Living Economically

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.

When I wrote these pages, or rather most of them, I lived alone in the woods, a mile from any neighbor. I lived in a house I had built myself, on the shore of Walden Pond, in Concord, Massachusetts. I earned my living solely by working with my hands. I lived there for two years and two months. For now, I am once again staying in civilized society.

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 not put my personal affairs before my readers so much if my townspeople had not asked detailed questions about my way of life. Some would call these questions intrusive. But I do not find them intrusive at all. Given the circumstances, they seem very natural and relevant. Some have asked what I ate, whether I felt lonely, whether I was afraid, and so on. Others have wanted to know how much of my income I gave to charity. And some with large families have asked how many poor children I supported. So I ask readers with no particular interest in me to forgive me for answering some of these questions here. Most books leave out the I, or first person. This book will keep it. As far as self-centeredness goes, that is the main difference. We usually forget that, after all, the person speaking is always an “I.” I would not talk so much about myself if I knew anyone else as well. Unfortunately, my limited experience confines me to this subject. Besides, I ask every writer, sooner or later, for a simple, honest account of their own life. I want more than just what they have heard about other people’s lives. I want the kind of account they would send to their family from a distant land. For if they have lived sincerely, their life must have been lived in a land distant from mine. Perhaps these pages are meant especially for poor students. My other readers will take whatever parts apply to them. I trust no one will stretch the seams trying to put on the coat. It may serve the person it fits very well.

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 Iolas 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 would like to say something, not so much about the Chinese and Sandwich Islanders as about you, my readers. You are said to live in New England. I want to discuss your condition, especially your outward circumstances in this world, in this town. What are those circumstances? Must they be as bad as they are? Couldn’t they just as well be improved? I have traveled a good deal in Concord. Everywhere, in shops, offices, and fields, the inhabitants have seemed to me to be doing penance in a thousand remarkable ways. I have heard of Brahmins sitting surrounded by four fires and staring into the sun. Others hang upside down over flames. Others look at the heavens over their shoulders “until they can no longer return to their natural position. Their necks become so twisted that only liquids can pass into their stomachs.” Others live chained for life at the foot of a tree. Others measure the width of vast empires with their bodies, moving like caterpillars. Still others stand on one leg on top of pillars. Even these deliberate forms of penance are hardly more incredible and astonishing than the scenes I witness daily. The twelve labors of Hercules were trivial compared with the labors my neighbors have taken on. Hercules had only twelve, and those labors came to an end. But I could never see that my neighbors killed or captured any monster, or finished any labor. They have no friend Iolas to burn the stump of the hydra’s head with a hot iron. Instead, 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 wood-lot! The portionless, who struggle with no such unnecessary inherited encumbrances, find it labor enough to subdue and cultivate a few cubic feet of flesh.

I see young men from my town who have had the misfortune to inherit farms, houses, barns, cattle, and farming tools. These things are easier to acquire than to get rid of. They would have been better off born in an open pasture and nursed by a wolf. Then they might have seen more clearly what field they were meant to work in. Who made them slaves to the soil? Why should they eat their sixty acres when a man is condemned to eat only a peck of dirt? Why should they begin digging their graves as soon as they are born? They have to live a human life, pushing all these possessions ahead of them and managing as best they can. How many poor immortal souls I have met, nearly crushed and smothered beneath their burdens! They creep down life's road, pushing ahead of them a barn seventy-five feet long and forty feet wide. Its Augean stables are never cleaned. They also push a hundred acres of land: plowed fields, hayfields, pasture, and woodland! Those who inherit nothing struggle with no such needless inherited burdens. They find it hard enough to master 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:—

But people are mistaken. The best part of a person is soon plowed into the soil as compost. Driven by what seems like fate, usually called necessity, they spend their lives storing up treasures. As an old book says, moths and rust will destroy these treasures, and thieves will break in and steal them. It is a fool’s life, as they will discover when they reach its end, if not sooner. Deucalion and Pyrrha are said to have created people by throwing stones backward over their heads:

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

Or, as Raleigh puts it in his rich, resonant verse:

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

So much for blindly obeying an oracle that makes mistakes. They threw stones backward over their heads without seeing where the stones landed.

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.

Most men, even in this relatively free country, are consumed by artificial worries and needlessly rough work. Through simple ignorance and error, they cannot pick life’s finer fruits. Too much toil has made their fingers too clumsy and shaky for that. In fact, the working man has no time to live with true integrity each day. He cannot afford to deal with others in the most dignified and honorable way. His labor would fetch a lower price in the market. He has no time to be anything but a machine. How can he stay aware of his ignorance when he must use his knowledge so often? Yet awareness of his ignorance is necessary for his growth. Sometimes we should feed and clothe him for free and restore his strength with our tonics before judging him. The finest qualities of our nature, like the delicate bloom on fruit, survive only with the gentlest handling. Yet we do not treat ourselves or one another so 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 æs 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 offences; 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.

Some of you, as we all know, are poor and struggle to get by. Sometimes you are almost gasping for breath. I have no doubt that some of you reading this book cannot pay for all the dinners you have eaten. Nor can you pay for the coats and shoes that are quickly wearing out or are already worn out. You have come to this page to spend borrowed or stolen time, robbing your creditors of an hour. I can see very clearly what low, sneaking lives many of you lead, because experience has sharpened my sight. You are always barely getting by, trying to get into business and trying to get out of debt. Debt is a very ancient swamp, called æs alienum by the Latins, meaning someone else’s brass. Some of their coins were made of brass. Still you live, die, and are buried at the expense of someone else’s brass. You are always promising to pay, promising to pay tomorrow, while dying today, unable to pay your debts. You seek favor and customers in countless ways, stopping just short of crimes that would send you to state prison. You lie, flatter, vote, and shrink yourselves into a nutshell of politeness. Or you expand into a cloud of thin, misty generosity. You do all this to persuade your neighbor to let you make his shoes, hat, coat, or carriage. Or you hope he will let you import his groceries. You make yourselves sick so you can save something for a sick day. You want something to tuck away in an old chest, or in a stocking behind the plaster. Or, more safely, you put your savings 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.

I sometimes wonder how we can be so frivolous, as I might almost call it. We focus on the brutal but somewhat distant form of servitude called Negro Slavery. Yet so many shrewd and subtle masters enslave people in both north and south. Having a southern overseer is hard. Having a northern one is worse. But being your own slave-driver is worst of all. People talk about the divine in human beings! Look at the wagon driver on the highway, making his way to market by day or night. Does anything divine stir within him? His highest duty is to feed and water his horses! What does his destiny matter to him compared with the shipping business? Doesn't he drive for Squire Make-a-stir? How godlike is he? How immortal? See how he cowers and sneaks about, vaguely afraid all day. He is neither immortal nor divine, but a slave and prisoner of his own opinion of himself. His own actions have earned him that reputation in his own eyes. Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinion. What a person thinks of himself determines, or rather reveals, his fate. Who will be the Wilberforce to bring about self-emancipation, even in the West Indian provinces of fancy and imagination? Think, too, of the ladies of the land making dressing-table cushions in preparation for Judgment Day. They would not want to show too eager an interest in their own 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.

Most people live lives of quiet desperation. What people call acceptance is desperation that has become settled. You leave the desperate city for the desperate countryside and must comfort yourself with the courage of minks and muskrats. Even what people call games and amusements hide a routine despair that people are unaware of. There is no real play in these activities, because play comes after work. But wisdom means not acting out of desperation.

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 to-day 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 any thing 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 any thing 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.

Consider what the catechism calls the main purpose of human life, and what we truly need to live. Consider, too, the means of living. People seem to have deliberately chosen the usual way of life because they preferred it to every other. Yet they honestly believe they have no choice. But alert, healthy people remember that the sun rose clear. It is never too late to give up our prejudices. No way of thinking or acting, however old, deserves our trust without evidence. What everyone repeats or silently accepts as true today may prove false tomorrow. Such beliefs may be nothing but the smoke of opinion. Some people mistook that smoke for a cloud that would water their fields with nourishing rain. You try what older people say you cannot do, and find that you can. Old deeds for old people, and new deeds for new people. Perhaps older people once did not know enough to bring fresh fuel to keep the fire burning. Younger people put a little dry wood under a pot and are carried around the globe as fast as birds. They travel at a speed that would kill older people, as the saying goes. Age is no better qualified to teach than youth, and hardly even as well qualified. Age has lost more than it has gained. We might almost doubt whether even the wisest person has learned anything of absolute value from living. In practice, older people have no very important advice to give the young. Their experience has been so limited, and their lives such miserable failures, for private reasons, as they must believe. Perhaps they still have some faith that contradicts their experience, and they are only less young than they once were. I have lived about thirty years on this planet. I have yet to hear a single word of valuable or even sincere advice from my elders. They have told me nothing, and probably cannot tell me anything useful. Here is life, an experiment I have largely yet to try. But the fact that my elders have tried life does me no good. If I have an experience I consider valuable, I am sure to notice that my Mentors said nothing about it.

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 plough 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.

One farmer tells me, “You cannot live on plant food alone, because it provides nothing to build bones with.” So he faithfully spends part of each day supplying his body with the raw materials for bones. All the while he talks, he walks behind his oxen, whose bones are made from plant food. The oxen haul him and his heavy plow along with sharp pulls, despite every obstacle. Some things really are necessities of life among certain groups, the most helpless and sickly. Yet among other groups, those same things are merely luxuries, and among still others, they 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 prætors 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?”

Some people think earlier generations have explored the whole landscape of human life, both its heights and its valleys. They think everything has been taken care of. According to Evelyn, “the wise Solomon set rules even for the spacing of trees. And Roman judges have ruled on how often you may enter your neighbor’s land to gather fallen acorns without trespassing. They have also decided what share of the acorns belongs to your neighbor.” Hippocrates even left instructions for cutting our nails: level with our fingertips, neither shorter nor longer. Certainly, the boredom and weariness that claim to have exhausted life’s variety and joys are as old as Adam. But human abilities have never been measured. Nor should we judge what people can do by what others have done, because so little has been tried. Whatever your failures so far, “do not be troubled, my child, for who can say what you have 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.

We could test our lives in a thousand simple ways. For example, the same sun that ripens my beans also lights a system of worlds like ours. If I had remembered this fact, I would have avoided some mistakes. That was not the light I saw my beans in as I hoed them. What wonderful triangles have the stars as their highest points! What distant and different beings, in the universe’s many dwellings, are watching the same star at the same moment! Nature and human life vary as much as our individual natures do. Who can say what view of life another person has? Could any greater miracle happen than seeing through each other’s eyes for an instant? We would live through all the ages of the world in an hour. Yes, through all the worlds of those ages. History, Poetry, Mythology! I know of no account of another person’s experience as startling and enlightening as seeing through their eyes 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.

Most of what my neighbors call good I believe in my soul to be bad. And if I regret anything, it is very likely my good behavior. What demon possessed me to behave so well? You may say the wisest thing you can, old man. You have lived seventy years and earned a certain kind of honor. Yet I hear an irresistible voice calling me away from all that. One generation abandons another’s projects like ships stranded on shore.

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.

I think we can safely trust much more than we do. We may set aside as much concern for ourselves as we honestly devote elsewhere. Nature is as well suited to our weakness as to our strength. Some people’s constant anxiety and strain are a nearly incurable disease. We are led to exaggerate the importance of our work. Yet how much gets done without us! And what if we had fallen sick? How watchful we are! We are determined not to live by faith if we can avoid it. We stay alert all day. At night, we reluctantly say our prayers and surrender ourselves to uncertainty. We feel so thoroughly and sincerely compelled to live, honoring our life and denying the possibility of change. We say there is only one way to live. But there are as many ways as there are lines that can radiate from a single center. Every change is a miracle to consider. Yet the miracle of change happens 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.” Once one person turns something imagined into a fact he understands, I foresee all people eventually building their lives on that foundation.

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.

Let us consider for a moment what most of the trouble and anxiety I have mentioned is about. How much do we need to worry, or at least be careful? There would be some advantage in living a simple frontier life, even amid the outward signs of civilization. We could at least learn life’s basic necessities and the methods people have used to obtain them. Or we could simply look through merchants’ old account books to see what people most often bought in stores. We could see what people stored up, in other words, the most basic groceries. For centuries of progress have done little to change the essential laws of human existence. Our skeletons, likewise, probably cannot 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.

By the words necessary of life, I mean anything people obtain through their own efforts that has become essential to living. Such things have been essential from the beginning or have become essential through long use. Few, if any, try to live without them, whether because of an uncivilized way of life, poverty, or philosophy. For many creatures, there is only one necessity in this sense: Food. For the prairie bison, Food means a few inches of tasty grass, along with water to drink. The bison needs nothing else unless it seeks Shelter in the forest or a mountain’s shadow. No animal requires more than Food and Shelter. For people in this climate, life's necessities fall fairly accurately into four categories: Food, Shelter, Clothing, and Fuel. Only after securing these can we freely address life's true problems with some prospect of success. Humans have invented not only houses but also clothes and cooked food. Perhaps the accidental discovery of fire's warmth, followed by its use, turned an initial luxury into today's need to sit by a fire. We see cats and dogs developing the same habit until it becomes second nature. With suitable Shelter and Clothing, we properly retain our own internal heat. But what happens with too much Shelter, Clothing, or Fuel, when the heat outside exceeds the heat inside us? Could we not rightly say that cooking has begun? Darwin, the naturalist, describes the inhabitants of Tierra del Fuego. His own party wore ample clothing and sat close to a fire, yet they were far from too warm. The naked inhabitants sat farther away. To his great surprise, they were seen “to be streaming with perspiration at undergoing such a roasting.” Likewise, we are told, the New Hollander goes naked without harm, while the European shivers in his clothes. Is it impossible to combine these uncivilized people's hardiness with civilized people's intellectual powers? According to Liebig, the human body is a stove. Food is the fuel that keeps combustion going inside the lungs. In cold weather we eat more, and in warm weather less. Animal heat comes from slow combustion. Disease and death occur when this combustion becomes too rapid. Or the fire goes out from lack of fuel or some failure in the airflow. Of course, the heat that sustains life should not be confused with fire. But that is enough of the analogy. From the list above, then, animal life seems to mean nearly the same thing as animal heat. Food may be seen as the Fuel that keeps the fire burning within us. Fuel serves only to prepare that Food or to warm our bodies further from outside. Shelter and Clothing also serve only to retain the heat our bodies generate and absorb.

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, &c., 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.

The body's greatest need, then, is to stay warm, to keep its vital heat within us. What trouble we take over our food, clothing, and shelter, and even our beds, which are our nighttime clothes! We rob birds' nests and breasts to make this shelter within a shelter. So too does the mole make a bed of grass and leaves at the end of its burrow! The poor man often complains that this is a cold world. We blame much of our suffering directly on cold, both physical and social. In some climates, summer makes a kind of paradise possible for human beings. Then fuel is unnecessary except for cooking food. The sun is our fire, and its rays cook many fruits enough for us to eat. Meanwhile, food is generally more varied and easier to obtain, and clothing and shelter are partly or entirely unnecessary. In this country today, my own experience shows that a few tools come just after the necessities. These include a knife, an axe, a spade, a wheelbarrow, and so on. For those who study, lamplight, writing supplies, and access to a few books belong on that list too. All can be obtained at very little cost. Yet some unwise people travel to the other side of the globe, to uncivilized and unhealthy regions. They spend ten or twenty years in trade so they can live, meaning keep comfortably warm. Then, at last, they die in New England. The luxuriously rich are not merely kept comfortably warm, but unnaturally hot. As I suggested 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 nobler 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?

Most luxuries, and many so-called comforts of life, are not just unnecessary. They actually hold back humanity’s progress. When it comes to luxuries and comforts, the wisest people have always lived simpler lives, with less than the poor. The ancient philosophers, Chinese, Hindoo, Persian, and Greek, had fewer material riches than any other group. Yet no group had greater inner wealth. We know little about them. It is remarkable that we know as much about them as we do. The same is true of more recent reformers and those who have worked for humanity’s good. No one can observe human life fairly or wisely except from the vantage point of what we would call voluntary poverty. A life of luxury produces luxury, whether in farming, trade, literature, or art. Today there are professors of philosophy, but no philosophers. Yet teaching philosophy is admired because living by it was once admired. Being a philosopher means more than having subtle thoughts or even founding a school of thought. It means loving wisdom enough to follow its guidance, living with simplicity, independence, generosity of spirit, and trust. It means solving some of life’s problems in practice, not just in theory. Great scholars and thinkers usually succeed like courtiers, not like kings or men of true strength. They manage to get by simply by conforming, living much as their fathers did. They are in no sense the founders of a nobler line of men. But why do people ever decline? What makes family lines die out? What kind of luxury weakens and destroys nations? Are we sure none of that luxury exists in our own lives? The philosopher is ahead of his time even in the outward details of his life. He does not obtain food, shelter, clothing, or warmth as his contemporaries do. How can a man be a philosopher without using better methods than other men to maintain his body’s warmth?

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.

Once a man has warmed himself in the ways I have described, what does he want next? Surely not more warmth of the same kind: more and richer food, larger and grander houses, finer and more plentiful clothing. Nor does he need more fires, burning constantly and hotter, and other things like these. Once he has life's necessities, he has another choice besides acquiring luxuries. He can now embark on the adventure of living, since his break from humbler work has begun. The soil, it seems, suits the seed, for the seed has sent its first root downward. Now the seed may confidently send its shoot upward too. Why has man rooted himself so firmly in the earth, except to rise equally high into the heavens above? For the nobler plants are valued for the fruit they eventually bear in air and light, far above the ground. They are not treated like lowlier vegetables, which are grown only until their roots are fully developed. This is true even of vegetables whose life cycle lasts two years. Their tops are often cut off to help their roots develop. As a result, most people would not recognize these vegetables when they flower.

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.

I do not mean to lay down rules for strong, brave people who mind their own business in heaven or hell. Perhaps they build more magnificently and spend more lavishly than the richest people, without ever making themselves poor. They do not know how they manage to live. That is, if such people exist, as some have dreamed. Nor am I addressing those who find encouragement and inspiration in the world exactly as it is. They cherish the present state of things with the affection and enthusiasm of lovers. To some extent, I count myself among them. I am not speaking to those who spend their time well, whatever their circumstances. They know whether they are spending their time well or not. Instead, I mainly address the many people who are dissatisfied and complain idly about their hard lives or hard times. Yet they could improve their lives or the times. Some complain more fiercely and inconsolably than anyone else because, as they say, they are doing their duty. I am also thinking of those who seem wealthy but are the most terribly impoverished of all. They have piled up worthless riches but do not know how to use those riches or get rid of them. In doing so, they have forged their own gold or silver chains.

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.

If I tried to describe how I have wanted to spend my life in past years, some readers would probably be surprised. These would be readers who know something about how I have actually lived. Readers who know nothing about my life would certainly be astonished. I will only hint at some of the projects I have held dear.

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.

In any weather, at any hour of the day or night, I have been eager to make the most of the moment. I have wanted to mark it with a notch on my stick, too. I have wanted to stand where two eternities meet, the past and the future, right at the present moment. I have wanted to stand exactly on that line. Forgive me if some things are unclear. My work holds more secrets than most people’s work does. Yet I do not keep these secrets by choice. They are inseparable from the nature of my work. I would gladly tell all that I know about my work, 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.

Long ago, I lost a hound, a bay horse, and a turtle dove. I am still on their trail. I have asked many travelers about them, describing their tracks and the calls they responded to. I have met one or two who had heard the hound and the horse’s hoofbeats. They had even seen the dove disappear behind a cloud. These travelers seemed as eager to find the animals 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.

To be ahead of not just sunrise and dawn, but, if possible, Nature herself! How many mornings, summer and winter, I have been at my business before any neighbor was at his! No doubt many of my townsmen have met me returning from this venture. They were farmers setting out for Boston in the twilight, or woodchoppers heading to work. True, I never did much to help the sun rise. But make no mistake, simply being there for the sunrise was of the greatest importance.

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.

So many autumn days, yes, and winter days too, spent outside town, trying to hear what the wind was saying! I wanted to hear its news and rush to deliver it! I nearly sank all my capital into the effort and lost my breath besides, running against the wind. If the news had concerned either political party, you can be sure the Gazette would have been among the first to report it. At other times I watched from a cliff or tree as though from an observatory, ready to signal any new arrival. Or I waited on hilltops in the evening for the sky to fall, so I might catch something. Though I never caught much, even that little would dissolve again in the sun, like manna.

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 a long time I was a reporter for a journal with a small readership. Its editor has never seen fit to publish most of my contributions. And, as happens all too often with writers, I got nothing for my work but the work itself. In this case, however, the work was its 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.

For many years I appointed myself inspector of snowstorms and rainstorms, and I faithfully did my duty. I surveyed, if not highways, then forest paths and all shortcuts across lots. I kept these routes open and the ravines bridged and passable in every season, wherever public footsteps showed their usefulness.

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.

I have looked after the town’s wild livestock, which give a devoted herdsman plenty of trouble by jumping fences. I have also kept an eye on the farm’s seldom-visited nooks and corners. Though I did not always know whether Jonas or Solomon worked in a particular field that 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. I have also watered the white grape and the yellow violet. All these plants might otherwise have withered during 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.

In short, I went on like this for a long time, faithfully tending to my business. I can say that without boasting. It became increasingly clear that my fellow townspeople would not, after all, make me a town officer. Nor would they give me an easy post with little work and a modest allowance. My accounts, which I can swear I kept faithfully, have never been audited, much less accepted or paid and settled. Still, I have not set my heart on any of 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 lawyer had only to weave arguments, and by some magic, wealth and standing followed, he had said to himself; I will go into business; I will weave baskets; it is a thing which I can do. Thinking that when he had made the baskets he would have done his part, and then it would be the white man’s to buy them. He had not discovered that it was necessary for him to make it worth the other’s while to buy them, or at least make him think that it was so, or to make something else which it would be worth his while to buy. I too had woven a kind of basket of a delicate texture, but I had not made it worth any one’s while to buy them. Yet not the less, in my case, did I think it worth my while to weave them, and instead of studying how to make it worth men’s while to buy my baskets, I studied rather how to avoid the necessity of selling them. The life which men praise and regard as successful is but one kind. Why should we exaggerate any one kind at the expense of the others?

Not long ago, a Native American man came to sell baskets at a well-known lawyer’s house in my neighborhood. “Would you like to buy any baskets?” he asked. “No, we don’t want any,” came the reply. “What!” the man exclaimed as he went out the gate. “Do you mean to starve us?” He had seen how well his hardworking white neighbors lived. The lawyer only had to weave arguments, and wealth and status followed as if by magic. So the man had said to himself: I will go into business. I will weave baskets. That is something I can do. He thought that once he had made the baskets, he would have done his part. Then buying them would be the white man’s part. He had not realized he needed to make buying his baskets worthwhile for the buyer. Or at least he needed to make the buyer think buying them was worthwhile. Otherwise, he needed to make something else worth buying. I too had woven a kind of finely textured basket, but I had not made my baskets worth anyone’s buying. Still, I thought weaving them was worth my time. Instead of studying how to make buying my baskets worthwhile for others, I studied how to avoid having to sell them. The life people praise and consider successful is only one kind of life. Why should we place too much value on any one kind at the expense of the others?

Finding that my fellow-citizens were not likely to offer me any room in the court house, or any curacy or living any where else, but I must shift for myself, I turned my face more exclusively than ever to the woods, where I was better known. I determined to go into business at once, and not wait to acquire the usual capital, using such slender means as I had already got. My purpose in going to Walden Pond was not to live cheaply nor to live dearly there, but to transact some private business with the fewest obstacles; to be hindered from accomplishing which for want of a little common sense, a little enterprise and business talent, appeared not so sad as foolish.

My fellow citizens seemed unlikely to offer me a place in the courthouse or a paid church position anywhere else. I would have to fend for myself. So I turned more fully than ever toward the woods, where I was better known. I decided to go into business at once, without waiting to raise the usual capital. I would use the few resources I already had. My purpose in going to Walden Pond was neither to live cheaply nor to live extravagantly. I wanted to conduct some private business with as few obstacles as possible. Failing at that business for lack of a little common sense, initiative, and business skill seemed more foolish than sad.

I have always endeavored to acquire strict business habits; they are indispensable to every man. If your trade is with the Celestial Empire, then some small counting house on the coast, in some Salem harbor, will be fixture enough. You will export such articles as the country affords, purely native products, much ice and pine timber and a little granite, always in native bottoms. These will be good ventures. To oversee all the details yourself in person; to be at once pilot and captain, and owner and underwriter; to buy and sell and keep the accounts; to read every letter received, and write or read every letter sent; to superintend the discharge of imports night and day; to be upon many parts of the coast almost at the same time;—often the richest freight will be discharged upon a Jersey shore;—to be your own telegraph, unweariedly sweeping the horizon, speaking all passing vessels bound coastwise; to keep up a steady despatch of commodities, for the supply of such a distant and exorbitant market; to keep yourself informed of the state of the markets, prospects of war and peace every where, and anticipate the tendencies of trade and civilization,—taking advantage of the results of all exploring expeditions, using new passages and all improvements in navigation;—charts to be studied, the position of reefs and new lights and buoys to be ascertained, and ever, and ever, the logarithmic tables to be corrected, for by the error of some calculator the vessel often splits upon a rock that should have reached a friendly pier,—there is the untold fate of La Perouse;—universal science to be kept pace with, studying the lives of all great discoverers and navigators, great adventurers and merchants, from Hanno and the Phœnicians down to our day; in fine, account of stock to be taken from time to time, to know how you stand. It is a labor to task the faculties of a man,—such problems of profit and loss, of interest, of tare and tret, and gauging of all kinds in it, as demand a universal knowledge.

I have always tried to develop disciplined business habits. Such habits are essential for every man. If you trade with the Celestial Empire, a small business office on the coast, in some Salem harbor, will do. You will export whatever the country provides, entirely native products: much ice and pine timber, and a little granite. You will always ship these goods in your own country’s vessels. These will be good ventures. You must oversee every detail yourself. You must be pilot and captain, owner and insurer, all at once. You must buy and sell, keep the accounts, and read every letter received. You must write or read every letter sent. You must supervise the unloading of imports, night and day. You must be at many points along the coast almost simultaneously. Often the richest cargo will be unloaded on a Jersey shore. You must act as your own telegraph, tirelessly scanning the horizon and hailing every passing vessel traveling along the coast. You must keep goods moving steadily to supply so distant and demanding a market. You must stay informed about market conditions and the prospects of war and peace everywhere. You must also anticipate the direction of trade and civilization. You must use the findings of all exploring expeditions, new routes, and every improvement in navigation. You must study charts and determine the locations of reefs, new navigation lights, and buoys. You must keep correcting the logarithmic tables, again and again. For a calculation error often wrecks a vessel on a rock when the vessel should have reached a welcoming pier. There lies the untold fate of La Perouse. You must keep pace with every field of science. You must study the lives of all great discoverers, navigators, adventurers, and merchants, from Hanno and the Phœnicians to today. Finally, you must take stock from time to time to know where you stand. Such work tests all a man’s abilities. Its problems of profit and loss, interest, weight allowances for packaging and waste, and measurements of every kind demand universal knowledge.

I have thought that Walden Pond would be a good place for business, not solely on account of the railroad and the ice trade; it offers advantages which it may not be good policy to divulge; it is a good port and a good foundation. No Neva marshes to be filled; though you must every where build on piles of your own driving. It is said that a flood-tide, with a westerly wind, and ice in the Neva, would sweep St. Petersburg from the face of the earth.

I have thought that Walden Pond would be a good place for business, not just because of the railroad and the ice trade. The pond offers advantages that may be best kept secret. It is a good port and a solid foundation. There are no marshes to fill in, as along the Neva. Though wherever you build, you must drive your own foundation piles. People say a flood tide, combined with a west wind and ice in the Neva, would wipe St. Petersburg off the face of the earth.

As this business was to be entered into without the usual capital, it may not be easy to conjecture where those means, that will still be indispensable to every such undertaking, were to be obtained. As for Clothing, to come at once to the practical part of the question, perhaps we are led oftener by the love of novelty, and a regard for the opinions of men, in procuring it, than by a true utility. Let him who has work to do recollect that the object of clothing is, first, to retain the vital heat, and secondly, in this state of society, to cover nakedness, and he may judge how much of any necessary or important work may be accomplished without adding to his wardrobe. Kings and queens who wear a suit but once, though made by some tailor or dressmaker to their majesties, cannot know the comfort of wearing a suit that fits. They are no better than wooden horses to hang the clean clothes on. Every day our garments become more assimilated to ourselves, receiving the impress of the wearer’s character, until we hesitate to lay them aside, without such delay and medical appliances and some such solemnity even as our bodies. No man ever stood the lower in my estimation for having a patch in his clothes; yet I am sure that there is greater anxiety, commonly, to have fashionable, or at least clean and unpatched clothes, than to have a sound conscience. But even if the rent is not mended, perhaps the worst vice betrayed is improvidence. I sometimes try my acquaintances by such tests as this;—who could wear a patch, or two extra seams only, over the knee? Most behave as if they believed that their prospects for life would be ruined if they should do it. It would be easier for them to hobble to town with a broken leg than with a broken pantaloon. Often if an accident happens to a gentleman’s legs, they can be mended; but if a similar accident happens to the legs of his pantaloons, there is no help for it; for he considers, not what is truly respectable, but what is respected. We know but few men, a great many coats and breeches. Dress a scarecrow in your last shift, you standing shiftless by, who would not soonest salute the scarecrow? Passing a cornfield the other day, close by a hat and coat on a stake, I recognized the owner of the farm. He was only a little more weather-beaten than when I saw him last. I have heard of a dog that barked at every stranger who approached his master’s premises with clothes on, but was easily quieted by a naked thief. It is an interesting question how far men would retain their relative rank if they were divested of their clothes. Could you, in such a case, tell surely of any company of civilized men, which belonged to the most respected class? When Madam Pfeiffer, in her adventurous travels round the world, from east to west, had got so near home as Asiatic Russia, she says that she felt the necessity of wearing other than a travelling dress, when she went to meet the authorities, for she “was now in a civilized country, where —— — people are judged of by their clothes.” Even in our democratic New England towns the accidental possession of wealth, and its manifestation in dress and equipage alone, obtain for the possessor almost universal respect. But they yield such respect, numerous as they are, are so far heathen, and need to have a missionary sent to them. Beside, clothes introduced sewing, a kind of work which you may call endless; a woman’s dress, at least, is never done.

Since I was starting this venture without the usual capital, the source of the necessary resources may be hard to guess. Every such undertaking still requires some resources. To turn at once to the practical question of clothing, perhaps usefulness is less often our guide than other motives. We buy clothes for novelty and out of concern for other people’s opinions. Anyone with work to do should remember that clothing’s first purpose is to retain body heat. Its second purpose, in our society, is to cover nakedness. With those purposes in mind, consider how much necessary or important work you can accomplish without adding to your wardrobe. Kings and queens who wear an outfit only once cannot know the comfort of wearing clothes that fit. This is true even when their clothes are made by a tailor or dressmaker to their majesties. Such rulers are no better than wooden horses for hanging clean clothes on. Every day, our clothes become more like us, taking on the marks of our character. Eventually, we hesitate to part with our clothes almost as we hesitate to part with our bodies. We require similar delays, medical treatments, and even a certain solemnity. I have never thought less of anyone for having a patch on their clothes. Yet people generally worry more about fashionable clothes, or at least clean, unpatched clothes, than about a sound conscience. But even if a tear goes unmended, perhaps the worst fault it reveals is a lack of foresight. I sometimes test my acquaintances with questions like this: who could wear a patch, or just two extra seams, over the knee? Most act as if doing so would ruin their prospects in life. They would find it easier to hobble into town with a broken leg than with torn trousers. Often, if a gentleman injures his legs, they can be repaired. But if a similar accident happens to his trouser legs, nothing can be done. He considers not what truly deserves respect, but what people respect. We know few people, but a great many coats and trousers. Dress a scarecrow in your last shirt and stand beside it shirtless. Who would not greet the scarecrow first? The other day, I passed a cornfield and came close to a hat and coat on a stake. I recognized the owner of the farm. He was only a little more weather-beaten than when I last saw him. I have heard of a dog that barked at every clothed stranger approaching his master’s property. Yet a naked thief could easily quiet the dog. It is interesting to ask how far people would keep their relative social rank without their clothes. In any group of civilized men stripped naked, could you confidently identify those belonging to the most respected class? Madam Pfeiffer traveled adventurously around the world from east to west. By the time she reached Asiatic Russia, she was nearly home. She says she felt she needed something other than traveling clothes when she went to meet the authorities. She “was now in a civilized country, where . . . people are judged by their clothes.” Even in our democratic New England towns, the mere chance of possessing wealth wins almost universal respect. The display of wealth in clothing and carriages alone is enough. But the many people who grant such respect are, in that respect, heathens who need a missionary sent to them. Besides, clothes introduced sewing, a kind of work you might call endless. A woman’s dress, at least, is never finished.

A man who has at length found something to do will not need to get a new suit to do it in; for him the old will do, that has lain dusty in the garret for an indeterminate period. Old shoes will serve a hero longer than they have served his valet,—if a hero ever has a valet,—bare feet are older than shoes, and he can make them do. Only they who go to soirées and legislative halls must have new coats, coats to change as often as the man changes in them. But if my jacket and trousers, my hat and shoes, are fit to worship God in, they will do; will they not? Who ever saw his old clothes,—his old coat, actually worn out, resolved into its primitive elements, so that it was not a deed of charity to bestow it on some poor boy, by him perchance to be bestowed on some poorer still, or shall we say richer, who could do with less? I say, beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes. If there is not a new man, how can the new clothes be made to fit? If you have any enterprise before you, try it in your old clothes. All men want, not something to do with, but something to do, or rather something to be. Perhaps we should never procure a new suit, however ragged or dirty the old, until we have so conducted, so enterprised or sailed in some way, that we feel like new men in the old, and that to retain it would be like keeping new wine in old bottles. Our moulting season, like that of the fowls, must be a crisis in our lives. The loon retires to solitary ponds to spend it. Thus also the snake casts its slough, and the caterpillar its wormy coat, by an internal industry and expansion; for clothes are but our outmost cuticle and mortal coil. Otherwise we shall be found sailing under false colors, and be inevitably cashiered at last by our own opinion, as well as that of mankind.

A man who has finally found something to do will not need a new suit to do it in. His old suit will do, even after gathering dust in the attic for who knows how long. Old shoes will serve a hero longer than they served his personal servant, if a hero ever has one. Bare feet are older than shoes, and he can make do with them. Only people who attend evening parties and legislative sessions must have new coats. They need to change coats as often as the man inside them changes. But if my jacket and trousers, my hat and shoes, are fit for worshiping God, they will do, won't they? Who has ever seen his old clothes, his old coat, truly worn out and broken down into their basic elements? Who has seen a coat so worn that giving it to some poor boy would no longer be charity? That boy might pass it on to someone poorer still. Or should we say richer, because he could manage with less? I say, beware of all undertakings that require new clothes rather than a new person to wear them. If the man is not new, how can the new clothes fit him? If you have some undertaking ahead of you, try it in your old clothes. All men need not something to do with, but something to do, or rather something to be. Perhaps we should never get a new suit, however ragged or dirty the old one is, until we ourselves change. We must first have acted, undertaken something, or sailed somewhere in a way that makes us feel new in our old clothes. Then keeping those clothes would be like keeping new wine in old bottles. Our molting season, like a bird's, must mark a turning point in our lives. The loon retreats to lonely ponds to pass that season. Likewise, the snake sheds its skin, and the caterpillar its wormlike coat, through inner effort and growth. For clothes are only our outermost skin and mortal covering. Otherwise, we will be sailing under false colors, pretending to be what we are not. In the end, we will inevitably be dismissed as unworthy, both in our own judgment and in everyone else's.

We don garment after garment, as if we grew like exogenous plants by addition without. Our outside and often thin and fanciful clothes are our epidermis, or false skin, which partakes not of our life, and may be stripped off here and there without fatal injury; our thicker garments, constantly worn, are our cellular integument, or cortex; but our shirts are our liber or true bark, which cannot be removed without girdling and so destroying the man. I believe that all races at some seasons wear something equivalent to the shirt. It is desirable that a man be clad so simply that he can lay his hands on himself in the dark, and that he live in all respects so compactly and preparedly, that, if an enemy take the town, he can, like the old philosopher, walk out the gate empty-handed without anxiety. While one thick garment is, for most purposes, as good as three thin ones, and cheap clothing can be obtained at prices really to suit customers; while a thick coat can be bought for five dollars, which will last as many years, thick pantaloons for two dollars, cowhide boots for a dollar and a half a pair, a summer hat for a quarter of a dollar, and a winter cap for sixty-two and a half cents, or a better be made at home at a nominal cost, where is he so poor that, clad in such a suit, of his own earning, there will not be found wise men to do him reverence?

We put on one garment after another, as if we grew like trees by adding layers to our outside. Our outer clothes, often thin and fancy, are our epidermis, or false skin. They are not part of our life and may be stripped off here and there without killing us. Our thicker clothes, worn constantly, are our cellular covering, or cortex. But our shirts are our liber, or true bark. Removing them would destroy the man, just as stripping bark all around a tree kills the tree. I believe that all peoples, at some seasons, wear something equivalent to a shirt. A man should dress so simply that he can put his hands on himself in the dark. He should live just as simply in every respect, with everything in order and ready. Then, if an enemy captures the town, he can walk out the gate empty-handed and without anxiety, like the ancient philosopher. For most purposes, one thick garment is as good as three thin ones. And cheap clothing can be bought at prices that truly suit the customer. A thick coat costs five dollars and will last as many years. Thick trousers cost two dollars, and cowhide boots cost a dollar and a half a pair. A summer hat costs a quarter of a dollar, and a winter cap costs sixty-two and a half cents. Or a better cap can be made at home for almost nothing. Given all this, where is the man so poor that wise men would not respect him in such clothes, bought with money he earned himself?

When I ask for a garment of a particular form, my tailoress tells me gravely, “They do not make them so now,” not emphasizing the “They” at all, as if she quoted an authority as impersonal as the Fates, and I find it difficult to get made what I want, simply because she cannot believe that I mean what I say, that I am so rash. When I hear this oracular sentence, I am for a moment absorbed in thought, emphasizing to myself each word separately that I may come at the meaning of it, that I may find out by what degree of consanguinity They are related to me, and what authority they may have in an affair which affects me so nearly; and, finally, I am inclined to answer her with equal mystery, and without any more emphasis of the “they,”—“It is true, they did not make them so recently, but they do now.” Of what use this measuring of me if she does not measure my character, but only the breadth of my shoulders, as it were a peg to hang the coat on? We worship not the Graces, nor the Parcæ, but Fashion. She spins and weaves and cuts with full authority. The head monkey at Paris puts on a traveller’s cap, and all the monkeys in America do the same. I sometimes despair of getting anything quite simple and honest done in this world by the help of men. They would have to be passed through a powerful press first, to squeeze their old notions out of them, so that they would not soon get upon their legs again, and then there would be some one in the company with a maggot in his head, hatched from an egg deposited there nobody knows when, for not even fire kills these things, and you would have lost your labor. Nevertheless, we will not forget that some Egyptian wheat was handed down to us by a mummy.

When I ask for a garment in a particular style, my dressmaker tells me gravely, “They do not make them that way now.” She puts no emphasis on “They,” as if quoting an authority as impersonal as the Fates. I find it hard to get what I want made. She simply cannot believe I mean what I say, or that I would be so reckless. When I hear this pronouncement, I pause to think. I repeat each word separately in my mind, trying to understand its meaning. I want to discover how closely They are related to me. What authority might they have over something that concerns me so directly? Finally, I feel inclined to answer just as mysteriously, with no more emphasis on “they.” “It is true, they did not make them that way recently, but they do now.” What good is measuring me if she does not measure my character, but only the width of my shoulders? She might as well measure a peg to hang the coat on. We worship neither the Graces nor the Parcæ, the goddesses of fate, but Fashion. She spins and weaves and cuts with absolute authority. The head monkey in Paris puts on a traveller’s cap, and all the monkeys in America do the same. I sometimes despair of getting anything truly simple and honest done in this world with other people’s help. First, they would have to go through a powerful press to squeeze out their old notions. The pressure would have to keep those notions from getting back on their feet anytime soon. Even then, someone in the group would have a maggot in his head. The egg it hatched from would have been laid there nobody knows when. Not even fire kills these things, so all your work would have been wasted. Still, let us not forget that some Egyptian wheat was passed down to us by a mummy.

On the whole, I think that it cannot be maintained that dressing has in this or any country risen to the dignity of an art. At present men make shift to wear what they can get. Like shipwrecked sailors, they put on what they can find on the beach, and at a little distance, whether of space or time, laugh at each other’s masquerade. Every generation laughs at the old fashions, but follows religiously the new. We are amused at beholding the costume of Henry VIII., or Queen Elizabeth, as much as if it was that of the King and Queen of the Cannibal Islands. All costume off a man is pitiful or grotesque. It is only the serious eye peering from and the sincere life passed within it, which restrain laughter and consecrate the costume of any people. Let Harlequin be taken with a fit of the colic and his trappings will have to serve that mood too. When the soldier is hit by a cannon ball rags are as becoming as purple.

On the whole, I think no one can claim that dressing has become an art in this or any country. At present, men make do with whatever clothes they can get. Like shipwrecked sailors, they put on whatever they find on the beach. Then, from a little distance in space or time, they laugh at each other’s costumes. Every generation laughs at the old fashions but follows the new ones religiously. We find the clothing of Henry VIII or Queen Elizabeth amusing. We are as amused as if those clothes belonged to the King and Queen of the Cannibal Islands. All clothing, apart from the person wearing it, is pitiful or ridiculous. Only the serious eyes looking out from it and the sincere life lived within it hold back our laughter. Only those things make any people’s clothing worthy of respect. Let Harlequin suffer a fit of colic, and his costume will have to suit that mood too. When a soldier is hit by a cannonball, rags suit him as well as royal purple.

The childish and savage taste of men and women for new patterns keeps how many shaking and squinting through kaleidoscopes that they may discover the particular figure which this generation requires today. The manufacturers have learned that this taste is merely whimsical. Of two patterns which differ only by a few threads more or less of a particular color, the one will be sold readily, the other lie on the shelf, though it frequently happens that after the lapse of a season the latter becomes the most fashionable. Comparatively, tattooing is not the hideous custom which it is called. It is not barbarous merely because the printing is skin-deep and unalterable.

How many people keep shaking kaleidoscopes and squinting through them because of men’s and women’s childish, savage taste for new patterns? They hope to discover the particular design this generation demands today. Manufacturers have learned that this taste is nothing but a whim. Two patterns may differ only by a few threads more or less of a particular color. Yet one will sell easily, while the other sits on the shelf. Often, though, a season later, the unsold pattern becomes the most fashionable. By comparison, tattooing is not the hideous custom people call it. Tattooing is not barbaric merely because the design is printed into the skin and cannot be changed.

I cannot believe that our factory system is the best mode by which men may get clothing. The condition of the operatives is becoming every day more like that of the English; and it cannot be wondered at, since, as far as I have heard or observed, the principal object is, not that mankind may be well and honestly clad, but, unquestionably, that corporations may be enriched. In the long run men hit only what they aim at. Therefore, though they should fail immediately, they had better aim at something high.

I cannot believe our factory system is the best way for people to get clothing. Factory workers’ conditions grow more like those of English workers every day. This is no surprise, since, from all I have heard or seen, the main goal is unquestionably to enrich corporations. The goal is not to provide everyone with good clothing made honestly. In the long run, people hit only what they aim at. So people had better aim high, even if they fail at first.

As for a Shelter, I will not deny that this is now a necessary of life, though there are instances of men having done without it for long periods in colder countries than this. Samuel Laing says that “the Laplander in his skin dress, and in a skin bag which he puts over his head and shoulders, will sleep night after night on the snow—in a degree of cold which would extinguish the life of one exposed to it in any woollen clothing.” He had seen them asleep thus. Yet he adds, “They are not hardier than other people.” But, probably, man did not live long on the earth without discovering the convenience which there is in a house, the domestic comforts, which phrase may have originally signified the satisfactions of the house more than of the family; though these must be extremely partial and occasional in those climates where the house is associated in our thoughts with winter or the rainy season chiefly, and two thirds of the year, except for a parasol, is unnecessary. In our climate, in the summer, it was formerly almost solely a covering at night. In the Indian gazettes a wigwam was the symbol of a day’s march, and a row of them cut or painted on the bark of a tree signified that so many times they had camped. Man was not made so large limbed and robust but that he must seek to narrow his world, and wall in a space such as fitted him. He was at first bare and out of doors; but though this was pleasant enough in serene and warm weather, by daylight, the rainy season and the winter, to say nothing of the torrid sun, would perhaps have nipped his race in the bud if he had not made haste to clothe himself with the shelter of a house. Adam and Eve, according to the fable, wore the bower before other clothes. Man wanted a home, a place of warmth, or comfort, first of physical warmth, then the warmth of the affections.

As for shelter, I will not deny that it is now a necessity of life. Still, some people have lived without shelter for long periods in countries colder than this one. Samuel Laing says that “the Laplander, dressed in animal skins, with a skin bag pulled over his head and shoulders, will sleep night after night on the snow. The cold would kill anyone exposed to it in any wool clothing.” Laing had seen them sleeping this way. Yet he adds, “They are no hardier than other people.” Still, humans probably did not live long on earth before discovering the convenience of a house and its domestic comforts. That phrase may originally have meant the comforts of the house more than those of the family. Yet those comforts must be very limited and occasional in certain climates. There, we think of houses mainly in connection with winter or the rainy season. For two thirds of the year, a house is unnecessary except as a sunshade. In our climate, a house in summer was once almost solely a shelter for the night. In Native American records, a wigwam symbolized a day’s march. A row of wigwams carved or painted on tree bark showed how many times the travelers had camped. Humans were not built so large and strong that they could avoid narrowing their world. They had to wall off a space that suited them. At first, people were naked and lived outdoors. Living that way was pleasant enough by daylight in calm, warm weather. But the rainy season and winter, not to mention the scorching sun, might have ended the human race almost before it began. Humans escaped that fate by quickly clothing themselves in the shelter of a house. Adam and Eve, according to the fable, wore a leafy shelter before they wore other clothes. Humans wanted a home, a place of warmth or comfort. First came physical warmth, then the warmth of affection.

We may imagine a time when, in the infancy of the human race, some enterprising mortal crept into a hollow in a rock for shelter. Every child begins the world again, to some extent, and loves to stay out doors, even in wet and cold. It plays house, as well as horse, having an instinct for it. Who does not remember the interest with which when young he looked at shelving rocks, or any approach to a cave? It was the natural yearning of that portion of our most primitive ancestor which still survived in us. From the cave we have advanced to roofs of palm leaves, of bark and boughs, of linen woven and stretched, of grass and straw, of boards and shingles, of stones and tiles. At last, we know not what it is to live in the open air, and our lives are domestic in more senses than we think. From the hearth to the field is a great distance. It would be well perhaps if we were to spend more of our days and nights without any obstruction between us and the celestial bodies, if the poet did not speak so much from under a roof, or the saint dwell there so long. Birds do not sing in caves, nor do doves cherish their innocence in dovecots.

We may imagine a time, in humanity’s earliest days, when some adventurous person crawled into a hollow rock for shelter. Every child starts the world over again, to some extent, and loves being outdoors, even in wet and cold weather. Children instinctively play house, just as they play horse. Who does not remember being fascinated as a child by overhanging rocks or anything resembling a cave? That fascination was a natural longing from the part of our earliest ancestor still alive in us. From caves, we moved on to roofs of palm leaves, bark and branches, and woven linen stretched out overhead. Then came roofs of grass and straw, boards and shingles, stones and tiles. At last, we no longer know what living in the open air is like. Our lives are confined to the home in more ways than we realize. It is a long way from the fireside to the field. Perhaps we would benefit from spending more days and nights with nothing between us and the stars. Perhaps it would be better if poets did not speak so often from under a roof, or saints stay indoors so long. Birds do not sing in caves, nor do doves preserve their innocence in dovecotes.

However, if one designs to construct a dwelling house, it behooves him to exercise a little Yankee shrewdness, lest after all he find himself in a workhouse, a labyrinth without a clue, a museum, an almshouse, a prison, or a splendid mausoleum instead. Consider first how slight a shelter is absolutely necessary. I have seen Penobscot Indians, in this town, living in tents of thin cotton cloth, while the snow was nearly a foot deep around them, and I thought that they would be glad to have it deeper to keep out the wind. Formerly, when how to get my living honestly, with freedom left for my proper pursuits, was a question which vexed me even more than it does now, for unfortunately I am become somewhat callous, I used to see a large box by the railroad, six feet long by three wide, in which the laborers locked up their tools at night, and it suggested to me that every man who was hard pushed might get such a one for a dollar, and, having bored a few auger holes in it, to admit the air at least, get into it when it rained and at night, and hook down the lid, and so have freedom in his love, and in his soul be free. This did not appear the worst, nor by any means a despicable alternative. You could sit up as late as you pleased, and, whenever you got up, go abroad without any landlord or house-lord dogging you for rent. Many a man is harassed to death to pay the rent of a larger and more luxurious box who would not have frozen to death in such a box as this. I am far from jesting. Economy is a subject which admits of being treated with levity, but it cannot so be disposed of. A comfortable house for a rude and hardy race, that lived mostly out of doors, was once made here almost entirely of such materials as Nature furnished ready to their hands. Gookin, who was superintendent of the Indians subject to the Massachusetts Colony, writing in 1674, says, “The best of their houses are covered very neatly, tight and warm, with barks of trees, slipped from their bodies at those seasons when the sap is up, and made into great flakes, with pressure of weighty timber, when they are green.... The meaner sort are covered with mats which they make of a kind of bulrush, and are also indifferently tight and warm, but not so good as the former.... Some I have seen, sixty or a hundred feet long and thirty feet broad.... I have often lodged in their wigwams, and found them as warm as the best English houses.” He adds, that they were commonly carpeted and lined within with well-wrought embroidered mats, and were furnished with various utensils. The Indians had advanced so far as to regulate the effect of the wind by a mat suspended over the hole in the roof and moved by a string. Such a lodge was in the first instance constructed in a day or two at most, and taken down and put up in a few hours; and every family owned one, or its apartment in one.

However, if you plan to build a house, you should use a little Yankee shrewdness. Otherwise, you may find yourself in a workhouse, a maze without a guide, a museum, or a poorhouse instead. Or you may end up in a prison or a splendid mausoleum. First consider how little shelter is absolutely necessary. I have seen Penobscot Indians in this town living in thin cotton tents, with snow nearly a foot deep around them. I thought they would welcome deeper snow to keep out the wind. Once, earning an honest living while keeping time for my true pursuits troubled me even more than it does now. Unfortunately, I have grown somewhat hardened to the problem. Back then, I used to see a large box beside the railroad, six feet long and three feet wide. The laborers locked their tools inside at night. The box suggested that anyone hard pressed could get one like it for a dollar. He could drill a few holes, at least enough to let in air. Then he could climb inside at night or when it rained and hook the lid shut. That way, he could be free in his love and free in his soul. This did not seem the worst choice, nor was it at all beneath consideration. You could sit up as late as you pleased. Whenever you got up, you could go out without a landlord or house owner hounding you for rent. Many men are harassed to death paying rent for a larger, more luxurious box. Yet they would not have frozen to death in a box like this. I am far from joking. We may treat the subject of economy lightly, but we cannot dismiss it that way. Once, a tough, hardy people who lived mostly outdoors built comfortable houses here almost entirely from materials Nature supplied ready-made. Gookin supervised the Indians under the authority of the Massachusetts Colony. Writing in 1674, he says, “Their best houses are covered very neatly, snugly, and warmly with tree bark. They strip the bark from the trunks when the sap is rising. While the bark is still green, they press it into large sheets under heavy timbers.... The poorer houses are covered with mats made from a kind of bulrush. These houses are also fairly snug and warm, but not as good as the bark-covered houses.... I have seen some sixty or a hundred feet long and thirty feet wide.... I have often stayed in their wigwams and found them as warm as the best English houses.” He adds that the floors and interior walls were usually covered with skillfully made, embroidered mats. The houses also held various utensils. The Indians had even learned to control the wind with a mat hung over the hole in the roof. They moved the mat with a string. Building such a lodge initially took a day or two at most. Taking it down and putting it up again took only a few hours. Every family owned a lodge or a section of one.

In the savage state every family owns a shelter as good as the best, and sufficient for its coarser and simpler wants; but I think that I speak within bounds when I say that, though the birds of the air have their nests, and the foxes their holes, and the savages their wigwams, in modern civilized society not more than one half the families own a shelter. In the large towns and cities, where civilization especially prevails, the number of those who own a shelter is a very small fraction of the whole. The rest pay an annual tax for this outside garment of all, become indispensable summer and winter, which would buy a village of Indian wigwams, but now helps to keep them poor as long as they live. I do not mean to insist here on the disadvantage of hiring compared with owning, but it is evident that the savage owns his shelter because it costs so little, while the civilized man hires his commonly because he cannot afford to own it; nor can he, in the long run, any better afford to hire. But, answers one, by merely paying this tax the poor civilized man secures an abode which is a palace compared with the savage’s. An annual rent of from twenty-five to a hundred dollars, these are the country rates, entitles him to the benefit of the improvements of centuries, spacious apartments, clean paint and paper, Rumford fireplace, back plastering, Venetian blinds, copper pump, spring lock, a commodious cellar, and many other things. But how happens it that he who is said to enjoy these things is so commonly a poor civilized man, while the savage, who has them not, is rich as a savage? If it is asserted that civilization is a real advance in the condition of man,—and I think that it is, though only the wise improve their advantages,—it must be shown that it has produced better dwellings without making them more costly; and the cost of a thing is the amount of what I will call life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run. An average house in this neighborhood costs perhaps eight hundred dollars, and to lay up this sum will take from ten to fifteen years of the laborer’s life, even if he is not encumbered with a family;—estimating the pecuniary value of every man’s labor at one dollar a day, for if some receive more, others receive less;—so that he must have spent more than half his life commonly before his wigwam will be earned. If we suppose him to pay a rent instead, this is but a doubtful choice of evils. Would the savage have been wise to exchange his wigwam for a palace on these terms?

In societies called savage, every family owns a shelter as good as the best, sufficient for its rougher, simpler needs. But I think I am not exaggerating when I say that modern civilized society falls short of this. The birds have their nests, the foxes their holes, and Indigenous people their wigwams. Yet no more than half the families in modern civilized society own a shelter. In large towns and cities, where civilization is especially widespread, only a very small fraction own a shelter. The rest pay a yearly tax for housing, that outermost garment that has become essential in summer and winter. This payment would buy a village of Indian wigwams. Instead, it helps keep these families poor all their lives. I do not mean to dwell here on the disadvantages of renting compared with owning. But clearly, the Indigenous person owns his shelter because it costs so little. The civilized man generally rents his because he cannot afford to own it. Yet in the long run, he can no better afford to rent. But someone answers that merely paying this tax gives the poor civilized man a home like a palace beside a wigwam. An annual rent of twenty-five to a hundred dollars gives him the benefits of centuries of improvements. These are the rates in the country. He gets spacious rooms, clean paint and wallpaper, a Rumford fireplace, plaster behind the walls, and Venetian blinds. He also gets a copper pump, a spring lock, a roomy cellar, and many other things. But why is the man said to enjoy these things so often a poor civilized man? Meanwhile, the Indigenous person has none of them, yet is rich by his own society’s standards. Suppose we claim that civilization truly improves the human condition. I think it does, though only the wise make good use of its advantages. Then we must show that civilization has produced better homes without making them more costly. A thing’s cost is the amount of what I will call life that must be exchanged for it. That exchange may happen immediately or over time. An average house in this neighborhood costs perhaps eight hundred dollars. Saving that amount will take ten to fifteen years of a laborer’s life, even without a family to support. This estimate values each man’s labor at one dollar a day. For if some receive more, others receive less. So he must usually have spent more than half his life before he has earned his wigwam. If we suppose he pays rent instead, the choice between these two evils is hardly clear. Would the Indigenous person have been wise to trade his wigwam for a palace on these terms?

It may be guessed that I reduce almost the whole advantage of holding this superfluous property as a fund in store against the future, so far as the individual is concerned, mainly to the defraying of funeral expenses. But perhaps a man is not required to bury himself. Nevertheless this points to an important distinction between the civilized man and the savage; and, no doubt, they have designs on us for our benefit, in making the life of a civilized people an institution, in which the life of the individual is to a great extent absorbed, in order to preserve and perfect that of the race. But I wish to show at what a sacrifice this advantage is at present obtained, and to suggest that we may possibly so live as to secure all the advantage without suffering any of the disadvantage. What mean ye by saying that the poor ye have always with you, or that the fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge?

You may guess that I see almost no personal benefit in keeping this excess property as savings for the future. The main benefit, I think, is paying for your funeral. But perhaps a man is not required to bury himself. Still, this points to an important difference between civilized people and those called savages. And no doubt, they mean to benefit us by making the life of a civilized people an institution. Within that institution, the individual’s life is largely absorbed to preserve and improve the life of the human race. But I want to show how much we currently sacrifice to gain this benefit. And I want to suggest that we may possibly live so as to gain all the benefits without any disadvantages. What do you mean when you say that you will always have the poor with you? Or that the fathers have eaten sour grapes, and their children’s teeth are set on edge?

“As I live, saith the Lord God, ye shall not have occasion any more to use this proverb in Israel.”

“As surely as I live, says the Lord God, you will no longer need to use this proverb in Israel.”

“Behold all souls are mine; as the soul of the father, so also the soul of the son is mine: the soul that sinneth, it shall die.”

“Look, all souls belong to me. The father’s soul belongs to me, just as the son’s soul does. The soul that sins will die.”

When I consider my neighbors, the farmers of Concord, who are at least as well off as the other classes, I find that for the most part they have been toiling twenty, thirty, or forty years, that they may become the real owners of their farms, which commonly they have inherited with encumbrances, or else bought with hired money,—and we may regard one third of that toil as the cost of their houses,—but commonly they have not paid for them yet. It is true, the encumbrances sometimes outweigh the value of the farm, so that the farm itself becomes one great encumbrance, and still a man is found to inherit it, being well acquainted with it, as he says. On applying to the assessors, I am surprised to learn that they cannot at once name a dozen in the town who own their farms free and clear. If you would know the history of these homesteads, inquire at the bank where they are mortgaged. The man who has actually paid for his farm with labor on it is so rare that every neighbor can point to him. I doubt if there are three such men in Concord. What has been said of the merchants, that a very large majority, even ninety-seven in a hundred, are sure to fail, is equally true of the farmers. With regard to the merchants, however, one of them says pertinently that a great part of their failures are not genuine pecuniary failures, but merely failures to fulfil their engagements, because it is inconvenient; that is, it is the moral character that breaks down. But this puts an infinitely worse face on the matter, and suggests, beside, that probably not even the other three succeed in saving their souls, but are perchance bankrupt in a worse sense than they who fail honestly. Bankruptcy and repudiation are the springboards from which much of our civilization vaults and turns its somersets, but the savage stands on the unelastic plank of famine. Yet the Middlesex Cattle Show goes off here with éclat annually, as if all the joints of the agricultural machine were suent.

When I consider my neighbors, the farmers of Concord, I find them at least as well off as other classes. Most have been toiling twenty, thirty, or forty years so they can truly own their farms. Usually, they inherited their farms burdened with debt, or bought them with borrowed money. We may count one third of that toil as the cost of their houses. But usually, they still have not paid for their farms. Indeed, the debts sometimes exceed the farm’s value, so the whole farm becomes one great burden. Yet someone can still be found to inherit the farm because, as he says, he knows it well. When I ask the tax assessors, I am surprised by their answer. They cannot immediately name a dozen people in town who own their farms free of debt. If you want the history of these homesteads, ask at the bank that holds their mortgages. A man who has actually paid for his farm by working it is so rare that every neighbor can identify him. I doubt there are three such men in Concord. People say that a great majority of merchants, even ninety-seven out of a hundred, are sure to fail. The same is true of farmers. But one merchant makes a telling point about merchants’ failures. Many are not genuine financial failures, but merely failures to honor commitments because doing so is inconvenient. In other words, their moral character gives way. But this makes the situation infinitely worse. It also suggests that probably not even the other three manage to save their souls. Perhaps they are bankrupt in a worse sense than those who fail honestly. Bankruptcy and refusal to pay debts are the springboards from which much of our civilization leaps and turns somersaults. But the so-called savage stands on the unyielding plank of famine. Yet the Middlesex Cattle Show takes place here every year with great fanfare, as if every joint of the farming machine ran smoothly.

The farmer is endeavoring to solve the problem of a livelihood by a formula more complicated than the problem itself. To get his shoestrings he speculates in herds of cattle. With consummate skill he has set his trap with a hair spring to catch comfort and independence, and then, as he turned away, got his own leg into it. This is the reason he is poor; and for a similar reason we are all poor in respect to a thousand savage comforts, though surrounded by luxuries. As Chapman sings,—

The farmer tries to solve the problem of making a living with a formula more complicated than the problem itself. To get his shoelaces, he speculates in herds of cattle. With great skill, he sets a trap with a delicate spring to catch comfort and independence. Then, as he turns away, he catches his own leg in the trap. That is why he is poor. For a similar reason, we are all poor in a thousand basic comforts, though surrounded by luxuries. As Chapman sings:

And when the farmer has got his house, he may not be the richer but the poorer for it, and it be the house that has got him. As I understand it, that was a valid objection urged by Momus against the house which Minerva made, that she “had not made it movable, by which means a bad neighborhood might be avoided;” and it may still be urged, for our houses are such unwieldy property that we are often imprisoned rather than housed in them; and the bad neighborhood to be avoided is our own scurvy selves. I know one or two families, at least, in this town, who, for nearly a generation, have been wishing to sell their houses in the outskirts and move into the village, but have not been able to accomplish it, and only death will set them free.

And once the farmer has his house, he may be poorer rather than richer for owning it. The house may own him instead. As I understand it, Momus made a valid objection to the house Minerva built. She “had not made it movable, so that a bad neighborhood could be avoided.” The same objection still applies. Our houses are such cumbersome possessions that they often imprison us rather than shelter us. And the bad neighborhood we need to escape is our own wretched selves. I know at least one or two families in this town who have wanted to move for nearly a generation. They want to sell their houses on the outskirts and move into the village. But they have not been able to do so, and only death will set them free.

Granted that the majority are able at last either to own or hire the modern house with all its improvements. While civilization has been improving our houses, it has not equally improved the men who are to inhabit them. It has created palaces, but it was not so easy to create noblemen and kings. And if the civilized man’s pursuits are no worthier than the savage’s, if he is employed the greater part of his life in obtaining gross necessaries and comforts merely, why should he have a better dwelling than the former?

Granted, the majority can finally own or rent a modern house with all its improvements. But while civilization has improved our houses, it has not equally improved the people who live in them. Civilization has created palaces, but creating noblemen and kings was not so easy. And if civilized people’s pursuits are no worthier than those of people they call savage, why should their homes be better? If civilized people spend most of their lives merely getting basic necessities and comforts, why should they have better homes?

But how do the poor minority fare? Perhaps it will be found, that just in proportion as some have been placed in outward circumstances above the savage, others have been degraded below him. The luxury of one class is counterbalanced by the indigence of another. On the one side is the palace, on the other are the almshouse and “silent poor.” The myriads who built the pyramids to be the tombs of the Pharaohs were fed on garlic, and it may be were not decently buried themselves. The mason who finishes the cornice of the palace returns at night perchance to a hut not so good as a wigwam. It is a mistake to suppose that, in a country where the usual evidences of civilization exist, the condition of a very large body of the inhabitants may not be as degraded as that of savages. I refer to the degraded poor, not now to the degraded rich. To know this I should not need to look farther than to the shanties which every where border our railroads, that last improvement in civilization; where I see in my daily walks human beings living in sties, and all winter with an open door, for the sake of light, without any visible, often imaginable, wood pile, and the forms of both old and young are permanently contracted by the long habit of shrinking from cold and misery, and the development of all their limbs and faculties is checked. It certainly is fair to look at that class by whose labor the works which distinguish this generation are accomplished. Such too, to a greater or less extent, is the condition of the operatives of every denomination in England, which is the great workhouse of the world. Or I could refer you to Ireland, which is marked as one of the white or enlightened spots on the map. Contrast the physical condition of the Irish with that of the North American Indian, or the South Sea Islander, or any other savage race before it was degraded by contact with the civilized man. Yet I have no doubt that that people’s rulers are as wise as the average of civilized rulers. Their condition only proves what squalidness may consist with civilization. I hardly need refer now to the laborers in our Southern States who produce the staple exports of this country, and are themselves a staple production of the South. But to confine myself to those who are said to be in moderate circumstances.

But how does the poor minority fare? Perhaps we will find that some people’s living conditions have risen above those of people called savages. And perhaps others’ conditions have fallen below that level in the same proportion. The luxury of one class is balanced by the poverty of another. On one side stands the palace, on the other, the poorhouse and the “silent poor.” The countless people who built the pyramids as tombs for the Pharaohs were fed on garlic. Perhaps they themselves were not even decently buried. The mason who finishes the decorative molding of a palace may return at night to a hut worse than a wigwam. We mistakenly assume that the usual signs of civilization mean a country’s people cannot live in such degraded conditions. Yet a very large part of its population may live as badly as people called savages. I mean the degraded poor, not, for now, the degraded rich. To see such poverty, I need look no farther than the shanties lining our railroads, civilization’s latest improvement. On my daily walks, I see human beings living in pigsties. All winter they keep a door open for light, with no visible woodpile, and often no imaginable supply of firewood. Both old and young are permanently hunched from years of shrinking away from cold and misery. The development of all their limbs and abilities is stunted. Surely it is fair to examine the class whose labor creates the works that distinguish this generation. To a greater or lesser extent, workers of every kind in England live in the same conditions. England is the great workhouse of the world. Or I could point you to Ireland, marked as one of the white, or enlightened, places on the map. Compare the physical condition of the Irish with that of the North American Indian or the South Sea Islander. Or compare the Irish with any other people called savages, before contact with civilized people degraded them. Yet I have no doubt that Ireland’s rulers are as wise as the average civilized ruler. The condition of the Irish only proves how much squalor can coexist with civilization. I hardly need mention the laborers in our Southern States who produce this country’s main exports. Those laborers are themselves a main product of the South. But let me limit myself to those said to be in moderate circumstances.

Most men appear never to have considered what a house is, and are actually though needlessly poor all their lives because they think that they must have such a one as their neighbors have. As if one were to wear any sort of coat which the tailor might cut out for him, or, gradually leaving off palmleaf hat or cap of woodchuck skin, complain of hard times because he could not afford to buy him a crown! It is possible to invent a house still more convenient and luxurious than we have, which yet all would admit that man could not afford to pay for. Shall we always study to obtain more of these things, and not sometimes to be content with less? Shall the respectable citizen thus gravely teach, by precept and example, the necessity of the young man’s providing a certain number of superfluous glow-shoes, and umbrellas, and empty guest chambers for empty guests, before he dies? Why should not our furniture be as simple as the Arab’s or the Indian’s? When I think of the benefactors of the race, whom we have apotheosized as messengers from heaven, bearers of divine gifts to man, I do not see in my mind any retinue at their heels, any car-load of fashionable furniture. Or what if I were to allow—would it not be a singular allowance?—that our furniture should be more complex than the Arab’s, in proportion as we are morally and intellectually his superiors! At present our houses are cluttered and defiled with it, and a good housewife would sweep out the greater part into the dust hole, and not leave her morning’s work undone. Morning work! By the blushes of Aurora and the music of Memnon, what should be man’s morning work in this world? I had three pieces of limestone on my desk, but I was terrified to find that they required to be dusted daily, when the furniture of my mind was all undusted still, and I threw them out the window in disgust. How, then, could I have a furnished house? I would rather sit in the open air, for no dust gathers on the grass, unless where man has broken ground.

Most men seem never to have considered what a house is. They are genuinely, though needlessly, poor all their lives because they think their houses must match their neighbors’ houses. As if someone had to wear whatever coat a tailor chose to cut for him! Or gave up his palmleaf hat or woodchuck-skin cap, then complained of hard times because he couldn’t afford a crown! We could invent a house even more convenient and luxurious than our own. Yet everyone would admit that no one could afford to pay for such a house. Must we always try to get more of these things, and never sometimes be content with less? Must respectable citizens solemnly teach young men, by instruction and example, to acquire a certain number of unnecessary glow-shoes and umbrellas? Must they also acquire empty guest rooms for empty guests before they die? Why shouldn’t our furniture be as simple as the Arab’s or the Indian’s? I think of humanity’s benefactors, whom we have raised to divine status as heaven’s messengers, bringing divine gifts to humanity. I don’t picture followers trailing behind them, or a carload of fashionable furniture. Or suppose I conceded that our furniture should be more elaborate than the Arab’s. How strange a concession that would be! The extra complexity would have to match how far we surpass him morally and intellectually! As things stand, our houses are cluttered and dirtied by furniture. A good housewife would sweep most of the furniture into the rubbish pit, rather than leave her morning’s work unfinished. Morning work! By Aurora’s blushes and Memnon’s music, what should a person’s morning work be in this world? I had three pieces of limestone on my desk. But I was horrified to discover that the stones needed dusting daily, while my mind’s furnishings still lay undusted. So I threw the stones out the window in disgust. How, then, could I have a furnished house? I would rather sit outdoors, because no dust gathers on the grass except where people have broken the ground.

It is the luxurious and dissipated who set the fashions which the herd so diligently follow. The traveller who stops at the best houses, so called, soon discovers this, for the publicans presume him to be a Sardanapalus, and if he resigned himself to their tender mercies he would soon be completely emasculated. I think that in the railroad car we are inclined to spend more on luxury than on safety and convenience, and it threatens without attaining these to become no better than a modern drawing room, with its divans, and ottomans, and sun-shades, and a hundred other oriental things, which we are taking west with us, invented for the ladies of the harem and the effeminate natives of the Celestial Empire, which Jonathan should be ashamed to know the names of. I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself than be crowded on a velvet cushion. I would rather ride on earth in an ox cart with a free circulation, than go to heaven in the fancy car of an excursion train and breathe a malaria all the way.

The wealthy and self-indulgent set the fashions that the herd follows so eagerly. Travelers who stay at the so-called best inns soon discover this. The innkeepers assume each traveler is a Sardanapalus, devoted to luxury. If travelers surrendered to the innkeepers’ tender mercies, they would soon be stripped of all manliness. I think we tend to spend more on luxury in railroad cars than on safety and convenience. Without achieving safety and convenience, the railroad car threatens to become no better than a modern sitting room. It has its divans, ottomans, sunshades, and a hundred other Eastern things that we are taking west with us. These were invented for harem women and the effeminate natives of the Celestial Empire. Jonathan should be ashamed even to know their names. I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself than be crowded on a velvet cushion. I would rather ride on earth in an ox cart with freely circulating air. That would be better than going to heaven in an excursion train’s fancy car, breathing foul air all the way.

The very simplicity and nakedness of man’s life in the primitive ages imply this advantage at least, that they left him still but a sojourner in nature. When he was refreshed with food and sleep he contemplated his journey again. He dwelt, as it were, in a tent in this world, and was either threading the valleys, or crossing the plains, or climbing the mountain tops. But lo! men have become the tools of their tools. The man who independently plucked the fruits when he was hungry is become a farmer; and he who stood under a tree for shelter, a housekeeper. We now no longer camp as for a night, but have settled down on earth and forgotten heaven. We have adopted Christianity merely as an improved method of agri-culture. We have built for this world a family mansion, and for the next a family tomb. The best works of art are the expression of man’s struggle to free himself from this condition, but the effect of our art is merely to make this low state comfortable and that higher state to be forgotten. There is actually no place in this village for a work of fine art, if any had come down to us, to stand, for our lives, our houses and streets, furnish no proper pedestal for it. There is not a nail to hang a picture on, nor a shelf to receive the bust of a hero or a saint. When I consider how our houses are built and paid for, or not paid for, and their internal economy managed and sustained, I wonder that the floor does not give way under the visitor while he is admiring the gewgaws upon the mantel-piece, and let him through into the cellar, to some solid and honest though earthy foundation. I cannot but perceive that this so called rich and refined life is a thing jumped at, and I do not get on in the enjoyment of the fine arts which adorn it, my attention being wholly occupied with the jump; for I remember that the greatest genuine leap, due to human muscles alone, on record, is that of certain wandering Arabs, who are said to have cleared twenty-five feet on level ground. Without factitious support, man is sure to come to earth again beyond that distance. The first question which I am tempted to put to the proprietor of such great impropriety is, Who bolsters you? Are you one of the ninety-seven who fail, or of the three who succeed? Answer me these questions, and then perhaps I may look at your bawbles and find them ornamental. The cart before the horse is neither beautiful nor useful. Before we can adorn our houses with beautiful objects the walls must be stripped, and our lives must be stripped, and beautiful housekeeping and beautiful living be laid for a foundation: now, a taste for the beautiful is most cultivated out of doors, where there is no house and no housekeeper.

The sheer simplicity and bareness of human life in early ages had at least one advantage. People remained only travelers passing through nature. Once refreshed by food and sleep, a person turned his thoughts back to his journey. He lived in this world as if in a tent, winding through valleys, crossing plains, or climbing mountain peaks. But look! People have become the tools of their tools. The man who once freely picked fruit when hungry has become a farmer. The man who sheltered under a tree has become a housekeeper. We no longer camp as if for one night. Instead, we have settled down on earth and forgotten heaven. We have adopted Christianity merely as an improved method of agri-culture. We have built a family mansion for this world and a family tomb for the next. The best works of art express our struggle to free ourselves from this condition. Yet our art merely makes this low state comfortable and makes us forget that higher state. There is actually nowhere in this village to put a work of fine art, if any had survived from the past. Our lives, houses, and streets offer no suitable pedestal for such a work. There is not a nail to hang a picture on. Nor is there a shelf for the bust of a hero or a saint. I consider how our houses are built and paid for, or not paid for. I also consider how the households are managed and kept running. Then I wonder why the floor does not collapse beneath a visitor admiring the trinkets on the mantelpiece. It would drop him into the cellar, onto some solid, honest foundation, though an earthy one. I cannot help seeing this supposedly rich and refined life as something people have leaped into. I make no progress in enjoying the fine arts that decorate such a life. My attention is entirely taken up by the leap. For I remember the greatest genuine leap on record, made by human muscles alone. Certain wandering Arabs are said to have jumped twenty-five feet on level ground. Without artificial support, anyone is sure to come back to earth beyond that distance. The first question I feel tempted to ask the owner of such great impropriety is, Who props you up? Are you among the ninety-seven who fail, or the three who succeed? Answer these questions, and then perhaps I can look at your trinkets and find them decorative. Putting the cart before the horse is neither beautiful nor useful. Before we can decorate our houses with beautiful objects, we must strip the walls and strip our lives. Beautiful housekeeping and beautiful living must form the foundation. A taste for beauty is best developed outdoors, where there is no house and no housekeeper.

Old Johnson, in his “Wonder-Working Providence,” speaking of the first settlers of this town, with whom he was contemporary, tells us that “they burrow themselves in the earth for their first shelter under some hillside, and, casting the soil aloft upon timber, they make a smoky fire against the earth, at the highest side.” They did not “provide them houses,” says he, “till the earth, by the Lord’s blessing, brought forth bread to feed them,” and the first year’s crop was so light that “they were forced to cut their bread very thin for a long season.” The secretary of the Province of New Netherland, writing in Dutch, in 1650, for the information of those who wished to take up land there, states more particularly that “those in New Netherland, and especially in New England, who have no means to build farmhouses at first according to their wishes, dig a square pit in the ground, cellar fashion, six or seven feet deep, as long and as broad as they think proper, case the earth inside with wood all round the wall, and line the wood with the bark of trees or something else to prevent the caving in of the earth; floor this cellar with plank, and wainscot it overhead for a ceiling, raise a roof of spars clear up, and cover the spars with bark or green sods, so that they can live dry and warm in these houses with their entire families for two, three, and four years, it being understood that partitions are run through those cellars which are adapted to the size of the family. The wealthy and principal men in New England, in the beginning of the colonies, commenced their first dwelling houses in this fashion for two reasons; firstly, in order not to waste time in building, and not to want food the next season; secondly, in order not to discourage poor laboring people whom they brought over in numbers from Fatherland. In the course of three or four years, when the country became adapted to agriculture, they built themselves handsome houses, spending on them several thousands.”

Old Johnson describes this town’s first settlers in his “Wonder-Working Providence.” He lived at the same time as those settlers. He tells us that “they burrow into the earth under a hillside for their first shelter. They pile soil over a timber frame and build a smoky fire against the earth at the highest side.” They did not “build themselves houses,” he says, “until the earth, with the Lord’s blessing, produced grain to feed them.” The first year’s crop was so small that “they had to slice their bread very thin for a long time.” The secretary of the Province of New Netherland gives a more detailed account. He wrote in Dutch in 1650 to inform people who wanted to settle on land there. He states that “people in New Netherland, and especially in New England, cannot always afford the farmhouses they want at first. Those people dig a square pit in the ground like a cellar, six or seven feet deep. They make the pit as long and wide as they think suitable. They line the earthen walls with wood all around. They line the wood with tree bark or something else to keep the earth from caving in. They lay a plank floor in the cellar and put up wooden paneling overhead as a ceiling. They build a roof with poles rising above the ceiling and cover the poles with bark or fresh sod. This keeps the houses dry and warm enough for entire families to live in for two, three, or four years. Of course, these cellars are divided by partitions arranged to suit the size of the family. At the beginning of the colonies, wealthy and leading men in New England built their first homes this way too. They had two reasons. First, they wanted to avoid wasting time on building, so they would not lack food the next season. Second, they did not want to discourage the poor laborers they brought over in large numbers from Fatherland. After three or four years, when the land had become suitable for farming, they built themselves handsome houses. They spent several thousand on those houses.”

In this course which our ancestors took there was a show of prudence at least, as if their principle were to satisfy the more pressing wants first. But are the more pressing wants satisfied now? When I think of acquiring for myself one of our luxurious dwellings, I am deterred, for, so to speak, the country is not yet adapted to human culture, and we are still forced to cut our spiritual bread far thinner than our forefathers did their wheaten. Not that all architectural ornament is to be neglected even in the rudest periods; but let our houses first be lined with beauty, where they come in contact with our lives, like the tenement of the shellfish, and not overlaid with it. But, alas! I have been inside one or two of them, and know what they are lined with.

The path our ancestors took at least seemed sensible, as if their rule were to meet the most urgent needs first. But are those urgent needs met now? When I think of buying myself one of our luxurious homes, I hesitate. The country is not yet ready, so to speak, for human cultivation. We must still slice our spiritual bread far thinner than our ancestors sliced their wheat bread. This does not mean we should neglect all architectural decoration, even in the most primitive times. But let our houses first be lined with beauty where they touch our lives, like the shellfish’s home. Let beauty be within our houses, not merely laid over the outside. But alas! I have been inside one or two of these houses, and I know what lines their walls.

Though we are not so degenerate but that we might possibly live in a cave or a wigwam or wear skins today, it certainly is better to accept the advantages, though so dearly bought, which the invention and industry of mankind offer. In such a neighborhood as this, boards and shingles, lime and bricks, are cheaper and more easily obtained than suitable caves, or whole logs, or bark in sufficient quantities, or even well-tempered clay or flat stones. I speak understandingly on this subject, for I have made myself acquainted with it both theoretically and practically. With a little more wit we might use these materials so as to become richer than the richest now are, and make our civilization a blessing. The civilized man is a more experienced and wiser savage. But to make haste to my own experiment.

We have not declined so far that we could no longer live in a cave or wigwam, or wear skins. Still, it is certainly better to accept the advantages that human invention and hard work offer, despite their great cost. In a neighborhood like this, boards, shingles, lime, and bricks are cheaper and easier to get than suitable caves. They are also cheaper and easier to get than whole logs, enough bark, or even properly prepared clay or flat stones. I know what I am talking about, having studied the subject both in theory and in practice. With a little more ingenuity, we might use these materials to become richer than the richest people are today. We might also make our civilization a blessing. The civilized person is a more experienced and wiser savage. But let me hurry on to my own experiment.

Near the end of March, 1845, I borrowed an axe and went down to the woods by Walden Pond, nearest to where I intended to build my house, and began to cut down some tall, arrowy white pines, still in their youth, for timber. It is difficult to begin without borrowing, but perhaps it is the most generous course thus to permit your fellow-men to have an interest in your enterprise. The owner of the axe, as he released his hold on it, said that it was the apple of his eye; but I returned it sharper than I received it. It was a pleasant hillside where I worked, covered with pine woods, through which I looked out on the pond, and a small open field in the woods where pines and hickories were springing up. The ice in the pond was not yet dissolved, though there were some open spaces, and it was all dark colored and saturated with water. There were some slight flurries of snow during the days that I worked there; but for the most part when I came out on to the railroad, on my way home, its yellow sand heap stretched away gleaming in the hazy atmosphere, and the rails shone in the spring sun, and I heard the lark and pewee and other birds already come to commence another year with us. They were pleasant spring days, in which the winter of man’s discontent was thawing as well as the earth, and the life that had lain torpid began to stretch itself. One day, when my axe had come off and I had cut a green hickory for a wedge, driving it with a stone, and had placed the whole to soak in a pond hole in order to swell the wood, I saw a striped snake run into the water, and he lay on the bottom, apparently without inconvenience, as long as I stayed there, or more than a quarter of an hour; perhaps because he had not yet fairly come out of the torpid state. It appeared to me that for a like reason men remain in their present low and primitive condition; but if they should feel the influence of the spring of springs arousing them, they would of necessity rise to a higher and more ethereal life. I had previously seen the snakes in frosty mornings in my path with portions of their bodies still numb and inflexible, waiting for the sun to thaw them. On the 1st of April it rained and melted the ice, and in the early part of the day, which was very foggy, I heard a stray goose groping about over the pond and cackling as if lost, or like the spirit of the fog.

Near the end of March, 1845, I borrowed an axe and went into the woods by Walden Pond. I chose the spot nearest where I planned to build my house. There I began cutting down some tall, straight white pines, still young, for timber. It is hard to get started without borrowing. But perhaps borrowing is the most generous approach, since it lets others take an interest in your project. As the axe’s owner let go of it, he said it was the apple of his eye. But I returned the axe sharper than I received it. I worked on a pleasant hillside covered with pine woods. Through the trees, I could see the pond and a small clearing where pines and hickories were sprouting. The pond’s ice had not yet melted, though there were some open patches. All the ice was dark and soaked with water. There were a few light snow flurries during the days I worked there. But usually, when I reached the railroad on my way home, its bank of yellow sand gleamed through the haze. The rails shone in the spring sun. I heard the lark, the pewee, and other birds that had already returned to begin another year with us. Those were pleasant spring days. The winter of human discontent was thawing along with the earth, and life, long dormant, began to stretch. One day, the head of my axe came off. I cut a piece of green hickory for a wedge and drove it in with a stone. Then I put the whole axe in a pool of pond water to soak, so the wood would swell. I saw a striped snake slip into the water. The snake lay on the bottom, apparently without discomfort, as long as I stayed there, more than fifteen minutes. Perhaps the snake had not yet fully emerged from its dormant state. It seemed to me that people remain in their present low and primitive condition for a similar reason. But if they felt the spring of springs stirring them, they would necessarily rise to a higher, more spiritual life. I had previously seen snakes in my path on frosty mornings, with parts of their bodies still numb and stiff. They were waiting for the sun to thaw them. On April 1, rain melted the ice. Early that day, in thick fog, I heard a lone goose feeling its way over the pond. The goose cackled as if lost, or like the spirit of the fog.

So I went on for some days cutting and hewing timber, and also studs and rafters, all with my narrow axe, not having many communicable or scholar-like thoughts, singing to myself,—

So I spent some days cutting and shaping timber, along with studs and rafters, all with my narrow axe. I had few thoughts worth sharing or of a scholarly kind, and I sang to myself:

I hewed the main timbers six inches square, most of the studs on two sides only, and the rafters and floor timbers on one side, leaving the rest of the bark on, so that they were just as straight and much stronger than sawed ones. Each stick was carefully mortised or tenoned by its stump, for I had borrowed other tools by this time. My days in the woods were not very long ones; yet I usually carried my dinner of bread and butter, and read the newspaper in which it was wrapped, at noon, sitting amid the green pine boughs which I had cut off, and to my bread was imparted some of their fragrance, for my hands were covered with a thick coat of pitch. Before I had done I was more the friend than the foe of the pine tree, though I had cut down some of them, having become better acquainted with it. Sometimes a rambler in the wood was attracted by the sound of my axe, and we chatted pleasantly over the chips which I had made.

I cut the main timbers to six inches square, and shaped most of the wall studs on only two sides. I shaped the rafters and floor timbers on one side, leaving the bark on the other sides. This left the timbers just as straight as sawed ones and much stronger. By this time, I had borrowed more tools. I carefully cut each timber’s mortise or tenon joint beside the stump of the tree it came from. My days in the woods were not very long. Still, I usually brought a lunch of bread and butter, wrapped in newspaper. At noon, I read the newspaper while sitting among the green pine branches I had cut off. Some of their fragrance passed into my bread because my hands were thickly coated with pine resin. Before I finished, I had become more a friend than an enemy to the pine tree. Although I had cut down some pines, I had come to know the tree better. Sometimes someone walking in the woods was drawn by the sound of my axe. We chatted pleasantly over the wood chips I had made.

By the middle of April, for I made no haste in my work, but rather made the most of it, my house was framed and ready for the raising. I had already bought the shanty of James Collins, an Irishman who worked on the Fitchburg Railroad, for boards. James Collins’ shanty was considered an uncommonly fine one. When I called to see it he was not at home. I walked about the outside, at first unobserved from within, the window was so deep and high. It was of small dimensions, with a peaked cottage roof, and not much else to be seen, the dirt being raised five feet all around as if it were a compost heap. The roof was the soundest part, though a good deal warped and made brittle by the sun. Door-sill there was none, but a perennial passage for the hens under the door board. Mrs. C. came to the door and asked me to view it from the inside. The hens were driven in by my approach. It was dark, and had a dirt floor for the most part, dank, clammy, and aguish, only here a board and there a board which would not bear removal. She lighted a lamp to show me the inside of the roof and the walls, and also that the board floor extended under the bed, warning me not to step into the cellar, a sort of dust hole two feet deep. In her own words, they were “good boards overhead, good boards all around, and a good window,”—of two whole squares originally, only the cat had passed out that way lately. There was a stove, a bed, and a place to sit, an infant in the house where it was born, a silk parasol, gilt-framed looking-glass, and a patent new coffee mill nailed to an oak sapling, all told. The bargain was soon concluded, for James had in the meanwhile returned. I to pay four dollars and twenty-five cents to-night, he to vacate at five to-morrow morning, selling to nobody else meanwhile: I to take possession at six. It were well, he said, to be there early, and anticipate certain indistinct but wholly unjust claims on the score of ground rent and fuel. This he assured me was the only encumbrance. At six I passed him and his family on the road. One large bundle held their all,—bed, coffee-mill, looking-glass, hens,—all but the cat, she took to the woods and became a wild cat, and, as I learned afterward, trod in a trap set for woodchucks, and so became a dead cat at last.

By the middle of April, the frame of my house was ready to be raised. I took my time with the work, making the most of it rather than hurrying. I had already bought James Collins’ shanty for its boards. He was an Irishman who worked on the Fitchburg Railroad. James Collins’ shanty was considered an unusually fine one. When I came to see the shanty, he was not home. I walked around outside, unnoticed at first by anyone inside because the window was so deeply set and high. The shanty was small, with a peaked cottage roof, and little else was visible. Dirt was piled five feet high all around, as if the shanty were a compost heap. The roof was the soundest part, though the sun had badly warped the boards and made them brittle. There was no doorstep, but the gap under the door provided a permanent passage for the hens. Mrs. C. came to the door and invited me to look inside. My approach drove the hens indoors. The interior was dark, and most of the floor was dirt, damp, clammy, and likely to cause fever. Here and there lay a board too fragile to survive being taken up. She lit a lamp to show me the underside of the roof and the walls. She also showed me that the board flooring extended under the bed. She warned me not to step into the cellar, a sort of dusty hole two feet deep. In her own words, there were “good boards overhead, good boards all around, and a good window,” originally with two whole panes. Only the cat had gone out through the window lately. The entire contents were a stove, a bed, a place to sit, and an infant in the house where it was born. There were also a silk parasol, a gilt-framed mirror, and a new patented coffee grinder nailed to an oak sapling. We soon settled the bargain, since James had returned in the meantime. I would pay four dollars and twenty-five cents that night. He would leave at five the next morning and sell to nobody else in the meantime. I would take possession at six. He said I should arrive early, before certain vague but wholly unjust claims for ground rent and fuel could arise. He assured me those claims were the only complication. At six, I passed him and his family on the road. One large bundle held everything they owned: bed, coffee grinder, mirror, hens. Everything but the cat, who took to the woods and became a wild cat. As I learned afterward, she stepped into a trap set for woodchucks, and so became a dead cat at last.

I took down this dwelling the same morning, drawing the nails, and removed it to the pond side by small cartloads, spreading the boards on the grass there to bleach and warp back again in the sun. One early thrush gave me a note or two as I drove along the woodland path. I was informed treacherously by a young Patrick that neighbor Seeley, an Irishman, in the intervals of the carting, transferred the still tolerable, straight, and drivable nails, staples, and spikes to his pocket, and then stood when I came back to pass the time of day, and look freshly up, unconcerned, with spring thoughts, at the devastation; there being a dearth of work, as he said. He was there to represent spectatordom, and help make this seemingly insignificant event one with the removal of the gods of Troy.

I took the dwelling apart that same morning, pulling out the nails. I moved it to the pond’s edge in small cartloads. There I spread the boards on the grass to bleach and bend back into shape in the sun. An early thrush sang a note or two as I drove along the woodland path. A young Patrick betrayed my neighbor Seeley’s secret to me. Seeley, an Irishman, had pocketed the still usable, straight nails, staples, and spikes between my cart trips. When I returned, he stood there to exchange greetings and gaze at the wreckage, looking fresh and unconcerned, thinking spring thoughts. There was little work to be had, he said. He was there to represent spectatordom and help put this seemingly insignificant event on a level with moving Troy’s gods.

I dug my cellar in the side of a hill sloping to the south, where a woodchuck had formerly dug his burrow, down through sumach and blackberry roots, and the lowest stain of vegetation, six feet square by seven deep, to a fine sand where potatoes would not freeze in any winter. The sides were left shelving, and not stoned; but the sun having never shone on them, the sand still keeps its place. It was but two hours’ work. I took particular pleasure in this breaking of ground, for in almost all latitudes men dig into the earth for an equable temperature. Under the most splendid house in the city is still to be found the cellar where they store their roots as of old, and long after the superstructure has disappeared posterity remark its dent in the earth. The house is still but a sort of porch at the entrance of a burrow.

I dug my cellar into a south-facing hillside, where a woodchuck had once dug its burrow. I dug through sumac and blackberry roots and below the last traces of plant life. The cellar was six feet square and seven feet deep, reaching fine sand where potatoes would not freeze in any winter. I left the sides sloping and did not line them with stone. But because the sun has never shone on the sides, the sand still stays in place. The work took only two hours. I took particular pleasure in breaking this ground, because in almost all latitudes people dig into the earth for a steady temperature. Beneath even the grandest house in the city, you can still find a cellar where people store root vegetables as they always have. Long after the building above has disappeared, later generations notice the hollow it left in the earth. The house is still only a kind of porch at the entrance to a burrow.

At length, in the beginning of May, with the help of some of my acquaintances, rather to improve so good an occasion for neighborliness than from any necessity, I set up the frame of my house. No man was ever more honored in the character of his raisers than I. They are destined, I trust, to assist at the raising of loftier structures one day. I began to occupy my house on the 4th of July, as soon as it was boarded and roofed, for the boards were carefully feather-edged and lapped, so that it was perfectly impervious to rain; but before boarding I laid the foundation of a chimney at one end, bringing two cartloads of stones up the hill from the pond in my arms. I built the chimney after my hoeing in the fall, before a fire became necessary for warmth, doing my cooking in the mean while out of doors on the ground, early in the morning: which mode I still think is in some respects more convenient and agreeable than the usual one. When it stormed before my bread was baked, I fixed a few boards over the fire, and sat under them to watch my loaf, and passed some pleasant hours in that way. In those days, when my hands were much employed, I read but little, but the least scraps of paper which lay on the ground, my holder, or tablecloth, afforded me as much entertainment, in fact answered the same purpose as the Iliad.

At last, in early May, I put up the frame of my house with help from some acquaintances. I accepted their help more to make the most of a good opportunity for neighborliness than from any need. No man was ever more honored by the character of those who helped raise his house. I trust these men are destined to help raise loftier structures one day. I moved into my house on the 4th of July, as soon as the walls and roof were covered. The boards had carefully tapered, overlapping edges, so the house kept out rain completely. But before putting up the boards, I laid the foundation for a chimney at one end. I carried two cartloads of stones in my arms, up the hill from the pond. I built the chimney in the fall, after finishing my hoeing and before I needed a fire for warmth. Meanwhile, I cooked outdoors on the ground early in the morning. I still think cooking that way is, in some respects, more convenient and pleasant than the usual way. When a storm came before my bread was baked, I put a few boards over the fire. I sat beneath the boards to watch my loaf and spent some pleasant hours that way. In those days, my hands were so busy that I read very little. But even the smallest scraps of paper lying on the ground, or serving as my potholder or tablecloth, entertained me. In fact, those scraps served the same purpose as the Iliad.

It would be worth the while to build still more deliberately than I did, considering, for instance, what foundation a door, a window, a cellar, a garret, have in the nature of man, and perchance never raising any superstructure until we found a better reason for it than our temporal necessities even. There is some of the same fitness in a man’s building his own house that there is in a bird’s building its own nest. Who knows but if men constructed their dwellings with their own hands, and provided food for themselves and families simply and honestly enough, the poetic faculty would be universally developed, as birds universally sing when they are so engaged? But alas! we do like cowbirds and cuckoos, which lay their eggs in nests which other birds have built, and cheer no traveller with their chattering and unmusical notes. Shall we forever resign the pleasure of construction to the carpenter? What does architecture amount to in the experience of the mass of men? I never in all my walks came across a man engaged in so simple and natural an occupation as building his house. We belong to the community. It is not the tailor alone who is the ninth part of a man; it is as much the preacher, and the merchant, and the farmer. Where is this division of labor to end? and what object does it finally serve? No doubt another may also think for me; but it is not therefore desirable that he should do so to the exclusion of my thinking for myself.

It would be worthwhile to build even more thoughtfully than I did. We might ask, for instance, how doors, windows, cellars, and attics answer needs rooted in human nature. Perhaps we should build nothing above the foundation until we find a better reason than even our earthly needs. A man building his own house is fitting in much the same way as a bird building its own nest. Who knows what might happen if men built their homes with their own hands? What if they also provided food for themselves and their families simply and honestly enough? Perhaps everyone's poetic gifts would develop, just as all birds sing while doing such work. But alas! We act like cowbirds and cuckoos, laying their eggs in nests other birds have built. Their chatter and unmusical calls bring no joy to any traveler. Must we forever leave the pleasure of building to the carpenter? What does architecture really mean in most people's experience? In all my walks, I have never encountered a man doing anything so simple and natural as building his house. We belong to the community. The tailor is not the only one who amounts to one-ninth of a man. The preacher, the merchant, and the farmer are just as incomplete. Where will this division of labor end? And what purpose does it ultimately serve? No doubt someone else may also think for me. But that does not mean he should do all my thinking and leave me none to do myself.

True, there are architects so called in this country, and I have heard of one at least possessed with the idea of making architectural ornaments have a core of truth, a necessity, and hence a beauty, as if it were a revelation to him. All very well perhaps from his point of view, but only a little better than the common dilettantism. A sentimental reformer in architecture, he began at the cornice, not at the foundation. It was only how to put a core of truth within the ornaments, that every sugar plum in fact might have an almond or caraway seed in it,—though I hold that almonds are most wholesome without the sugar,—and not how the inhabitant, the indweller, might build truly within and without, and let the ornaments take care of themselves. What reasonable man ever supposed that ornaments were something outward and in the skin merely,—that the tortoise got his spotted shell, or the shellfish its mother-o’-pearl tints, by such a contract as the inhabitants of Broadway their Trinity Church? But a man has no more to do with the style of architecture of his house than a tortoise with that of its shell: nor need the soldier be so idle as to try to paint the precise color of his virtue on his standard. The enemy will find it out. He may turn pale when the trial comes. This man seemed to me to lean over the cornice, and timidly whisper his half truth to the rude occupants who really knew it better than he. What of architectural beauty I now see, I know has gradually grown from within outward, out of the necessities and character of the indweller, who is the only builder,—out of some unconscious truthfulness, and nobleness, without ever a thought for the appearance and whatever additional beauty of this kind is destined to be produced will be preceded by a like unconscious beauty of life. The most interesting dwellings in this country, as the painter knows, are the most unpretending, humble log huts and cottages of the poor commonly; it is the life of the inhabitants whose shells they are, and not any peculiarity in their surfaces merely, which makes them picturesque; and equally interesting will be the citizen’s suburban box, when his life shall be as simple and as agreeable to the imagination, and there is as little straining after effect in the style of his dwelling. A great proportion of architectural ornaments are literally hollow, and a September gale would strip them off, like borrowed plumes, without injury to the substantials. They can do without architecture who have no olives nor wines in the cellar. What if an equal ado were made about the ornaments of style in literature, and the architects of our bibles spent as much time about their cornices as the architects of our churches do? So are made the belles-lettres and the beaux-arts and their professors. Much it concerns a man, forsooth, how a few sticks are slanted over him or under him, and what colors are daubed upon his box. It would signify somewhat, if, in any earnest sense, he slanted them and daubed it; but the spirit having departed out of the tenant, it is of a piece with constructing his own coffin,—the architecture of the grave, and “carpenter” is but another name for “coffin-maker.” One man says, in his despair or indifference to life, take up a handful of the earth at your feet, and paint your house that color. Is he thinking of his last and narrow house? Toss up a copper for it as well. What an abundance of leisure he must have! Why do you take up a handful of dirt? Better paint your house your own complexion; let it turn pale or blush for you. An enterprise to improve the style of cottage architecture! When you have got my ornaments ready I will wear them.

True, this country has people called architects. I have heard of at least one who wanted architectural ornaments to express something true and necessary, and therefore beautiful. He treated the idea as if it were a revelation. All very well, perhaps, from his point of view, but only a little better than the usual amateur dabbling. A sentimental architectural reformer, he began at the cornice, not the foundation. His only concern was how to put a core of truth inside the ornaments. Every sugar plum, in effect, must contain an almond or caraway seed. Though I maintain that almonds are healthiest without the sugar. He did not ask how the resident might build honestly, inside and out, and let the ornaments take care of themselves. What reasonable man ever supposed that ornament was merely external, only skin-deep? Did the tortoise get its spotted shell, or the shellfish its mother-of-pearl colors, through a building contract? Was their contract like the one Broadway’s residents arranged for their Trinity Church? But a man has no more business choosing his house’s architectural style than a tortoise has choosing its shell’s. Nor need a soldier waste time trying to paint the exact color of his courage on his flag. The enemy will discover his courage. The soldier may turn pale when the test comes. This architect seemed to lean over the cornice and timidly whisper his half-truth to the rough residents below. Those residents really understood the truth better than he did. Whatever architectural beauty I now see has, I know, grown gradually from the inside out. That beauty has grown from the needs and character of the resident, who is the only builder. It has grown from an unselfconscious honesty and nobility, without a thought for appearances. Any further beauty of this kind will first require a similar unselfconscious beauty in life. As painters know, this country’s most interesting homes are its least pretentious, usually the humble log huts and cottages of the poor. The inhabitants’ lives make these homes picturesque, not merely some distinctive feature of their surfaces. The homes are the inhabitants’ shells. The city dweller’s suburban box will be equally interesting when his life is as simple and as pleasing to the imagination. His home’s style must also show as little effort to impress. A large proportion of architectural ornaments are literally hollow. A September gale could strip them off like borrowed feathers without harming the essential structure. People with no olives or wine in their cellars can do without architecture. What if people made an equal fuss about decorative style in literature? What if the architects of our bibles spent as much time on their cornices as our church architects do? That is how belles-lettres and the beaux-arts, polished literature and fine art, are made, along with their professors. What a weighty concern for a man, indeed, how a few sticks are angled above or below him! And what colors are smeared on his box! These choices would mean something if, in any serious sense, he angled the sticks and painted the box. But with the spirit gone from the resident, building his house amounts to building his own coffin. It is the architecture of the grave, and “carpenter” is only another name for “coffin-maker.” One man, in despair or indifference toward life, says to pick up a handful of earth at your feet. Paint your house that color, he says. Is he thinking of his last, narrow house, his grave? He might as well toss a coin to choose. What an abundance of spare time he must have! Why pick up a handful of dirt? Better to paint your house the color of your own skin. Let your house turn pale or blush for you. A project to improve the architectural style of cottages! When you have my ornaments ready, I will wear them.

Before winter I built a chimney, and shingled the sides of my house, which were already impervious to rain, with imperfect and sappy shingles made of the first slice of the log, whose edges I was obliged to straighten with a plane.

Before winter, I built a chimney and covered the sides of my house with shingles, though the walls already kept out rain. The shingles were flawed and full of sap, made from the first slice cut from a log. I had to straighten their edges with a plane.

I have thus a tight shingled and plastered house, ten feet wide by fifteen long, and eight-feet posts, with a garret and a closet, a large window on each side, two trap doors, one door at the end, and a brick fireplace opposite. The exact cost of my house, paying the usual price for such materials as I used, but not counting the work, all of which was done by myself, was as follows; and I give the details because very few are able to tell exactly what their houses cost, and fewer still, if any, the separate cost of the various materials which compose them:—

I now have a weather-tight house with shingles and plaster, ten feet wide and fifteen feet long, with eight-foot posts. It has an attic and a closet, a large window on each side, and two trapdoors. There is a door at one end and a brick fireplace opposite the door. The exact cost of my house is listed below. I paid the usual prices for the materials I used. But the cost does not include labor, since I did all the work myself. I give these details because very few people can say exactly what their houses cost. Fewer still, if any, can say what each of the various building materials cost:

These are all the materials excepting the timber stones and sand, which I claimed by squatter’s right. I have also a small wood-shed adjoining, made chiefly of the stuff which was left after building the house.

These are all the materials except the timber, stones, and sand, which I claimed by squatter’s right. I also have a small adjoining woodshed, built mostly from materials left over after building the house.

I intend to build me a house which will surpass any on the main street in Concord in grandeur and luxury, as soon as it pleases me as much and will cost me no more than my present one.

I plan to build a house grander and more luxurious than any on Concord’s main street. But I will build that house only when it pleases me as much as my current house. The new house must also cost me no more than my current one.

I thus found that the student who wishes for a shelter can obtain one for a lifetime at an expense not greater than the rent which he now pays annually. If I seem to boast more than is becoming, my excuse is that I brag for humanity rather than for myself; and my shortcomings and inconsistencies do not affect the truth of my statement. Notwithstanding much cant and hypocrisy,—chaff which I find it difficult to separate from my wheat, but for which I am as sorry as any man,—I will breathe freely and stretch myself in this respect, it is such a relief to both the moral and physical system; and I am resolved that I will not through humility become the devil’s attorney. I will endeavor to speak a good word for the truth. At Cambridge College the mere rent of a student’s room, which is only a little larger than my own, is thirty dollars each year, though the corporation had the advantage of building thirty-two side by side and under one roof, and the occupant suffers the inconvenience of many and noisy neighbors, and perhaps a residence in the fourth story. I cannot but think that if we had more true wisdom in these respects, not only less education would be needed, because, forsooth, more would already have been acquired, but the pecuniary expense of getting an education would in a great measure vanish. Those conveniences which the student requires at Cambridge or elsewhere cost him or somebody else ten times as great a sacrifice of life as they would with proper management on both sides. Those things for which the most money is demanded are never the things which the student most wants. Tuition, for instance, is an important item in the term bill, while for the far more valuable education which he gets by associating with the most cultivated of his contemporaries no charge is made. The mode of founding a college is, commonly, to get up a subscription of dollars and cents, and then following blindly the principles of a division of labor to its extreme, a principle which should never be followed but with circumspection,—to call in a contractor who makes this a subject of speculation, and he employs Irishmen or other operatives actually to lay the foundations, while the students that are to be are said to be fitting themselves for it; and for these oversights successive generations have to pay. I think that it would be better than this, for the students, or those who desire to be benefited by it, even to lay the foundation themselves. The student who secures his coveted leisure and retirement by systematically shirking any labor necessary to man obtains but an ignoble and unprofitable leisure, defrauding himself of the experience which alone can make leisure fruitful. “But,” says one, “you do not mean that the students should go to work with their hands instead of their heads?” I do not mean that exactly, but I mean something which he might think a good deal like that; I mean that they should not play life, or study it merely, while the community supports them at this expensive game, but earnestly live it from beginning to end. How could youths better learn to live than by at once trying the experiment of living? Methinks this would exercise their minds as much as mathematics. If I wished a boy to know something about the arts and sciences, for instance, I would not pursue the common course, which is merely to send him into the neighborhood of some professor, where any thing is professed and practised but the art of life;—to survey the world through a telescope or a microscope, and never with his natural eye; to study chemistry, and not learn how his bread is made, or mechanics, and not learn how it is earned; to discover new satellites to Neptune, and not detect the motes in his eyes, or to what vagabond he is a satellite himself; or to be devoured by the monsters that swarm all around him, while contemplating the monsters in a drop of vinegar. Which would have advanced the most at the end of a month,—the boy who had made his own jackknife from the ore which he had dug and smelted, reading as much as would be necessary for this,—or the boy who had attended the lectures on metallurgy at the Institute in the mean while, and had received a Rodgers’ penknife from his father? Which would be most likely to cut his fingers?... To my astonishment I was informed on leaving college that I had studied navigation!—why, if I had taken one turn down the harbor I should have known more about it. Even the poor student studies and is taught only political economy, while that economy of living which is synonymous with philosophy is not even sincerely professed in our colleges. The consequence is, that while he is reading Adam Smith, Ricardo, and Say, he runs his father in debt irretrievably.

I found, then, that a student who wants shelter can obtain it for a lifetime for no more than a year’s rent. If I seem to boast too much, my excuse is that I boast for humanity rather than myself. My faults and inconsistencies do not make my statement less true. Despite all my empty talk and hypocrisy, I will breathe freely and stretch out on this subject. Such faults are chaff that I find hard to separate from my wheat, and I regret them as much as anyone. But speaking freely brings such relief to both body and conscience. I am determined not to become the devil’s lawyer out of humility. I will try to speak a good word for the truth. At Cambridge College, the rent alone for a student’s room is thirty dollars a year. The room is only a little larger than mine. Yet the college had the advantage of building thirty-two rooms side by side under one roof. The student must also endure many noisy neighbors and perhaps live on the fourth floor. I cannot help thinking that greater practical wisdom would mean less need for education. After all, we would already have learned more. The financial cost of getting an education would also largely disappear. The conveniences a student needs at Cambridge or elsewhere cost him or someone else a great sacrifice of life. With proper management on both sides, the sacrifice would be only a tenth as great. The things that cost the most money are never the things the student needs most. Tuition, for instance, is a major charge on the term bill. Yet the far more valuable education gained from mixing with the most cultivated people his age comes free. The usual way to establish a college is to collect donations in dollars and cents. Then its founders blindly carry the division of labor to its extreme, though that principle should always be applied cautiously. They hire a contractor who treats the project as a chance for profit. The contractor employs Irishmen or other workers to lay the actual foundations. Meanwhile, the future students are said to be preparing themselves for college. Successive generations must pay for these failures of judgment. I think it would be better than this if the students laid the foundations themselves. The same goes for anyone else who hopes to benefit from the college. A student may gain his desired leisure and solitude by systematically avoiding work essential to human life. But such leisure is neither honorable nor useful. He cheats himself of the experience that alone can make leisure fruitful. “But,” someone says, “you do not mean students should work with their hands instead of their heads?” I do not mean exactly that, but I mean something he might think very similar. Students should not play at life or merely study it while the community pays for this expensive game. Instead, they should seriously live it from beginning to end. How could young people learn to live better than by immediately trying the experiment of living? I think such an experiment would exercise their minds as much as mathematics. Suppose I wanted a boy to learn something about the arts and sciences. I would not follow the usual practice of simply sending him somewhere near a professor. There, everything is taught and practiced except the art of living. He surveys the world through a telescope or microscope, but never with his own eyes. He studies chemistry without learning how his bread is made, or mechanics without learning how his bread is earned. He discovers new satellites of Neptune but misses the specks in his own eyes. Nor does he notice what scoundrel he himself revolves around. Or he is devoured by the monsters swarming around him while studying the monsters in a drop of vinegar. Which boy would have learned more after a month? One has made his own jackknife from ore he dug and smelted, reading whatever he needed for the task. The other has attended lectures on metallurgy at the Institute and received a Rodgers’ penknife from his father. Which would be more likely to cut his fingers?... To my astonishment, I was told when I left college that I had studied navigation! Why, one trip down the harbor would have taught me more. Even the poor student studies and is taught only political economy. Yet our colleges do not even sincerely claim to teach the economy of living, which is another name for philosophy. As a result, while he reads Adam Smith, Ricardo, and Say, he drives his father hopelessly into debt.

As with our colleges, so with a hundred “modern improvements”; there is an illusion about them; there is not always a positive advance. The devil goes on exacting compound interest to the last for his early share and numerous succeeding investments in them. Our inventions are wont to be pretty toys, which distract our attention from serious things. They are but improved means to an unimproved end, an end which it was already but too easy to arrive at; as railroads lead to Boston or New York. We are in great haste to construct a magnetic telegraph from Maine to Texas; but Maine and Texas, it may be, have nothing important to communicate. Either is in such a predicament as the man who was earnest to be introduced to a distinguished deaf woman, but when he was presented, and one end of her ear trumpet was put into his hand, had nothing to say. As if the main object were to talk fast and not to talk sensibly. We are eager to tunnel under the Atlantic and bring the old world some weeks nearer to the new; but perchance the first news that will leak through into the broad, flapping American ear will be that the Princess Adelaide has the whooping cough. After all, the man whose horse trots a mile in a minute does not carry the most important messages; he is not an evangelist, nor does he come round eating locusts and wild honey. I doubt if Flying Childers ever carried a peck of corn to mill.

Our colleges are like a hundred other “modern improvements”: an illusion surrounds them. They do not always represent real progress. The devil keeps collecting compound interest to the very end on his early share and many later investments in them. Our inventions tend to be pretty toys that distract us from serious things. They are only better ways of reaching an end no better than before. That end was already far too easy to reach, just as railroads lead to Boston or New York. We are rushing to build an electric telegraph from Maine to Texas. But perhaps Maine and Texas have nothing important to tell each other. Either state may be like the man who eagerly sought an introduction to a distinguished deaf woman. But when he was introduced and handed one end of her ear trumpet, he had nothing to say. As if the main point were to talk fast rather than sensibly. We are eager to tunnel under the Atlantic and bring the old world several weeks closer to the new. But perhaps the first news to reach the broad, flapping American ear will be that Princess Adelaide has whooping cough. After all, the man whose horse trots a mile in a minute does not carry the most important messages. He is no preacher of the gospel, nor does he travel around eating locusts and wild honey. I doubt Flying Childers ever carried a peck of corn to the mill.

One says to me, “I wonder that you do not lay up money; you love to travel; you might take the cars and go to Fitchburg to-day and see the country.” But I am wiser than that. I have learned that the swiftest traveller is he that goes afoot. I say to my friend, Suppose we try who will get there first. The distance is thirty miles; the fare ninety cents. That is almost a day’s wages. I remember when wages were sixty cents a day for laborers on this very road. Well, I start now on foot, and get there before night; I have travelled at that rate by the week together. You will in the mean while have earned your fare, and arrive there some time to-morrow, or possibly this evening, if you are lucky enough to get a job in season. Instead of going to Fitchburg, you will be working here the greater part of the day. And so, if the railroad reached round the world, I think that I should keep ahead of you; and as for seeing the country and getting experience of that kind, I should have to cut your acquaintance altogether.

Someone says to me, “I’m surprised you don’t save money. You love to travel. You could take the train to Fitchburg today and see the country.” But I know better than that. I have learned that the fastest traveler is the one who walks. I say to my friend, suppose we see who gets there first. The distance is thirty miles, and the fare is ninety cents. That fare is almost a day’s wages. I remember when laborers on this very railroad earned sixty cents a day. Well, I’ll start walking now and get there before night. I have traveled at that pace for weeks at a time. Meanwhile, you’ll have earned your fare and will arrive sometime tomorrow. Or perhaps you’ll arrive this evening, if you’re lucky enough to find work in time. Instead of going to Fitchburg, you’ll spend most of the day working here. So, if the railroad went around the world, I think I would stay ahead of you. And when it comes to seeing the country and gaining that kind of experience, I’d have to stop knowing you altogether.

Such is the universal law, which no man can ever outwit, and with regard to the railroad even we may say it is as broad as it is long. To make a railroad round the world available to all mankind is equivalent to grading the whole surface of the planet. Men have an indistinct notion that if they keep up this activity of joint stocks and spades long enough all will at length ride somewhere, in next to no time, and for nothing; but though a crowd rushes to the depot, and the conductor shouts “All aboard!” when the smoke is blown away and the vapor condensed, it will be perceived that a few are riding, but the rest are run over,—and it will be called, and will be, “A melancholy accident.” No doubt they can ride at last who shall have earned their fare, that is, if they survive so long, but they will probably have lost their elasticity and desire to travel by that time. This spending of the best part of one’s life earning money in order to enjoy a questionable liberty during the least valuable part of it, reminds me of the Englishman who went to India to make a fortune first, in order that he might return to England and live the life of a poet. He should have gone up garret at once. “What!” exclaim a million Irishmen starting up from all the shanties in the land, “is not this railroad which we have built a good thing?” Yes, I answer, comparatively good, that is, you might have done worse; but I wish, as you are brothers of mine, that you could have spent your time better than digging in this dirt.

Such is the universal law, which no one can ever outsmart. Even with the railroad, we may say that the gains are offset by the losses. Making a railroad around the world available to all humanity is equivalent to leveling the planet’s entire surface. People vaguely imagine that if they keep investing and digging long enough, everyone will eventually ride somewhere. The journey will take almost no time and cost nothing. But although a crowd rushes to the station and the conductor shouts “All aboard!” the result will become clear. Once the smoke blows away and the steam condenses, a few will be riding, but the rest will be run over. And people will call it, and it will be, “A melancholy accident.” No doubt those who have earned their fare can ride eventually, if they survive that long. But by then they will probably have lost their energy and desire to travel. People spend the best part of life earning money to enjoy a doubtful freedom during its least valuable part. This reminds me of the Englishman who went to India to make a fortune first. He planned to return to England afterward and live as a poet. He should have moved into an attic at once. “What!” cry a million Irishmen, springing up from all the shanties in the land. “Isn’t this railroad we have built a good thing?” Yes, I answer, comparatively good. In other words, you might have done worse. But because you are my brothers, I wish you could have spent your time better than digging in this dirt.

Before I finished my house, wishing to earn ten or twelve dollars by some honest and agreeable method, in order to meet my unusual expenses, I planted about two acres and a half of light and sandy soil near it chiefly with beans, but also a small part with potatoes, corn, peas, and turnips. The whole lot contains eleven acres, mostly growing up to pines and hickories, and was sold the preceding season for eight dollars and eight cents an acre. One farmer said that it was “good for nothing but to raise cheeping squirrels on.” I put no manure whatever on this land, not being the owner, but merely a squatter, and not expecting to cultivate so much again, and I did not quite hoe it all once. I got out several cords of stumps in ploughing, which supplied me with fuel for a long time, and left small circles of virgin mould, easily distinguishable through the summer by the greater luxuriance of the beans there. The dead and for the most part unmerchantable wood behind my house, and the driftwood from the pond, have supplied the remainder of my fuel. I was obliged to hire a team and a man for the ploughing, though I held the plough myself. My farm outgoes for the first season were, for implements, seed, work, &c., $14.72½. The seed corn was given me. This never costs anything to speak of, unless you plant more than enough. I got twelve bushels of beans, and eighteen bushels of potatoes, beside some peas and sweet corn. The yellow corn and turnips were too late to come to any thing. My whole income from the farm was

Before I finished my house, I wanted to earn ten or twelve dollars through some honest and pleasant work. I needed the money to cover my unusual expenses. So I planted about two and a half acres of light, sandy soil nearby, mostly with beans. I also planted a small part with potatoes, corn, peas, and turnips. The whole lot covers eleven acres, mostly filling up with pines and hickories. It had sold the previous season for eight dollars and eight cents an acre. One farmer said the land was “good for nothing but raising chirping squirrels.” I put no manure at all on the land because I was only a squatter, not the owner. Besides, I did not expect to cultivate so much land again. I did not quite manage to hoe the whole field even once. While plowing, I pulled out several cords of stumps, which supplied me with fuel for a long time. Removing the stumps left small circles of untouched soil. Throughout the summer, I could easily spot these circles by the thicker growth of beans there. Dead wood behind my house, mostly unfit for sale, and driftwood from the pond supplied the rest of my fuel. I had to hire a team of draft animals and a man for the plowing, though I held the plow myself. My farm expenses for the first season, including tools, seed, labor, and other costs, totaled $14.72½. The seed corn was given to me. Seed corn never costs much, unless you plant more than enough. I harvested twelve bushels of beans and eighteen bushels of potatoes, besides some peas and sweet corn. The yellow corn and turnips were planted too late to produce anything. My total income from the farm was

beside produce consumed and on hand at the time this estimate was made of the value of $4.50,—the amount on hand much more than balancing a little grass which I did not raise. All things considered, that is, considering the importance of a man’s soul and of to-day, notwithstanding the short time occupied by my experiment, nay, partly even because of its transient character, I believe that that was doing better than any farmer in Concord did that year.

Besides this, the produce I had consumed or still had when I made this estimate was worth $4.50. The produce still on hand more than made up for a little grass I had not grown. All things considered, including the importance of a person’s soul and of today, I believe I did better than any farmer in Concord that year. I believe this despite my experiment’s short duration, and indeed partly because it was so brief.

The next year I did better still, for I spaded up all the land which I required, about a third of an acre, and I learned from the experience of both years, not being in the least awed by many celebrated works on husbandry, Arthur Young among the rest, that if one would live simply and eat only the crop which he raised, and raise no more than he ate, and not exchange it for an insufficient quantity of more luxurious and expensive things, he would need to cultivate only a few rods of ground, and that it would be cheaper to spade up that than to use oxen to plough it, and to select a fresh spot from time to time than to manure the old, and he could do all his necessary farm work as it were with his left hand at odd hours in the summer; and thus he would not be tied to an ox, or horse, or cow, or pig, as at present. I desire to speak impartially on this point, and as one not interested in the success or failure of the present economical and social arrangements. I was more independent than any farmer in Concord, for I was not anchored to a house or farm, but could follow the bent of my genius, which is a very crooked one, every moment. Beside being better off than they already, if my house had been burned or my crops had failed, I should have been nearly as well off as before.

The next year I did even better. I dug up all the land I needed with a spade, about a third of an acre. I learned something from both years’ experience, without being at all intimidated by celebrated books on farming, including Arthur Young’s. If someone lived simply, ate only what he grew, and grew no more than he ate, he would need little land. He would have to avoid trading his crops for an inadequate amount of more luxurious and expensive things. Under these conditions, he would need to cultivate only a few square rods of ground. Digging that small plot with a spade would cost less than plowing it with oxen. Choosing fresh ground from time to time would also cost less than fertilizing the old plot with manure. He could do all his necessary farm work almost with his left hand, in spare moments during the summer. Then he would not be tied to an ox, horse, cow, or pig, as farmers are now. I want to speak impartially about this, without a stake in whether our present economic and social arrangements succeed or fail. I was more independent than any farmer in Concord, because I was not anchored to a house or farm. Instead, I could follow my own talents and inclinations every moment, along their very winding path. Besides already being better off than the farmers, I had little to lose. If my house had burned down or my crops had failed, I would have been nearly as well off as before.

I am wont to think that men are not so much the keepers of herds as herds are the keepers of men, the former are so much the freer. Men and oxen exchange work; but if we consider necessary work only, the oxen will be seen to have greatly the advantage, their farm is so much the larger. Man does some of his part of the exchange work in his six weeks of haying, and it is no boy’s play. Certainly no nation that lived simply in all respects, that is, no nation of philosophers, would commit so great a blunder as to use the labor of animals. True, there never was and is not likely soon to be a nation of philosophers, nor am I certain it is desirable that there should be. However, I should never have broken a horse or bull and taken him to board for any work he might do for me, for fear I should become a horse-man or a herds-man merely; and if society seems to be the gainer by so doing, are we certain that what is one man’s gain is not another’s loss, and that the stable-boy has equal cause with his master to be satisfied? Granted that some public works would not have been constructed without this aid, and let man share the glory of such with the ox and horse; does it follow that he could not have accomplished works yet more worthy of himself in that case? When men begin to do, not merely unnecessary or artistic, but luxurious and idle work, with their assistance, it is inevitable that a few do all the exchange work with the oxen, or, in other words, become the slaves of the strongest. Man thus not only works for the animal within him, but, for a symbol of this, he works for the animal without him. Though we have many substantial houses of brick or stone, the prosperity of the farmer is still measured by the degree to which the barn overshadows the house. This town is said to have the largest houses for oxen, cows, and horses hereabouts, and it is not behindhand in its public buildings; but there are very few halls for free worship or free speech in this county. It should not be by their architecture, but why not even by their power of abstract thought, that nations should seek to commemorate themselves? How much more admirable the Bhagvat-Geeta than all the ruins of the East! Towers and temples are the luxury of princes. A simple and independent mind does not toil at the bidding of any prince. Genius is not a retainer to any emperor, nor is its material silver, or gold, or marble, except to a trifling extent. To what end, pray, is so much stone hammered? In Arcadia, when I was there, I did not see any hammering stone. Nations are possessed with an insane ambition to perpetuate the memory of themselves by the amount of hammered stone they leave. What if equal pains were taken to smooth and polish their manners? One piece of good sense would be more memorable than a monument as high as the moon. I love better to see stones in place. The grandeur of Thebes was a vulgar grandeur. More sensible is a rod of stone wall that bounds an honest man’s field than a hundred-gated Thebes that has wandered farther from the true end of life. The religion and civilization which are barbaric and heathenish build splendid temples; but what you might call Christianity does not. Most of the stone a nation hammers goes toward its tomb only. It buries itself alive. As for the Pyramids, there is nothing to wonder at in them so much as the fact that so many men could be found degraded enough to spend their lives constructing a tomb for some ambitious booby, whom it would have been wiser and manlier to have drowned in the Nile, and then given his body to the dogs. I might possibly invent some excuse for them and him, but I have no time for it. As for the religion and love of art of the builders, it is much the same all the world over, whether the building be an Egyptian temple or the United States Bank. It costs more than it comes to. The mainspring is vanity, assisted by the love of garlic and bread and butter. Mr. Balcom, a promising young architect, designs it on the back of his Vitruvius, with hard pencil and ruler, and the job is let out to Dobson & Sons, stonecutters. When the thirty centuries begin to look down on it, mankind begin to look up at it. As for your high towers and monuments, there was a crazy fellow once in this town who undertook to dig through to China, and he got so far that, as he said, he heard the Chinese pots and kettles rattle; but I think that I shall not go out of my way to admire the hole which he made. Many are concerned about the monuments of the West and the East,—to know who built them. For my part, I should like to know who in those days did not build them,—who were above such trifling. But to proceed with my statistics.

I often think that men do not keep herds so much as herds keep men. The herds are so much freer. Men and oxen exchange labor. But if we consider only necessary work, the oxen have a great advantage. Their farm is so much larger. A man does some of his share of this exchanged labor during his six weeks of haymaking. And that is no easy task. Certainly no nation that lived simply in every respect would make the great mistake of using animal labor. Such a nation would be a nation of philosophers. True, there never has been a nation of philosophers, and there is not likely to be one soon. Nor am I certain that such a nation would be desirable. However, I would never have trained a horse or bull and provided its food and shelter in exchange for work. I would fear becoming merely a horse keeper or herdsman. And if society seems to gain from using animals, are we certain one man’s gain is not another’s loss? Does the stable boy have as much reason to be satisfied as his master? Granted, some public works would not have been built without animal labor. Let man share the credit for those works with the ox and horse. But does that mean he could not otherwise have accomplished works more worthy of himself? Men begin using animals for work that is not merely unnecessary or artistic, but luxurious and idle. Then a few inevitably do all the labor exchanged with the oxen. In other words, those few become slaves of the strongest. So man works not only for the animal within himself, but also, symbolically, for the animal outside himself. Though we have many solid brick or stone houses, a farmer’s prosperity is still measured by his barn. The more the barn overshadows his house, the more prosperous he is considered. This town is said to have the largest buildings for oxen, cows, and horses in the area. Nor does the town lag behind in its public buildings. But this county has very few halls for free worship or free speech. Should nations seek to be remembered for their architecture? Why not instead for their power of abstract thought? How much more admirable the Bhagvat-Geeta is than all the ruins of the East! Towers and temples are luxuries for princes. A simple, independent mind does not labor at any prince’s command. Genius serves no emperor. Nor does genius work in silver, gold, or marble, except to a trivial extent. What, I ask, is the purpose of shaping so much stone? When I was in Arcadia, I saw no one hammering stone. Nations have an insane ambition to preserve their memory through the amount of worked stone they leave behind. What if they took equal pains to refine and polish their manners? One piece of good sense would be more memorable than a monument as high as the moon. I prefer seeing stones where they naturally belong. The grandeur of Thebes was vulgar grandeur. A short stretch of stone wall marking an honest man’s field makes more sense than hundred-gated Thebes. That city had strayed far from life’s true purpose. Barbaric, pagan religion and civilization build splendid temples. But what you might call Christianity does not. Most of the stone a nation shapes goes only toward its tomb. The nation buries itself alive. The most astonishing thing about the Pyramids is that so many men could be found degraded enough to build them. They spent their lives constructing a tomb for some ambitious fool. It would have been wiser and more manly to drown him in the Nile and feed his body to dogs. I might possibly find some excuse for the builders and their ruler, but I have no time for that. As for the builders’ religion and love of art, the story is much the same everywhere. The building may be an Egyptian temple or the United States Bank. Either way, the cost is greater than the value. The main driving force is vanity, helped along by a love of garlic and bread and butter. Mr. Balcom, a promising young architect, draws the design on the back of his copy of Vitruvius. He uses a hard pencil and ruler. Then the contract goes to Dobson & Sons, stonecutters. Once thirty centuries begin looking down on the building, humanity begins looking up at it. As for your high towers and monuments, a crazy fellow in this town once tried digging through to China. He got so far that, he said, he heard Chinese pots and kettles rattling. But I do not think I will go out of my way to admire his hole. Many people are concerned with the monuments of the West and the East. They want to know who built them. For my part, I would like to know who did not build them in those days. Who was above such trifling? But let me return to my statistics.

By surveying, carpentry, and day-labor of various other kinds in the village in the mean while, for I have as many trades as fingers, I had earned $13.34. The expense of food for eight months, namely, from July 4th to March 1st, the time when these estimates were made, though I lived there more than two years,—not counting potatoes, a little green corn, and some peas, which I had raised, nor considering the value of what was on hand at the last date, was

Meanwhile, I had earned $13.34 through surveying, carpentry, and various other kinds of day labor in the village. I have as many trades as fingers. My food expenses covered eight months, from July 4th to March 1st, when I made these calculations. Though I lived there for more than two years, I counted only those eight months. I did not count the potatoes, a little green corn, and some peas I had grown. Nor did I account for the value of the food still on hand on March 1st. The food expenses were

Yes, I did eat $8.74, all told; but I should not thus unblushingly publish my guilt, if I did not know that most of my readers were equally guilty with myself, and that their deeds would look no better in print. The next year I sometimes caught a mess of fish for my dinner, and once I went so far as to slaughter a woodchuck which ravaged my bean-field,—effect his transmigration, as a Tartar would say,—and devour him, partly for experiment’s sake; but though it afforded me a momentary enjoyment, notwithstanding a musky flavor, I saw that the longest use would not make that a good practice, however it might seem to have your woodchucks ready dressed by the village butcher.

Yes, I did eat $8.74 worth of food, all told. But I would not so shamelessly publish my guilt if I did not know most readers were equally guilty. Their deeds would look no better in print than mine. The next year, I sometimes caught enough fish for dinner. Once I even slaughtered a woodchuck that was ravaging my bean field. I brought about the animal’s passage into another life, as a Tartar would say. Then I ate him, partly as an experiment. But although eating him gave me a moment’s pleasure despite his musky flavor, I recognized something. No amount of habit would make eating woodchucks a good practice, however appealing having the village butcher prepare them might seem.

Clothing and some incidental expenses within the same dates, though little can be inferred from this item, amounted to

Clothing and some incidental expenses fell within the same period. Though little can be learned from this expense category, these expenses totaled

So that all the pecuniary outgoes, excepting for washing and mending, which for the most part were done out of the house, and their bills have not yet been received,—and these are all and more than all the ways by which money necessarily goes out in this part of the world,—were

So all the expenses, except for washing and mending, came to the following amounts. Most washing and mending were done outside the house, and the bills have not yet arrived. These expenses cover all, and more than all, the ways money must be spent in this part of the world:

I address myself now to those of my readers who have a living to get. And to meet this I have for farm produce sold

I now turn to readers who need to earn a living. And to cover this, I have received from selling farm produce

which subtracted from the sum of the outgoes leaves a balance of $25.21¾ on the one side,—this being very nearly the means with which I started, and the measure of expenses to be incurred,—and on the other, beside the leisure and independence and health thus secured, a comfortable house for me as long as I choose to occupy it.

Subtracting that from my total expenses leaves a balance of $25.21¾ on one side of the account. This balance is almost the amount I started with and represents the expenses I would have to cover. On the other side, I have gained leisure, independence, and health. Besides these, I have a comfortable house for as long as I choose to live in it.

These statistics, however accidental and therefore uninstructive they may appear, as they have a certain completeness, have a certain value also. Nothing was given me of which I have not rendered some account. It appears from the above estimate, that my food alone cost me in money about twenty-seven cents a week. It was, for nearly two years after this, rye and Indian meal without yeast, potatoes, rice, a very little salt pork, molasses, and salt, and my drink water. It was fit that I should live on rice, mainly, who loved so well the philosophy of India. To meet the objections of some inveterate cavillers, I may as well state, that if I dined out occasionally, as I always had done, and I trust shall have opportunities to do again, it was frequently to the detriment of my domestic arrangements. But the dining out, being, as I have stated, a constant element, does not in the least affect a comparative statement like this.

These figures may seem random and therefore uninformative, but they have some value because they are fairly complete. I have accounted for everything I was given. The estimate above shows that my food alone cost me about twenty-seven cents a week in cash. For nearly two years afterward, I ate rye and cornmeal without yeast, potatoes, rice, very little salt pork, molasses, and salt. I drank water. Living mainly on rice was fitting for someone who loved the philosophy of India so much. To answer the objections of some persistent faultfinders, I may as well mention my occasional meals elsewhere. I had always eaten out occasionally, and I trust I will have opportunities to do so again. If I ate out, doing so frequently disrupted my household arrangements. But, as I have said, eating out was a constant part of my life. It therefore makes no difference at all to a comparison like this one.

I learned from my two years’ experience that it would cost incredibly little trouble to obtain one’s necessary food, even in this latitude; that a man may use as simple a diet as the animals, and yet retain health and strength. I have made a satisfactory dinner, satisfactory on several accounts, simply off a dish of purslane (Portulaca oleracea) which I gathered in my cornfield, boiled and salted. I give the Latin on account of the savoriness of the trivial name. And pray what more can a reasonable man desire, in peaceful times, in ordinary noons, than a sufficient number of ears of green sweet-corn boiled, with the addition of salt? Even the little variety which I used was a yielding to the demands of appetite, and not of health. Yet men have come to such a pass that they frequently starve, not for want of necessaries, but for want of luxuries; and I know a good woman who thinks that her son lost his life because he took to drinking water only.

My two years of experience taught me how incredibly little effort getting the food we need would take, even at this latitude. A person can eat as simply as animals do and still stay healthy and strong. I have made a satisfying dinner, satisfying for several reasons, from just a dish of purslane (Portulaca oleracea). I gathered the purslane in my cornfield, boiled it, and added salt. I give the Latin name because the common name is so flavorful. And tell me, what more could a reasonable person want at an ordinary noon in peaceful times? Enough ears of fresh sweet corn, boiled and served with salt, should be enough. Even the little variety in my diet was a concession to appetite, not a requirement for health. Yet people have reached the point where they often starve, not from a lack of necessities, but from a lack of luxuries. And I know a good woman who thinks her son died because he began drinking nothing but water.

The reader will perceive that I am treating the subject rather from an economic than a dietetic point of view, and he will not venture to put my abstemiousness to the test unless he has a well-stocked larder.

The reader will see that I am discussing the subject in terms of cost rather than diet. And he will not dare test my restraint in eating unless he has a well-stocked pantry.

Bread I at first made of pure Indian meal and salt, genuine hoe-cakes, which I baked before my fire out of doors on a shingle or the end of a stick of timber sawed off in building my house; but it was wont to get smoked and to have a piny flavor. I tried flour also; but have at last found a mixture of rye and Indian meal most convenient and agreeable. In cold weather it was no little amusement to bake several small loaves of this in succession, tending and turning them as carefully as an Egyptian his hatching eggs. They were a real cereal fruit which I ripened, and they had to my senses a fragrance like that of other noble fruits, which I kept in as long as possible by wrapping them in cloths. I made a study of the ancient and indispensable art of bread-making, consulting such authorities as offered, going back to the primitive days and first invention of the unleavened kind, when from the wildness of nuts and meats men first reached the mildness and refinement of this diet, and travelling gradually down in my studies through that accidental souring of the dough which, it is supposed, taught the leavening process, and through the various fermentations thereafter, till I came to “good, sweet, wholesome bread,” the staff of life. Leaven, which some deem the soul of bread, the spiritus which fills its cellular tissue, which is religiously preserved like the vestal fire,—some precious bottle-full, I suppose, first brought over in the Mayflower, did the business for America, and its influence is still rising, swelling, spreading, in cerealian billows over the land,—this seed I regularly and faithfully procured from the village, till at length one morning I forgot the rules, and scalded my yeast; by which accident I discovered that even this was not indispensable,—for my discoveries were not by the synthetic but analytic process,—and I have gladly omitted it since, though most housewives earnestly assured me that safe and wholesome bread without yeast might not be, and elderly people prophesied a speedy decay of the vital forces. Yet I find it not to be an essential ingredient, and after going without it for a year am still in the land of the living; and I am glad to escape the trivialness of carrying a bottle-full in my pocket, which would sometimes pop and discharge its contents to my discomfiture. It is simpler and more respectable to omit it. Man is an animal who more than any other can adapt himself to all climates and circumstances. Neither did I put any sal soda, or other acid or alkali, into my bread. It would seem that I made it according to the recipe which Marcus Porcius Cato gave about two centuries before Christ. “Panem depsticium sic facito. Manus mortariumque bene lavato. Farinam in mortarium indito, aquæ paulatim addito, subigitoque pulchre. Ubi bene subegeris, defingito, coquitoque sub testu.” Which I take to mean—“Make kneaded bread thus. Wash your hands and trough well. Put the meal into the trough, add water gradually, and knead it thoroughly. When you have kneaded it well, mould it, and bake it under a cover,” that is, in a baking-kettle. Not a word about leaven. But I did not always use this staff of life. At one time, owing to the emptiness of my purse, I saw none of it for more than a month.

At first I made bread from nothing but cornmeal and salt, making genuine hoe-cakes. I baked them outdoors before my fire, on a shingle or the end of a timber cut while building my house. But the bread often got smoky and tasted of pine. I also tried wheat flour. But I finally found a mixture of rye and cornmeal the easiest and most pleasant to use. In cold weather, baking several small loaves in succession gave me considerable amusement. I tended and turned them as carefully as an Egyptian tending eggs as they hatched. The loaves were truly fruits of grain that I brought to ripeness. To my senses, their fragrance resembled that of other noble fruits. I wrapped the loaves in cloths to preserve their fragrance as long as possible. I studied the ancient and essential art of bread-making, consulting whatever authorities I could find. I went back to early times and the invention of unleavened bread. People had first moved from the wildness of nuts and meat to the mildness and refinement of bread. My studies gradually brought me forward to the accidental souring of dough that supposedly taught people how to make bread rise. I then followed the various methods of fermentation until I reached “good, sweet, wholesome bread,” the staff of life. Some consider leaven the soul of bread, the spiritus that fills its tiny air pockets. They preserve it as religiously as the sacred fire tended by the vestal virgins. I suppose some precious bottleful, first brought over on the Mayflower, supplied America. Its influence is still rising, swelling, and spreading in waves of grain across the land. I regularly and faithfully fetched this starter from the village. Then one morning I forgot the rules and scalded my yeast. Through that accident, I discovered that even yeast was not essential. My discoveries came by taking things away, not putting them together. I have gladly left yeast out ever since. Yet most housewives earnestly assured me that bread without yeast could not be safe and wholesome. Elderly people predicted that my vital strength would soon decline. Still, I find yeast is not essential. After a year without it, I remain in the land of the living. I am also glad to avoid the petty trouble of carrying a bottleful in my pocket. The bottle would sometimes pop open and spill its contents, to my embarrassment. Leaving yeast out is simpler and more respectable. Humans can adapt to all climates and circumstances better than any other animal. Nor did I put sal soda, or washing soda, into my bread, or any other acid or alkali. Apparently, I followed the recipe Marcus Porcius Cato gave about two centuries before Christ. “Panem depsticium sic facito. Manus mortariumque bene lavato. Farinam in mortarium indito, aquæ paulatim addito, subigitoque pulchre. Ubi bene subegeris, defingito, coquitoque sub testu.” I take this to mean: “Make kneaded bread this way. Wash your hands and mixing trough well. Put the meal into the trough, gradually add water, and knead thoroughly. Once you have kneaded the dough well, shape it and bake it under a cover.” That is, bake it in a covered baking kettle. Not a word about leaven. But I did not always eat this staff of life. Once, because my purse was empty, I saw no bread for more than a month.

Every New Englander might easily raise all his own breadstuffs in this land of rye and Indian corn, and not depend on distant and fluctuating markets for them. Yet so far are we from simplicity and independence that, in Concord, fresh and sweet meal is rarely sold in the shops, and hominy and corn in a still coarser form are hardly used by any. For the most part the farmer gives to his cattle and hogs the grain of his own producing, and buys flour, which is at least no more wholesome, at a greater cost, at the store. I saw that I could easily raise my bushel or two of rye and Indian corn, for the former will grow on the poorest land, and the latter does not require the best, and grind them in a hand-mill, and so do without rice and pork; and if I must have some concentrated sweet, I found by experiment that I could make a very good molasses either of pumpkins or beets, and I knew that I needed only to set out a few maples to obtain it more easily still, and while these were growing I could use various substitutes beside those which I have named. “For,” as the Forefathers sang,—

Every New Englander could easily grow all his own grain for bread in this land of rye and corn. He would not have to depend on distant markets with changing prices. Yet we are so far from simplicity and independence that fresh, sweet cornmeal is rarely sold in Concord’s shops. Hardly anyone uses hominy or corn in an even coarser form. For the most part, farmers feed their own grain to their cattle and hogs. Then they buy flour at the store at a higher cost, though the flour is no healthier. I saw that I could easily grow my bushel or two of rye and corn. Rye will grow on the poorest land, and corn does not need the best. I could grind both in a hand mill and so do without rice and pork. And if I needed a concentrated sweetener, my experiments showed that I could make very good molasses from pumpkins or beets. I also knew I only needed to plant a few maples to get the sweetener even more easily. While the maples grew, I could use various substitutes besides those I have named. “For,” as the Forefathers sang:

Finally, as for salt, that grossest of groceries, to obtain this might be a fit occasion for a visit to the seashore, or, if I did without it altogether, I should probably drink the less water. I do not learn that the Indians ever troubled themselves to go after it.

Finally, as for salt, the coarsest of groceries, getting some might be a good reason to visit the seashore. Or, if I went without salt altogether, I would probably drink less water. I have not learned that the Indians ever bothered to seek it out.

Thus I could avoid all trade and barter, so far as my food was concerned, and having a shelter already, it would only remain to get clothing and fuel. The pantaloons which I now wear were woven in a farmer’s family,—thank Heaven there is so much virtue still in man; for I think the fall from the farmer to the operative as great and memorable as that from the man to the farmer;—and in a new country, fuel is an encumbrance. As for a habitat, if I were not permitted still to squat, I might purchase one acre at the same price for which the land I cultivated was sold—namely, eight dollars and eight cents. But as it was, I considered that I enhanced the value of the land by squatting on it.

This way, I could avoid all trade and barter for my food. Since I already had shelter, I would only need to get clothing and fuel. The trousers I now wear were woven by a farmer’s family. Thank Heaven there is still so much virtue in people. For I think the fall from farmer to factory worker is as great and memorable as the fall from man to farmer. And in a newly settled country, fuel is a burden. As for a place to live, if I were no longer allowed to squat, I might buy an acre. I could pay the same price the land I cultivated had sold for, namely, eight dollars and eight cents. But as things stood, I considered that my squatting on the land increased its value.

There is a certain class of unbelievers who sometimes ask me such questions as, if I think that I can live on vegetable food alone; and to strike at the root of the matter at once,—for the root is faith,—I am accustomed to answer such, that I can live on board nails. If they cannot understand that, they cannot understand much that I have to say. For my part, I am glad to hear of experiments of this kind being tried; as that a young man tried for a fortnight to live on hard, raw corn on the ear, using his teeth for all mortar. The squirrel tribe tried the same and succeeded. The human race is interested in these experiments, though a few old women who are incapacitated for them, or who own their thirds in mills, may be alarmed.

A certain kind of skeptic sometimes asks me questions like whether I think I can live on plant food alone. To get straight to the root of the matter, I usually answer that I can live on nails for boards. For the root of the matter is faith. If these skeptics cannot understand that answer, they cannot understand much of what I have to say. For my part, I am glad to hear of people trying such experiments. One young man, for example, tried living for two weeks on hard, raw corn on the cob. He used only his teeth to grind it. Squirrels tried the same thing and succeeded. These experiments matter to the human race. Still, a few old women may be alarmed, either because they cannot undertake such experiments or because they own one-third interests in mills.

My furniture, part of which I made myself, and the rest cost me nothing of which I have not rendered an account, consisted of a bed, a table, a desk, three chairs, a looking-glass three inches in diameter, a pair of tongs and andirons, a kettle, a skillet, and a frying-pan, a dipper, a wash-bowl, two knives and forks, three plates, one cup, one spoon, a jug for oil, a jug for molasses, and a japanned lamp. None is so poor that he need sit on a pumpkin. That is shiftlessness. There is a plenty of such chairs as I like best in the village garrets to be had for taking them away. Furniture! Thank God, I can sit and I can stand without the aid of a furniture warehouse. What man but a philosopher would not be ashamed to see his furniture packed in a cart and going up country exposed to the light of heaven and the eyes of men, a beggarly account of empty boxes? That is Spaulding’s furniture. I could never tell from inspecting such a load whether it belonged to a so called rich man or a poor one; the owner always seemed poverty-stricken. Indeed, the more you have of such things the poorer you are. Each load looks as if it contained the contents of a dozen shanties; and if one shanty is poor, this is a dozen times as poor. Pray, for what do we move ever but to get rid of our furniture, our exuviæ; at last to go from this world to another newly furnished, and leave this to be burned? It is the same as if all these traps were buckled to a man’s belt, and he could not move over the rough country where our lines are cast without dragging them,—dragging his trap. He was a lucky fox that left his tail in the trap. The muskrat will gnaw his third leg off to be free. No wonder man has lost his elasticity. How often he is at a dead set! “Sir, if I may be so bold, what do you mean by a dead set?” If you are a seer, whenever you meet a man you will see all that he owns, ay, and much that he pretends to disown, behind him, even to his kitchen furniture and all the trumpery which he saves and will not burn, and he will appear to be harnessed to it and making what headway he can. I think that the man is at a dead set who has got through a knot hole or gateway where his sledge load of furniture cannot follow him. I cannot but feel compassion when I hear some trig, compact-looking man, seemingly free, all girded and ready, speak of his “furniture,” as whether it is insured or not. “But what shall I do with my furniture?” My gay butterfly is entangled in a spider’s web then. Even those who seem for a long while not to have any, if you inquire more narrowly you will find have some stored in somebody’s barn. I look upon England to-day as an old gentleman who is travelling with a great deal of baggage, trumpery which has accumulated from long housekeeping, which he has not the courage to burn; great trunk, little trunk, bandbox and bundle. Throw away the first three at least. It would surpass the powers of a well man nowadays to take up his bed and walk, and I should certainly advise a sick one to lay down his bed and run. When I have met an immigrant tottering under a bundle which contained his all—looking like an enormous wen which had grown out of the nape of his neck—I have pitied him, not because that was his all, but because he had all that to carry. If I have got to drag my trap, I will take care that it be a light one and do not nip me in a vital part. But perchance it would be wisest never to put one’s paw into it.

I made some of my furniture myself. The rest cost me nothing beyond what I have already accounted for. I had a bed, a table, a desk, three chairs, and a mirror three inches across. I also had fireplace tongs and andirons, a kettle, a skillet, a frying pan, a dipper, and a washbasin. There were two knives and forks, three plates, one cup, one spoon, and jugs for oil and molasses. I also had a lacquered lamp. No one is so poor that he has to sit on a pumpkin. That is just laziness. Village attics hold plenty of the chairs I like best, free to anyone who carries them away. Furniture! Thank God, I can sit and stand without help from a furniture warehouse. Who but a philosopher would not feel ashamed to see his furniture carted into the countryside? There it sits, exposed to daylight and everyone’s eyes, a pitiful collection of empty boxes. That is Spaulding’s furniture. Looking at such a load, I could never tell whether it belonged to a supposedly rich man or a poor one. The owner always seemed poverty-stricken. In fact, the more of these things you have, the poorer you are. Each load looks as though it holds the contents of a dozen shacks. And if one shack is poor, this load is twelve times as poor. Tell me, why do we ever move except to get rid of our furniture, our shed skins? At last, we leave this world for another, newly furnished, and leave this world to be burned. It is as if all this junk were strapped to a man’s belt. He cannot cross the rough country where fate has placed us without dragging his belongings, dragging his trap. The fox that left his tail in the trap was lucky. A muskrat will gnaw off its third leg to get free. No wonder people have lost their spring. How often a man gets completely stuck! “Sir, if I may be so bold, what do you mean by completely stuck?” If you have the gift of insight, you will see everything a man owns trailing behind him whenever you meet him. Yes, you will also see much that he claims not to own. You will see even his kitchen furniture and all the junk he saves and refuses to burn. He will seem harnessed to his possessions, moving forward as best he can. I call a man completely stuck when he gets through a knothole or gateway his furniture-laden sled cannot follow through. I cannot help feeling sorry when I hear a neat, trim-looking man, apparently free, equipped and ready, mention his “furniture.” He may be discussing whether his furniture is insured. “But what shall I do with my furniture?” Now my cheerful butterfly is caught in a spider’s web. Even people who seem for a long time to own no furniture turn out to have some, if you investigate further. They have it stored in somebody’s barn. I see England today as an old gentleman traveling with a great deal of baggage. Long years of housekeeping have piled up junk that he lacks the courage to burn. A large trunk, a small trunk, a hatbox, and a bundle. Throw away at least the first three. Nowadays, even a healthy man could not pick up his bed and walk. I would certainly advise a sick man to put down his bed and run. I have met an immigrant staggering under a bundle containing everything he owned. The bundle looked like an enormous lump growing from the back of his neck. I pitied him, not because the bundle held all he owned, but because he had all that to carry. If I must drag my trap, I will make sure it is light and does not pinch a vital part. But perhaps the wisest thing would be never to put one’s paw into the trap.

I would observe, by the way, that it costs me nothing for curtains, for I have no gazers to shut out but the sun and moon, and I am willing that they should look in. The moon will not sour milk nor taint meat of mine, nor will the sun injure my furniture or fade my carpet, and if he is sometimes too warm a friend, I find it still better economy to retreat behind some curtain which nature has provided, than to add a single item to the details of housekeeping. A lady once offered me a mat, but as I had no room to spare within the house, nor time to spare within or without to shake it, I declined it, preferring to wipe my feet on the sod before my door. It is best to avoid the beginnings of evil.

By the way, I spend nothing on curtains. I have no curious eyes to shut out except the sun and moon, and I welcome them looking in. The moon will not sour my milk or spoil my meat. Nor will the sun damage my furniture or fade my carpet. And if the sun is sometimes too warm a friend, I find shelter behind some curtain nature has provided. That is still more economical than adding a single task to my housekeeping. A lady once offered me a mat. But I had no room to spare inside my house, nor time to spare, indoors or out, to shake it. So I declined the mat, preferring to wipe my feet on the grass before my door. It is best to avoid the beginnings of evil.

Not long since I was present at the auction of a deacon’s effects, for his life had not been ineffectual:—

Not long ago, I attended an auction of a deacon’s belongings, because his life had not been unproductive:

As usual, a great proportion was trumpery which had begun to accumulate in his father’s day. Among the rest was a dried tapeworm. And now, after lying half a century in his garret and other dust holes, these things were not burned; instead of a bonfire, or purifying destruction of them, there was an auction, or increasing of them. The neighbors eagerly collected to view them, bought them all, and carefully transported them to their garrets and dust holes, to lie there till their estates are settled, when they will start again. When a man dies he kicks the dust.

As usual, much of it was junk that had begun piling up in his father’s day. Among the other things was a dried tapeworm. And now, after lying fifty years in his attic and other dusty corners, these things were not burned. Instead of a bonfire, a cleansing destruction of the junk, there was an auction, which only increased it. The neighbors eagerly gathered to look at the things, bought them all, and carefully carried them to their own attics and dusty corners. There the things will lie until their new owners’ estates are settled, when the whole process will start again. When a man dies, he kicks up the dust.

The customs of some savage nations might, perchance, be profitably imitated by us, for they at least go through the semblance of casting their slough annually; they have the idea of the thing, whether they have the reality or not. Would it not be well if we were to celebrate such a “busk,” or “feast of first fruits,” as Bartram describes to have been the custom of the Mucclasse Indians? “When a town celebrates the busk,” says he, “having previously provided themselves with new clothes, new pots, pans, and other household utensils and furniture, they collect all their worn out clothes and other despicable things, sweep and cleanse their houses, squares, and the whole town of their filth, which with all the remaining grain and other old provisions they cast together into one common heap, and consume it with fire. After having taken medicine, and fasted for three days, all the fire in the town is extinguished. During this fast they abstain from the gratification of every appetite and passion whatever. A general amnesty is proclaimed; all malefactors may return to their town.—”

We might perhaps benefit from adopting the customs of some nations we call savage. For at least once a year, those nations go through the motions of shedding their old skins. They understand the idea, whether or not they truly put it into practice. Would it not be good for us to celebrate such a “busk,” or “feast of first fruits”? Bartram describes this as a custom of the Mucclasse Indians. “When a town celebrates the busk,” he says, “the people first provide themselves with new clothes, pots, pans, and other household utensils and furniture. Then they gather all their worn-out clothes and other worthless things. They sweep and clean their houses, public squares, and the whole town. They gather the filth, along with all remaining grain and other old provisions, into one common heap and burn it. After taking medicine and fasting for three days, they put out all the fires in the town. During this fast, they refrain from satisfying every appetite and passion of any kind. A general pardon is announced. All wrongdoers may return to their town.”

“On the fourth morning, the high priest, by rubbing dry wood together, produces new fire in the public square, from whence every habitation in the town is supplied with the new and pure flame.”

“On the fourth morning, the high priest rubs dry wood together to start a new fire in the public square. Every home in town receives the new, pure flame from this fire.”

They then feast on the new corn and fruits, and dance and sing for three days, “and the four following days they receive visits and rejoice with their friends from neighboring towns who have in like manner purified and prepared themselves.”

They then feast on the new corn and fruit, and dance and sing for three days. “And for the next four days, they welcome visits and celebrate with friends from neighboring towns. These friends have purified and prepared themselves in the same way.”

The Mexicans also practised a similar purification at the end of every fifty-two years, in the belief that it was time for the world to come to an end.

The Mexicans also performed a similar purification every fifty-two years, believing it was time for the world to end.

I have scarcely heard of a truer sacrament, that is, as the dictionary defines it, “outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace,” than this, and I have no doubt that they were originally inspired directly from Heaven to do thus, though they have no biblical record of the revelation.

I have rarely heard of a truer sacrament than this. The dictionary defines a sacrament as an “outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace.” I have no doubt that they were originally inspired directly by Heaven to act this way. Yet they have no biblical record of the revelation.

For more than five years I maintained myself thus solely by the labor of my hands, and I found, that by working about six weeks in a year, I could meet all the expenses of living. The whole of my winters, as well as most of my summers, I had free and clear for study. I have thoroughly tried school-keeping, and found that my expenses were in proportion, or rather out of proportion, to my income, for I was obliged to dress and train, not to say think and believe, accordingly, and I lost my time into the bargain. As I did not teach for the good of my fellow-men, but simply for a livelihood, this was a failure. I have tried trade; but I found that it would take ten years to get under way in that, and that then I should probably be on my way to the devil. I was actually afraid that I might by that time be doing what is called a good business. When formerly I was looking about to see what I could do for a living, some sad experience in conforming to the wishes of friends being fresh in my mind to tax my ingenuity, I thought often and seriously of picking huckleberries; that surely I could do, and its small profits might suffice,—for my greatest skill has been to want but little,—so little capital it required, so little distraction from my wonted moods, I foolishly thought. While my acquaintances went unhesitatingly into trade or the professions, I contemplated this occupation as most like theirs; ranging the hills all summer to pick the berries which came in my way, and thereafter carelessly dispose of them; so, to keep the flocks of Admetus. I also dreamed that I might gather the wild herbs, or carry evergreens to such villagers as loved to be reminded of the woods, even to the city, by hay-cart loads. But I have since learned that trade curses everything it handles; and though you trade in messages from heaven, the whole curse of trade attaches to the business.

For more than five years, I supported myself this way, solely through the work of my hands. I found that working about six weeks a year covered all my living expenses. I had all winter and most of the summer entirely free for study. I gave teaching a thorough try. I found that my expenses rose with my income, or rather, rose out of proportion to my income. Teaching required me to dress and behave accordingly, not to mention think and believe accordingly. I lost my time into the bargain. Since I taught simply to earn a living, not for the good of others, teaching was a failure. I tried business too. But I found that getting established would take ten years. By then, I would probably be on my way to the devil. I was actually afraid I might then be running what people call a successful business. Earlier, when I was considering how to earn a living, some unhappy experiences were still fresh in my mind. I had tried to meet my friends’ wishes, and those experiences challenged me to find another way. I often thought seriously about picking huckleberries. Surely I could do that, and the small profits might be enough. After all, my greatest skill has been needing very little. Picking berries required so little money to start and would disturb my usual frame of mind so little, I foolishly thought. While my acquaintances went without hesitation into business or the professions, I considered berry picking the occupation most like theirs. I would roam the hills all summer, picking whatever berries I came across, then sell them without much concern. In this way, I would tend the flocks of Admetus. I also dreamed of gathering wild herbs or delivering evergreens to villagers who liked reminders of the woods. I might even take evergreens to the city by the hay-cart load. But I have since learned that trade curses everything it touches. Even if you trade in messages from heaven, the full curse of trade still clings to the business.

As I preferred some things to others, and especially valued my freedom, as I could fare hard and yet succeed well, I did not wish to spend my time in earning rich carpets or other fine furniture, or delicate cookery, or a house in the Grecian or the Gothic style just yet. If there are any to whom it is no interruption to acquire these things, and who know how to use them when acquired, I relinquish to them the pursuit. Some are “industrious,” and appear to love labor for its own sake, or perhaps because it keeps them out of worse mischief; to such I have at present nothing to say. Those who would not know what to do with more leisure than they now enjoy, I might advise to work twice as hard as they do,—work till they pay for themselves, and get their free papers. For myself I found that the occupation of a day-laborer was the most independent of any, especially as it required only thirty or forty days in a year to support one. The laborer’s day ends with the going down of the sun, and he is then free to devote himself to his chosen pursuit, independent of his labor; but his employer, who speculates from month to month, has no respite from one end of the year to the other.

I preferred some things to others, and I especially valued my freedom. Since I could live with little and still do well, I did not want to spend my time earning luxuries. Not yet, anyway: rich carpets, other fine furniture, elaborate meals, or a house in the Grecian or Gothic style. If acquiring these things interrupts nothing for some people, and they know how to use them, I leave that pursuit to them. Some are “industrious” and seem to love work for its own sake. Or perhaps work keeps them out of worse trouble. For now, I have nothing to say to such people. Some people would not know what to do with more free time than they already have. I might advise them to work twice as hard, until they pay for themselves and get their freedom papers. For my part, I found day labor the most independent occupation of all. This was especially true because only thirty or forty days of work a year were needed to support one person. A laborer’s workday ends at sunset. After that, the laborer is free to pursue a chosen interest unrelated to the job. But the employer, who speculates month after month, gets no break from one end of the year to the other.

In short, I am convinced, both by faith and experience, that to maintain one’s self on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime, if we will live simply and wisely; as the pursuits of the simpler nations are still the sports of the more artificial. It is not necessary that a man should earn his living by the sweat of his brow, unless he sweats easier than I do.

In short, both faith and experience convince me that supporting ourselves on this earth is no hardship. It is a pastime, if we live simply and wisely. After all, people in more artificial societies play for sport at the everyday pursuits of simpler societies. A man need not earn his living by the sweat of his brow, unless he sweats more easily than I do.

One young man of my acquaintance, who has inherited some acres, told me that he thought he should live as I did, if he had the means. I would not have any one adopt my mode of living on any account; for, beside that before he has fairly learned it I may have found out another for myself, I desire that there may be as many different persons in the world as possible; but I would have each one be very careful to find out and pursue his own way, and not his father’s or his mother’s or his neighbor’s instead. The youth may build or plant or sail, only let him not be hindered from doing that which he tells me he would like to do. It is by a mathematical point only that we are wise, as the sailor or the fugitive slave keeps the polestar in his eye; but that is sufficient guidance for all our life. We may not arrive at our port within a calculable period, but we would preserve the true course.

A young man I know, who has inherited some acres of land, told me he thought he should live as I did, if he had the means. I would not want anyone to adopt my way of life under any circumstances. For one thing, before he has properly learned my way, I may have found another for myself. Besides, I want there to be as many different kinds of people in the world as possible. But I would urge everyone to take great care to discover and follow his own way. He should not follow his father’s, his mother’s, or his neighbor’s way instead. The young man may build, plant, or sail. Just let nothing stop him from doing what he tells me he would like to do. Our wisdom rests on a single mathematical point, just as a sailor or fugitive slave keeps the North Star in sight. But that point gives us enough guidance for our whole lives. We may not reach our port within a predictable time, but we would stay on the true course.

Undoubtedly, in this case, what is true for one is truer still for a thousand, as a large house is not proportionally more expensive than a small one, since one roof may cover, one cellar underlie, and one wall separate several apartments. But for my part, I preferred the solitary dwelling. Moreover, it will commonly be cheaper to build the whole yourself than to convince another of the advantage of the common wall; and when you have done this, the common partition, to be much cheaper, must be a thin one, and that other may prove a bad neighbor, and also not keep his side in repair. The only coöperation which is commonly possible is exceedingly partial and superficial; and what little true coöperation there is, is as if it were not, being a harmony inaudible to men. If a man has faith, he will coöperate with equal faith everywhere; if he has not faith, he will continue to live like the rest of the world, whatever company he is joined to. To coöperate, in the highest as well as the lowest sense, means to get our living together. I heard it proposed lately that two young men should travel together over the world, the one without money, earning his means as he went, before the mast and behind the plow, the other carrying a bill of exchange in his pocket. It was easy to see that they could not long be companions or coöperate, since one would not operate at all. They would part at the first interesting crisis in their adventures. Above all, as I have implied, the man who goes alone can start to-day; but he who travels with another must wait till that other is ready, and it may be a long time before they get off.

Without doubt, in this case, what is true for one is even truer for a thousand. A large house costs proportionally less than a small one. One roof may cover several apartments, one cellar lie beneath them, and one wall divide them. But for my part, I preferred to live alone. Besides, building the whole house yourself will usually cost less than convincing someone else of a shared wall’s advantages. And even after you have convinced your neighbor, the shared wall must be thin to save much money. Your neighbor may also turn out to be a bad neighbor and fail to maintain his side. The only cooperation usually possible is extremely limited and superficial. What little true cooperation exists is like a harmony people cannot hear, making it seem not to exist. If a man has faith, he will cooperate with equal faith everywhere. If he has no faith, he will keep living like the rest of the world, whatever company he joins. To cooperate, in the highest sense as well as the lowest, means to earn our living together. I recently heard a proposal that two young men should travel the world together. One would have no money and would earn his way by working as a sailor and a farmhand. The other would carry a bill of exchange in his pocket, allowing him to draw money. Clearly, they could not remain companions or cooperate for long, since one would not work at all. They would part at the first interesting crisis in their adventures. Above all, as I have suggested, the man who travels alone can start today. But anyone traveling with another must wait until his companion is ready. And they may have to wait a long time before setting out.

But all this is very selfish, I have heard some of my townsmen say. I confess that I have hitherto indulged very little in philanthropic enterprises. I have made some sacrifices to a sense of duty, and among others have sacrificed this pleasure also. There are those who have used all their arts to persuade me to undertake the support of some poor family in the town; and if I had nothing to do,—for the devil finds employment for the idle,—I might try my hand at some such pastime as that. However, when I have thought to indulge myself in this respect, and lay their Heaven under an obligation by maintaining certain poor persons in all respects as comfortably as I maintain myself, and have even ventured so far as to make them the offer, they have one and all unhesitatingly preferred to remain poor. While my townsmen and women are devoted in so many ways to the good of their fellows, I trust that one at least may be spared to other and less humane pursuits. You must have a genius for charity as well as for any thing else. As for Doing-good, that is one of the professions which are full. Moreover, I have tried it fairly, and, strange as it may seem, am satisfied that it does not agree with my constitution. Probably I should not consciously and deliberately forsake my particular calling to do the good which society demands of me, to save the universe from annihilation; and I believe that a like but infinitely greater steadfastness elsewhere is all that now preserves it. But I would not stand between any man and his genius; and to him who does this work, which I decline, with his whole heart and soul and life, I would say, Persevere, even if the world call it doing evil, as it is most likely they will.

But all this is very selfish, I have heard some of my townspeople say. I admit that so far I have done very little charitable work. I have made some sacrifices out of a sense of duty, including giving up the pleasure of charity. Some people have used every means to persuade me to support a poor family in town. If I had nothing to do, I might try my hand at such a pastime. After all, the devil finds work for idle hands. Sometimes, though, I have considered indulging myself in charity and making their Heaven owe me a favor. I would do this by supporting certain poor people, keeping them as comfortable in every way as I keep myself. I have even gone so far as to offer them this support. But every one of them has preferred, without hesitation, to remain poor. My fellow townspeople devote themselves in so many ways to the good of others. So I trust that at least one person may be spared for other, less humanitarian pursuits. You must have a gift for charity, just as for anything else. As for Doing-good, that is one profession with no shortage of workers. Besides, I have given it a fair try. Strange as it may seem, I am convinced that it does not suit my nature. Probably I would not knowingly and deliberately abandon my own calling to do the good society demands of me. I probably would not abandon it even to save the universe from destruction. And I believe that a similar but infinitely greater steadfastness elsewhere is all that now preserves the universe. But I would not stand between anyone and their natural calling. To anyone who does the work I decline with their whole heart, soul, and life, I would say: Keep going. Keep going even if the world calls your work evil, as it most likely will.

I am far from supposing that my case is a peculiar one; no doubt many of my readers would make a similar defence. At doing something,—I will not engage that my neighbors shall pronounce it good,—I do not hesitate to say that I should be a capital fellow to hire; but what that is, it is for my employer to find out. What good I do, in the common sense of that word, must be aside from my main path, and for the most part wholly unintended. Men say, practically, Begin where you are and such as you are, without aiming mainly to become of more worth, and with kindness aforethought go about doing good. If I were to preach at all in this strain, I should say rather, Set about being good. As if the sun should stop when he had kindled his fires up to the splendor of a moon or a star of the sixth magnitude, and go about like a Robin Goodfellow, peeping in at every cottage window, inspiring lunatics, and tainting meats, and making darkness visible, instead of steadily increasing his genial heat and beneficence till he is of such brightness that no mortal can look him in the face, and then, and in the mean while too, going about the world in his own orbit, doing it good, or rather, as a truer philosophy has discovered, the world going about him getting good. When Phaeton, wishing to prove his heavenly birth by his beneficence, had the sun’s chariot but one day, and drove out of the beaten track, he burned several blocks of houses in the lower streets of heaven, and scorched the surface of the earth, and dried up every spring, and made the great desert of Sahara, till at length Jupiter hurled him headlong to the earth with a thunderbolt, and the sun, through grief at his death, did not shine for a year.

I am far from thinking my case is unusual. No doubt many of my readers would offer a similar defense. I do not hesitate to say I would be an excellent person to hire for something. I cannot promise my neighbors would call that work good. But my employer must discover what that work is. Whatever good I do, in the usual sense of the word, must lie outside my main path. For the most part, that good must be entirely unintended. In practice, people say, Start where you are, as you are, without making yourself more worthwhile your main goal. Then go about doing good with deliberate kindness. If I were to preach along these lines at all, I would say instead, Set about being good. That advice is like asking the sun to stop increasing his fire once he shines as brightly as the moon. Or even as brightly as a faint star of the sixth magnitude. Then, like a Robin Goodfellow, he would go peeping into every cottage window, stirring up madness, and spoiling meat. He would make darkness visible instead of steadily increasing his life-giving warmth and generosity until no mortal could face him. At that point, and all along as well, he would follow his own orbit around the world, doing it good. Or rather, as a truer philosophy has discovered, the world would circle him and receive his goodness. Phaeton wanted to prove his heavenly birth by doing good. But when he had the sun’s chariot for just one day, he drove off the usual course. He burned several blocks of houses in heaven’s lower streets and scorched the earth’s surface. He dried up every spring and created the great desert of Sahara. At last Jupiter struck him with a thunderbolt and hurled him headfirst to earth. And the sun, grieving over his death, did not shine for a year.

There is no odor so bad as that which arises from goodness tainted. It is human, it is divine, carrion. If I knew for a certainty that a man was coming to my house with the conscious design of doing me good, I should run for my life, as from that dry and parching wind of the African deserts called the simoom, which fills the mouth and nose and ears and eyes with dust till you are suffocated, for fear that I should get some of his good done to me,—some of its virus mingled with my blood. No,—in this case I would rather suffer evil the natural way. A man is not a good man to me because he will feed me if I should be starving, or warm me if I should be freezing, or pull me out of a ditch if I should ever fall into one. I can find you a Newfoundland dog that will do as much. Philanthropy is not love for one’s fellow-man in the broadest sense. Howard was no doubt an exceedingly kind and worthy man in his way, and has his reward; but, comparatively speaking, what are a hundred Howards to us, if their philanthropy do not help us in our best estate, when we are most worthy to be helped? I never heard of a philanthropic meeting in which it was sincerely proposed to do any good to me, or the like of me.

Nothing smells worse than goodness gone bad. It is rotting flesh, human and divine. If I knew for certain a man was coming to my house deliberately to do me good, I would run for my life. I would flee as I would from the simoom, the dry, scorching wind of the African deserts. That wind fills your mouth, nose, ears, and eyes with dust until you suffocate. I would run for fear of having some of his good done to me, some of its poison entering my blood. No, in this case I would rather suffer harm the natural way. To me, a man is not a good man because he would feed me if I were starving. Nor is he good because he would warm me if I were freezing, or pull me from a ditch if I fell in. I can find you a Newfoundland dog that would do as much. Philanthropy is not love for other people in the broadest sense. Howard was no doubt an extremely kind and worthy man in his way, and he has his reward. But, by comparison, what are a hundred Howards worth to us if their philanthropy does not help us at our best? That is when we are most worthy of help. I have never heard of a philanthropic meeting that sincerely proposed doing any good for me or people like me.

The Jesuits were quite balked by those Indians who, being burned at the stake, suggested new modes of torture to their tormentors. Being superior to physical suffering, it sometimes chanced that they were superior to any consolation which the missionaries could offer; and the law to do as you would be done by fell with less persuasiveness on the ears of those who, for their part, did not care how they were done by, who loved their enemies after a new fashion, and came very near freely forgiving them all they did.

The Jesuits were quite baffled by those Indians who suggested new tortures to their tormentors while being burned at the stake. Because these Indians could rise above physical suffering, they sometimes also rose above any comfort the missionaries could offer. And the rule to treat others as you would want to be treated was less persuasive to these Indians. For their part, they did not care how they were treated. They loved their enemies in a new way and came very close to freely forgiving everything their enemies did.

Be sure that you give the poor the aid they most need, though it be your example which leaves them far behind. If you give money, spend yourself with it, and do not merely abandon it to them. We make curious mistakes sometimes. Often the poor man is not so cold and hungry as he is dirty and ragged and gross. It is partly his taste, and not merely his misfortune. If you give him money, he will perhaps buy more rags with it. I was wont to pity the clumsy Irish laborers who cut ice on the pond, in such mean and ragged clothes, while I shivered in my more tidy and somewhat more fashionable garments, till, one bitter cold day, one who had slipped into the water came to my house to warm him, and I saw him strip off three pairs of pants and two pairs of stockings ere he got down to the skin, though they were dirty and ragged enough, it is true, and that he could afford to refuse the extra garments which I offered him, he had so many intra ones. This ducking was the very thing he needed. Then I began to pity myself, and I saw that it would be a greater charity to bestow on me a flannel shirt than a whole slop-shop on him. There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root, and it may be that he who bestows the largest amount of time and money on the needy is doing the most by his mode of life to produce that misery which he strives in vain to relieve. It is the pious slave-breeder devoting the proceeds of every tenth slave to buy a Sunday’s liberty for the rest. Some show their kindness to the poor by employing them in their kitchens. Would they not be kinder if they employed themselves there? You boast of spending a tenth part of your income in charity; maybe you should spend the nine tenths so, and done with it. Society recovers only a tenth part of the property then. Is this owing to the generosity of him in whose possession it is found, or to the remissness of the officers of justice?

Make sure you give the poor the help they need most, even if your example leaves them far behind. If you give money, give something of yourself along with it. Do not simply leave them the money and walk away. We sometimes make strange mistakes. Often a poor man is less cold and hungry than he is dirty, ragged, and crude. His condition is partly a matter of taste, not just misfortune. If you give him money, perhaps he will buy more rags. I used to pity the clumsy Irish laborers who cut ice on the pond in such shabby, ragged clothes. Meanwhile, I shivered in my neater and somewhat more fashionable clothes. Then, one bitterly cold day, a laborer who had fallen into the water came to my house to warm up. I watched him remove three pairs of pants and two pairs of stockings before reaching his bare skin. His clothes were certainly dirty and ragged. But he could afford to refuse the extra clothes I offered because he had so many inner layers. That dunking was exactly what he needed. Then I began to pity myself. I saw that giving me a flannel shirt would be a greater kindness than giving him an entire cheap-clothing shop. For every person striking at the root of evil, a thousand are hacking at its branches. Perhaps whoever gives the most time and money to the needy also does the most, through his lifestyle, to create misery. He then tries in vain to relieve that misery. He is like the devout slave breeder who uses the proceeds from every tenth slave to buy the others one Sunday’s freedom. Some show kindness to the poor by employing them in their kitchens. Would they not be kinder if they worked in their own kitchens instead? You boast of giving a tenth of your income to charity. Maybe you should give the other nine tenths too, and be done with it. As things stand, society recovers only a tenth of the property. Is that recovery due to the generosity of the person found holding the property, or to the negligence of justice officials?

Philanthropy is almost the only virtue which is sufficiently appreciated by mankind. Nay, it is greatly overrated; and it is our selfishness which overrates it. A robust poor man, one sunny day here in Concord, praised a fellow-townsman to me, because, as he said, he was kind to the poor; meaning himself. The kind uncles and aunts of the race are more esteemed than its true spiritual fathers and mothers. I once heard a reverend lecturer on England, a man of learning and intelligence, after enumerating her scientific, literary, and political worthies, Shakespeare, Bacon, Cromwell, Milton, Newton, and others, speak next of her Christian heroes, whom, as if his profession required it of him, he elevated to a place far above all the rest, as the greatest of the great. They were Penn, Howard, and Mrs. Fry. Every one must feel the falsehood and cant of this. The last were not England’s best men and women; only, perhaps, her best philanthropists.

Philanthropy is almost the only virtue that humanity appreciates enough. In fact, we greatly overrate it, and our selfishness makes us do so. One sunny day here in Concord, a strong, healthy poor man praised a fellow townsman to me. He said the man was kind to the poor, meaning himself. Humanity values its kind uncles and aunts more than its true spiritual fathers and mothers. I once heard a learned, intelligent clergyman give a lecture on England. He listed England’s great figures in science, literature, and politics: Shakespeare, Bacon, Cromwell, Milton, Newton, and others. Next he spoke of England’s Christian heroes. As if his profession required him to, he ranked these heroes far above all the others, as the greatest of the great. They were Penn, Howard, and Mrs. Fry. Everyone must sense the falsehood and empty religious talk in this ranking. These last three were not England’s best men and women. They were only, perhaps, England’s best philanthropists.

I would not subtract any thing from the praise that is due to philanthropy, but merely demand justice for all who by their lives and works are a blessing to mankind. I do not value chiefly a man’s uprightness and benevolence, which are, as it were, his stem and leaves. Those plants of whose greenness withered we make herb tea for the sick, serve but a humble use, and are most employed by quacks. I want the flower and fruit of a man; that some fragrance be wafted over from him to me, and some ripeness flavor our intercourse. His goodness must not be a partial and transitory act, but a constant superfluity, which costs him nothing and of which he is unconscious. This is a charity that hides a multitude of sins. The philanthropist too often surrounds mankind with the remembrance of his own cast-off griefs as an atmosphere, and calls it sympathy. We should impart our courage, and not our despair, our health and ease, and not our disease, and take care that this does not spread by contagion. From what southern plains comes up the voice of wailing? Under what latitudes reside the heathen to whom we would send light? Who is that intemperate and brutal man whom we would redeem? If any thing ail a man, so that he does not perform his functions, if he have a pain in his bowels even,—for that is the seat of sympathy,—he forthwith sets about reforming—the world. Being a microcosm himself, he discovers, and it is a true discovery, and he is the man to make it,—that the world has been eating green apples; to his eyes, in fact, the globe itself is a great green apple, which there is danger awful to think of that the children of men will nibble before it is ripe; and straightway his drastic philanthropy seeks out the Esquimaux and the Patagonian, and embraces the populous Indian and Chinese villages; and thus, by a few years of philanthropic activity, the powers in the mean while using him for their own ends, no doubt, he cures himself of his dyspepsia, the globe acquires a faint blush on one or both of its cheeks, as if it were beginning to be ripe, and life loses its crudity and is once more sweet and wholesome to live. I never dreamed of any enormity greater than I have committed. I never knew, and never shall know, a worse man than myself.

I would not take away any praise owed to philanthropy. I only ask for justice for all whose lives and work are a blessing to humanity. I do not value a man chiefly for his honesty and kindness. Those qualities are, so to speak, his stem and leaves. Plants whose dried leaves we use to make herbal tea for the sick serve only a humble purpose. They are used mostly by quacks. I want a man’s flowers and fruit. I want some fragrance to drift from him to me, and some ripeness to flavor our time together. His goodness must not be an occasional, passing act. It must be a constant overflow that costs him nothing and that he gives without knowing it. Such charity covers a multitude of sins. Too often, the philanthropist surrounds humanity with an atmosphere of his own past sorrows and calls it sympathy. We should share our courage, not our despair, and our health and comfort, not our sickness. We should take care not to spread our sickness by contagion. From what southern plains does that wailing rise? In what latitudes live the heathens to whom we would send light? Who is that drunken, brutal man we would save? If anything troubles a man enough to keep him from functioning, he immediately sets about reforming the world. Even a pain in his bowels will do, for that is where sympathy lives. Since he is a miniature world himself, he discovers that the world has been eating unripe apples. The discovery is true, and he is just the man to make it. In fact, to his eyes, the globe itself is a great green apple. He sees a danger, terrible to imagine, that humanity will nibble it before it ripens. So his drastic philanthropy immediately seeks out the Esquimaux and the Patagonian. It reaches out to the crowded Indian and Chinese villages. Through a few years of philanthropic activity, he thus cures his own indigestion. Meanwhile, the powers that be are no doubt using him for their own ends. The globe develops a faint blush on one or both cheeks, as if beginning to ripen. Life loses its rawness and becomes sweet and wholesome to live once more. I have never imagined any evil greater than the evil I have committed. I have never known, and never will know, a worse man than myself.

I believe that what so saddens the reformer is not his sympathy with his fellows in distress, but, though he be the holiest son of God, is his private ail. Let this be righted, let the spring come to him, the morning rise over his couch, and he will forsake his generous companions without apology. My excuse for not lecturing against the use of tobacco is, that I never chewed it; that is a penalty which reformed tobacco-chewers have to pay; though there are things enough I have chewed, which I could lecture against. If you should ever be betrayed into any of these philanthropies, do not let your left hand know what your right hand does, for it is not worth knowing. Rescue the drowning and tie your shoe-strings. Take your time, and set about some free labor.

I believe a reformer’s sadness comes not from sympathy for others in distress, but from his own private suffering. This is true even if he is the holiest son of God. Let his suffering be cured, let spring come to him, let morning rise over his bed. Then he will leave his generous companions without apology. My excuse for not lecturing against tobacco use is that I have never chewed tobacco. Giving those lectures is a penalty that former tobacco chewers have to pay. Still, I have chewed enough other things that I could lecture against. If you are ever led into any of these charitable efforts, do not let your left hand know what your right hand does. What your right hand does is not worth knowing. Save someone from drowning and tie your shoelaces. Take your time, and get to work on something you freely choose.

Our manners have been corrupted by communication with the saints. Our hymn-books resound with a melodious cursing of God and enduring him forever. One would say that even the prophets and redeemers had rather consoled the fears than confirmed the hopes of man. There is nowhere recorded a simple and irrepressible satisfaction with the gift of life, any memorable praise of God. All health and success does me good, however far off and withdrawn it may appear; all disease and failure helps to make me sad and does me evil, however much sympathy it may have with me or I with it. If, then, we would indeed restore mankind by truly Indian, botanic, magnetic, or natural means, let us first be as simple and well as Nature ourselves, dispel the clouds which hang over our own brows, and take up a little life into our pores. Do not stay to be an overseer of the poor, but endeavor to become one of the worthies of the world.

Our dealings with the saints have corrupted our behavior. Our hymnbooks ring with tuneful curses against God and promises to put up with him forever. You might say that even the prophets and redeemers have soothed people's fears rather than strengthened their hopes. Nowhere is there any record of simple, unstoppable joy in the gift of life, or any memorable praise of God. All health and success does me good, however distant and removed from me it may seem. All disease and failure saddens and harms me, however much sympathy it may have with me, or I with it. If, then, we truly want to restore humanity through Native American healing, herbal medicine, magnetism, or natural remedies, let us begin with ourselves. Let us first be as simple and healthy as Nature. Let us clear the clouds from our own faces and absorb a little life through our pores. Do not settle for supervising relief for the poor, but strive to become one of the world's worthy people.

I read in the Gulistan, or Flower Garden, of Sheik Sadi of Shiraz, that “They asked a wise man, saying; Of the many celebrated trees which the Most High God has created lofty and umbrageous, they call none azad, or free, excepting the cypress, which bears no fruit; what mystery is there in this? He replied; Each has its appropriate produce, and appointed season, during the continuance of which it is fresh and blooming, and during their absence dry and withered; to neither of which states is the cypress exposed, being always flourishing; and of this nature are the azads, or religious independents.—Fix not thy heart on that which is transitory; for the Dijlah, or Tigris, will continue to flow through Bagdad after the race of caliphs is extinct: if thy hand has plenty, be liberal as the date tree; but if it affords nothing to give away, be an azad, or free man, like the cypress.”

I read in the Gulistan, or Flower Garden, by Sheik Sadi of Shiraz, that “People asked a wise man a question. Of all the famous trees the Most High God created tall and shady, only the fruitless cypress is called azad, or free. What is the mystery behind this? The wise man replied: Each tree has its own fruit and its appointed season. During that season, the tree is fresh and blooming, but outside that season, the tree is dry and withered. The cypress experiences neither of these states, because the cypress always flourishes. Such is the nature of the azads, or religious independents. Do not set your heart on what passes away. For the Dijlah, or Tigris, will keep flowing through Bagdad after the line of caliphs has died out. If you have plenty, be generous like the date tree. But if you have nothing to give, be an azad, or free man, like the cypress.”