THE front of the second order of American authors we must
place Henry D. Thoreau. He had many qualities which
would seem to entitle him to a place in the first order,
with Emerson, Longfellow, Bryant, Whitman; but he lacked at least
one thing which these men possessed — he lacked breadth: his sym
pathies were narrow; he did not touch his fellows at many points.
It has been complained that Emerson was narrow too; but Emerson
looked over a much wider field than Thoreau, had many more inter-
ests, was more affirmative, and in every way was a larger, more help-
ful spiritual force. In his life, Thoreau isolated himself from his
fellows as much as possible; he was very scornful of ordinary human
ends and ambitions, and seemed to set slight value upon the ordi-
nary human affections.
Thoreau was born in Concord, Massachusetts, July 12th, 1817, and
died there in May 1862, of consumption; having seen forty-five years
of life, and probably spent more of it in the open air than any other
American man of letters. The business of his life was walking,—or
sauntering, as he preferred to call it,—and he aimed to spend half
of each day the year round in field or wood. He was a new kind of
sportsman, who carried a journal instead of a gun or trap, and who
brought home only such game as falls to the eye of the poet and
seer.
Thoreau was of French extraction on his father's side, and English
on his mother's. His intellectual traits were evidently from the former
source, his moral traits from the latter. That love of the wild and
savage, that crispness and terseness of expression, that playful exag-
geration, and that radical revolutionary cry, were French; while his
English blood showed itself more in his love of the homely, the aus-
tere, and his want of sociability.
His grandfather, John Thoreau, was born in the isle of Guernsey,
was a merchant in Boston; and died in Concord of consumption, in
1801. His father, also named John, after an unsuccessful mercantile
career became a lead-pencil maker in Concord in 1823; and from
that date to the time of his death in 1859, says Henry's biographer,
"led a plodding, unambitious, and respectable life. " Henry Thoreau


## p. 14872 (#450) ##########################################

14872
HENRY D. THOREAU
was the third of four children,- John, Helen, Henry, and Sophia,-
all persons of character and mark. "To meet one of the Thoreaus,"
says Mr. Sanborn, "was not the same as to encounter any other per-
son who might cross your path. Life to them was something more
than a parade of pretension, a conflict of ambitions, or an incessant
scramble for the common objects of life. " John and Helen were both
teachers, and died comparatively young. John is described as a sunny
soul, always serene and loving, and as possessed of a generous flow-
ing spirit; Henry was deeply attached to him, and his death in 1842
was an irreparable loss. He said seven years later that "a man can
attend but one funeral in his life,- can behold but one corpse. "
him this was the corpse and the funeral of his brother John.
To
Henry and his brother assisted their
former attaining great skill in the art.
him says that he at last succeeded in
the best English ones.
father in pencil-making; the
Emerson in his sketch of
making as good a pencil as
The way to fortune seemed open to him. But he said he should
never make another pencil. "Why should I? I would not do again
what I have done once. " This saying pleased Emerson: it has an
Emersonian ring. But Thoreau did not live up to it. Mr. Sanborn
says, "He went on many years, at intervals working at his father's
business. »
Thoreau entered Harvard College in 1833, and graduated in due
course, but without any special distinction. In his Senior year his
biographer says, "He lost rank with his instructors by his indiffer-
ence to the ordinary college motives for study. " The real Thoreau
was already cropping out: the ambition of most mortals was not his
ambition; there was something contrary and scornful in him from the
first. His noble sister Helen earned part of the money that paid his
way at college.
In 1838 he went to Maine in quest of employment as teacher, car-
rying recommendations from Mr. Emerson, Dr. Ripley, and from the
president of Harvard College; but his journey was not successful.
Later in the same year he seems to have been employed as teacher
in Concord Academy. About this time he first appeared as a lecturer
in the lyceum of his native village; and he continued to lecture as he
received calls from various New England towns till near the close of
his life. But it is doubtful if he was in any sen: e a popular lecturer.
He puzzled the people. I have been told, by man who when a
boy heard him read a lecture in some Massachi Setts town, that the
audience did not know what to make of him. They hardly knew
whether to take him seriously or not. His paradoxes, his strange
and extreme gospel of nature, and evidently hi: indifference as to
whether he pleased them or not, were not in the style of the usual
lyceum lecturer.


## p. 14873 (#451) ##########################################

HENRY D. THOREAU
14873
There is a tradition that while teaching, he and his brother John
both fell in love with the same girl, and that Henry heroically gave
way to John. It doubtless cost him less effort than the same act
would have cost his more human brother.
It seems to have been about this time that he began his daily
walks and studies of nature. In August 1839 he made his voyage
down the Concord and Merrimac Rivers, in company with his
brother; out of which experience grew his first book, or rather which
he made the occasion of his first book,—'A Week on the Concord
and Merrimack Rivers,'-published ten years later. The book was
not a success commercially, and the author carried home the seven
hundred unsold copies on his back; boasting that he now had a very
respectable library, all of his own writing. The title of the book is
misleading: it is an account of a voyage on far other and larger
rivers than the Concord and Merrimac,- the great world currents
of philosophy, religion, and literature. The voyage but furnishes the
thread with which he ties together his speculations and opinions upon
these subjects. It is not, in my opinion, his most valuable or read-
able book, though it contains some of his best prose and poetry.
offends one's sense of fitness and unity. It is a huge digression.
We are promised a narrative of travel and adventure, spiced with
observation of nature; and we get a bundle of essays, some of them
crude and loosely put together. To some young men I have known,
the book proved a great boon; but I imagine that most readers of
to-day find the temptation to skip the long ethical and literary dis-
cussions, and be off down-stream with the voyagers, a very strong
one. When one goes a-fishing or a-boating, he is not in the frame
of mind to pause by the way to listen to a lecture, however fine.
It
In 1845 Thoreau put his philosophy of life to the test by build-
ing a hut in the woods on the shore of Walden Pond, a mile or
more from Concord village, and spending over two years there. Out
of this experiment grew his best-known and most valuable book,-
'Walden, or Life in the Woods. ' The book is a record of his life in
that sylvan solitude, and abounds in felicitous descriptions of the sea-
sons and the scenery, and fresh and penetrating observations upon
the wild life about him.
-
He went to the woods for study and contemplation, and to in-
dulge his taste for the wild and the solitary, as well as to make an
experiment in the art of simple living. He proved to his own satis-
faction that most of us waste our time on superfluities, and that a
man can live on less than $100 per year and have two-thirds of his
time to himself. He cultivated beans, gathered wild berries, did a
little fishing, and I suspect, went home pretty often for a square
meal. " In theory he seems to have been a vegetarian; but it is told
of him that when he had a day of surveying on hand, he was wont
«<


## p. 14874 (#452) ##########################################

14874
HENRY D. THOREAU
to fortify himself with pork as well as beans. At Walden he seems
to have written much of the 'Week,' his essay on Carlyle, and others
of his papers. Alcott and Emerson were his visitors; and besides
these, he reports that he had a good deal of company in the morning
when nobody called. He was a born lover of solitude. He says he
"never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. »
"I am
no more lonely than the loon in the pond that laughs so
loud, or than Walden Pond itself. What company has that lonely
lake, I pray? And yet it has not the blue devils, but the blue angels
in it, in the azure tint of its waters. "
Thoreau whistled a good deal, and at times very prettily, as in
this quotation, to help keep his courage up. Indeed the whole vol-
ume is a cheery exultant whistle, at times with a bantering defiant
tone in it. It is, on the whole, the most delicious piece of brag in
our literature. Who ever got so much out of a bean-field as Thoreau!
He makes one want to go forthwith and plant a field with beans,
and hoe them barefoot. He makes us feel that the occupation yields
a "classic result.
"
"When my hoe tinkled against the stones, that music echoed to the woods
and the sky, and was an acco
ccompaniment to my labor which yielded an instant
and immeasurable crop. It was no longer beans that I hoed, nor I that hoed
beans; and I remembered with as much pity as pride, if I remembered at all,
my acquaintances who had gone to the city to attend the oratorios.
"On gala days the town fires its great guns, which echo like popguns to
these woods, and some waifs of martial music occasionally penetrate thus far.
To me, away there in my bean-field at the other end of the town, the big
guns sounded as if a puff-ball had burst; and when there was a military turn-
out of which I was ignorant, I have sometimes had a vague sense all the day
of some sort of itching and disease in the horizon, as if some eruption would
break out there soon, either scarlatina or canker-rash,-until at length some
more favorable puff of wind, making haste over the fields and up the Way-
land road, brought me information of the trainers. >>
After the Walden episode, Thoreau supported himself by doing
various odd jobs for his neighbors, such as whitewashing, gardening,
fence-building, land-surveying. He also lectured occasionally, and
wrote now and then for the current magazines. Horace Greeley
became his friend, and disposed of some of his papers for him to
Graham's Magazine, Putnam's Magazine, and the Democratic Review.
He made three trips to the Maine woods, —in 1846, 1853, and 1857,-
where he saw and studied the moose and the Indian. The latter
interested him greatly. Emerson said the three men in whom
Thoreau felt the deepest interest were John Brown, his Indian guide
in Maine, and Walt Whitman. The magazine papers which were the
outcome of his trips to the Maine woods were published in book form


## p. 14875 (#453) ##########################################

HENRY D. THOREAU
14875
after his death; and next to Walden' I think make his most inter-
esting contribution.
In 1850, in company with his friend Ellery Channing, he made a
trip to Canada, and reports that he found traveling dirty work, and
that "a man needs a pair of overalls for it. " This poetic couple
wore very plain clothes, and by way of baggage had a bundle and
an umbrella. "We styled ourselves Knights of the Umbrella and the
Bundle. " The details of this trip may be found in his 'A Yankee
in Canada,' — also published after his death.
-
Thoreau was almost as local as a woodchuck. He never went
abroad, probably could not have been hired to go. He thought Con-
cord contained about all that was worth seeing. Nature repeats her-
self everywhere; only you must be wide awake enough to see her.
He penetrated the West as far as Minnesota in 1862 for his health,
but the trip did not stay the progress of his disease. He made several
trips to New York and Brooklyn to see Walt Whitman, whose poems
and whose personality made a profound impression upon him.
"The
greatest democrat the world has ever seen," was his verdict upon the
author of 'Leaves of Grass. '
One of the most characteristic acts of Thoreau's life was his pub-
lic defense of John Brown on October 30th, 1859, when the sentiment
of the whole country-abolitionists and all-set so overwhelmingly
the other way. Emerson, and other of Thoreau's friends, tried to
dissuade him from any public expression in favor of Brown just then;
but he was all on fire with the thought of John Brown's heroic and
righteous act, and he was not to be checked. His speech was calm
and restrained; but there was molten metal inside it, and metal of
the purest kind. It stirs the blood to read it at this time. Thoreau
and Brown were kindred souls-fanatics, if you please, but both
made of the stuff of heroes. Brown was the Thoreau of action and
of politics, and Thoreau was the Brown of the region of the senti-
ments and moral and social ideals.
It is Thoreau's heroic moral fibre that takes us. It is never re-
laxed; it is always braced for the heights. He was an unusual mixture
of the poet, the naturalist, and the moralist: but the moralist domi-
nated. Yet he was not the moralist as we know him in English
literature, without salt or savor, but a moralist escaped to the woods,
full of a wild tang and aroma. He preaches a kind of goodness that
sounds strange to conventional ears, - the goodness of the natural,
the simple. "There is no odor so bad as that which arises from
goodness tainted. " And goodness is tainted when it takes thought
of itself. A man's
"goodness must not be a partial and transitory act, but a constant super-
fluity, which costs him nothing, and of which he is unconscious. " "If I knew
for a certainty that a man was coming to my house with the conscious design


## p. 14876 (#454) ##########################################

14876
HENRY D. THOREAU
of doing me good, I should run for my life,- as from that dry and parching
wind of the African desert called the Simoon, which fills the mouth and nose
and ears and eyes with dust till you are suffocated,- for fear that I should
get some of his good done to me, some of its virus mingled with my blood. »
Thoreau's virtue is a kind of stimulating contrariness; there is no
compliance in him: he always says and does the unexpected thing,
but always leaves us braced for better work and better living. "Sim-
plicity, simplicity, simplicity," he reiterates: "I say, let your affairs
be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand; instead of a
million, count half a dozen; and keep your accounts on your thumb-
nail. "
He was a poet too, through and through, but lacked the perfect
metrical gift. In this respect he had the shortcomings of his mas-
ter, Emerson, who was a poet keyed to the highest pitch of bardic
tension, but yet whose numbers would not always flow. Thoreau
printed a few poems; one on 'Smoke' and one on 'Sympathy' have
merits of a high order. Thoreau's naturalism is the salt that gives
him his savor. He caught something tonic and pungent from his
intercourse with wild nature. Sometimes it is biting and smarting
like crinkle-root or calamus-root; at others it is sweet and aromatic
like birch or wintergreen: but always it is stimulating and whole-
some.
As a naturalist Thoreau's aim was ulterior to science: he loved
the bird, but he loved more the bird behind the bird, -the idea it
suggested, the mood of his mind it interpreted. He would fain see a
mythology shine through his ornithology. In all his walks and ram-
bles and excursions to mountains and to marsh, he was the idealist
and the mystic, and never the devotee of pure science.
His pages
abound in many delicious natural-history bits, and in keen observa-
tion; but when we sternly ask how much he has added to our store
of exact knowledge of this nature to which he devoted his lifetime,
we cannot point to much that is new or important. He was in quest
of an impalpable knowledge,- waiting, as he says in Walden,' "at
evening on the hill-tops for the sky to fall, that I might catch some-
thing, though I never caught much; and that, manna-wise, would dis-
solve again in the sun. ”
But he caught more than he here gives himself credit for; and it
does not dissolve away in the sun. His fame has increased from
year to year. Other names in our literature, much more prominent
than his in his own day,-as that of Whipple, Tuckerman, Giles,
etc. ,- have faded; while his own has grown brighter and brighter,
and the meridian is not yet.
John Burroughs


## p. 14877 (#455) ##########################################

HENRY D. THOREAU
14877
INSPIRATION
By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers
HATE'ER we leave to God, God does,
And blesses us;
The work we choose should be our own,
God leaves alone.
WHATE
*
If with light head erect I sing,
Though all the Muses lend their force,
From my poor love of anything,
The verse is weak and shallow as its source.
But if with bended neck I grope
Listening behind me for my wit,
With faith superior to hope,
More anxious to keep back than forward it;
Making my soul accomplice there
Unto the flame my heart hath lit,-
Then will the verse for ever wear:
Time cannot bend the line which God hath writ.
Always the general show of things.
Floats in review before my mind,
And such true love and reverence brings,
That sometimes I forget that I am blind.
But now there comes unsought, unseen,
Some clear divine electuary,
And I, who had but sensual been,
Grow sensible, and as God is, am wary.
I hearing get, who had but ears,
And sight, who had but eyes before;
I moments live, who lived but years,
And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore.
I hear beyond the range of sound,
I see beyond the range of sight,
New earths and skies and seas around,
And in my day the sun doth pale his light.
A clear and ancient harmony
Pierces my soul through all its din,


## p. 14878 (#456) ##########################################

14878
HENRY D. THOREAU
As through its utmost melody,-
Farther behind than they, farther within.
More swift its bolt than lightning is;
Its voice than thunder is more loud;
It doth expand my privacies
To all, and leave me single in the crowd.
It speaks with such authority,
With so serene and lofty tone,
That idle time runs gadding by,
And leaves me with Eternity alone.
Now chiefly is my natal hour,
And only now my prime of life:
Of manhood's strength it is the flower;
'Tis peace's end and war's beginning strife.
It comes in summer's broadest noon,
By a gray wall or some chance place,
Unseasoning Time, insulting June,
And vexing day with its presuming face.
Such fragrance round my couch it makes,
More rich than are Arabian drugs,
That my soul scents its life and wakes
The body up beneath its perfumed rugs.
Such is the Muse, the heavenly maid,
The star that guides our mortal course,
Which shows where life's true kernel's laid,
Its wheat's fine flour, and its undying force.
She with one breath attunes the spheres,
And also my poor human heart;
With one impulse propels the years
Around, and gives my throbbing pulse its start.
I will not doubt for evermore,
Nor falter from a steadfast faith;
For though the system be turned o'er,
God takes not back the word which once he saith.
I will not doubt the love untold
Which not my worth nor want has bought,
Which wooed me young, and wooes me old,
And to this evening hath me brought.


## p. 14879 (#457) ##########################################

HENRY D. THOREAU
14879
My memory I'll educate
To know the one historic truth,
Remembering to the latest date
The only true and sole immortal youth.
Be but thy inspiration given,
No matter through what danger sought,
I'll fathom hell or climb to heaven,
And yet esteem that cheap which love has bought,
*
M
**
Fame cannot tempt the bard
Who's famous with his God,
Nor laurel him reward
Who has his Maker's nod.
THE FISHER'S BOY
By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers
Y LIFE is like a stroll upon the beach,
As near the ocean's edge as I can go;
My tardy steps its waves sometimes o'erreach,
Sometimes I stay to let them overflow.
My sole employment 'tis, and scrupulous care,
To place my gains beyond the reach of tides,-
Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare,
Which Ocean kindly to my hand confides.
I have but few companions on the shore:
They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea;
Yet oft I think the ocean they've sailed o'er
Is deeper known upon the strand to me.
The middle sea contains no crimson dulse,
Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view;
Along the shore my hand is on its pulse,
And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew.


## p. 14880 (#458) ##########################################

14880
HENRY D. THOREAU
SMOKE
By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers
IGHT-WINGED Smoke, Icarian bird,
L
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight;
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
Or else, departing dream and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day
Darkening the light and blotting out the sun,—
Go thou, my incense, upward from this hearth,
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.
WORK AND PAY
From Walden. ' Copyright 1854, by Henry D. Thoreau; 1893, by Houghton,
Mifflin & Co.
T THE present and in this country, as I find by my own
A experience, a few implements, a knife, an axe, a spade, a
wheelbarrow, etc. , and for the studious, lamplight, station-
ery, and access to a few books, rank next to necessaries, and can
all be obtained at a trifling cost. Yet some, not wise, go to the
other side of the globe, to barbarous and unhealthy regions, and
devote themselves to trade for ten or twenty years, in order that
they may live-that is, keep comfortably warm-and die in New
England at last. The luxuriously rich are not simply kept com-
fortably warm, but unnaturally hot; as I implied before, they are
cooked, of course à la mode.
Most of the luxuries and many of the so-called comforts of
life are not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the
elevation of mankind. With respect to luxuries and comforts,
the wisest have ever lived a more simple and meagre life than
the poor. The ancient philosophers - Chinese, Hindoo, Persian,
and Greek — were a class than which none has been poorer
in outward riches, none so rich in inward. We know not much
about them. It is remarkable that we know so much of them
as we do. The same is true of the more modern reformers and
benefactors of their race. None can be an impartial or wise
observer of human life but from the vantage ground of what
we should call voluntary poverty. Of a life of luxury the fruit is


## p. 14881 (#459) ##########################################

HENRY D. THOREAU
14881
luxury, whether in agriculture, or commerce, or literature, or art.
There are nowadays professors of philosophy, but not philoso-
phers. Yet it is admirable to profess, because it was once admi-
rable to live. To be a philosopher is not merely to have subtle
thoughts, nor even to found a school; but so to love wisdom
as to live according to its dictates, a life of simplicity, independ-
ence, magnanimity, and trust. It is to solve some of the prob-
lems of life, not only theoretically but practically. The success of
great scholars and thinkers is commonly a courtier-like success;
not kingly, not manly. They make shift to live merely by con-
formity, practically as their fathers did, and are in no sense the
progenitors of a nobler race of men. But why do men degen-
erate ever? What makes families run out? What is the nature
of the luxury which enervates and destroys nations? Are we sure
that there is none of it in our own lives? The philosopher is
in advance of his age even in the outward form of his life.
He is not fed, sheltered, clothed, warmed, like his contemporaries.
How can a man be a philosopher and not maintain his vital heat
by better methods than other men?
-
When a man is warmed by the several modes which I have de-
scribed, what does he want next? Surely not more warmth of the
same kind,—as more and richer food, larger and more splendid
houses, finer and more abundant clothing, more numerous inces-
sant and hotter fires, and the like. When he has obtained those
things which are necessary to life, there is another alternative
than to obtain the superfluities; and that is, to adventure on life
now, his vacation from humbler toil having commenced. The
soil, it appears, is suited to the seed; for it has sent its radicle
downward, and it may now send its shoot upward also with con-
fidence. Why has man rooted himself thus firmly in the earth,
but that he may rise in the same proportion into the heavens
above? — for the nobler plants are valued for the fruit they bear
at last in the air and light, far from the ground, and are not
treated like the humbler esculents; which, though they may be
biennials, are cultivated only till they have perfected their root,
and often cut down at top for this purpose, so that most would
not know them in their flowering season.
I do not mean to prescribe rules to strong and valiant natures,
who will mind their own affairs whether in heaven or hell, and
perchance build more magnificently and spend more lavishly than
the richest, without ever impoverishing themselves, not knowing
XXV-931


## p. 14882 (#460) ##########################################

14882
HENRY D. THOREAU
how they live if indeed there are any such, as has been
dreamed; nor to those who find their encouragement and inspira-
tion in precisely the present condition of things, and cherish it
with the fondness and enthusiasm of lovers-and to some extent
I reckon myself in this number; I do not speak to those who
are well employed, in whatever circumstances-and they know
whether they are well employed or not; - but mainly to the
mass of men who are discontented, and idly complaining of the
hardness of their lot or of the times, when they might improve
them. There are some who complain most energetically and
inconsolably of any, because they are, as they say, doing their
duty. I also have in my mind that seemingly wealthy, but most
terribly impoverished class of all, who have accumulated dross
but know not how to use it or get rid of it, and thus have
forged their own golden or silver fetters.
If I should attempt to tell how I have desired to spend my
life in years past, it would probably surprise those of my readers
who are somewhat acquainted with its actual history; it would
certainly astonish those who know nothing about it. I will only
hint at some of the enterprises which I have cherished.
In any weather, at any hour of the day or night, I have been
anxious to improve the nick of time, and notch it on my stick
too: to stand on the meeting of two eternities, the past and
future, which is precisely the present moment; to toe that line.
You will pardon some obscurities, for there are more secrets in
my trade than in most men's; and yet not voluntarily kept, but
inseparable from its very nature. I would gladly tell all that I
know about it, and never paint "No Admittance" on my gate.
I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse, and a turtle-dove, and
am still on their trail. Many are the travelers I have spoken
concerning them, describing their tracks and what calls they
answered to. I have met one or two who had heard the hound,
and the tramp of the horse, and even seen the dove disappear
behind a cloud; and they seemed as anxious to recover them as
if they had lost them themselves.
To anticipate, not the sunrise and the dawn merely, but if
possible, Nature herself! How many mornings, summer and
winter, before yet any neighbor was stirring about his business,
have I been about mine! No doubt many of my townsmen have
met me returning from this enterprise,-farmers starting for Bos-
ton in the twilight, or wood-choppers going to their work. It is


## p. 14883 (#461) ##########################################

HENRY D. THOREAU
14883
true, I never assisted the sun materially in his rising; but, doubt
not, it was of the last importance only to be present at it.
So many autumn, ay, and winter days, spent outside the
town, trying to hear what was in the wind, to hear and carry
it express! I well-nigh sunk all my capital in it, and lost my
own breath into the bargain, running in the face of it. If it had
concerned either of the political parties, depend upon it, it would
have appeared in the Gazette with the earliest intelligence. At
other times watching from the observatory of some cliff or tree,
to telegraph any new arrival; or waiting at evening on the hill-
tops for the sky to fall, that I might catch something,- though
I never caught much, and that, manna-wise, would dissolve again
in the sun.
For a long time I was reporter to a journal, of no very wide
circulation, whose editor has never yet seen fit to print the bulk
of my contributions, and, as is too common with writers, I got
only my labor for my pains. However, in this case my pains
were their own reward.
For many years I was self-appointed inspector of snow-storms
and rain-storms, and did my duty faithfully; surveyor, if not
of highways, then of forest paths and all across-lot routes,-keep-
ing them open, and ravines bridged and passable at all seasons,
where the public heel had testified to their utility.
I have looked after the wild stock of the town, which give a
faithful herdsman a good deal of trouble by leaping fences; and
I have had an eye to the unfrequented nooks and corners of the
farm: though I did not always know whether Jonas or Solomon
worked in a particular field to-day, that was none of my business.
I have watered the red huckleberry, the sand-cherry and the
nettle-tree, the red pine and the black ash, the white grape and
the yellow violet, which might have withered else in dry seasons.
In short, I went on thus for a long time (I may say it with-
out boasting), faithfully minding my business, till it became more
and more evident that my townsmen would not after all admit
me into the list of town officers, nor make my place a sinecure
with a moderate allowance. My accounts, which I can swear to
have kept faithfully, I have indeed never got audited, still less
accepted, still less paid and settled. However, I have not set my
heart on that.


## p. 14884 (#462) ##########################################

14884
HENRY D. THOREAU
SOLITUDE
From Walden. ' Copyright 1854, by Henry D. Thoreau; 1893, by Houghton,
Mifflin & Co.
TH
HIS is a delicious evening, when the whole body is one sense,
and imbibes delight through every pore. I go and come
with a strange liberty in Nature, a part of herself. As I
walk along the stony shore of the pond in my shirt-sleeves,
though it is cool as well as cloudy and windy, and I see nothing
special to attract me, all the elements are unusually congenial to
me. The bullfrogs trump to usher in the night, and the note
of the whippoorwill is borne on the rippling wind from over
the water. Sympathy with the fluttering alder and poplar leaves
almost takes away my breath; yet, like the lake, my serenity is
rippled but not ruffled. These small waves raised by the even-
ing wind are as remote from storm as the smooth reflecting sur-
face. Though it is now dark, the wind still blows and roars in
the wood, the waves still dash, and some creatures lull the rest
with their notes. The repose is never complete. The wildest
animals do not repose, but seek their prey now; the fox and
skunk and rabbit now roam the fields and woods without fear.
They are Nature's watchmen,-links which connect the days of
animated life.
When I return to my house I find that visitors have been
there and left their cards, either a bunch of flowers, or a wreath
of evergreen, or a name in pencil on a yellow walnut leaf or a
chip. They who come rarely to the woods take some little piece
of the forest into their hands to play with by the way, which
they leave, either intentionally or accidentally. One has peeled a
willow wand, woven it into a ring, and dropped it on my table.
I could always tell if visitors had called in my absence, either
by the bended twigs or grass, or the print of their shoes; and
generally of what sex or age or quality they were, by some slight
trace left, as a flower dropped, or a bunch of grass plucked
and thrown away, even as far off as the railroad half a mile
distant, or by the lingering odor of a cigar or pipe. Nay, I was
frequently notified of the passage of a traveler along the high-
way sixty rods off by the scent of his pipe.
There is commonly sufficient space about us. Our horizon is
never quite at our elbows. The thick wood is not just at our
door, nor the pond; but somewhat is always clearing, familiar
and worn by us, appropriated and fenced in some way, and
―――――
―
―


## p. 14885 (#463) ##########################################

HENRY D. THOREAU
14885
reclaimed from Nature. For what reason have I this vast range
and circuit, some square miles of unfrequented forest, for my
privacy, abandoned to me by men? My nearest neighbor is a
mile distant, and no house is visible from any place but the hill-
tops within half a mile of my own. I have my horizon bounded
by woods all to myself; a distant view of the railroad where it
touches the pond on the one hand, and of the fence which skirts.
the woodland road on the other. But for the most part it is as
solitary where I live as on the prairies. It is as much Asia or
Africa as New England. I have, as it were, my own sun and
moon and stars, and a little world all to myself. At night there
was never a traveler passed my house, or knocked at my door,
more than if I were the first or last man; unless it were in the
spring, when at long intervals some came from the village to fish
for pouts, they plainly fished much more in the Walden Pond
of their own natures, and baited their hooks with darkness,— but
they soon retreated, usually with light baskets, and left "the
world to darkness and to me," and the black kernel of the night
was never profaned by any human neighborhood. I believe that
men are generally still a little afraid of the dark, though the
witches are all hung, and Christianity and candles have been
introduced.
-
Yet I experienced sometimes that the most sweet and tender,
the most innocent and encouraging society may be found in any
natural object, even for the poor misanthrope and most melan-
choly man. There can be no very black melancholy to him who
lives in the midst of Nature and has his senses still. There was
never yet such a storm but it was Æolian music to a healthy
and innocent ear. Nothing can rightly compel a simple and
brave man to a vulgar sadness. While I enjoy the friendship of
the seasons, I trust that nothing can make life a burden to me.
The gentle rain which waters my beans and keeps me in the
house to-day is not drear and melancholy, but good for me too.