Visitors

I think that I love society as much as most, and am ready enough to fasten myself like a bloodsucker for the time to any full-blooded man that comes in my way. I am naturally no hermit, but might possibly sit out the sturdiest frequenter of the bar-room, if my business called me thither.

I think I love company as much as most people do. I am quite ready to cling like a leech for a while to any lively man I meet. I am no hermit by nature. But I might outlast even the most dedicated barroom regular, if my business took me there.

I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society. When visitors came in larger and unexpected numbers there was but the third chair for them all, but they generally economized the room by standing up. It is surprising how many great men and women a small house will contain. I have had twenty-five or thirty souls, with their bodies, at once under my roof, and yet we often parted without being aware that we had come very near to one another. Many of our houses, both public and private, with their almost innumerable apartments, their huge halls and their cellars for the storage of wines and other munitions of peace, appear to me extravagantly large for their inhabitants. They are so vast and magnificent that the latter seem to be only vermin which infest them. I am surprised when the herald blows his summons before some Tremont or Astor or Middlesex House, to see come creeping out over the piazza for all inhabitants a ridiculous mouse, which soon again slinks into some hole in the pavement.

I had three chairs in my house: one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society. When visitors arrived unexpectedly in larger numbers, the third chair had to serve them all. But they generally saved space by standing. It is surprising how many great men and women a small house can hold. I have had twenty-five or thirty souls, along with their bodies, under my roof at once. Yet we often parted without realizing we had come very close to one another. Many of our buildings, both public and private, seem far too large for the people in them. They have almost countless rooms, huge halls, and cellars for storing wines and other supplies for peacetime. These buildings are so vast and magnificent that their occupants seem like nothing more than vermin infesting them. I am surprised when someone sounds a trumpet to summon the occupants of some Tremont or Astor or Middlesex House. Out across the porch creeps a ridiculous mouse, apparently the building’s entire population. Soon the mouse slinks back into some hole in the pavement.

One inconvenience I sometimes experienced in so small a house, the difficulty of getting to a sufficient distance from my guest when we began to utter the big thoughts in big words. You want room for your thoughts to get into sailing trim and run a course or two before they make their port. The bullet of your thought must have overcome its lateral and ricochet motion and fallen into its last and steady course before it reaches the ear of the hearer, else it may plough out again through the side of his head. Also, our sentences wanted room to unfold and form their columns in the interval. Individuals, like nations, must have suitable broad and natural boundaries, even a considerable neutral ground, between them. I have found it a singular luxury to talk across the pond to a companion on the opposite side. In my house we were so near that we could not begin to hear,—we could not speak low enough to be heard; as when you throw two stones into calm water so near that they break each other’s undulations. If we are merely loquacious and loud talkers, then we can afford to stand very near together, cheek by jowl, and feel each other’s breath; but if we speak reservedly and thoughtfully, we want to be farther apart, that all animal heat and moisture may have a chance to evaporate. If we would enjoy the most intimate society with that in each of us which is without, or above, being spoken to, we must not only be silent, but commonly so far apart bodily that we cannot possibly hear each other’s voice in any case. Referred to this standard, speech is for the convenience of those who are hard of hearing; but there are many fine things which we cannot say if we have to shout. As the conversation began to assume a loftier and grander tone, we gradually shoved our chairs farther apart till they touched the wall in opposite corners, and then commonly there was not room enough.

One inconvenience I sometimes faced in such a small house was getting far enough away from my guest. This became difficult when we began expressing big thoughts in big words. Your thoughts need room to set their sails and travel a little before reaching port. The bullet of your thought must stop swerving and bouncing and settle into a steady course before reaching your listener’s ear. Otherwise, the bullet may plow back out through the side of his head. Our sentences also needed space between us to unfold and form their columns. Individuals, like nations, must have broad, natural boundaries between them, even a sizable stretch of neutral ground. I have found it a rare luxury to talk across the pond with a companion on the opposite shore. In my house, we were so close that we could not begin to hear each other. We could not speak softly enough to be heard. It was like throwing two stones into calm water so close together that their ripples disrupt each other. If we are merely talkative and loud, we can afford to stand very close, cheek to cheek, feeling each other’s breath. But if we speak quietly and thoughtfully, we want more distance, so all bodily heat and moisture can evaporate. Suppose we want the closest companionship with the part of each other that lies beyond or above being spoken to. Then we must not only be silent. Usually, we must also be so far apart physically that we could not possibly hear each other’s voices at all. By this standard, speech is a convenience for the hard of hearing. But there are many subtle things we cannot say if we have to shout. As our conversation grew loftier and grander, we gradually pushed our chairs farther apart. Eventually, the chairs touched the walls in opposite corners, and even then there was usually not enough room.

My “best” room, however, my withdrawing room, always ready for company, on whose carpet the sun rarely fell, was the pine wood behind my house. Thither in summer days, when distinguished guests came, I took them, and a priceless domestic swept the floor and dusted the furniture and kept the things in order.

My “best” room, however, was my sitting room, always ready for guests, with a carpet the sun rarely touched. This room was the pine woods behind my house. On summer days, when distinguished guests came, I took them there. A priceless servant swept the floor, dusted the furniture, and kept everything in order.

If one guest came he sometimes partook of my frugal meal, and it was no interruption to conversation to be stirring a hasty-pudding, or watching the rising and maturing of a loaf of bread in the ashes, in the mean while. But if twenty came and sat in my house there was nothing said about dinner, though there might be bread enough for two, more than if eating were a forsaken habit; but we naturally practised abstinence; and this was never felt to be an offence against hospitality, but the most proper and considerate course. The waste and decay of physical life, which so often needs repair, seemed miraculously retarded in such a case, and the vital vigor stood its ground. I could entertain thus a thousand as well as twenty; and if any ever went away disappointed or hungry from my house when they found me at home, they may depend upon it that I sympathized with them at least. So easy is it, though many housekeepers doubt it, to establish new and better customs in the place of the old. You need not rest your reputation on the dinners you give. For my own part, I was never so effectually deterred from frequenting a man’s house, by any kind of Cerberus whatever, as by the parade one made about dining me, which I took to be a very polite and roundabout hint never to trouble him so again. I think I shall never revisit those scenes. I should be proud to have for the motto of my cabin those lines of Spenser which one of my visitors inscribed on a yellow walnut leaf for a card:—

If one guest came, he sometimes shared my simple meal. Stirring a quick cornmeal pudding or watching a loaf rise and bake in the ashes did not interrupt our conversation. But if twenty came and sat in my house, no one mentioned dinner, though there might be bread for two. We said no more about food than if eating were an abandoned habit. Instead, we naturally went without food. We never felt that going without food violated hospitality. We felt it was the most fitting and considerate course. The body's wear and tear, which so often needs repair, seemed miraculously slowed on such occasions. Our energy held steady. I could entertain a thousand this way as easily as twenty. And if anyone ever left my house disappointed or hungry when I was home, they can count on my sympathy, at least. So easy is it to replace old customs with new and better ones, though many householders doubt it. You need not build your reputation on the dinners you give. For my part, no Cerberus guarding a man's house ever discouraged my visits so effectively as his fuss over feeding me. I took that fuss as a very polite, roundabout hint never to trouble him that way again. I think I shall never return to those places. I would be proud to take as my cabin's motto those lines of Spenser that a visitor left me. He wrote them on a yellow walnut leaf used as a card:

When Winslow, afterward governor of the Plymouth Colony, went with a companion on a visit of ceremony to Massasoit on foot through the woods, and arrived tired and hungry at his lodge, they were well received by the king, but nothing was said about eating that day. When the night arrived, to quote their own words,—“He laid us on the bed with himself and his wife, they at the one end and we at the other, it being only planks laid a foot from the ground, and a thin mat upon them. Two more of his chief men, for want of room, pressed by and upon us; so that we were worse weary of our lodging than of our journey.” At one o’clock the next day Massasoit “brought two fishes that he had shot,” about thrice as big as a bream; “these being boiled, there were at least forty looked for a share in them. The most ate of them. This meal only we had in two nights and a day; and had not one of us bought a partridge, we had taken our journey fasting.” Fearing that they would be light-headed for want of food and also sleep, owing to “the savages’ barbarous singing, (for they used to sing themselves asleep,)” and that they might get home while they had strength to travel, they departed. As for lodging, it is true they were but poorly entertained, though what they found an inconvenience was no doubt intended for an honor; but as far as eating was concerned, I do not see how the Indians could have done better. They had nothing to eat themselves, and they were wiser than to think that apologies could supply the place of food to their guests; so they drew their belts tighter and said nothing about it. Another time when Winslow visited them, it being a season of plenty with them, there was no deficiency in this respect.

Winslow, who later became governor of the Plymouth Colony, once made a formal visit to Massasoit with a companion. They walked through the woods and reached his lodge tired and hungry. The king welcomed them, but nothing was said about eating that day. When night came, in their own words, “He put us on the bed with himself and his wife. They were at one end and we at the other. The bed was just planks a foot above the ground, covered with a thin mat. For lack of room, two more of his leading men crowded beside us and on top of us. So we were more worn out by our lodging than by our journey.” At one o’clock the next day, Massasoit “brought two fish he had shot,” each about three times as big as a bream. “Once the fish were boiled, at least forty people expected a share. Most of them ate some. This was our only meal in two nights and a day. If one of us had not bought a partridge, we would have started our journey without eating.” They feared they would grow lightheaded from hunger and lack of sleep, because of “the savages’ harsh singing (for they sang themselves to sleep).” So they left, hoping to get home while they still had the strength to travel. Their sleeping arrangements were certainly poor, though the discomfort was no doubt meant as an honor. But as far as food was concerned, I do not see how the Indians could have done better. They had nothing to eat themselves. They were too wise to think apologies could take the place of food for their guests. So they tightened their belts and said nothing about it. Another time, Winslow visited during a season of plenty, and there was no shortage of food.

As for men, they will hardly fail one any where. I had more visitors while I lived in the woods than at any other period in my life; I mean that I had some. I met several there under more favorable circumstances than I could any where else. But fewer came to see me on trivial business. In this respect, my company was winnowed by my mere distance from town. I had withdrawn so far within the great ocean of solitude, into which the rivers of society empty, that for the most part, so far as my needs were concerned, only the finest sediment was deposited around me. Beside, there were wafted to me evidences of unexplored and uncultivated continents on the other side.

As for people, you will hardly lack their company anywhere. I had more visitors while living in the woods than at any other time in my life. I mean, I had some. I met several people there under better circumstances than I could have anywhere else. But fewer came to see me on trivial business. In this way, simply being far from town filtered my company. I had retreated far into the great ocean of solitude, where the rivers of society flow. So, for the most part, only the finest sediment settled around me, as far as my needs were concerned. Besides, signs of unexplored and uncultivated continents on the other side drifted over to me.

Who should come to my lodge this morning but a true Homeric or Paphlagonian man,—he had so suitable and poetic a name that I am sorry I cannot print it here,—a Canadian, a woodchopper and post-maker, who can hole fifty posts in a day, who made his last supper on a woodchuck which his dog caught. He, too, has heard of Homer, and, “if it were not for books,” would “not know what to do rainy days,” though perhaps he has not read one wholly through for many rainy seasons. Some priest who could pronounce the Greek itself taught him to read his verse in the testament in his native parish far away; and now I must translate to him, while he holds the book, Achilles’ reproof to Patroclus for his sad countenance.—“Why are you in tears, Patroclus, like a young girl?”—

Who should come to my cabin this morning but a true Homeric or Paphlagonian man? His name was so fitting and poetic that I am sorry I cannot print it here. He is a Canadian, a woodchopper and post-maker who can drill holes in fifty posts a day. His last supper was a woodchuck his dog caught. He, too, has heard of Homer. And “if it were not for books,” he would “not know what to do rainy days.” Yet perhaps he has not read a whole book in many rainy seasons. Back in his distant home parish, some priest who could pronounce the Greek itself taught him to read his Bible verse. Now, while he holds the book, I must translate Achilles’ rebuke to Patroclus for looking so sad. “Why are you in tears, Patroclus, like a young girl?”

He says, “That’s good.” He has a great bundle of white-oak bark under his arm for a sick man, gathered this Sunday morning. “I suppose there’s no harm in going after such a thing to-day,” says he. To him Homer was a great writer, though what his writing was about he did not know. A more simple and natural man it would be hard to find. Vice and disease, which cast such a sombre moral hue over the world, seemed to have hardly any existence for him. He was about twenty-eight years old, and had left Canada and his father’s house a dozen years before to work in the States, and earn money to buy a farm with at last, perhaps in his native country. He was cast in the coarsest mould; a stout but sluggish body, yet gracefully carried, with a thick sunburnt neck, dark bushy hair, and dull sleepy blue eyes, which were occasionally lit up with expression. He wore a flat gray cloth cap, a dingy wool-colored greatcoat, and cowhide boots. He was a great consumer of meat, usually carrying his dinner to his work a couple of miles past my house,—for he chopped all summer,—in a tin pail; cold meats, often cold woodchucks, and coffee in a stone bottle which dangled by a string from his belt; and sometimes he offered me a drink. He came along early, crossing my bean-field, though without anxiety or haste to get to his work, such as Yankees exhibit. He wasn’t a-going to hurt himself. He didn’t care if he only earned his board. Frequently he would leave his dinner in the bushes, when his dog had caught a woodchuck by the way, and go back a mile and a half to dress it and leave it in the cellar of the house where he boarded, after deliberating first for half an hour whether he could not sink it in the pond safely till nightfall,—loving to dwell long upon these themes. He would say, as he went by in the morning, “How thick the pigeons are! If working every day were not my trade, I could get all the meat I should want by hunting,—pigeons, woodchucks, rabbits, partridges,—by gosh! I could get all I should want for a week in one day.”

He says, “That’s good.” He has a large bundle of white-oak bark under his arm for a sick man. He gathered it this Sunday morning. “I suppose there’s no harm in going out for something like this today,” he says. To him, Homer was a great writer, though he did not know what Homer wrote about. It would be hard to find a simpler, more natural man. Vice and disease cast a dark moral shadow over the world, yet seemed hardly to exist for him. He was about twenty-eight years old. A dozen years earlier, he had left Canada and his father’s house to work in the States. He hoped to earn enough money to buy a farm eventually, perhaps in his native country. He was built in the roughest way, with a sturdy but sluggish body that he nevertheless carried gracefully. He had a thick, sunburned neck, dark, bushy hair, and dull, sleepy blue eyes that occasionally lit up with expression. He wore a flat gray cloth cap, a dingy overcoat the color of undyed wool, and cowhide boots. He ate a great deal of meat. He usually carried his midday meal to work in a tin pail, a couple of miles past my house. He chopped wood all summer. His meal consisted of cold meats, often cold woodchuck, and coffee in a stone bottle dangling from his belt by a string. Sometimes he offered me a drink. He came by early, crossing my bean field, though without the anxiety or haste Yankees show in getting to work. He wasn’t going to wear himself out. He didn’t care if he earned only enough for his room and meals. Often, when his dog caught a woodchuck along the way, he would leave his meal in the bushes. He would first spend half an hour considering whether he could safely sink the woodchuck in the pond until nightfall. Then he would walk back a mile and a half to clean it and prepare it for cooking. He would leave the woodchuck in the cellar of the house where he boarded. He loved to spend a long time thinking over such matters. As he passed in the morning, he would say, “How many pigeons there are! If working every day weren’t my trade, I could get all the meat I wanted by hunting. Pigeons, woodchucks, rabbits, partridges, by gosh! I could get all I wanted for a week in one day.”

He was a skilful chopper, and indulged in some flourishes and ornaments in his art. He cut his trees level and close to the ground, that the sprouts which came up afterward might be more vigorous and a sled might slide over the stumps; and instead of leaving a whole tree to support his corded wood, he would pare it away to a slender stake or splinter which you could break off with your hand at last.

He was a skilled woodcutter and added some artistic flourishes to his work. He cut his trees evenly and close to the ground so that new shoots might grow more vigorously. He also cut them this way so that a sled could slide over the stumps. Instead of leaving a whole tree to support his stacked firewood, he would trim the tree to a thin stake. In the end, you could break off the stake or splinter with your hand.

He interested me because he was so quiet and solitary and so happy withal; a well of good humor and contentment which overflowed at his eyes. His mirth was without alloy. Sometimes I saw him at his work in the woods, felling trees, and he would greet me with a laugh of inexpressible satisfaction, and a salutation in Canadian French, though he spoke English as well. When I approached him he would suspend his work, and with half-suppressed mirth lie along the trunk of a pine which he had felled, and, peeling off the inner bark, roll it up into a ball and chew it while he laughed and talked. Such an exuberance of animal spirits had he that he sometimes tumbled down and rolled on the ground with laughter at any thing which made him think and tickled him. Looking round upon the trees he would exclaim,—“By George! I can enjoy myself well enough here chopping; I want no better sport.” Sometimes, when at leisure, he amused himself all day in the woods with a pocket pistol, firing salutes to himself at regular intervals as he walked. In the winter he had a fire by which at noon he warmed his coffee in a kettle; and as he sat on a log to eat his dinner the chickadees would sometimes come round and alight on his arm and peck at the potato in his fingers; and he said that he “liked to have the little fellers about him.”

He interested me because he was so quiet and solitary, yet so happy. He was a well of good humor and contentment, overflowing through his eyes. His joy was pure. Sometimes I saw him cutting down trees in the woods. He would greet me with a laugh of indescribable satisfaction and a greeting in Canadian French, though he spoke English too. When I approached, he would stop working and lie along the trunk of a pine he had cut down. Barely holding back his laughter, he would peel off the inner bark. He would roll the bark into a ball and chew it while he laughed and talked. He was so full of energy that sometimes he fell down and rolled on the ground laughing. Anything that made him think and amused him could bring on such laughter. Looking around at the trees, he would exclaim, “By George! I can enjoy myself well enough here chopping. I want no better fun.” Sometimes, in his free time, he entertained himself all day in the woods with a pocket pistol. As he walked, he fired salutes to himself at regular intervals. In winter he kept a fire, where he warmed his coffee in a kettle at noon. As he sat on a log eating his midday meal, chickadees would sometimes gather and land on his arm. They would peck at the potato in his fingers. He said that he “liked having the little fellows around him.”

In him the animal man chiefly was developed. In physical endurance and contentment he was cousin to the pine and the rock. I asked him once if he was not sometimes tired at night, after working all day; and he answered, with a sincere and serious look, “Gorrappit, I never was tired in my life.” But the intellectual and what is called spiritual man in him were slumbering as in an infant. He had been instructed only in that innocent and ineffectual way in which the Catholic priests teach the aborigines, by which the pupil is never educated to the degree of consciousness, but only to the degree of trust and reverence, and a child is not made a man, but kept a child. When Nature made him, she gave him a strong body and contentment for his portion, and propped him on every side with reverence and reliance, that he might live out his threescore years and ten a child. He was so genuine and unsophisticated that no introduction would serve to introduce him, more than if you introduced a woodchuck to your neighbor. He had got to find him out as you did. He would not play any part. Men paid him wages for work, and so helped to feed and clothe him; but he never exchanged opinions with them. He was so simply and naturally humble—if he can be called humble who never aspires—that humility was no distinct quality in him, nor could he conceive of it. Wiser men were demigods to him. If you told him that such a one was coming, he did as if he thought that any thing so grand would expect nothing of himself, but take all the responsibility on itself, and let him be forgotten still. He never heard the sound of praise. He particularly reverenced the writer and the preacher. Their performances were miracles. When I told him that I wrote considerably, he thought for a long time that it was merely the handwriting which I meant, for he could write a remarkably good hand himself. I sometimes found the name of his native parish handsomely written in the snow by the highway, with the proper French accent, and knew that he had passed. I asked him if he ever wished to write his thoughts. He said that he had read and written letters for those who could not, but he never tried to write thoughts,—no, he could not, he could not tell what to put first, it would kill him, and then there was spelling to be attended to at the same time!

His animal nature was the most developed part of him. In physical endurance and contentment, he was kin to the pine and the rock. I once asked him whether he sometimes felt tired at night after working all day. With a sincere and serious look, he answered, “Gorrappit, I never was tired in my life.” But his intellectual and so-called spiritual sides lay asleep, as in an infant. He had been taught only in the innocent and ineffective way Catholic priests teach Indigenous people. Such teaching never brings the pupil to self-awareness, but only to trust and reverence. It does not turn a child into an adult, but keeps him a child. When Nature made him, she gave him a strong body and contentment as his share. She supported him on every side with reverence and dependence, so he might remain a child throughout his seventy years. He was so genuine and simple that introducing him would accomplish no more than introducing a woodchuck to your neighbor. Your neighbor would have to discover his nature, just as you had. He would not play a role. Men paid him wages for work and so helped feed and clothe him. But he never exchanged opinions with them. His humility was so simple and natural that it was not a separate quality he possessed. That is, if someone who never aspires to anything can be called humble. He could not even conceive of humility. Wiser men were demigods to him. If you told him such a man was coming, he acted as if someone so grand would expect nothing from him. The great man would take all responsibility and let him remain forgotten. He never heard the sound of praise. He especially revered writers and preachers. Their work seemed miraculous. When I told him I wrote a great deal, he long thought I meant only handwriting. He himself had remarkably good handwriting. I sometimes found the name of his home parish beautifully written in the snow beside the road. The proper French accent was included, and I knew he had passed that way. I asked whether he ever wanted to write down his thoughts. He said he had read and written letters for people who could not do so themselves. But he had never tried to write down thoughts. No, he could not. He could not tell what to put first. It would kill him. And then he would have to worry about spelling at the same time!

I heard that a distinguished wise man and reformer asked him if he did not want the world to be changed; but he answered with a chuckle of surprise in his Canadian accent, not knowing that the question had ever been entertained before, “No, I like it well enough.” It would have suggested many things to a philosopher to have dealings with him. To a stranger he appeared to know nothing of things in general; yet I sometimes saw in him a man whom I had not seen before, and I did not know whether he was as wise as Shakespeare or as simply ignorant as a child, whether to suspect him of a fine poetic consciousness or of stupidity. A townsman told me that when he met him sauntering through the village in his small close-fitting cap, and whistling to himself, he reminded him of a prince in disguise.

I heard that a distinguished thinker and reformer asked him whether he wanted the world to change. But he chuckled in surprise, unaware that anyone had ever considered the question. In his Canadian accent, he answered, “No, I like it well enough.” Dealing with him would have given a philosopher much to think about. To a stranger, he seemed to know nothing about things in general. Yet I sometimes saw a man in him I had never seen before. I could not tell whether he was as wise as Shakespeare or as simply ignorant as a child. I did not know whether to suspect a subtle poetic awareness or stupidity. A man from town told me he had met him strolling through the village in his small, close-fitting cap. He was whistling to himself and reminded the townsman of a prince in disguise.

His only books were an almanac and an arithmetic, in which last he was considerably expert. The former was a sort of cyclopædia to him, which he supposed to contain an abstract of human knowledge, as indeed it does to a considerable extent. I loved to sound him on the various reforms of the day, and he never failed to look at them in the most simple and practical light. He had never heard of such things before. Could he do without factories? I asked. He had worn the home-made Vermont gray, he said, and that was good. Could he dispense with tea and coffee? Did this country afford any beverage beside water? He had soaked hemlock leaves in water and drank it, and thought that was better than water in warm weather. When I asked him if he could do without money, he showed the convenience of money in such a way as to suggest and coincide with the most philosophical accounts of the origin of this institution, and the very derivation of the word pecunia. If an ox were his property, and he wished to get needles and thread at the store, he thought it would be inconvenient and impossible soon to go on mortgaging some portion of the creature each time to that amount. He could defend many institutions better than any philosopher, because, in describing them as they concerned him, he gave the true reason for their prevalence, and speculation had not suggested to him any other. At another time, hearing Plato’s definition of a man,—a biped without feathers,—and that one exhibited a cock plucked and called it Plato’s man, he thought it an important difference that the knees bent the wrong way. He would sometimes exclaim, “How I love to talk! By George, I could talk all day!” I asked him once, when I had not seen him for many months, if he had got a new idea this summer. “Good Lord,” said he, “a man that has to work as I do, if he does not forget the ideas he has had, he will do well. May be the man you hoe with is inclined to race; then, by gorry, your mind must be there; you think of weeds.” He would sometimes ask me first on such occasions, if I had made any improvement. One winter day I asked him if he was always satisfied with himself, wishing to suggest a substitute within him for the priest without, and some higher motive for living. “Satisfied!” said he; “some men are satisfied with one thing, and some with another. One man, perhaps, if he has got enough, will be satisfied to sit all day with his back to the fire and his belly to the table, by George!” Yet I never, by any manœuvring, could get him to take the spiritual view of things; the highest that he appeared to conceive of was a simple expediency, such as you might expect an animal to appreciate; and this, practically, is true of most men. If I suggested any improvement in his mode of life, he merely answered, without expressing any regret, that it was too late. Yet he thoroughly believed in honesty and the like virtues.

His only books were an almanac and an arithmetic textbook, and he was quite skilled at arithmetic. The almanac was a kind of encyclopedia to him. He supposed it contained a summary of human knowledge, as indeed it does to a considerable extent. I loved to ask his opinion about the various reforms of the day. He never failed to see them in the simplest and most practical light. He had never heard of such things before. Could he do without factories? I asked. He had worn homemade Vermont gray cloth, he said, and that was good. Could he do without tea and coffee? Did this country offer any drink besides water? He had soaked hemlock leaves in water and drunk it. He thought that drink was better than water in warm weather. When I asked him if he could do without money, he explained how convenient money was. His explanation echoed the most philosophical accounts of money’s origins, and even the origin of the word pecunia. Suppose he owned an ox and wanted needles and thread from the store. He thought it would be inconvenient to keep mortgaging a portion of the animal for each purchase. Before long, continuing to do so would be impossible. He could defend many institutions better than any philosopher. By describing how those institutions affected him, he gave the true reason for their widespread use. And abstract thinking had suggested no other reason to him. At another time, he heard Plato’s definition of a man: a two-legged creature without feathers. He also heard that someone had presented a plucked rooster and called it Plato’s man. He thought it an important difference that the rooster’s knees bent the wrong way. He would sometimes exclaim, “How I love to talk! By George, I could talk all day!” Once, after not seeing him for many months, I asked whether he had had a new idea that summer. “Good Lord,” he said, “a man who has to work as I do does well just to remember his old ideas. Maybe the man you’re hoeing with wants to race. Then, by gorry, your mind has to be on the work. You think about weeds.” On such occasions, he would sometimes ask me first whether I had improved myself at all. One winter day I asked him if he was always satisfied with himself. I hoped to suggest an inner guide to replace the priest outside him, and some higher motive for living. “Satisfied!” he said. “Some men are satisfied with one thing, and some with another. Perhaps one man, if he has enough, will be satisfied to sit all day with his back to the fire. And his belly to the table, by George!” Yet no matter how I tried, I could never get him to take a spiritual view of things. The highest principle he seemed able to imagine was simply what was useful, as you might expect an animal to appreciate. And in practice, this is true of most men. If I suggested any improvement in his way of life, he simply answered, without expressing regret, that it was too late. Yet he thoroughly believed in honesty and similar virtues.

There was a certain positive originality, however slight, to be detected in him, and I occasionally observed that he was thinking for himself and expressing his own opinion, a phenomenon so rare that I would any day walk ten miles to observe it, and it amounted to the re-origination of many of the institutions of society. Though he hesitated, and perhaps failed to express himself distinctly, he always had a presentable thought behind. Yet his thinking was so primitive and immersed in his animal life, that, though more promising than a merely learned man’s, it rarely ripened to any thing which can be reported. He suggested that there might be men of genius in the lowest grades of life, however permanently humble and illiterate, who take their own view always, or do not pretend to see at all; who are as bottomless even as Walden Pond was thought to be, though they may be dark and muddy.

Still, there was a definite originality in him, however slight. I sometimes noticed him thinking for himself and expressing his own opinion. Such a thing is so rare that I would walk ten miles any day to witness it. His thinking amounted to creating many of society’s institutions anew. Though he hesitated and perhaps failed to express himself clearly, he always had a worthwhile thought behind his words. Yet his thinking was so basic and bound up with his physical life that it rarely developed into anything worth reporting. Still, his thinking showed more promise than that of a man whose knowledge came only from study. He suggested that there might be men of genius at the lowest levels of society, however permanently poor and uneducated. Such men always see things for themselves, or do not pretend to see at all. They are as bottomless as Walden Pond was once thought to be, though they may be dark and muddy.

Many a traveller came out of his way to see me and the inside of my house, and, as an excuse for calling, asked for a glass of water. I told them that I drank at the pond, and pointed thither, offering to lend them a dipper. Far off as I lived, I was not exempted from the annual visitation which occurs, methinks, about the first of April, when every body is on the move; and I had my share of good luck, though there were some curious specimens among my visitors. Half-witted men from the almshouse and elsewhere came to see me; but I endeavored to make them exercise all the wit they had, and make their confessions to me; in such cases making wit the theme of our conversation; and so was compensated. Indeed, I found some of them to be wiser than the so called overseers of the poor and selectmen of the town, and thought it was time that the tables were turned. With respect to wit, I learned that there was not much difference between the half and the whole. One day, in particular, an inoffensive, simple-minded pauper, whom with others I had often seen used as fencing stuff, standing or sitting on a bushel in the fields to keep cattle and himself from straying, visited me, and expressed a wish to live as I did. He told me, with the utmost simplicity and truth, quite superior, or rather inferior, to any thing that is called humility, that he was “deficient in intellect.” These were his words. The Lord had made him so, yet he supposed the Lord cared as much for him as for another. “I have always been so,” said he, “from my childhood; I never had much mind; I was not like other children; I am weak in the head. It was the Lord’s will, I suppose.” And there he was to prove the truth of his words. He was a metaphysical puzzle to me. I have rarely met a fellow-man on such promising ground,—it was so simple and sincere and so true all that he said. And, true enough, in proportion as he appeared to humble himself was he exalted. I did not know at first but it was the result of a wise policy. It seemed that from such a basis of truth and frankness as the poor weak-headed pauper had laid, our intercourse might go forward to something better than the intercourse of sages.

Many travelers went out of their way to see me and the inside of my house. As an excuse for visiting, they asked for a glass of water. I told them I drank from the pond, pointed toward it, and offered to lend them a dipper. Although I lived far away, I was not spared the annual round of visits. These came, I think, around the first of April, when everyone is on the move. I had my share of good luck, though some of my visitors were curious specimens. Men of limited intelligence came to see me from the almshouse and elsewhere. But I tried to make them use all the intelligence they had and tell me about themselves. In these cases, I made intelligence the subject of our conversation, and so found my reward. Indeed, I found some of these men wiser than the so-called overseers of the poor and the town’s selectmen. I thought it was time the tables were turned. As for intelligence, I learned there was little difference between having half a mind and a whole one. One day, a harmless, simple-minded pauper visited me and said he wished to live as I did. I had often seen him and others used as human fencing in the fields. He would stand or sit on a bushel basket to keep both the cattle and himself from wandering. He told me he was “deficient in intellect.” He spoke with complete simplicity and truth, far above, or rather below, anything called humility. Those were his words. The Lord had made him that way. Yet he supposed the Lord cared as much for him as for anyone else. “I have always been so,” he said, “from my childhood. I never had much of a mind. I was not like other children. I am weak in the head. It was the Lord’s will, I suppose.” And there he stood, proving his words true. He was a puzzle to me about the nature of existence. I have rarely met another person on such promising ground. Everything he said was so simple, sincere, and true. And sure enough, the more he seemed to lower himself, the higher he rose. At first, I wondered whether his humility came from a clever strategy. The poor, weak-minded pauper had laid a foundation of truth and frankness. From that foundation, our conversation seemed capable of becoming something better than a conversation between sages.

I had some guests from those not reckoned commonly among the town’s poor, but who should be; who are among the world’s poor, at any rate; guests who appeal, not to your hospitality, but to your hospitalality; who earnestly wish to be helped, and preface their appeal with the information that they are resolved, for one thing, never to help themselves. I require of a visitor that he be not actually starving, though he may have the very best appetite in the world, however he got it. Objects of charity are not guests. Men who did not know when their visit had terminated, though I went about my business again, answering them from greater and greater remoteness. Men of almost every degree of wit called on me in the migrating season. Some who had more wits than they knew what to do with; runaway slaves with plantation manners, who listened from time to time, like the fox in the fable, as if they heard the hounds a-baying on their track, and looked at me beseechingly, as much as to say,—

Some guests came who were not usually counted among the town’s poor, but should have been. At any rate, they were among the world’s poor. These guests appeal not to your hospitality, but to your hospitalality. They earnestly want help, and begin by telling you one thing: they are determined never to help themselves. I require visitors not to be actually starving, though they may have the best appetite in the world, however acquired. People seeking charity are not guests. Some men did not know when their visit was over, though I returned to my work. I answered them from farther and farther away. Men of almost every level of intelligence visited me during the migrating season. Some had more brains than they knew what to do with. There were runaway slaves with plantation manners, who listened now and then, like the fox in the fable. They listened as if they heard hounds baying on their trail, and looked at me pleadingly, as much as to say:

One real runaway slave, among the rest, whom I helped to forward toward the northstar. Men of one idea, like a hen with one chicken, and that a duckling; men of a thousand ideas, and unkempt heads, like those hens which are made to take charge of a hundred chickens, all in pursuit of one bug, a score of them lost in every morning’s dew,—and become frizzled and mangy in consequence; men of ideas instead of legs, a sort of intellectual centipede that made you crawl all over. One man proposed a book in which visitors should write their names, as at the White Mountains; but, alas! I have too good a memory to make that necessary.

Among the others was one actual runaway slave, whom I helped on his way toward the northstar. There were men with one idea, like a hen with one chick, and that chick a duckling. There were men with a thousand ideas and unkempt hair. They were like hens put in charge of a hundred chicks, all chasing one bug. Twenty chicks get lost in each morning’s dew, leaving the hens ruffled and mangy as a result. There were men with ideas instead of legs, a kind of intellectual centipede that made your skin crawl. One man suggested a book where visitors could write their names, as at the White Mountains. But, alas, my memory is far too good to need one.

I could not but notice some of the peculiarities of my visitors. Girls and boys and young women generally seemed glad to be in the woods. They looked in the pond and at the flowers, and improved their time. Men of business, even farmers, thought only of solitude and employment, and of the great distance at which I dwelt from something or other; and though they said that they loved a ramble in the woods occasionally, it was obvious that they did not. Restless committed men, whose time was all taken up in getting a living or keeping it; ministers who spoke of God as if they enjoyed a monopoly of the subject, who could not bear all kinds of opinions; doctors, lawyers, uneasy housekeepers who pried into my cupboard and bed when I was out,—how came Mrs. —— to know that my sheets were not as clean as hers?—young men who had ceased to be young, and had concluded that it was safest to follow the beaten track of the professions,—all these generally said that it was not possible to do so much good in my position. Ay! there was the rub. The old and infirm and the timid, of whatever age or sex, thought most of sickness, and sudden accident and death; to them life seemed full of danger,—what danger is there if you don’t think of any?—and they thought that a prudent man would carefully select the safest position, where Dr. B. might be on hand at a moment’s warning. To them the village was literally a com-munity, a league for mutual defence, and you would suppose that they would not go a-huckleberrying without a medicine chest. The amount of it is, if a man is alive, there is always danger that he may die, though the danger must be allowed to be less in proportion as he is dead-and-alive to begin with. A man sits as many risks as he runs. Finally, there were the self-styled reformers, the greatest bores of all, who thought that I was forever singing,—

I couldn’t help noticing some peculiarities among my visitors. Girls, boys, and young women generally seemed happy to be in the woods. They looked into the pond and at the flowers, and made good use of their time. Businessmen, even farmers, thought only about solitude, work, and how far I lived from something or other. Although they said they enjoyed an occasional walk in the woods, they obviously did not. There were restless men tied to obligations, whose time was entirely spent making a living or holding onto it. There were ministers who spoke of God as if they had a monopoly on the subject. These ministers could not tolerate all kinds of opinions. There were doctors, lawyers, and anxious housekeepers who inspected my cupboard and bed while I was out. How did Mrs. —— know that my sheets were not as clean as hers? There were young men who had stopped being young. They had decided it was safest to follow the well-worn path into the professions. All these people generally said that someone in my situation could not do as much good. Yes! That was the sticking point. The old, the frail, and the timid, whatever their age or sex, thought mostly about sickness, sudden accidents, and death. To them, life seemed full of danger. What danger is there if you don’t think of any? They thought a sensible man would carefully choose the safest place, where Dr. B. could arrive at a moment’s notice. To them, the village was literally a com-munity, an alliance for mutual defense. You would think they wouldn’t go picking huckleberries without a medicine chest. The point is, if a man is alive, there is always a danger that he may die. Admittedly, though, the more lifeless he is to begin with, the smaller that danger must be. A man takes as many risks sitting still as running. Finally, there were the self-proclaimed reformers, the greatest bores of all, who thought I was always singing:

but they did not know that the third line was,—

but they did not know that the third line was:

I did not fear the hen-harriers, for I kept no chickens; but I feared the men-harriers rather.

I wasn't afraid of hen-harriers, because I kept no chickens. But I was afraid of men-harriers, those who prey on people.

I had more cheering visitors than the last. Children come a-berrying, railroad men taking a Sunday morning walk in clean shirts, fishermen and hunters, poets and philosophers; in short, all honest pilgrims, who came out to the woods for freedom’s sake, and really left the village behind, I was ready to greet with,—“Welcome, Englishmen! welcome, Englishmen!” for I had had communication with that race.

I had other visitors who lifted my spirits more than the last one. Children came to pick berries, and railroad men took Sunday morning walks in clean shirts. Fishermen and hunters came, along with poets and philosophers. In short, I was ready to greet all honest pilgrims who came to the woods for freedom’s sake. These visitors had truly left the village behind. My greeting was ready: “Welcome, Englishmen! welcome, Englishmen!” For I had been in contact with that race.