Little Journeys to the Homes of the Great Philosophers Part 31

His lack of worldly prudence, Blake thought, tokened a courage which under certain conditions would have made him as formidable as John Brown. Blake tells this: Once on a lonely road, two miles from Concord, two loafers stopped a girl who was picking berries, and began to bother her. Th.o.r.eau just then happened along, and seeing the young woman's distress, he collared the rogues and marched them into the village, turning them over to that redoubtable transcendentalist, Sam Staples, who locked them up. Th.o.r.eau's hook nose and features could be transformed in rare instances into a look of command that no man dare question--it was the look of the fatalist--the benign fanatic--the look of Marat--the look of a man who has nothing but his life to lose, and places small store on that. "A little more ambition, and a trifle less sympathy, and the world would have had a Caesar to deal with," says Blake.

Cowardice is only caution carried to an extreme. Th.o.r.eau exercised no prudence in making money, securing fame, preserving his health, holding his friends or making new ones. This Spartan-like quality, that counts not the cost, is essentially heroic.

But Th.o.r.eau was not given to strife; for the most part, he was non-resistant. The chief thing he prized was equanimity, and this you can not secure through struggle and strife. His game was all captured with the spygla.s.s, or carried home in his botanists' drum. For worldly wealth and what we call progress, he had small appreciation--this marks his limitations. But his reasons are surely good literature:

They make a great ado nowadays about hard times; but I think that the community generally, ministers and all, take a wrong view of the matter. This general failure, both private and public, is rather occasion for rejoicing, as reminding us whom we have at the helm--that justice is always done. If our merchants did not most of them fail, and the banks too, my faith in the old laws of the world would be staggered. The statement that ninety-six in a hundred doing such business surely break down, is perhaps the sweetest fact that statistics have revealed--exhilarating as the fragrance of the flowers in the Spring. Does it not say somewhere, "The Lord reigneth, let the earth rejoice"? If thousands are thrown out of employment, it suggests that they were not well employed. Why don't they take the hint? It is not enough to be industrious; so are the ants. What are you industrious about?

The merchants and company have long laughed at transcendentalism, higher law, etc., crying, "None of your moonshine," as if they were anch.o.r.ed to something not only definite, but sure and permanent. If there were any inst.i.tution which was presumed to rest on a solid and secure basis, and more than any other, represented this boasted commonsense, prudence, and practical talent, it was the bank; and now these very banks are found to be mere reeds shaken by the wind.

Scarcely one in the land has kept its promise. Not merely the Brook Farm and Fourierite communities, but now the community generally has failed. But there is the moonshine still, serene, beneficent and unchanged.

Th.o.r.eau was no pessimist. He complained neither of men nor of destiny--he felt that he was getting out of life all that was his due.

His remarks might be sharp and his words sarcastic, but in them there was no bitterness. He made life for none more difficult--he added to no one's burdens. Sympathy with Nature, pride, buoyancy, self-sufficiency, were his prevailing traits. The habit of his mind was hopeful.

His wit and good-nature were his to the last, and when asked if he had made his peace with G.o.d, he replied, "I have never quarreled with Him."

He died, aged forty-four, in the modest home of his mother. The village school was dismissed that the scholars might attend the funeral, and three hundred children walked in the procession to Sleepy Hollow.

Emerson made an address at the grave; Alcott read selections from Th.o.r.eau's own writings; and Louisa Alcott read this poem, composed for the occasion:

We sighing said, "Our Pan is dead; His pipe hangs mute beside the river, Around it wistful sunbeams quiver, But Music's airy voice is fled.

Spring mourns as for untimely frost: The bluebird chants a requiem; The willow-blossom waits for him;-- The Genius of the wood is lost."

Then from the flute, untouched by hands, There came a low, harmonious breath: "For such as he there is no death; His life the eternal life commands; Above man's aims his nature rose.

The wisdom of a just content Made one small spot a continent, And turned to poetry life's prose.

"To him no vain regrets belong, Whose soul, that finer instrument, Gave to the world no poor lament, But wood-notes ever sweet and strong.

O lonely friend! he still will be A potent presence, though unseen-- Steadfast, sagacious, and serene; Seek not for him--he is with thee."

SO HERE ENDETH "LITTLE JOURNEYS TO THE HOMES OF GREAT PHILOSOPHERS,"

BEING VOLUME EIGHT OF THE SERIES, AS WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUBBARD; EDITED AND ARRANGED BY FRED BANN; BORDERS AND INITIALS BY ROYCROFT ARTISTS, AND PRODUCED BY THE ROYCROFTERS, AT THEIR SHOPS, WHICH ARE IN EAST AURORA, ERIE COUNTY, NEW YORK, MCMXXII.