No More Learning

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


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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


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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,


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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.


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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.


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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


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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


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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


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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
―――――
―
―


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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.
Though it prevents my hoeing them, it is of far more worth than
my hoeing. If it should continue so long as to cause the seeds
to rot in the ground and destroy the potatoes in the low lands,
it would still be good for the grass on the uplands; and being
good for the grass, it would be good for me. Sometimes, when
I compare myself with other men, it seems as if I were more
favored by the gods than they, beyond any deserts that I am
conscious of; as if I had a warrant and surety at their hands


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HENRY D. THOREAU
which my fellows have not, and were especially guided and
guarded. I do not flatter myself; but if it be possible, they flat-
ter me. I have never felt lonesome, or in the least oppressed by
a sense of solitude, but once; and that was a few weeks after
I came to the woods, when for an hour I doubted if the near
neighborhood of man was not essential to a serene and healthy
life. To be alone was something unpleasant. But I was at the
same time conscious of a slight insanity in my mood, and seemed
to foresee my recovery. In the midst of a gentle rain, while
these thoughts prevailed, I was suddenly sensible of such sweet
and beneficent society in Nature, in the very pattering of the
drops, and in every sound and sight around my house, an infinite
and unaccountable friendliness all at once like an atmosphere
sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of human neigh-
borhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them since.
Every little pine needle expanded and swelled with sympathy
and befriended me. I was so distinctly made aware of the
presence of something kindred to me, even in scenes which we
are accustomed to call wild and dreary, and also that the nearest
of blood to me and humanest was not a person nor a villager,
that I thought no place could ever be strange to me again.
—
"Mourning untimely consumes the sad;
Few are their days in the land of the living,
Beautiful daughter of Toscar. "
Some of my pleasantest hours were during the long rain-
storms in the spring or fall, which confined me to the house for
the afternoon as well as the forenoon, soothed by their ceaseless
roar and pelting; when an early twilight ushered in a long even-
ing, in which many thoughts had time to take root and unfold
themselves. In those driving northeast rains which tried the
village houses so, when the maids stood ready with mop and pail
in front entries to keep the deluge out, I sat behind my door in
my little house, which was all entry, and thoroughly enjoyed its
protection. In one heavy thunder-shower the lightning struck a
large pitch-pine across the pond, making a very conspicuous and
perfectly regular spiral groove from top to bottom, an inch or
more deep and four or five inches wide, as you would groove a
walking-stick. I passed it again the other day, and was struck
with awe on looking up and beholding that mark, now more dis-
tinct than ever, where a terrific and resistless bolt came down out


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HENRY D. THOREAU
14887
of the harmless sky eight years ago.
Men frequently say to me,
"I should think you would feel lonesome down there and want to
be nearer to folks,- rainy and snowy days and nights especially. "
I am tempted to reply to such,-This whole earth which we
inhabit is but a point in space. How far apart, think you, dwell
the two most distant inhabitants of yonder star, the breadth of
whose disk cannot be appreciated by our instruments? Why
should I feel lonely? is not our planet in the Milky Way? This
which you put seems to me not to be the most important ques-
tion. What sort of space is that which separates a man from
his fellows and makes him solitary? I have found that no exer-
tion of the legs can bring two minds much nearer to one another.
What do we want most to dwell near to? Not to many men,
surely, the depot, the post-office, the bar-room, the meeting-
house, the schoolhouse, the grocery, Beacon Hill, or the Five
Points, where men most congregate,- but to the perennial source
of our life, whence in all our experience we have found that to
issue, as the willow stands near the water and sends out its roots
in that direction. This will vary with different natures, but this
is the place where a wise man will dig his cellar. -I one even-
ing overtook one of my townsmen, who has accumulated what is
called "a handsome property,"-though I never got a fair view
of it, on the Walden road, driving a pair of cattle to market,
who inquired of me how I could bring my mind to give up so
many of the comforts of life. I answered that I was very sure
I liked it passably well; I was not joking. And so I went home
to my bed, and left him to pick his way through the darkness
and the mud to Brighton,-or Bright-town,-which place he
would reach some time in the morning.
Any prospect of awakening or coming to life, to a dead man
makes indifferent all times and places. The place where that
may occur is always the same, and indescribably pleasant to all
our senses. For the most part we allow only outlying and trans-
ient circumstances to make our occasions. They are in fact the
cause of our distraction. Nearest to all things is that power
which fashions their being. Next to us the grandest laws are
continually being executed. Next to us is not the workman
whom we have hired, with whom we love so well to talk, but
the workman whose work we are.
-
"How vast and profound is the influence of the subtile pow-
ers of Heaven and of Earth!


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HENRY D. THOREAU
"We seek to perceive them, and we do not see them; we
seek to hear them, and we do not hear them; identified with the
substance of things, they cannot be separated from them.
"They cause that in all the universe men purify and sanctify
their hearts, and clothe themselves in their holiday garments to
offer sacrifices and oblations to their ancestors. It is an ocean
of subtile intelligences. They are everywhere, above us, on our
left, on our right; they environ us on all sides. "
We are the subjects of an experiment which is not a little
interesting to me. Can we not do without the society of our
gossips a little while under these circumstances, - have our own
thoughts to cheer us? Confucius says truly, "Virtue does not
remain as an abandoned orphan: it must of necessity have
neighbors. "
With thinking, we may be beside ourselves in a sane sense.
By a conscious effort of the mind we can stand aloof from
actions and their consequences; and all things, good and bad, go
by us like a torrent. We are not wholly involved in Nature. I
may be either the driftwood in the stream, or Indra in the sky
looking down on it. I may be affected by a theatrical exhibi-
tion; on the other hand, I may not be affected by an actual event
which appears to concern me much more. I only know myself as
a human entity, -the scene, so to speak, of thoughts and affec
tions; and am sensible of a certain doubleness by which I can
stand as remote from myself as from another. However intense
my experience, I am conscious of the presence and criticism of a
part of me, which as it were is not a part of me, but spectator,
sharing no experience but taking note of it; and that is no more.
I than it is you. When the play-it may be the tragedy — of
life is over, the spectator goes his way. It was a kind of fiction,
a work of the imagination only, so far as he was concerned. This
doubleness may easily make us poor neighbors and friends some-
times.
I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time.
To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and
dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion
that was
so companionable as solitude. We are for the most
part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we
stay in our chambers. A man thinking or working is always
alone, let him be where he will. Solitude is not measured by
the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows.


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The really diligent student in one of the crowded hives of Cam-
bridge College is as solitary as a dervis in the desert. The
farmer can work alone in the field or the woods all day, hoeing
or chopping, and not feel lonesome, because he is employed; but
when he comes home at night he cannot sit down in a room
alone, at the mercy of his thoughts, but must be where he can
«< see the folks," and recreate, and as he thinks remunerate, himself
for his day's solitude: and hence he wonders how the student
can sit alone in the house all night and most of the day without
ennui and "the blues"; but he does not realize that the student,
though in the house, is still at work in his field, and chopping
in his woods, as the farmer in his, and in turn seeks the same
recreation and society that the latter does, though it may be a
more condensed form of it.
Society is commonly too cheap. We meet at very short inter-
vals, not having had time to acquire any new value for each
other. We meat at meals three times a day, and give each other
a new taste of that old musty cheese that we are. We have had
to agree on a certain set of rules, called etiquette and polite-
ness, to make this frequent meeting tolerable and that we need.
not come to open war. We meet at the post-office, and at the
sociable, and about the fireside every night; we live thick and
are in each other's way, and stumble over one another: and I
think that we thus lose some respect for one another. Cer-
tainly less frequency would suffice for all important and hearty
communications. Consider the girls in a factory,- never alone,
hardly in their dreams. It would be better if there were but
one inhabitant to a square mile, as where I live. The value of a
man is not in his skin, that we should touch him.
I have heard of a man lost in the woods and dying of famine
and exhaustion at the foot of a tree, whose loneliness was relieved
by the grotesque visions with which, owing to bodily weakness,
his diseased imagination surrounded him, and which he believed
to be real. So also, owing to bodily and mental health and
strength, we may be continually cheered by a like but more
normal and natural society, and come to know that we are never
alone.
I have a great deal of company in my house; especially in
the morning, when nobody calls. Let me suggest a few compari-
sons, that some one may convey an idea of my situation. I am
no more lonely than the loon in the pond that laughs so loud, or


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HENRY D. THOREAU
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. The sun is alone, except
in thick weather, when there sometimes appear to be two, but
one is a mock sun. God is alone,- but the Devil, he is far from
being alone: he sees a great deal of company; he is legion. I
no more lonely than a single mullein or dandelion in a
pasture, or a bean leaf, or sorrel, or a horse-fly, or a humble-bee.
I am no more lonely than the Mill Brook, or a weathercock, or
the North Star, or the south wind, or an April shower, or a Jan-
uary thaw, or the first spider in a new house.
I have occasional visits in the long winter evenings, when the
snow falls fast and the wind howls in the wood, from an old set-
tler and original proprietor, who is reported to have dug Walden
Pond, and stoned it, and fringed it with pine woods; who tells
me stories of old time and of new eternity: and between us we
manage to pass a cheerful evening, with social mirth and pleasant
views of things, even without apples or cider,-a most wise and
humorous friend, whom I love much, who keeps himself more
secret than ever did Goffe or Whalley; and though he is thought
to be dead, none can show where he is buried. An elderly
dame too dwells in my neighborhood, invisible to most persons,
in whose odorous herb garden I love to stroll sometimes, gather-
ing simples and listening to her fables; -for she has a genius
of unequaled fertility, and her memory runs back farther than
mythology, and she can tell me the original of every fable, and
on what fact every one is founded-for the incidents occurred
when she was young. A ruddy and lusty old dame, who delights
in all weathers and seasons, and is likely to outlive all her
children yet.
The indescribable innocence and beneficence of Nature,- of
Isun and wind and rain, of summer and winter,- such health, such
cheer, they afford forever! and such sympathy have they ever
with our race, that all Nature would be affected, and the sun's
brightness fade, and the winds would sigh humanely, and the
clouds rain tears, and the woods shed their leaves and put on
mourning in midsummer, if any man should ever for a just cause
grieve.
Shall I not have intelligence with the earth? Am I
not partly leaves and vegetable mold myself?
What is the pill which will keep us well, serene, contented?
Not my or thy great-grandfather's, but our great-grandmother


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HENRY D. THOREAU
14891
Nature's universal, vegetable, botanic medicines, by which she
has kept herself young always, outlived so many old Parrs in her
day, and fed her health with their decaying fatness.
For my
panacea, instead of one of those quack vials of a mixture dipped
from Acheron and the Dead Sea, which come out of those long
shallow black schooner-looking wagons which we sometimes see
made to carry bottles, let me have a draught of undiluted morn-
ing air. Morning air! If men will not drink of this at the
fountain-head of the day, why, then we must even bottle up
some and sell it in the shops, for the benefit of those who have
lost their subscription ticket to morning-time in this world. But
remember, it will not keep quiet till noonday even in the coolest
cellar, but drive out the stopples long ere that, and follow west-
ward the steps of Aurora. I am no worshiper of Hygeia, who
was the daughter of that old herb-doctor Esculapius, and who is
represented on monuments holding a serpent in one hand, and
in the other a cup out of which the serpent sometimes drinks;
but rather of Hebe, cupbearer to Jupiter, who was the daughter
of Juno and wild lettuce, and who had the power of restoring
gods and men to the vigor of youth. She was probably the
only thoroughly sound-conditioned, healthy, and robust young
lady that ever walked the globe; and wherever she came it was
spring.
THE BEAN FIELD
From Walden. ' Copyright 1854, by Henry D. Thoreau; 1893, by Houghton,
Mifflin & Co.
M
EANWHILE my beans, the length of whose rows, added' to-
gether, was seven miles already planted, were impatient to
be hoed; for the earliest had grown considerably before
the latest were in the ground: indeed, they were not easily to
be put off. What was the meaning of this so steady and self-
respecting, this small Herculean labor, I knew not. I came to
love my rows, my beans, though so many more than I wanted.
They attached me to the earth, and so I got strength like
Antæus. But why should I raise them? Only Heaven knows.
This was my curious labor all summer,- to make this portion
of the earth's surface, which had yielded only cinquefoil, black-
berries, johnswort, and the like, before,-sweet wild fruits and


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HENRY D. THOREAU
pleasant flowers,-produce instead this pulse. What shall I learn
of beans or beans of me? I cherish them, I hoe them, early and
late I have an eye to them; and this is my day's work. It is a
fine broad leaf to look on. My auxiliaries are the dews and
rains which water this dry soil, and what fertility is in the soil
itself, which for the most part is lean and effete. My enemies
are worms, cool days, and most of all woodchucks. The last have
nibbled for me a quarter of an acre clean. But what right had
I to oust johnswort and the rest, and break up their ancient herb
garden? Soon, however, the remaining beans will be too tough
for them, and go forward to meet new foes.
When I was four years old, as I well remember, I was brought
from Boston to this my native town, through these very woods
and this field, to the pond. It is one of the oldest scenes
stamped on my memory. And now to-night my flute has waked
the echoes over that very water. The pines still stand here older
than I; or if some have fallen, I have cooked my supper with
their stumps, and a new growth is rising all around, preparing
another aspect for new infant eyes. Almost the same johnswort
springs from the same perennial root in this pasture: and even
I have at length helped to clothe that fabulous landscape of
my infant dreams; and one of the results of my presence and
influence is seen in these bean leaves, corn blades, and potato
vines.
I planted about two acres and a half of upland; and as it
was only about fifteen years since the land was cleared, and I
myself had got out two or three cords of stumps, I did not give
it any manure; but in the course of the summer it appeared by
the arrow-heads which I turned up in hoeing, that an extinct
nation had anciently dwelt here and planted corn and beans ere
white men came to clear the land, and so, to some extent, had
exhausted the soil for this very crop.
Before yet any woodchuck or squirrel had run across the road,
or the sun had got above the shrub-oaks, while all the dew was
on, though the farmers warned me against it, I would advise
you to do all your work if possible while the dew is on,-I
began to level the ranks of haughty weeds in my bean-field and
throw dust upon their heads. Early in the morning I worked
barefooted, dabbling like a plastic artist in the dewy and crum-
bling sand; but later in the day the sun blistered my feet. There
the sun lighted me to hoe beans, pacing slowly backward and
―――


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HENRY D. THOREAU
14893
forward over that yellow gravelly upland, between the long green
rows, fifteen rods; the one end terminating in a shrub-oak copse
where I could rest in the shade, the other in a blackberry field
where the green berries deepened their tints by the time I
had made another bout. Removing the weeds, putting fresh soil
about the bean stems, and encouraging this weed which I had.
sown, making the yellow soil express its summer thought in bean
leaves and blossoms rather than in wormwood and piper and
millet grass, making the earth say beans instead of grass,—this
was my daily work. As I had little aid from horses or cattle,
or hired men or boys, or improved implements of husbandry,
I was much slower, and became much more intimate with my
beans, than usual. But labor of the hands, even when pursued to
the verge of drudgery, is perhaps never the worst form of idle-
ness. It has a constant and imperishable moral; and to the
scholar it yields a classic result. A very agricola laboriosus was
I to travelers bound westward through Lincoln and Wayland to
nobody knows where: they sitting at their ease in gigs, with
elbows on knees, and reins loosely hanging in festoons; I the
home-staying, laborious native of the soil. But soon my home-
stead was out of their sight and thought. It was the only open
and cultivated field for a great distance on either side of the
road, so they made the most of it; and sometimes the man in
the field heard more of travelers' gossip and comment than was
meant for his ear: "Beans so late! peas so late! "-for I con-
tinued to plant when others had begun to hoe,-the ministerial
husbandman had not suspected it. - "Corn, my boy, for fodder;
corn for fodder. "-" Does he live there? " asks the black bon-
net of the gray coat: and the hard-featured farmer reins up his
grateful dobbin to inquire what you are doing where he sees no
manure in the furrow; and recommends a little chip dirt, or any
little waste stuff, or it may be ashes or plaster. But here were
two acres and a half of furrows, and only a hoe for cart and two
hands to draw it, there being an aversion to other carts and
horses, and chip dirt far away. Fellow-travelers as they rattled
by compared it aloud with the fields which they had passed; so
that I came to know how I stood in the agricultural world. This
was one field not in Mr. Coleman's report. And by the way,
who estimates the value of the crop which Nature yields in the
still wilder fields unimproved by man? The crop of English hay
is carefully weighed, the moisture calculated, the silicates and the
-


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HENRY D. THOREAU
potash; but in all dells and pond-holes in the woods and past-
ures and swamps grows a rich and various crop, only unreaped
by man. Mine was, as it were, the connecting link between
wild and cultivated fields: as some States are civilized, and oth-
ers half-civilized, and others savage or barbarous, so my field
was, though not in a bad sense, a half-cultivated field. They
were beans cheerfully returning to their wild and primitive state
that I cultivated, and my hoe played the 'Ranz des Vaches' for
them.
Near at hand, upon the topmost spray of a birch, sings
the brown thrasher or red mavis, as some love to call him—all
the morning, glad of your society, that would find out another
farmer's field if yours were not here. While you are planting
the seed, he cries, "Drop it, drop it,-cover it up, cover it up,
-pull it up, pull it up, pull it up. " But this was not corn, and
so it was safe from such enemies as he. You may wonder what
his rigmarole, his amateur Paganini performances on one string
or on twenty, have to do with your planting, and yet prefer it to
leached ashes or plaster. It was a cheap sort of top-dressing, in
which I had entire faith.
As I drew a still fresher soil about the rows with my hoe,
I disturbed the ashes of unchronicled nations who in primeval
years lived under these heavens, and their small implements of
war and hunting were brought to the light of this modern day.
They lay mingled with other natural stones, some of which bore
the marks of having been burned by Indian fires, and some by
the sun; and also bits of pottery and glass brought hither by the
recent cultivators of the soil. When my hoe tinkled against the
stones, that music echoed to the woods and the sky, and was an
accompaniment to my labor which yielded an instant and im-
measurable 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. The night-hawk circled overhead in the
sunny afternoons-for I sometimes made a day of it-like a
mote in the eye, or in Heaven's eye; falling from time to time
with a swoop and a sound as if the heavens were rent, torn at
last to very rags and tatters, and yet a seamless cope remained:
small imps that fill the air, and lay their eggs on the ground on
bare sand or rocks on the tops of hills, where few have found
them; graceful and slender, like ripples caught up from the pond,
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HENRY D. THOREAU
14895
as leaves are raised by the wind to float in the heavens; such
kindredship is in Nature. The hawk is aerial brother of the wave.
which he sails over and surveys, those his perfect air-inflated
wings answering to the elemental unfledged pinions of the sea.
Or sometimes I watched a pair of hen-hawks circling high in the
sky, alternately soaring and descending, approaching and leaving
one another, as if they were the embodiment of my own thoughts.
Or I was attracted by the passage of wild pigeons from this
wood to that, with a slight quivering winnowing sound and
carrier haste; or from under a rotten stump my hoe turned up a
sluggish, portentous, and outlandish spotted salamander, a trace
of Egypt and the Nile, yet our contemporary. When I paused
to lean on my hoe, these sounds and sights I heard and saw
anywhere in the row, a part of the inexhaustible entertainment
which the country offers.
On gala days the town fires its great guns, which echo like.
popguns to these woods; and some waifs of martial music occas-
ionally 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 turnout 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 Wayland road, brought me
information of the "trainers. " It seemed by the distant hum as
if somebody's bees had swarmed; and that the neighbors, accord-
ing to Virgil's advice, by a faint tintinnabulum upon the most
sonorous of their domestic utensils, were endeavoring to call
them down into the hive again. And when the sound died quite
away, and the hum had ceased, and the most favorable breezes
told no tale, I knew that they had got the last drone of them all
safely into the Middlesex hive, and that now their minds were
bent on the honey with which it was smeared.
I felt proud to know that the liberties of Massachusetts and of
our fatherland were in such safe keeping; and as I turned to my
hoeing again I was filled with an inexpressible confidence, and
pursued my labor cheerfully with a calm trust in the future.
When there were several bands of musicians, it sounded as if
all the village was a vast bellows, and all the buildings expanded
and collapsed alternately with a din. But sometimes it was a


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14896
HENRY D. THOREAU
really noble and inspiring strain that reached these woods, and
the trumpet that sings of fame; and I felt as if I could spit a
Mexican with a good relish,- for why should we always stand
for trifles? —and looked round for a woodchuck or a skunk to
exercise my chivalry upon. These martial strains seemed as far
away as Palestine; and reminded me of a march of crusaders in
the horizon, with a slight tantivy and tremulous motion of the
elm-tree tops which overhang the village. This was one of the
great days; though the sky had from my clearing only the same
everlastingly great look that it wears daily, and I saw no differ-
ence in it.
It was a singular experience, that long acquaintance which I
cultivated with beans: what with planting, and hoeing, and har-
vesting, and threshing, and picking over and selling them - the
last was the hardest of all; I might add eating, for I did taste.
I was determined to know beans. When they were growing, I
used to hoe from five o'clock in the morning till noon, and com-
monly spent the rest of the day about other affairs. Consider
the intimate and curious acquaintance one makes with various
kinds of weeds, it will bear some iteration in the account, for
there was no little iteration in the labor: disturbing their deli-
cate organizations so ruthlessly, and making such invidious dis-
tinctions with his hoe, leveling whole ranks of one species and
sedulously cultivating another. That's Roman wormwood - that's
pigweed - that's sorrel - that's piper-grass: have at him, chop
him up, turn his roots upward to the sun, don't let him have a
fibre in the shade; if you do he'll turn himself t'other side up and
be as green as a leek in two days. A long war, not with cranes,
but with weeds,- those Trojans who had sun and rain and dews.
on their side. Daily the beans saw me come to their rescue
armed with a hoe, and thin the ranks of their enemies, filling up
the trenches with weedy dead. Many a lusty crest-waving Hec-
tor, that towered a whole foot above his crowding comrades, fell
before my weapon and rolled in the dust.
Those summer days which some of my contemporaries devoted
to the fine arts in Boston or Rome, and others to contemplation
in India, and others to trade in London or New York, I thus,
with the other farmers of New England, devoted to husbandry.
Not that I wanted beans to eat, for I am by nature a Pythago-
rean so far as beans are concerned,-whether they mean porridge
or voting,—and exchanged them for rice; but perchance, as some


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HENRY D. THOREAU
14897
must work in fields if only for the sake of tropes and expression,
to serve a parable-maker one day. It was on the whole a rare
amusement, which, continued too long, might have become a dissi-
pation. Though I gave them no manure, and did not hoe them
all once, I hoed them unusually well as far as I went, and was
paid for it in the end: "there being in truth," as Evelyn says,
"no compost or lætation whatsoever comparable to this continual
motion, repastination, and turning of the mold with the spade. "
"The earth," he adds elsewhere, "especially if fresh, has a
certain magnetism in it, by which it attracts the salt, power, or
virtue (call it either) which gives it life, and is the logic of all
the labor and stir we keep about it, to sustain us; all dungings
and other sordid temperings being but the vicars succedaneous
to this improvement. " Moreover, this being one of those "worn-
out and exhausted lay fields which enjoy their sabbath," had
perchance, as Sir Kenelm Digby thinks likely, attracted "vital
spirits" from the air.