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    Walden
    Walden
    Walden
    Ebook347 pages10 hours

    Walden

    By Henry David Thoreau

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    First published in 1854, Walden recounts American philosopher and naturalist Henry David Thoreau's experiences over the course of two years, two months, and two days in a cabin he built near Walden Pond, amidst woodland owned by his friend and mentor Ralph Waldo Emerson, near Concord, Massachusetts. The book is part personal declaration of independence, social experiment, voyage of spiritual discovery, satire, and, ultimately, manual for self-reliance.

    Walden enjoyed some success upon its release, but still took five years to sell 2,000 copies, and then went out of print until Thoreau’s death in 1862. Despite its slow beginnings, later critics have praised it as an American classic that explores natural simplicity, harmony, and beauty. The poet Robert Frost wrote of Thoreau, "In one book ... he surpasses everything we have had in America."
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherEnhanced Media Publishing
    Release dateMay 9, 2017
    ISBN9781365940033
    Author

    Henry David Thoreau

    Henry David Thoreau was an American naturalist, essayist, poet, and philosopher. A leading transcendentalist, he is best known for his book Walden, a reflection upon simple living in natural surroundings, and his essay "Civil Disobedience", an argument in favor of citizen disobedience against an unjust state.

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    Reviews for Walden

    4/5

    2,113 ratings49 reviews

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    • 1/5
      Walden is perhaps the most self-indulgent piece of tripe I've ever had the displeasure of reading.
    • 5/5
      I live in a suburban neighborhood, it’s quiet and the lots are a nice size. The lot has a small tract of woods beyond the back yard, and the property ends at a creek. So even though I’m in a suburban neighborhood, It’s easy for me to imagine (I pretend a lot) that I’m in or near the woods and alone, as I never see, and hardly ever hear, the closest human neighbors. As I was reading Thoreau, I realized that this is my Walden. This book is amazing, and I was struck by how coincidentally similarly I’ve been considering the natural goings-on in my yard and woods while I pass much of my day on the porch. Especially the local wildlife that visits here: the crows, the squirrels (my favorite to watch), deer and their young feeding just beyond the fence, owls during the night, the occasional armadillo (always seen or heard at night). And now the songbirds are returning, too. It’s been nice to have such activity, easily observed from the porch.

      Reading this book put me in a very relaxed, calm state. Reflective and undisturbed, easy to think or not think and just watch the natural world going about its business. Thoreau is wonderful and I highly recommend this book. I know it is one I will frequently re-read.
    • 4/5
      Devastatingly wonderful. I had read parts of this at uni, of course, but never the whole work. I wouldn't recommend this for everyone, or perhaps many, but it is the heart of a movement which I hold very dear.
    • 3/5
      Here's a timeless treasure to be revisited time and again. I always find something new in this book. It is very thought-provoking and inspirational.
    • 3/5
      In al zijn onvolkomenheid toch een werk dat je niet loslaat. Thoreau wilde niet zozeer weg van de beschaving, hij deed wel een spirituele zoektocht naar zichzelf, met innige contact via de natuur. De zwakheid van het werk is dat het eerder een compilatiewerk is, er is geen coherent grondplan, en soms onmogelijke metaforen. Desondanks intrigerend.
    • 4/5
      A classic work that still inspires. I shall enjoy reading this and passing it along to others.
    • 3/5
      Easy to see why this book is such an integral part of history and culture in the USA. A celebration of individualism and self-reliance. It's a pity that some Americans don't recognise that the world has changed since the book was written so it doesn't provide the guide to the good life that it once did.
    • 4/5
      The whole book reads like a journal of Thoreau's life in the woods. At some points it becomes very detailed and specific on the topic which he's talking about (fish, topography, plants, etc...) but it is worth reading through just to get to some of the best of his insights.
    • 3/5
      Excellent but Thoreau is a grouch
    • 5/5
      I read Walden in a battered old hardcover, probably a Modern Library Edition, now far out of print, when I was a teen. A long, long while ago, when I was in love with the Transcendalists and seeking some sort of vision for a life well lived. Thoreau has walked with me through the decades of my life, a touchstone, a surly companion, a man who observes the ways of the plants and the weather and the world and does not compromise. Probably if we met in real life we would have hated each other; I get that Henry wasn't that comfortable with women, save the wife of his buddy Emerson and his mom and her cookies. But...you have to love him. And read him. And treasure him.
    • 2/5
      Read this for an Major American Literature class.
    • 3/5
      The beginning has a lot of deep thoughts all at once, and the rest of it has so much description. I liked parts of it, but I felt like other parts of it dragged on. At times though, I got the feeling that this was more of a problem with me than it is a problem with the book. In our society today, I don't think that many of us have the patience and attention spans needed to really appreciate a book of this type, especially considering that it's so focused on nature. Maybe that's a sign of something...I'm found a lot of the description to be nice (especially some of the descriptions of animals that made me smile), but I felt myself wanting to be there to see and experience for myself instead of reading Thoreau's often highly individualized descriptions.Some parts of this book really stood out to me, like the image of millions of ants battling to the death enveloping Thoreau's cottage. I might try to read this again someday, but in smaller bits, taking the time to appreciate each new idea and image. Maybe I'll like it better a few years from now.
    • 5/5
      The first American to translate philosophy from India (parts of the Lotus Sutra), Henry David (HD) Thoreau had read that ice was being shipped from America to India, and decided to retreat to a cabin in the woods by Walden Pond, "to live deliberately."

      Later, Gandhi had read and was influenced by Thoreau. Later still, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. had read and was influenced by Gandhi. Still yet later, kdis in Tiananmen Square, 1989, were quoting Dr Martin Luther King, Jr. So this book is an important genome in the spiral DNA-helix, between east and west. A treasure.

    • 4/5
      A philosophical work, but not the outlining of a philosophy. Pro-nature and anti-materialism about sums it up. I had several objections to the opening chapter ("Economy"), but after that fell into the groove of his poetic praise of nature and simplicity, reflecting on many of my own pleasant encounters with Mother Nature. He was a very sharp observer, noting many details I'm sure I would have overlooked about his surroundings. I was impressed with his frequent quoting of eastern writers, surely unusual for his time, and his respect for America's indigenous peoples. While I can't swallow what he's selling wholesale, I've taken away many quotes that I'll consider further.
    • 5/5
      This certainly is an amazing book. It follows a bit over two years in the life of Henry Thoreau, July 4, 1845 to September 6, 1847. It is during this time period he makes the decision to move to the shore of Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts.

      The book follow his journey of essentially self discovery, and his observations of life during this period - including building himself a cabin, farming and reading/books amongst other things.

      It really is quite an interesting glimpse into not only the past, but also one mans views of the world. I don't agree with all his positions (like meat not being worth the effort to hunt/obtain), but I certainly do agree that a simpler life can be a more rewarding life. I certainly also would go build myself a cabin on the shores of a lake and live a simple life if such a thing were possible in this day and age but alas, even if buys such a piece of land you still can't build such a cabin thanks to local government rules - how the world has changed in a mere 200 years!

      I will end this review with a paragraph from the end of the book: "However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names. It is not so bad as you are. It looks poorest when you are richest. The fault-finder will find faults even in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is. You may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poor-house. The setting sun is reflected from the windows of the almshouse as brightly as from the rich man's abode."
    • 5/5
      The most beautiful edition of this classic so far. Profusely and exquisitely illustrated.
    • 4/5
      When I first read this, in high school, I underlined a few epigrammatic quotes that summed up for me then all the wisdom of the world. Now I appreciate the small details of life in a semi-rural area: birds, the changing seasons, chopping wood, etc.
    • 2/5
      pretentious drivel
    • 3/5
      In al zijn onvolkomenheid toch een werk dat je niet loslaat. Thoreau wilde niet zozeer weg van de beschaving, hij deed wel een spirituele zoektocht naar zichzelf, met innige contact via de natuur. De zwakheid van het werk is dat het eerder een compilatiewerk is, er is geen coherent grondplan, en soms onmogelijke metaforen. Desondanks intrigerend.
    • 3/5
      I can understand & appreciate why this book is considered a masterpiece, although quite honestly, to me, it just seems like the ramblings of an old man who has been vastly disappointed by his life in the "normal" world, during the 2 years he spent in solitude in the woods. Some of the things he had to say were still relevant today, & some weren't, even though they were highly relevant at his time of life. Interesting, yes, boring in a LOT of places, long winded & overly wordy for my personal taste. Guess I should have read the Cliff Notes :) I probably would have appreciated it more. I found this one a REAL struggle.
    • 3/5
      I felt this book was decent, but I'm not much of a nature person, so I had a hard time getting through certain parts. I think Thoreau has interesting ideas. I would definately have gotten more out of this book, had I read it for a class and had a discussion group. I'm not mature enough intellectually to really "get" this book. That or because it's after midnight, my inner-philosopher is asleep.
    • 5/5
      Thoreau chose to live deliberately and to observe life from a fresh perspective, as though no one had ever done so before. The result was a high quality of intimate thought, written for both the reader's challenge and enjoyment. In order to get the most from Walden, it is necessary to slow down and read deliberately. Thoreau carefully studied varied aspects of the natural world, reminding us how interesting everything is and how each moment of our lives can be full of discovery and wonder.
    • 5/5
      The very first time I read Walden my immediate response was to begin torching its pages one by one and sacrificing each page as literary cow paddies written by a pompous celibate pretentious boob who masqueraded as self-appointed demigogue for the collective conscience of the gods; and of course, when read this way it certainly fits at times Thoreau's rhetoric.Many years later, I took my paperback copy off my shelf and was ready to pack it up to be dropped off at the nearest thrift shop, but then as I sat on my floor with my fat old textbooks and other worn clothing ready for donation. I begin reading Walden again, and there's just something about it that resonates from another time, another place, and another writer.Thoreau's conceit can certainly be provocative, but I think he wants that to be exactly the case for his readers; he's mourning the interaction of souls as modernity encroaches upon both the physical landscape and the landscape of the mind. Living in the woods, facing himself and nature on a equal foothold can be a daunting task, but Thoreau writes about it and makes it so much a part of himself. He wants to be heard within the deepest regions of our souls. Walden is a spiritual work about our world and ourselves, and our failure to connect the two.At least Thoreau tried, and Walden shines in that attempt.
    • 5/5
      Love this book! Have read, reread and referred to Thoreau since I was 20 years old. I still carry around an excerpt from this book in my wallet. Thoreau, Emerson, Walt Whitman and Plato have always been a big part of my life. I can go a few years without looking at any, only to return and devour again and again. Just reminiscing.
    • 3/5
      so long ago. Was Henry as difficult a person as I think I remember that he appears in his writing?
    • 5/5
      Love this book. Over the years I have read and re-read this book numerous times. This book is what inspired author Anne LaBastille's lifestyle and her Woodswoman series. It has been the foundation work for the ecology movement for many years.
    • 5/5
      One of my all-time favorites that I have revisited many, many times.
    • 5/5
      A great contemplative book, I would consider this a fine example of a self help book for those who want to take a step back from the hustle of modern America.
    • 2/5
      I'm probably a horrible person who will never be able to fully embrace simple living because I can't get through Walden. I know Thoreau has some gems in there, but they're just hidden in the middle of so many words. I found it mind-numbingly boring.

      I first started reading it to get a sense for New England when I discovered that we were moving here. I did the same thing with Wallace Stegner's The Gathering of Zion when we moved to Utah and Helen Hunt Jackson's Ramona when we lived in California, both times with great results. With Walden, however, I didn't have such a great experience.

      After a few months trying to trudge through, I decided to keep reading it because everyone says that you have to read Walden if you're going to embrace the principles of voluntary simplicity. I disagree. I think something like Duane Elgin's Voluntary Simplicity might be a better choice for someone hoping to get inspired towards simple living in the 21st century.

      In the end, I decided to simplify my life by removing this book from my currently-reading list so it could no longer taunt me there. If you're reading this review and have recommendations for books that will give an overall sense of the culture and history of New England (the stuff in the nearly 400 years since the Mayflower), please leave a comment.
    • 2/5
      eBook

      I feel guilty for not liking this. I managed to avoid reading this during school, but it still seems like one of those books that high schoolers are forced to read, yet never appreciate. SIt always embarrasses me to agree with the high schoolers, but I can't help but find Walden vastly overrated, both as a book, and as an exploration of the American character.

      Certainly, there were lines, ideas, and passages that I enjoyed, and I'm not necessarily willing to throw the baby out with the bathwater just because the narrator is such a self-righteous prick. Maybe it's just because of what I've been reading recently, but it was hard to get past the flimsy nature of the man's entire worldview. A lot of my recent books have revolved around the theme of bullshit, and I can't say that I'm willing to exclude this one. Thoreau's pronouncements sound pretty enough, in the same way that the ramblings of a stoner can seem to uncover hidden truths, but after a while, context takes over. The difference between his self-perception and reality is just too wide to take him seriously.

    Book preview

    Walden - Henry David Thoreau

    Pack

    Walden by Henry David Thoreau. First published in 1854. This edition published 2017 by Enhanced Media. All rights reserved.

    ––––––––

    ISBN: 978-1-365-94003-3

    Chapter 1

    Economy

    ––––––––

    When I wrote the following pages, or rather the bulk of them, I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor, in a house which I had built myself, on the shore of Walden Pond, in Concord, Massachusetts, and earned my living by the labor of my hands only. I lived there two years and two months. At present I am a sojourner in civilized life again.

    I should not obtrude my affairs so much on the notice of my readers if very particular inquiries had not been made by my townsmen concerning my mode of life, which some would call impertinent, though they do not appear to me at all impertinent, but, considering the circumstances, very natural and pertinent. Some have asked what I got to eat; if I did not feel lonesome; if I was not afraid; and the like. Others have been curious to learn what portion of my income I devoted to charitable purposes; and some, who have large families, how many poor children I maintained. I will therefore ask those of my readers who feel no particular interest in me to pardon me if I undertake to answer some of these questions in this book. In most books, the I, or first person, is omitted; in this it will be retained; that, in respect to egotism, is the main difference. We commonly do not remember that it is, after all, always the first person that is speaking. I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well. Unfortunately, I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my experience. Moreover, I, on my side, require of every writer, first or last, a simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely what he has heard of other men's lives; some such account as he would send to his kindred from a distant land; for if he has lived sincerely, it must have been in a distant land to me. Perhaps these pages are more particularly addressed to poor students. As for the rest of my readers, they will accept such portions as apply to them. I trust that none will stretch the seams in putting on the coat, for it may do good service to him whom it fits.

    I would fain say something, not so much concerning the Chinese and Sandwich Islanders as you who read these pages, who are said to live in New England; something about your condition, especially your outward condition or circumstances in this world, in this town, what it is, whether it is necessary that it be as bad as it is, whether it cannot be improved as well as not. I have travelled a good deal in Concord; and everywhere, in shops, and offices, and fields, the inhabitants have appeared to me to be doing penance in a thousand remarkable ways. What I have heard of Brahmins sitting exposed to four fires and looking in the face of the sun; or hanging suspended, with their heads downward, over flames; or looking at the heavens over their shoulders until it becomes impossible for them to resume their natural position, while from the twist of the neck nothing but liquids can pass into the stomach; or dwelling, chained for life, at the foot of a tree; or measuring with their bodies, like caterpillars, the breadth of vast empires; or standing on one leg on the tops of pillars—even these forms of conscious penance are hardly more incredible and astonishing than the scenes which I daily witness. The twelve labors of Hercules were trifling in comparison with those which my neighbors have undertaken; for they were only twelve, and had an end; but I could never see that these men slew or captured any monster or finished any labor. They have no friend Iolaus to burn with a hot iron the root of the hydra's head, but as soon as one head is crushed, two spring up.

    I see young men, my townsmen, whose misfortune it is to have inherited farms, houses, barns, cattle, and farming tools; for these are more easily acquired than got rid of. Better if they had been born in the open pasture and suckled by a wolf, that they might have seen with clearer eyes what field they were called to labor in. Who made them serfs of the soil? Why should they eat their sixty acres, when man is condemned to eat only his peck of dirt? Why should they begin digging their graves as soon as they are born? They have got to live a man's life, pushing all these things before them, and get on as well as they can. How many a poor immortal soul have I met well-nigh crushed and smothered under its load, creeping down the road of life, pushing before it a barn seventy-five feet by forty, its Augean stables never cleansed, and one hundred acres of land, tillage, mowing, pasture, and woodlot! The portionless, who struggle with no such unnecessary inherited encumbrances, find it labor enough to subdue and cultivate a few cubic feet of flesh.

    But men labor under a mistake. The better part of the man is soon plowed into the soil for compost. By a seeming fate, commonly called necessity, they are employed, as it says in an old book, laying up treasures which moth and rust will corrupt and thieves break through and steal. It is a fool's life, as they will find when they get to the end of it, if not before. It is said that Deucalion and Pyrrha created men by throwing stones over their heads behind them:—

    ––––––––

    Inde genus durum sumus, experiensque laborum,

    Et documenta damus qua simus origine nati.

    ––––––––

    Or, as Raleigh rhymes it in his sonorous way,—

    ––––––––

    "From thence our kind hard-hearted is, enduring pain and care,

    Approving that our bodies of a stony nature are."

    ––––––––

    So much for a blind obedience to a blundering oracle, throwing the stones over their heads behind them, and not seeing where they fell.

    Most men, even in this comparatively free country, through mere ignorance and mistake, are so occupied with the factitious cares and superfluously coarse labors of life that its finer fruits cannot be plucked by them. Their fingers, from excessive toil, are too clumsy and tremble too much for that. Actually, the laboring man has not leisure for a true integrity day by day; he cannot afford to sustain the manliest relations to men; his labor would be depreciated in the market. He has no time to be anything but a machine. How can he remember well his ignorance—which his growth requires—who has so often to use his knowledge? We should feed and clothe him gratuitously sometimes, and recruit him with our cordials, before we judge of him. The finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruits, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling. Yet we do not treat ourselves nor one another thus tenderly.

    Some of you, we all know, are poor, find it hard to live, are sometimes, as it were, gasping for breath. I have no doubt that some of you who read this book are unable to pay for all the dinners which you have actually eaten, or for the coats and shoes which are fast wearing or are already worn out, and have come to this page to spend borrowed or stolen time, robbing your creditors of an hour. It is very evident what mean and sneaking lives many of you live, for my sight has been whetted by experience; always on the limits, trying to get into business and trying to get out of debt, a very ancient slough, called by the Latins aes alienum, another's brass, for some of their coins were made of brass; still living, and dying, and buried by this other's brass; always promising to pay, promising to pay, tomorrow, and dying today, insolvent; seeking to curry favor, to get custom, by how many modes, only not state-prison offenses; lying, flattering, voting, contracting yourselves into a nutshell of civility or dilating into an atmosphere of thin and vaporous generosity, that you may persuade your neighbor to let you make his shoes, or his hat, or his coat, or his carriage, or import his groceries for him; making yourselves sick, that you may lay up something against a sick day, something to be tucked away in an old chest, or in a stocking behind the plastering, or, more safely, in the brick bank; no matter where, no matter how much or how little.

    I sometimes wonder that we can be so frivolous, I may almost say, as to attend to the gross but somewhat foreign form of servitude called Negro Slavery, there are so many keen and subtle masters that enslave both North and South. It is hard to have a Southern overseer; it is worse to have a Northern one; but worst of all when you are the slave-driver of yourself. Talk of a divinity in man! Look at the teamster on the highway, wending to market by day or night; does any divinity stir within him? His highest duty to fodder and water his horses! What is his destiny to him compared with the shipping interests? Does not he drive for Squire Make-a-stir? How godlike, how immortal, is he? See how he cowers and sneaks, how vaguely all the day he fears, not being immortal nor divine, but the slave and prisoner of his own opinion of himself, a fame won by his own deeds. Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinion. What a man thinks of himself, that it is which determines, or rather indicates, his fate. Self-emancipation even in the West Indian provinces of the fancy and imagination—what Wilberforce is there to bring that about? Think, also, of the ladies of the land weaving toilet cushions against the last day, not to betray too green an interest in their fates! As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.

    The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate country, and have to console yourself with the bravery of minks and muskrats. A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work. But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.

    When we consider what, to use the words of the catechism, is the chief end of man, and what are the true necessaries and means of life, it appears as if men had deliberately chosen the common mode of living because they preferred it to any other. Yet they honestly think there is no choice left. But alert and healthy natures remember that the sun rose clear. It is never too late to give up our prejudices. No way of thinking or doing, however ancient, can be trusted without proof. What everybody echoes or in silence passes by as true today may turn out to be falsehood to-morrow, mere smoke of opinion, which some had trusted for a cloud that would sprinkle fertilizing rain on their fields. What old people say you cannot do, you try and find that you can. Old deeds for old people, and new deeds for new. Old people did not know enough once, perchance, to fetch fresh fuel to keep the fire a-going; new people put a little dry wood under a pot, and are whirled round the globe with the speed of birds, in a way to kill old people, as the phrase is. Age is no better, hardly so well, qualified for an instructor as youth, for it has not profited so much as it has lost. One may almost doubt if the wisest man has learned anything of absolute value by living. Practically, the old have no very important advice to give the young, their own experience has been so partial, and their lives have been such miserable failures, for private reasons, as they must believe; and it may be that they have some faith left which belies that experience, and they are only less young than they were. I have lived some thirty years on this planet, and I have yet to hear the first syllable of valuable or even earnest advice from my seniors. They have told me nothing, and probably cannot tell me anything to the purpose. Here is life, an experiment to a great extent untried by me; but it does not avail me that they have tried it. If I have any experience which I think valuable, I am sure to reflect that this my Mentors said nothing about.

    One farmer says to me, You cannot live on vegetable food solely, for it furnishes nothing to make bones with; and so he religiously devotes a part of his day to supplying his system with the raw material of bones; walking all the while he talks behind his oxen, which, with vegetable-made bones, jerk him and his lumbering plow along in spite of every obstacle. Some things are really necessaries of life in some circles, the most helpless and diseased, which in others are luxuries merely, and in others still are entirely unknown.

    The whole ground of human life seems to some to have been gone over by their predecessors, both the heights and the valleys, and all things to have been cared for. According to Evelyn, the wise Solomon prescribed ordinances for the very distances of trees; and the Roman praetors have decided how often you may go into your neighbor's land to gather the acorns which fall on it without trespass, and what share belongs to that neighbor. Hippocrates has even left directions how we should cut our nails; that is, even with the ends of the fingers, neither shorter nor longer. Undoubtedly the very tedium and ennui which presume to have exhausted the variety and the joys of life are as old as Adam. But man's capacities have never been measured; nor are we to judge of what he can do by any precedents, so little has been tried. Whatever have been thy failures hitherto, be not afflicted, my child, for who shall assign to thee what thou hast left undone?

    We might try our lives by a thousand simple tests; as, for instance, that the same sun which ripens my beans illumines at once a system of earths like ours. If I had remembered this it would have prevented some mistakes. This was not the light in which I hoed them. The stars are the apexes of what wonderful triangles! What distant and different beings in the various mansions of the universe are contemplating the same one at the same moment! Nature and human life are as various as our several constitutions. Who shall say what prospect life offers to another? Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other's eyes for an instant? We should live in all the ages of the world in an hour; ay, in all the worlds of the ages. History, Poetry, Mythology!—I know of no reading of another's experience so startling and informing as this would be.

    The greater part of what my neighbors call good I believe in my soul to be bad, and if I repent of anything, it is very likely to be my good behavior. What demon possessed me that I behaved so well? You may say the wisest thing you can, old man—you who have lived seventy years, not without honor of a kind—I hear an irresistible voice which invites me away from all that. One generation abandons the enterprises of another like stranded vessels.

    I think that we may safely trust a good deal more than we do. We may waive just so much care of ourselves as we honestly bestow elsewhere. Nature is as well adapted to our weakness as to our strength. The incessant anxiety and strain of some is a well-nigh incurable form of disease. We are made to exaggerate the importance of what work we do; and yet how much is not done by us! or, what if we had been taken sick? How vigilant we are! determined not to live by faith if we can avoid it; all the day long on the alert, at night we unwillingly say our prayers and commit ourselves to uncertainties. So thoroughly and sincerely are we compelled to live, reverencing our life, and denying the possibility of change. This is the only way, we say; but there are as many ways as there can be drawn radii from one centre. All change is a miracle to contemplate; but it is a miracle which is taking place every instant. Confucius said, To know that we know what we know, and that we do not know what we do not know, that is true knowledge. When one man has reduced a fact of the imagination to be a fact to his understanding, I foresee that all men at length establish their lives on that basis.

    Let us consider for a moment what most of the trouble and anxiety which I have referred to is about, and how much it is necessary that we be troubled, or at least careful. It would be some advantage to live a primitive and frontier life, though in the midst of an outward civilization, if only to learn what are the gross necessaries of life and what methods have been taken to obtain them; or even to look over the old day-books of the merchants, to see what it was that men most commonly bought at the stores, what they stored, that is, what are the grossest groceries. For the improvements of ages have had but little influence on the essential laws of man's existence; as our skeletons, probably, are not to be distinguished from those of our ancestors.

    By the words, necessary of life, I mean whatever, of all that man obtains by his own exertions, has been from the first, or from long use has become, so important to human life that few, if any, whether from savageness, or poverty, or philosophy, ever attempt to do without it. To many creatures there is in this sense but one necessary of life, Food. To the bison of the prairie it is a few inches of palatable grass, with water to drink; unless he seeks the Shelter of the forest or the mountain's shadow. None of the brute creation requires more than Food and Shelter. The necessaries of life for man in this climate may, accurately enough, be distributed under the several heads of Food, Shelter, Clothing, and Fuel; for not till we have secured these are we prepared to entertain the true problems of life with freedom and a prospect of success. Man has invented, not only houses, but clothes and cooked food; and possibly from the accidental discovery of the warmth of fire, and the consequent use of it, at first a luxury, arose the present necessity to sit by it. We observe cats and dogs acquiring the same second nature. By proper Shelter and Clothing we legitimately retain our own internal heat; but with an excess of these, or of Fuel, that is, with an external heat greater than our own internal, may not cookery properly be said to begin? Darwin, the naturalist, says of the inhabitants of Tierra del Fuego, that while his own party, who were well clothed and sitting close to a fire, were far from too warm, these naked savages, who were farther off, were observed, to his great surprise, to be streaming with perspiration at undergoing such a roasting. So, we are told, the New Hollander goes naked with impunity, while the European shivers in his clothes. Is it impossible to combine the hardiness of these savages with the intellectualness of the civilized man? According to Liebig, man's body is a stove, and food the fuel which keeps up the internal combustion in the lungs. In cold weather we eat more, in warm less. The animal heat is the result of a slow combustion, and disease and death take place when this is too rapid; or for want of fuel, or from some defect in the draught, the fire goes out. Of course the vital heat is not to be confounded with fire; but so much for analogy. It appears, therefore, from the above list, that the expression, animal life, is nearly synonymous with the expression, animal heat; for while Food may be regarded as the Fuel which keeps up the fire within us—and Fuel serves only to prepare that Food or to increase the warmth of our bodies by addition from without—Shelter and Clothing also serve only to retain the heat thus generated and absorbed.

    The grand necessity, then, for our bodies, is to keep warm, to keep the vital heat in us. What pains we accordingly take, not only with our Food, and Clothing, and Shelter, but with our beds, which are our night-clothes, robbing the nests and breasts of birds to prepare this shelter within a shelter, as the mole has its bed of grass and leaves at the end of its burrow! The poor man is wont to complain that this is a cold world; and to cold, no less physical than social, we refer directly a great part of our ails. The summer, in some climates, makes possible to man a sort of Elysian life. Fuel, except to cook his Food, is then unnecessary; the sun is his fire, and many of the fruits are sufficiently cooked by its rays; while Food generally is more various, and more easily obtained, and Clothing and Shelter are wholly or half unnecessary. At the present day, and in this country, as I find by my own experience, a few implements, a knife, an axe, a spade, a wheelbarrow, etc., and for the studious, lamplight, stationery, 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 comfortably 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 luxury, whether in agriculture, or commerce, or literature, or art. There are nowadays professors of philosophy, but not philosophers. Yet it is admirable to profess because it was once admirable 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, independence, magnanimity, and trust. It is to solve some of the problems 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 conformity, practically as their fathers did, and are in no sense the progenitors of a noble race of men. But why do men degenerate 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 described, 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, incessant, 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 confidence. 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 how they live—if, indeed, there are any such, as has been dreamed; nor to those who find their encouragement and inspiration 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 travellers 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 Boston in the twilight, or woodchoppers going to their work. It is 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, keeping 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 without 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.

    Not long since, a strolling Indian went to sell baskets at the house of a well-known lawyer in my neighborhood. Do you wish to buy any baskets? he asked. No, we do not want any, was the reply. What! exclaimed the Indian as he went out the gate, do you mean to starve us? Having seen his industrious white neighbors so well off—that the

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