Walden Pond .

lost of them are writtenby coulemponiry scholars, scientists, IIov-

elists, poets, men of affairs, and meu ofletters .

Iiut all of them, as tlie Toastrrnas--

Thorraii n.5 o Diarist

THOREAU AS A DIAR Srr

THOREAU was a man of his own kind.Many things may be said of him, favor-able and unfavorable, but this must sure-ly be said first, -that, taken for all in all,be was like nobody else . Taken for allin all, be it remarked . Other men havedespised common sense; other men havechosen to be poor, and, as between phy-sical comfort and better things, havemade light of physical comfort; othermen, whether to their credit or discredit,have held and expressed a contemptu-ous opinion of their neighbors and alltheir neighbors' doings ; others, a smallernumber, believing in an absolute good-ness and in a wisdom transcendinghuman knowledge, have distrusted theworld as evil, accounting its influencedegrading, its prudence no better thancowardice, its wisdom a kind of folly,its morality a compromise, its religion abargain, its possessions a defilement andahindrance, and so judging of the world,have striven at all cost to live above it andapart. And some, no doubt, have lovedNature as a mistress, fleeing to her fromless congenial company, and devoting alifetime to the observation and enjoymentof her ways . In no one of these particu-lars was the hermit of Walden withoutforerunners ; but taken for all that liewas, poet, idealist, stoic, cynic, natural-ist, spiritualist, lover of purity, seeker ofperfection, panegyrist of friendship anddweller in a hermitage, freethinker andsaint, where shall we look to find his fel-low .' It seems but the plainest statementof fact to say that, as there was none

BY BRADFORD TORREY

t.er ventures to think, are worth reading.lie hopes that they will give pleasure, andThat they may be thought no v` orsc for be-ing prefaced by a. "Happy New Year.".

B . P.

before him, so there is scanty prospect ofany to come after him.His profession was literature ; as to

that there is no sign that he was ever indoubt ; and he understood from the firstthat for a writing mannothing could takethe place of practice, partly because thatis the one means of acquiring ease of ex-pression, and partly because aman oftenhas no suspicion of his own thoughts untilhis pen discovers them ; and almost fromthe first- a friend (Emerson as likely asany) having given him the hint-he hadcome to feel that no practice is better orreadier than the keeping of a journal, adaily record of things thought, seen, andfelt . Such a record he began soon afterleaving college, and (being one of a thou-sand in this respect as in others) lie con-tinued it to the end. By good fortune lieleft it behind him, and, to complete thegood fortune, it is at last to be printed, nolonger in selections, but as a whole; andif a man is curious to know what suchan original,plain-spoken,perfection-seek-ing, convention-despising, dogma-disbe-lieving, wisdom-loving, sham-hating, na-ture-worshiping, poverty-proud geniuswas in the habit of confiding to so patienta listener at the close of the day, he hasonly to read the book .The man himself is there . Something

of him, indeed, is to be discovered, onehalf imagines, in the outward aspect ofthe thirty-nine manuscript volumes : ordi-nary "blank books" of the sort furnishedby country shopkeepers fifty or sixtyyears ago, larger or smaller as might: hap-

G

pert, and of varviug shapes (a customerseeking such wares must not be too par-ticular ; one remembers Thoreau's com-plaint that the universal preoccupationwith questions of money rendered it diffi-cult for him to find a blank book that wasnot ruledfor dollars and cents), still neatlypacked in the strong wooden box whichtheir owner, a workman needing not to beashamed, made with his own hands onpurpose to hold them .A pretty full result of a short life they

seem to be, as one takes up volume aftervolume (the largest are found to containabout a hundred thousand words) andturns the leaves : the handwriting strongand rapid, leaning well forward in itshaste,none too legible, slow reading at thebest, with here and there a word that isalmost past making out; the orthographythat of a naturally good speller settingdown his thoughts at full speed and leav-ing his mistakes behind him; and thepunctuation, to call it such, no betterthan a makeshift,-after the model ofSterne Is, if one chooses to say so : a spat-tering of dashes, and little else .As for the matter, it is more carefully

considered, less strictly improvised, thanis customary with diarists . It is evident,in fact, from references here and there,that many of the entries were copied froman earlier penciled draft, made presum-ably in the field, "with the eye on the ob-ject," while the worl,;~ as a whole has beenmore or less carefully revised, with era-sures, emendations, and suggested alter-native readings .As we have said, if a man wishes to

know Thoreau as he was, let him readthe book. He will find himself in clean,self-respecting company, with no call toblush, as if he were playing the eaves-dropper. Of confessions, indeed, in thespicy sense of the word, Thoreau hadnone to make . He was no Montaigne,no Rousseau, no Samuel Pepys. Howshould he be' IIe was a Puritan of Mas-sachusetts, though he kept no Sabbath,was seen in no church, - being very dif-ferent from Mr. Pepys in more ways than

Thoreau, as a Diarist

one, -and esteemed the Hebrew scrip-tures as a good book like any other.Once, indeed, when he was thirty-fiveyears old, lie went to a "part,"." For any-thing we know, that (with a little sow-ing of wild oats in the matter of smokingdried lily-stems when a boy) was as nearas he evercame to dissipation . Andhe didnot like it . "It is a bad place to go to," hesays, - "thirty or forty persons, mostlyyoung women, in a small room, warm andnoisy." One of the young women wasreputed to be "pretty-looking ;" but hescarcely looked at her, though he was " in-troduced," and he could not hear whatshesaid, because there was "such aclack-ing." "I could imagine better placesfor conversation," he goes on, "wherethere should be a certain degree of silencesurrounding you, and less than forty talk-ing at once . Why, this afternoon, even,I did better . There was old Mr . JosephHosmer and I ate our luncheon of crackerand cheese together in the woods. I heardall he said, though it was not much, to besure, and he could hear me . And thenlie talked out of such a glorious repose,taking a leisurely bite at the cracker andcheese between his words; and so someof him was communicated to me, andsome of me to him, I trust."He entertains a shrewd suspicion that

assemblies of this kind are got up with aview to matrimonial alliances among theyoung people! For his part, at all events,he does n't understand "the use of goingto see people whom yet you never see, andwho never see you." Some of his friendsmake a singular blunder. They go outof their way to talk to pretty young wo-men as such . Their prettiness may be areason for looking at them, so much hewill concede, -for the sake of the an-tithesis, if for nothing else,-but why is itany reason for talking to them ' For him-self, though he may be "lacking a sensein this respect," he derives "no pleasurefrom talking with a youngwoman half anhour simply because she has regular fea-tures."How crabbed is divine philosophy!

After this we are not surprisedconcludes by saying : "Theyoung women is the most unpihave ever tried." No, no; he wulike Mr. Samuel Pepys.The sect of young women, mu

need not feel deeply affronted bgallant mention. It is perhap!one in the journal (by its natured to matters interesting to tinwhile there are multitudes ofto prove that Thoreau's aversisociety of older people taken asmen and women alike, was hpronounced . In truth (and itof necessity against him), hemade for "parties," nor for ceven for general companionshiall without and in sight," staigne, "born for society and friSo was not Thoreau. He wasborn for contemplation and soldwhat we are born for, that leiand so the will of Godbe done .good or ill, was Thoreau's p"We are constantly invited tcwe are," he said . It is one oforable sentences ; an admirableof Emerson's essay on Self-Re'His fellow mortals, as a rul

recommend themselves to hthoughts were none the bette-company, as they almost ahfor the company of the pinethe meadow . Inspiration, a re-the spiritual faculties, as indisfhim as daily bread, his fellow rnot furnish. For this state ofsometimes (once or twice at lereproaches himself. It may beto blame for so commonly skinanity and its affairs ; he wamend the fault, lie promises .at such a moment of eaceptioity his pen, reversing 13alaam'into left-handed complimentworse, if auvthiiw, than the cfeuse. Hear him : "I will n(go by where those men are restone bridge . I will see if Ipocir,v in that, if that will not

After this we are not surprised when heconcludes by saying : "The society ofyoung women is the most unprofitable Ihave ever tried." No, no; he was nothinglike Mr. Samuel Pepys.The sect of youngwomen, maywe add,

need not feel deeply affronted by this un-gallant mention. It is perhaps the onlyone in the journal (by its nature restrict-ed to matters interesting to the author),while there are multitudes of passagesto prove that Thoreau's aversion to thesociety of older people taken as they run,men and women alike, was hardly lesspronounced . In truth (and it is nothingof necessity against him), he was notmade for "parties," nor for clubs, noreven for general companionship . "I amall without and in sight," said Mon-taigne, "born for society and friendship ."So was not Thoreau. He was all within,born for contemplation and solitude . Andwhat we are born for, that let us be,-and so the will of God be done. Such, forgood or ill, was Thoreau's philosophy ."We are constantly invited to be whatwe are," he said . It is one of his mem-orable sentences; an admirable summaryof Emerson's essay on Self-Reliance.His fellow mortals, as a rule, did not

recommend themselves to him . Histhoughts were none the better for theircompany, as they almost always werefor the company of the pine tree andthe meadow . Inspiration, a refreshing ofthe spiritual faculties, as indispensable tohim as daily bread, his fellow mortals didnot furnish . For this state of things hesometimes (once or twice at least) mildlyreproaches himself. It may be that he isto blame for so commonly skipping hu-manity and its affairs ; he will seek toamend the fault, he promises . But evenat such a inornent of exceptional humil-ity his pen, reversing 13alaam's r6le, runsinto left-handed compliments that arcworse, if anything, than the original of-fense. Hear him : "I will not avoid togo by where those men are repairing thestone bridge . I will see if I cannot seepoetry in that, if that Nyill not yield me a

I'horeatt (is a Diarist 7

reflection . It is narrow to be confinedto woods and fields and grand aspectsof nature only . . . . Why not see menstanding in the sun and casting a shadow,even as trees? . . . I will try to enjoythem as animals, at least."This is in 1851 . A year afterward we

find him concerned with the same theme,but in a less hesitating mood . Now heis on his high horse, with apologies tonobody . "It appears to me," he begins,"that to one standing on the heightsof philosophy mankind and the works ofman will have sunk out of sight alto-gether ." Man, in his opinion, is "toomuch insisted upon." "The poet says,`The proper study of mankind is man .'I say, Study to forget all that . Takewider views of the universe . . . . Whatis the village, city, state, nation, aye, thecivilized world, that it should concern aman so much ? The thought of them af-fects me, in my wisest hours, as when Ipass a woodchuck's hole ."Ahigh horse, indeed! But his compari-

son is really by no means so disparagingas it sounds ; for Thoreau took a deepand lasting interest in woodchucks . Atone time and another he wrote many goodpages about them ; for their reappearancein the spring lie watched as for the returnof a friend, and once, at least, he devotedan hour to digging out a burrow and re-cording with painstaking minuteness thecoarse and lengtli of its ramifications. Anovelist, describing his 1ieroine's boudoir,could hardly have been more strict withhimself. In fact, to have said that one ofThoreau's human neighbors was as in-teresting to him as a woodchuck wouldhave been to pay that neighbor a ratherhandsome compliment . None of thebrute animals, so called, -- we have it onhis own authority, - ever vexed his earswith pomposity or nonsense .But we Have interrupted his discourse

inidway. "! do not value any view of theuniverse into tdiicli man and the instiln-tions of roan enter very largely," he (-on-tinues . . . . "11an is a past phenomenonto philosophy." 'Mien lie descends a little

S

to particulars . "Some rarely go outdoors,most are always at home at night,"--Concord people being uncommonly wellbrought up, it would seem,-"very fewindeed have stayed out all night once intheir lives ; fewer still have gone behindthe world of humanity and seen its insti-tutions like toadstools by the wayside ."And then, having, with this good bit of

philosophical "tall talk," brushed aside1tumanity as a very little thing, he pro-ceeds to chronicle the really essential factsof the day : that he landed that afternoonoil Tall's Island, and to his disappoint-ment found the weather not cold or windyenough for the meadow to make "itsmost serious impression ;" also, that thestaddles from which the hay had beenremoved were found to stand a foot or twoabove the water ; besides which, he sawcranberries oil the bottom (although heforgot to mention them in their properplace), and noticed that the steam of theengine looked very white that morningagainst the hillside .

All which setting of ordinary valuationstopsy-turvy, the lords of creation belowthe beasts that perish, may lead an inno-cent reader to exclaim with one of old,"Lord, what is man, that thou art mind-ful of him' and the son of man, that thouvisitest him .1 "

Nevertheless, we must not treat thematter too lightly, easily as it lends itselfto persiflage. Even in this extreme in-stance it is not to be assumed that Tho-reau was talking for the sake of talking,or merely keeping his hand in with hisfavorite rhetorical weapon, a paradox.That desideraied "serious impression,"at all events, was no laughing matter ;rather it was to have been the chief eventof the clay : of more account to Thoreauthan dinner and supper both were likelyto be to his farmer neighbor . As for thewoodchuck, its comparative rank in thescale of auinral c "~istertc "e, be it higl,r errlower, is nothing to the purpose . ForThoreau it wa,s simple trulh tlrat,on somedays, and in some states of mind, liefound the society of such a cave-dweller

Thoreau, as u Diarist

more acceptable, or less unacceptable,than that of any number of his highlycivilized townsmen . Nor is the state-ment one, tohe nervously concerned about.Any inveterate stroller, the most matter-of-fact mail alive (though matter-of-factmen are not apt to be strollers), mightsay the same, in all soberness, with nothought of writing himself down a mis-anthrope, or of setting himself ill) as aphilosopher .For one thing, the woodchuck is sure

to be less intrusive, less distracting, thanthe ordinary human specimen ; he fits inbetter with solitude and the solitary feel-ing. He is never in the way.' Moreover,you can say to a woodchuck anythingthat comes into your head, without fearof giving offense ; a less important con-sideration than theother, no doubt, wood-chucks as a class not being remarkablyconversable, but still worthy of mention.For, naturally enough, an outspoken free-thinker like Thoreau found the greaternumber of men not so very different from"ministers," of whom he said, in a toneof innocent surprise, that they"could notbear all kinds of opinions," - "as if any

1 As bearing upon this point of non-intru-siveness, and also by way of doing justice toThorean's real feeling toward some, at least,of his townsmen, we must quote a paragraphentered in his journal, under date of Decent-her 3, 1850 : "flow I love the simple, reservedcountrymen, my neighbors, who mind theirown business and let me alone ; who never way-laid nor shot at me, to my knowledge, when Icrossed their fields, though each one has agun in his house . For nearly twoscore years Ihave known at a distance these long-sufferingmen, whom I never spoke to, who never spoketo me . and now I feel a certain tenderness forthem, as if this long probation were but theprelude to an eternal friendship . What a longtrial we have withstood, and how much moreadmirable we are to each other, perchance,than if we had been bedfellows. I am notonly grateful because I I outer, and Christ, andShakespeare have lived. but I am grateful for1linott, and Rice . and Melvin, and Goodwin,and Puffer even . 1 see Melvin all alone fillingIlls sphere in russet suit, . which no other wouldfill or suggest . It(- takes up as nuroh romn innature as the instt famous ."

sincere thought were not the betruth!"

IIe walked one afternoon witand spent an agreeable hour, Itthe most part he preferred hawoods and fields to himself . Aan ineffectual genius, lie remarever feeling about vainly in hiand touching nothing" (one IArnold's characterization of S"`a beautiful and ineffectual an ;in n in the void his luminousvain," which, in its turn, mamind Lowell's comparison ofgenius to a St . Elmo's fire, "pineffectual flame about the poi:thought "),but after all, he was ppany ; riot quite so good as none,but oil thewhole, as men go, ratthan most . At least, he wetto what you had to offer. Heminded; he was n't shut up it

-in honest man's thought wouldhim. You could talk to him witning up against "some institua word, - though Thoreau doit,-he was something like a weWith all his passion for "tha

society called solitude," and wfeeling that mankind, as a "nomenon," thought far too hidself, it is abundantly in evidThoreau, in his own time and cterms, was capable of a realdelight in familiar intercoursefellows . Chauning, who sheknown, speaks a little vaguely,of his "fine social qualities."a genial and hospitable entertcalls him. And Mr. Bicketsonshould have known, assures wman could hold a finer relationhis family than he ." But of thishis clnara,cter, it must be acknthere is comparativelylittle in tiWhat is very couslant andOwn . _ cntlrlutlic souretinu~s trof pairrfuhress---is the lrerntiand thirst after friendship ; athe sweets of tt-hich, so far aIll . was vcr. sparingly to cnjoy.

sincere thought were not tlrc best sort oftruth!"

IIe walked one afternoon with Alcott,and spent an agreeable hour, though forthe most part he preferred having thewoods and fields to himself. Alcott wasall ineffectual genius, he remarks, "for-ever feeling about vainly in his speech,and touching nothing" (one thinks ofArnold's characterization of Shelley as"a, beautiful and ineffectual angel, beat-ing in the void his luininous wings inVain," which, in its turn, may call tomind Lowell's comparison of Shelley'sgenius to a St . Elmo's fire, "playing inineffectual flame about the points of histhought"),but after all, he was good com-pany ; not quite so good as none,of course,but on the whole, as men go, rather betterthan most . At least, he would listento what you had to offer . He was open-ininded ; be was n't shut up in a creed ;an honest man's thought would not shockhim . You could talk to him without run-ning up against "some institution." Ina word, - though Thoreau does n't sayit,-he was something like a woodchuck.With all his passion for "that glorious

society called solitude," and with all hisfeeling that mankind, as a "past phe-nomenon," thought far too highly of it-self, it is abundantly in evidence thatThoreau, in his own time and on his ownterms, was capable of a really humandelight in familiar intercourse with hisfellows. Channing, who should haveknown, speaks a little vaguely, to be sure,of his "fine social qualities." "Alwaysa genial and hospitable entertainer," hecalls him . And Mr. Ricketson, who alsoshould have known, assures us that "nornan could hold a finer relationship withhis family than he." But of this aspect ofhis character, it must be acknowledged,there is comparativelylittle in the journal .Whal- is very constant, :in(] emphaticthere- ._ vinplrjtic sometimes to the pointof painfulness---is the hermit ;, hungerand thirst after friendship ; a friendshipthe sweets of tivhich, so far as appears,lie was verb slxrringly to enjoy. For if be

771orcall (is (I Mfll'iRi,

was at home in the family group and inhuckleberry excursions with children, ifhe relished to the full a talk with a strayfisherman, a racy-tongued wood-chopper,or a good Indian, something very differ-ent seems to have been habitual withhim when it came to intercourse withequals and friends .

Here, even more than elsewhere, liewas an uncompromising idealist . Hiscraving was for a friendship more thanhuman, friendship such as it was beyondany one about him to furnish, if it wasnot, as may fairly be suspected, beyondhis own capacity to receive. In respect tooutward things, his wealth, he truly said,was to want little . In respect to friend-ship, his poverty was to want the unat-tainable . It might have been retortedupon him in his own words, that he waslike a man who should complain of hardtimes because he could not afford to buvhimself a crown. But the retort wouldperhaps have been rather smart thanfair . He, at least, would never have ac-quiesced in it . He confided to his journalagain and again that he asked nothing ofhis friends but honesty, sincerity, a grainof real appreciation, "an opportunityonce in a year to speak the truth;" butin the end it came always to this, that heinsisted upon perfection, and, not findingit, went on his way hungry . Probably itis true --one seems to divine a reason forit - that idealists, claimers of the abso-lute, have commonly found their fellowmen a disappointment .

In Thoreau's case it was his bestfriends who most severely tried his pa-tience . They invite him to see them, }recomplains, and then "do not show them-selves ." He "pines and starves nearthem." All is useless . Thev treat hire sothat he "feels a thousand miles off." "Ileave my friends early. I go away toclrerisli mV idea of friendship ." SurelyIlrcre is no senteiwe lit all Thoreau's(rooks that is more thoroughlN clraracter-istic [Iran that . And how neatly it islurned! List(, rr ulsot(rthis,wlriclrisequal-ly hitter, and almost equally perfeel in

10

the phrasing : "Nofields are so barren tome as the men of whom I expect every-thing, but get nothing. In their neighbor-hood I experience a painful yeai .iing forsociety."

It is all a mystery to him. "How hap-pens it," he exclaims, "that I find myselfmaking such an enormous demand onmen, and so constantly disappointed?Are my friends aware how disappointedIam ? Is it all my fault ? Am I incapableof expansion and generosity ? I shallaccuse myself of anything else sooner ."And again he goes away sorrowful, con-soling himself, as best lie can, with hisown paradox,-" I might have loved hhn, had I loved him

less ."Strange that he should have suffered in

this way, many will think, with Emersonhimself for a friend and neighbor! Well,the twomenwere friends, but neither wasin this relation quite impeccable (whichis as much as to say that both were hu-man), and to judge by such hints as aregatherable on either side, their case wasnot entirely unlike that of Bridget Eliaand her cousin, - "generally in har-mony, with occasional bickerings, as itshould be among near relations ;" though"bickerings" is no doubt an undignifiedterm for use in this connection . It isinteresting, some may deem it amusing,to put side by side the statements of thetwomenupon this very point ; Emerson'scommunicated to the public shortly afterhis friend's death, Thoreau's entrustednine years before to the privacy of hisjournal.

Emerson's speech is the more guarded,as, for more reasons than one, it mighthave been expected to be . His friend, heconfesses, "was somewhat military in hisnature . . . always manly and able, butrarely tender, as if lie did not feel himselfexcept in opposition . He wanted a fallacyto expose, a blunder to pillory, I ]nay sacrequired a little sense of victory, a roll ofthe drum, to call his powers into fullexercise . . . . It seemed as if his firstinstinct on hearing a proposition was to

T{aoreou (is cc Diarist

controvert it, so impatient was lie of tl]climitations of our daily thought. Thishabit, of course, is a little chilling to thesocial affections ; and though the coin-panion would in the end acquit him ofany malice or untruth, yet it mars con-versation. Hence no equal companionstood in affectionate relations with one sopure and guileless."Thoreau's entry is dated May24, 1853 .

"Talked, or tried to talk, with R. W. IA, .

Lost my time, nay, almost my identity .He, assuming a false opposition wherethere wasno difference of opinion, talkedto the wind, told me what I knew, andI lost my time trying to imagine myselfsomebody else to oppose him."

It is the very same picture, drawn byanother pencil, with a different placing ofthe shadows; and since the two sketcheswere made so many years apart and yetseem to be descriptive of the same thing,it is perhaps fair to conclude that thisparticular interview, which appears tohave degenerated into something like adispute about nothing (a very frequentsubject of disputes, by the way), was notexceptional, but rather typical . Withoutdoubt this was one of the occasions whenThoreau felt himself treated as if he were"a thousand miles off," and went homeearly to "cherish his idea of friendship ."Let us hope that he lost nothing elsealong with his time and identity .But here, again, we are in danger of an

unseasonable lightness . Friendship, ac-cording to Thoreau's apprehension of it,was a thing infinitely sacred . A friendmight move him to petulance, as the bestof friends sometimes will ; but friendship,the ideal state shown to him in dreams,for speech concerning that there wasnowhere in English, nor anywhere else,a word sufficiently noble and unsoiled .And even his friends lie loved, although,tongue-tied New Englander tl]at he way,lie could never tell then] so . He lovedthem best (and this, likewise, was no sin-gularity) N-dien they were farthest away .In company" , even in their company, liecould never utter his truest thought.

So it is will] us all . It wasthan Thoreau who said, "Wto meet;" and a greater stil(and lie also a . Concord roan),fessed at fifty odd : "I doubI have ever really talked with h:persons in my life ."As for Thoreau, he knew at

owned as much to himself, tlsorption in nature tended tofor human society . But soloved to be alone. And in thishad no thought of change, -inor wish . Whatever happenedstill belong to no club but the t]try club," which dined "at theShrub Oak." The fields and ithe old road,the river, and the Lwere his real neighbors. Yeyear out, how near they werea nearness unspeakable; tillit seemed as if their being annot two, but one and the saithem was no frivolity, no vuchangeableness, no prejudicthem he had no misundeino meaningless disputes, no cments. They knew him, andof him. In their society he frenewed. There he lived, an(life . There, if anywhere, the SLord came upon biro . Hearcool morning in August, with tthe branches and the crickets i]and think of him, if you can,too cold for friendship!"My heart leaps out of my

the sound of the wind in thewhose life was but yesterday s,and shallow, suddenly recovermy spirituality, through my lie,Ali! if I could so live that thbe no desultory moments . .walk, I would sit and sleep, wpiety. What if I could pray amyself, as I went along by thea cheerful prayer, like the bircI could embrace the earth. I slto he buried in it . And then,those I love among men, whothat 1 love them, though I tel :

So it is with us all . It was a greaterthan Thoreau who said, "We descendto meet ;" and a greater still, perhaps(and he also a Concord man), who con-fessed at fifty odd : "I doubt whetherI have ever really talked with half a dozenpersons in my life ."As for Thoreau, he knew at times, and

owned as much to himself, that his ab-sorption in nature tended to unfit himfor human society. But so it was; heloved to be alone. And in this respect hehad no thought of change,- no thoughtnor wish . Whatever happened, he wouldstill belong to no club but the true "coun-try club," which dined "at the sign of theShrub Oak." The fields and the woods,the old road, the river, and the pond, thesewere his real neighbors. Year in andyear out, how near they were to him!-a nearness unspeakable ; till sometimesit seemed as if their being and his werenot two, but one and the same . Withthem was no frivolity, no vulgarity, nochangeableness, no prejudice. Withthem he had no misunderstandings,no meaningless disputes, no disappoint-ments. They knew him, and were knownof him. In their society he felt himselfrenewed. There he lived, and loved hislife . There, if anywhere, the Spirit of theLord came upon him. Hear him, on acool morning in August, with the wind inthe branches and the crickets in the grass,and think of him, if you can, as a beingtoo cold for friendship!"My heart leaps out of my mouth at

the sound of the wind in the woods. I,whose life was but yesterday so desultoryand shallow, suddenly recover my spirits,my spirituality, throughmy hearing. . . .Ah! if I could so live that there shouldbe no desultory moments . . . I wouldwalk, I would sit and sleep, with naturalpiety. What if I could pray aloud, or tomyself, as I went along by the brookside,a cheerful prayer, like the birds! For joyI could embrace the earth. I shall delightto be buried in it . And then, to think ofthose I love among men, who will knowthat I love them, though I tell them not.

Thorean as a Diarist

. . . I thank you, God. I do not deserve:anything ; I am unworthy of the least re-gard; and yet the world is gilded for mydelight, and holidays are prepared for me,and my path is strewn with flowers. . . .O keep my senses pure!"

Highly characteristic is that concludingejaculation . For Thoreau the five senseswere not organs or means of sensuousgratification, but the five gateways ofthe soul . He would have them open andundefiled . Upon that point no man wasever more insistent. Above all, no sensemust be pampered ; else it would lose itsnative freshness and delicacy, and so itsdi-vineruse . That way lay perdition. Whenawomancame to Concord to lecture, andThoreau carried her manuscript to thehall for her, wrapped in its owner's hand-kerchief, lie complained twenty - fourhours afterward that his pocket "stillexhaled cologne." Faint, elusive outdoorodors were not only a continual delight tohim, but a positive means of grace.

So, too, he would rather not see anyof the scenic wonders of the world. Onlylet his sense of beauty remain uncorrupt-ed, and he could trust his Musketaquidmeadows, and the low hills round about,to feed and satisfy him forever.Because of his jealousy in this regard,

partly,- and partly from ignorance, itmay be, just as some of his respectablevillage acquaintances would have foundthe Iliad, of which he talked so much,duller than death in comparison with theworks of Mr . Sylvatms Cobb, - he oftenspoke in slighting terms of operas and allthe more elaborate forms of music. Theear, he thought, if it were kept innocent,would find satisfaction in the very sim-plestofmusical sounds . Forhimself,therewas no language extravagant enough toexpress his rapturous delight in them .Now "all the romance of his youthfullestmoment" came flooding back upon him,and anon he was carried away till he"looked under the lids of Time," -allby the humming of telegraph wires or, atnight especially, by the distant baying ofa hound.

12

To the modern "musical person" ccr-fa,in of his confcssioris alder fills headare of a character to cxcilc nurfli . Iii"is "much indebted," for instance, to a,neighbor "who will now and then, in theintervals of his work, draw forth a fewstrains from his accordion." The neigh-bor is only a learner, but, says Thoreau,"I find when his strains cease that I havebeen elevated." His daily philosophy isall of a piece, one perceives : plain fare,plain clothes, plain company, a but in thewoods, an old book,-andfor inspirationthe notes of a neighbor's accordion.More than once, too, he acknowledges

his obligation to that famous rural eci-tertainer and civilizer, the hand-organ ."All Vienna" could not do more for him,he ventures to think. "It is perhaps thebest instrumental music that we have,"he observes ; which can hardly have beentrue, even in Concord, one prefers to be-lieve, while admitting the possibility . Ifit is heard far enough away, he goes on,so that the creaking of the machinery islost, "it serves the grandest use for me, -it deepens my existence."We senile, of course, as in duty . bound,

at so artless an avowal ; but, havingsmiled, we are bound also to render ouropinion that the most blare concert-goer,if he be a man of native sensibility, willreadily enough discern what Thoreau hasin mind, and with equal readiness willconcede to it a measure of reasonableness ;for he will have the witness in himselfthat the effect of music upon the souldepends as much upon the temper of thesoul as upon the perfection of the instru-ment . One day a simple air, sirrrply sungor played, will land him in heaven ; andanother day the best efforts of the fullsymphony orchestra will leave him in themire . And after all, it is possibly better,albeit in "poorer taste," to be transportedby the wheezing of an accordion than tobe bored by finer music. As for Thoreau,he studied to be a master of the. art ofliving ; and in the practice of that art, asof any other, it is the glory of the artist toachieve extraordinary results by ordinary

Thorcaa as a Diarist

means. To have oiw's existence deepenedthere eaituot, be many things utore

ilesira.])IC titan that : aucl RS between Irurrinsophistieated recluse ;end Ilie average"inusieal person" aforesaid, [lie case isperhaps not so one-sided as at first sight itlooks ; or, if it be, the odds are possiblynot always on the side of what seems thegreater opportunity .His life, the quality of his life, that for

Thoreau was the paramount concern.To the furthering of that end all thingsmust be held subservient . Nature, man,books, music, all for him had the sameuse. This one thing he did,-he culti-vated himself. If any, because of his sodoing, accused him of selfishness, preach-ing to him of philanthropy, alms-giving,and what not, his answer was not to waitfor. Mankind, lie was prepared to main-tain,was very well off without such helps,which oftener than not did as much harmas good (though the concrete case at hiselbow-half - clad Johnny Riordan, afugitive slave, an Irishman who wishedto bring his family over-appealed tohim as quickly as to most, one is gladto notice) ; and, however that might be,the world needed a thousand times morethan any so-called charity the sight of aman here and there living for higher endsthan the world itself knows of. His owncourse, at any rate, was clear before him :"What I am, I am, and say not. Being isthe great explainer."His life, his own life, that lie must live ;

and he must be in earnest about it . Hewas no indifferent, no little-carer, no skep-tic, as if truth and a lie were but varvingshades of the same color, and virtue, ac-cording to the old phrase, "a mean be-tween vices ." )'oil would never catch himsighing, "Oh, well!" or "Whoknows?''Qualifications, reconciliations, rapproche-nients, the two sides of the shield, and allthat,- these were considerations not inhis line. Before everything else he wasrr believer,-an idealist, that is,-thelast person in file world to put up withhalf-truths or halfway iueasnres . If. `existing things" were thna and so, that

was no reason wlrv, with the seSadducees, he should make thethem . What if there were no bestWhat if they were all bad? Andwhy not begin new? It was conwas it not, that a man should seexample, and follow his own coteral opinion,- what was thatthing better established becausesand fools believed it? Did foil,wisdom by being raised to a high,And antiquity, tradition, -wlthey ? Could a blind man of fifturies ago see farther than a blinthe present time? And if the blipblind, then or now, would notinto the ditch?

Yes, lie was undoubtedly peerto that there could never be anyagreement among practical peolworld where shiftiness and hesitthe rule, nothing looks so eccerstraight course . It mustbe acknotoo, that a marl whose goodnestrong infusion of the bitter, aropinions turn out of the wayfornnot apt . tobe the most comfortab]neighbor . We were not greatly slately, to hear an excellent lady rThoreau that,from all she had rehim, she thought lie must havevery disagreeable gentleman."hardly be said of him, as Mr. Biof Alatthew Arnold, who was 1pretty serious person, and, afterhis own, a preacher of righteousilie "conspired and contrivedthings pleasant ."Being a consistent idealist, h

course an extremist, falling in thrlittle behind the man out of Twhose hard sayings, by all accousometimes less acceptable thmight have been, and of whomasserted, in his emphatic way, twords were really read front a,nN[lie land, "alien" would not bestone of Ihal nweting-house rother." TInireau worshiped puthe every-day ethical standardstreet were to him an abor

was no reason why, with the sect of theSadducees, he should make the best ofthem . Whatif there were nobest of them?What if they were all bad? And anyhow ,why not begin new? It was conceivable,was it not, that a man should set his ownexample, and follow his own copy . Gen-eral opinion, -what was that? Was athing better established because ten thou-sand fools believed it? Did folly becomewisdom bybeingraisedto a higherpower ?And antiquity, tradition, -what werethey? Could a blind man of fifteen cen-turies ago see farther than a blind man ofthe present time ? And if the blind led theblind, then or now, would not both fallinto the ditch?

Yes, he was undoubtedly peculiar . Asto that there could never be anything butagreement among practical people . In aworld where shiftiness and hesitation arethe rule, nothing looks so eccentric as astraightcourse . It must be acknowledged,too, that a man whose goodness has astrong infusion of the bitter, and whoseopinions turn out of the way fornobody, isnot apt to be the most comfortable kind ofneighbor . We were not greatly surprised,lately, to hear an excellent lady remark ofThoreau that, from all she had read abouthim, she thought he must have been"avery disagreeable gentleman." It couldhardly be said of him, as Mr . Birrell saysof 1Vlattliew Arnold, who was himself apretty serious person, and, after a way ofhis own, a preacher of righteousness, thatlie "conspired and contrived to makethings pleasant ."Being a consistent idealist, he was of

course an extremist, fallingin that respectlittle behind the man out of Nazareth,whose hard sayings, by all accounts, weresometimes less acceptable than theymight have been, and of whom Thoreauasserted, in his emphatic way, that if hiswords were really read from any pulpit inlife land, "there" would not, be left, onestone or 111,11, iueeting-house upon an-other." '19ioreau worshiped purity, andthe every-day ethical standards of thestreet were to him an abomination .

Thoreau as a Diarist 1 ;3

"'There are certain current expressionsand blasphemous moods of viewingthings," he declares, "as when we say `heis doing a good business,' more profanethan cursing and swearing . There isdeath and sin in such words. Let notthe children hear them ." That innocent-sounding phrase about "a good busi-ness" - as if a business might be takenfor granted as good because it brought inmoney-was as abhorrent to him as theoutrageous worldly philosophy of an oldcastaway like Major Pendennis is to theordinarily sensitive reader.He was constitutionally earnest . There

are pages of the journal, indeed, whichmake one feel that perhaps he was in dan-ger of being too much so for his own pro-fit . Possibly it is not quite wholesome,possibly, if one dares to say it, it begets asomething like priggishness, for the soulto be keyed up continually to so strenu-ous a pitch. In Thoreau's case, at allevents, one is glad for every sign of aslackening of the tension. "Set the redhen to-day;" "Got green grapes tostew;" trivialities like these, too far apart(one is tempted to colloquialize, and callthem "precious few," finding them so in-frequent and so welcome), strike the read-er with a sudden sensation of relief, as ifhe had been wading to the chin, and all atonce his feet had touchedashallow.

So, too, one is thankful to come upon areally amusing dissertation about the ty-ing of shoestrings, or rather about theirtoo easy untying; a matter with which,it appears, Thoreau had for years expe-rienced "a great deal of trouble." Hiswalking companion (Channing, presum-ably) and himself had often comparednotes about it, concluding after experi-ments that the duration of a shoetiemight. be made to serve as a reasonablyaccurate unit, of measure, as accurate,sav. as a stadium or a league . Cbauniug,indeed, would .,onnetinies go without shoestrings, rather 11uui be plagued so inces-santly by their dissolute behavior . FinallYThoreau, being then thirty-six years old,and always exceptionally clever with liis

hands, set his wits seriously at work uponknots, and by a stroke of good fortune(or a stroke of genius) hit upon one whichanswered his end ; only to be told, oncommunicating the discovery to a thirdparty, that he had all his life been tying"granny knots," never having learned, atschool or elsewhere, the secret of a squareone! It might be well, he concludes, ifall children were "taught the accomplish-ment." Verily, as Hosea Biglow did notsay, they did n't know everything downin Concord.More refreshing still are entries de-

scribing hours of serene communion withnature, hours in which, as in an instancealready cited, the Spirit of the Lordblessed him, and lie forgot even to begood. These entries, likewise, are lessnumerous than could be wished, thoughperhaps as frequent as could fairly be ex-pected ; since ecstasies, like feasts, mustin the nature of things be somewhatbroadly spaced ; and it is interesting, notto say surprising, to see how frankly helooks upon them afterward as subjects onwhich to try his pen. In these "seasonswhen our genius reigns we maybe power-less for expression," he remarks ; but incalmer hours, when talent is again active,"the memory of those rarer moods comesto color our picture, and is the permanentpaint-pot, as it were, into which we dipour brush." But, in truth, the whole jour-nal, some volumes of which are carefullyindexed in his own hand, is quite undis-guisedly a collection of thoughts, feelings,and observations, out of which copy isto be extracted. In it, he says, "I wishto set down such choice experiences thatmy own writings may inspire me, and atlast I may make wholes of parts. . . .Each thought that is welcomed and re-corded is a nest-egg by the side of whichmore will be laid."A born writer, lie is "greedy of (,cca-

sions to express" himself. He counts it"wise to write on many subjects, that solie may find the right and inspiring one.""There are innumerable avenues to aperception of the truth," lie tells himself.

Thorea-u as a Diarist

"Improve the suggestion of each object,however humble, however slight andtransient the provocation . What else isthere to be improved?"The literary diarist, like the husband-

man, knows not which shall prosper.Morning and evening, he can only sowthe seed . So it was with Thoreau. "Astrange and unaccountable thing," hepronounces his journal. "It will allownothing to be predicated of it ; its good isnot good, nor its bad bad. If I make ahuge effort to expose my innermost andrichest wares to light, my counter seemscluttered with the meanest homemadestuffs ; but after months or years I maydiscover the wealth of India, and what-ever rarity is brought overland fromCathay, in that confused heap, and whatseemed a festoon of dried apple or pump-kin will prove a string of Brazilian dia-monds, or pearls from Coromandel."

Well, we make sure that whoever tum-bles the heap over now, more than fortyyears after the last object was laid uponit, will be rewarded with many and manyajewel. Here, for his encouragement, arehalf a dozen out of the goodly numberthat one customer has lately turned up, ina hasty rummaging of the counter :-"When a dog runs at you, whistle for

him.""We must be at the helm at least once

a day ; we must feel the tiller rope in ourhands,and know that if we sail, we steer."

"In composition I miss the hue of themind."

"After the era of youth is past, theknowledge of ourselves is an alloy thatspoils our satisfactions.""How vain it is to sit down to write

when you have not stood up to live .""Silence is of various depths and fer-

tility, like soil ."'Praise should be slxoken as simply

and naturally as a floNver emits its fra-graince .

Here, again, is a incre nothing, a ino-mentarv impression caught, in ball-pla.~--ers' language, on the fly ; notbing like apearl from Coromaudel, if you will, but

7

aI the worst a toothsome bite outNewEngland apple . It is winteateam come out of a path in thasays '1'horean, "as though it, Igone in, but belonged there,carne out like Elisha's bears." 7be few country-bred Yankee bo ,agine, who will not remember tcperienced something preciselyunder precisely the same circusthough it never occurred to thethe feeling into words, much leserve it in a drop of ink . Thatthe good things that a writer doAndour country-bred boy, if wnot, is likely to consider this onsentence of Thoreau, which accent's worth to the sum of wha-human knowledge, as of more vany dozen pages of his pant:tanical records.Thoreau the naturalist appea

journal, not as a master, but asIt could hardly be otherwise, ofjournal being what it is . Thehim conning by himself his.dacorrecting yesterday by to-dayday by to-morrow, progressing,scholar, over the stepping-storown mistakes . Of the branchesued, as far as the present write :sume to judge, he was strongest icertainly it was to plants thatpersistently devoted himself;there he had as many uncertdiscoveries to set down ; and hedown with unflagging zeal astrained particularity . The dailis running over with question-inpatience was admirable ; the nhe worked entirely by himself,of the helps that in this better-time almost belie the old pro,make even the beginner's patof royal road to learning. Th"How-to-Know" handbooks h,dawned .

Of his bird-studies it would bing, if there were room, to speaklen-tli . Here, even more than iif that were possible, lie suffere

at theworst atoothsome bite out of a wildNewEngland apple . It is winter. "I sawa. team come out of a path in the woods,"says Thoreau, "as though it had nevergone in, but belonged there, and onlycame out like Elisha's bears." There willbe few country-bred Yankee boys, we im-agine, who will not remember to have ex-perienced something precisely like that,under precisely the same circumstances,though it never occurred to them to putthe feeling into words, much less to pre-serve it in a drop of ink. That is one ofthe good things that a writer does for us .And our country-bred boy, if we mistakenot, is likely to consider this one carelesssentence of Thoreau, which adds not acent's worth to the sum of what is calledhuman knowledge, as of more value thanany dozen pages of his painstaking bo-tanical records.Thoreau the naturalist appears in the

journal, not as a master, but as a learner .It could hardly be otherwise, of course, ajournal being what it is . There we seehim conning by himself his. daily lesson,correcting yesterday by to-day, and to-day by to-morrow, progressing, like everyscholar, over the stepping-stones of hisown mistakes . Of the branches he pur-sued, as far as the present writer can pre-sume to judge, hewas strongest inbotany;certainly it was to plants that he mostpersistently devoted himself; but eventhere he had as many uncertainties asdiscoveries to set down ; and he set themdown with unflagging zeal and unre-strained particularity . The daily accountis running over with question-marks . Hispatience was admirable ; the more so ashe worked entirely by himself, with fewof the helps that in this better-furnishedtime almost belie the old proverb, andmake even the beginner's path a kindof royal road to learning. The day of"How-to-Know" handbooks had not yetdawned .Of his bird-studies it would be interest-

ing, if there were room, to speak at greaterlength . Here, even more than in botany,if that were possible, he suffered for lack

Thoreau as a Diarist 1 5

of assistance, and even in his later entriesleaves the present-day reader wonderinghow so eager a scholar could have spentso many years in learning so compara-tivelylittle . The mystery is partly cleared,however, when it is found that until 1854-say for more than a dozen years -liestudied without a glass. He does not buythings, he explains, with characteristicself-satisfaction, till long after he beginsto want them, so that when he does getthem he is "prepared to make a perfectuse of them." It was wasteful economy.He might as well have botanized withouta pocket-lens .But glass or no glass, how could an

ornithological observer, whose power-so Emerson said-"seemed to indicateadditional senses," be in the field dailyfor ten or fifteen years before setting eyesupon his first rose-breasted grosbeak ? -which memorable event happened toThoreau on the 13th of June, 1853! Howcould amanwhohad made it his businessfor at least a dozen years to "name all thebirds without a gun," stand for a longtime within a few feet of a large bird, sobusy that it could not be scared far away,and then go home uncertain whether hehad been looking at a woodcock or asnipe? How could he, when thirty-fiveyears old, see a flock of sparrows, andhear them sing, and not be sure whetheror not they were chipping sparrows ? Andhow could a man so strong in times andseasons, always marking dates with analmanac's exactness, how could he, solate as '52, inquire concerning the downywoodpecker, one of the more familiar andconstant of year- round birds, "Do wesee him in the winter?" and again, ayear later, be found asking whether he,the same downy woodpecker, is not thefirst of our woodland birds to arrive in thespring ? At thirty-six he is amazed to theextent of double exclamation points bythe sight of a flicker so early as March 29 .

It fills one with astonishment to hearhim (May 4, 1853) describing what hetakes to be an indigo-bird after this fash-ion : "Dark throat and light beneath,

and white spot on wings, . , with hoarse .-rapid notes, a kind of I leer, Ileer, beer, notmusical. The stranger inay lia,ve been -most likely it was a, black-throatedblue warbler; wlaclr is as much like anindigo-bird as a bluebird is like a bluejay, - or a yellow apple like an orange .And the indigo-bird, it should be said, isa common NewEnglander, such as one ofour modern schoolboy bird-gazers wouldhave no difficulty in getting into his"list� any summer day in Concord ; whilethe warbler in question, though nothingbut a migrant, andsomewhat seclusive inits habits, is so regular in its passage andso unmistakably marked (no bird moreso), that it seems marvelous how Tbo-reau, prowling about everywhere with hiseyes open, should year after year havemissed it .The truth appears to be that even of

the commoner sorts of birds that breed ineastern Massachusetts ormigrate throughit, Thoreau knew by sight and nameonly a small proportion, wonderful as hisknowledge seemed to those who, likeEmerson, knew practically nothing.Not that the journal is likely to prove

less interesting to bird-loving readers onthis account. On the contrary, it mayrather be more so, as showing them themeans and methods of an ornithologicalamateur fifty years ago, and, especially,as providing for them a desirable storeof ornithological nuts to crack on winterevenings . Some such reader, by a carefulcollation of the data which the publica-tion of the journal as a whole puts at hisdisposal, will perhaps succeed in settlingthe identity of the famous "night war-bler;" a bird which some, we believe,have suspected to be nothing rarer thanthe almost superabundant oven-bird, butwhich, so far as we ourselves know, mayhave been almost any one (or any two orthree) of our smaller common birds thatare given to occasional ecstatic song-flights . Whatever it was, it was of use toThoreau for the quickening of his ima-gination, and for literary purposes ; andEmerson was well advised in warning

Thoreau (is a Diaristhim to beware of bookiw, ii, lest lifelieneeforllt should harp So ntnctr the lr :;sto show him.

11, mist. be said, ltowcrer, tlta 'Tliorcaustood in slight need of such a caution . Hecherished for himself a pretty favorableopinion of a certain kind and measure ofignorance. With regard to some of hisornithological mysteries, for example,-the night warbler, the seringo bird (whichwith something like certainty we mayconjecture to have been the savanna spar-row), and others, - lie flatters himselfthat his good genius had withheld theirnames from him that he might the betterlearn their character, - whatever suchan expression may be supposed to mean .

IIe maintained stoutly, from beginningto end, that lie was not of the ordinaryschool of naturalists, but "a mystic, atranscendentalist, and a natural philo-sopher in one ;" though lie believed him-self, in his own words, "by constitution asgood an observer as most." Ile will notbe one of those who seek facts as facts,studying nature as a dead language . Hestudies her for purposes of his own, insearch of the "raw material of tropes andfigures ." "I pray for such experienceas will make nature significant, � he de-clares ; and then, with the same penful ofink, he asks : "Is that the swamp goose-berry of Gray now just beginning to blos-som at Saw-Mill Brook? It has a dividedstyle and stamens, etc., as yet not longerthan the calyx, though my slip has nothorns nor prickles, � and so on, and soon . Pages on pages of the journal arechoke-full, literally, of this kind of botani-cal interrogation, till the unsympatheticreader will be in danger of surmising thatthe mystical searcher after tropes andsymbols is sometimes not so utterly un-like the student of the dead language offact . But then, it is one of the virtues of ajournal that it is not a work of art, that ithas no form, no fashion (and so does notgo out of fashion), and is always at libertyto contradict itself . As Thoreau said, lietumbled his goods upon the counter; nosingle customer is }round to be pleased

7'i

with them all ; different men,tastes ; lef each select from flit ,things that suit his fancy.

For our own part, we acknowand the shrewd reader ina.y alrcremarked the fact, -- we havedisinclined to choose here and tlof some less rare and costly sttman is so sternly virtuous, so it

in earnest, so heart-set upon psthat we almost like him best wlmoment he betrays somethinggests atouch of human frailty .up our ears when he speaks of ;he once in a while goes to see,him to his face that she thinksconceited. Now, then, we whispselves, how will this man whoflattery, and, boasting himselfmoner," professes that for himsomething devilish in manners,will this candor-loving, truth-:truth-appreciating man enjoy tfof so unmannered a mentor?smile and say Aha! when hethe lady wonders why he doesher oftener.We smile, too, when he brags

February, that he has not yehis winter clothing, amusing hitwhile over the muffs and furs chardy neighbors, his own "simmaking him so tough in the fibs"flourishes like a tree ; " and thelater, writes with unbroken eqthat he is down with bronchitising himself to spend his days cuewarm corner by the stove.

Trifles of this kind encouragsant feeling of brotherly relationis one of us, after all, with likeBut of course wereally like him Ihe is at his best,-as in some of

of his love for things naturalLet us have one more such q"Now I yearn for one of thoseandering, dry, uninhabited roalead away from towns, whichaway from temptation, which oto the outside of earth, over its ucrust; where you may forget inwVOL. .'I-i - 1'O. 1

with them all ; different men, differenttastes ; let each select from the pile thethings that. suit his fancy%-_

For our own part, we acknowledge. - -and the shrewd reader may already haveremarked the fact, - we have not beendisinclined to choose here and there a bitof some less rare and costly stuff. Theman is so sternly virtuous, so inexorablyin earnest, so heart-set upon perfection,that we almost like him best when for amoment he betrays something that sug-gests a touch of human frailty . We prickup our ears when he speaks of a womanhe once in a while goes to see, who tellshim to his face that she thinks him self-conceited. Now, then, we whisper to our-selves, how will this man who despisesflattery, and, boasting himself a "com-moner," professes that for him "there issomething devilish in manners," -howwill this candor-loving, truth-speaking,truth-appreciating man enjoy the rebukeof so unmannered a mentor? And wesmile and say Aha! when he adds thatthe lady wonders why he does not visither oftener.We smile, too, when he brags, in early

February, that he has not yet put onhis winter clothing, amusing himself thewhile over the muffs and furs of his lesshardy neighbors, his own "simple diet"making him so tough in the fibre that he" flourishes like a tree ;" and then, a weeklater, writes with unbroken equanimitythat he is down with bronchitis, content-ing himself to spend his days cuddled in awarm corner by the stove.

Trifles of this kind encourage a plea-sant feeling of brotherly relationship . IIeis one of us, after all, with like passions .But of course wereally like him best whenhe is at his best,-as in some outpouringof his love for things natural and wild .Let us have one more such quotation :"Now I yearn for one of those old, me-andering, dry, uninhabited roads, whichlead away from towns, which lead usaway from temptation, which conduct usto the outside of earth, over its uppermostcrust; where youmayforgetin what con n-1'OL. 95 - 1'O. 1

Thorran as a Diarist 17

try you are travelling ; where your headis more in heaven than your feet. are onearth ; where you can pace when yourbreast, is full, and cherish your moodi -ness . . . . There I can walk and recoverthe lost child that I am without any ring-ing of a bell ."For real warmth, when once the fire

burns, whocan exceed our stoic?We like, also, his bits of prettiness,

things in which he is second to nobody,though prettiness, again, is not supposedto be the stoic's "note ;" and they are allthe prettier, as well as ten times more wel-come, because he has the grace-and thesound literary sense-to drop them hereand there, as it were casually, upon agroundof simple, unaffected prose. Here,now, is a sentence that by itself is worthadeal of ornithology : "The song sparrowis heard in fields and pastures, setting themidsummer day to music, -as if it werethe music of a mossy rail or fence-post ."Of dragon-flies he says : "How lavishlythey are painted! How cheap was thepaint! How free was the fancy of theirCreator!" In early June, when woodsare putting forth leaves, "the summer ispitching its tent." He finds the daintyfringed polygala (whose ordinary color isa lovely rose-purple) sporting white blos-soms, and remarks : "Thus many flowershave their nun sisters, dressed in white."Soaringhawks are "kites withoutstrings ;"andwhen he and his companion are trav-eling across country, keeping out of thesight of houses, yet compelled to traversehere and there a farmer's field, they"shut every window with an apple-tree ."Gems like these one need not be a con-

noisseur to appreciate, and they are corrn-mon upon his counter. It was a goodname that Channing gave him : "ThePoet-Naturalist."But there are better things than flowers

and jewels to be found in Thoreau'sstock. There are cordials and tonicsthere, to brace a man when he is weary;eye-washes, to cleanse his vision till hesees the heights above him and repentsthe lowness of his aims and the vulgarity

18

of his satisfactions; blisters and irritantplasters in large variety and of warrantedstrength ; but little or nothing, so far asthe present customer has noticed, in theline of anodynes and sleeping-powders .There we maybuymoral wisdom, whichis not only the "foundation and source ofgood writing," as one of the ancients said,but of the arts in general, especially theart of life . If the world is too much withits, if wealth attracts and the "rust ofcopper" has begun to eat into the soul,if we are in danger of selling our years forthings that perish with the using, here wemay find correctives, and go away thank-ful, rejoicing henceforth to be rich in abetter coinage than any that bears theworld's stamp. The very exaggerationsof the master - if we call them such -may do us good like a medicine ; for thereare diseased conditions which yield tonothing so quickly as to a shock .As for Thoreau himself, life might have

been smoother for him had he been lessexacting in his idealism, more tolerantof imperfection in others and in himself ;had he taken his studies, and even hisspiritual aspirations, a grain or two lessseriously . A bit of boyish play now andthen, the bow quite unbent, or a dose of

Th.orcau 11 .5 (l Diarist

novel-readingof the love-making,human-izing (Trollopean) sort, could one ima-gine it., with amore temperate cherishingof his moodiness, mighthave done him noharm . It would have been for his com-fort, so much may confidently be said,whether for his happiness is anotherquestion, had he been one of those gen-tler humorists who can sometimes seetltemselves, as all humorists have the giftof seeing otherpeople, funnyside out. Butthen, had these things been so, had hisnatural scope been wider, his genius, soto say, more tropical, richer, freer, moreexpansive, more various and flexible,more like the spreading banyan and lesslike the soaring, sky-pointing spruce,-why, then he would no longer have beenThoreau ; for better or worse, his speechwould have lost its distinctive tang ; andin the long run the world, which likesa touch of bitter and a touch of sour,would almost certainly have found theman himself less interesting, and hisbooks less rememberable . And made ashe was, "born to his own affairs," whatelse could he do but stick to himself ?"We are constantly invited to be whatwe are," he said . The words might fit-tingly have been cut upon his gravestone .

TH01[The extracts which have been c

the earliest manuscript volumes, wself in the Week and Walden, as wf

'rhe hitherto Imprinted paragraphunconnected than the extracts fromments.-THE EDITORS.

October"\VItAT are you doing n

asked; "Doyou keep a journmake my first entry to-day .

Solitude.

To be alone I find it necescape the present,- I avoid in)

could I be alone in the Romanchamber of mirrors? I seek agspiders must not be disturbefloor swept, nor the lumber at

November1'ruth .

Truth strikes us from hehithe dark, as well as from betbroad daylight .

February

Fear.All fear of the world or cone

swallowed up in a manly anTruth justice .

MarchSuch is man,- toiling, Ilea

gling ant - like to shoulderunappropriated crumb and t

his granary; then runs out, t

gazes heavenward, earthwarpismires can look down), 1earth meanwhile lookingupward ; there seen of men,decd-delivered, vanishes inting night. And is he doomedthe same course .' Can lie noscrewing, self -exhorting, selfing, wriggle or screw out sotshall live, --- respected, intactnot to be sneezed at?"

" '- 1'arlvleisli " is written inagailst this passage.