HENRY DAVID THOREAU 1817-1862 Concord, Massachusetts, so rich in associations both literary and historical, was the birthplace and life-long home of Henry David Thoreau. Born in 1817, he was educated in the schools of his native town and in Boston, and, though his parents were poor, he was enabled to go to Harvard College, graduating with the class of 1837. His reading and the study of Greek literature made a deep impression on him, and later he endeavored to give to his style a classical conciseness and precision, and often with notable success. For a time after his graduation he taught school, but being more or less of a shiftless nature, he soon found another and more congenial occupation. He never married. For two years he lived with Emerson as a member of his family, and although he endeavored not to be a mere follower of the great author, the influence of the literary master was naturally very powerful in shaping his mental development. In 1845 Thoreau built for himself a modest retreat in a bit of woodland belonging to Emerson on the shore of Walden Pond, where he lived for more than two years. He told his friends that in thus secluding himself his object was "to transact some private business," or, to be more plain, that his seclusion concerned no one but himself. What he really wanted was solitude, partly for the sake of studying nature in all her varying moods under conditions wholly removed from human influences, and partly that he might write at leisure and be free from all interruptions. His essay on Solitude" is not only characteristic of his general style and mode of thought, but is also interesting as indicating his mood in this remarkable hermit life by Walden Pond. On his return to civilization Thoreau set about to find a publisher for his book, and after a long search succeeded. In 1849 "A Week on the Concord and Merrimac Rivers" appeared. The public, however, did not appreciate this, and a few years later he gathered the greater part of his first editions and stored the books in his garret, writing in his journal, "I have now a library of nearly nine hundred volumes, over seven hundred of which I wrote myself." He was not discouraged, however, and in 1854 published a second book under the title of " Walden." This book is the one by which Thoreau is now best known, and it contains many of his best thoughts and an exposition of his own characteristic philosophy. It was the last of his books published during his lifetime. He died of consumption in 1862 at the age of forty-four. After his death a number of additional volumes were published by collecting the papers he had published in various magazines, and making considerable extracts from the journal he had kept for thirty years, so that now there are eleven volumes in the authorized edition of his works. Thoreau's reputation rests chiefly on the great gift he possessed as an interpreter of nature. As one of his admirers said, "he talked about nature just as if she'd been born and brought up in Concord." No writer ever had a keener power of observation than Thoreau, and his skill in giving adequate expression to his observations was scarcely less remarkable. His choice of words is always felicitous, his use of quotations strikingly apt, and many of his phrases and sentences are perfect examples of English composition. His chosen field was unique, as was his own personal character. Thus he has given us much in his books which he alone could give, and for the lack of which American literature would be decidedly poorer. T SOLITUDE 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 evening wind are as remote from storm as the smooth reflecting surface. 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 traveller along the highway 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 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 hilltops 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 traveller 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 hanged 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 melancholy 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 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 |