The deep places in the river are not so obvious as the shallow ones and can only be found by carefully probing it. So perhaps it is with human nature.
Written July 5, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, p. 222
The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation.
Walden, p. 8
As boys are sometimes required to show an excuse for being absent from school, so it seems to me that men should have to show some excuse for being here.
Written January 3, 1861, in his Journal, vol. XIV, p. 307
When I meet gentlemen and ladies, I am reminded of the extent of the inhabitable and uninhabitable globe;
I exclaim to myself, Surfaces! surfaces! If the outside of a man is so variegated and extensive, what must the inside be?
Written March 10, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, p. 31
How sweet it would be to treat men and things, for an hour, for just what they are!
To H.G.O. Blake, April 3, 1850, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 256
Only make something to take the place of something, and men will behave as if it was the very thing they wanted.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 128
The mass of men serve the State thus, not as men mainly, but as machines, with their bodies. They are the standing army, and the militia, jailers, constables, posse comitatus, &c. In most cases there is no free exercise whatever of the judgment or of the moral sense; but they put themselves on a level with wood and earth and stones, and wooden men can perhaps be manufactured that will serve the purpose as well.
“Resistance to Civil Government” in Reform Papers, p. 66
Men have become the tools of their tools.
Written July 16, 1845, in his Journal, vol. 2, p. 162
The mass of men are very easily imposed on. They have their runways in which they always travel, and are sure to fall into any pit or box trap set therein. Whatever a great many grown-up boys are seriously engaged in is considered great and good, and, as such, is sure of the recognition of the churchman and statesman.
Written November 28, 1860, in his Journal, vol. XIV, p. 278
We must not confound man and man. We cannot conceive of a greater difference than between the life of one man and that of another. I am constrained to believe that the mass of men are never so lift ed above themselves that their destiny is seen to be transcendently beautiful and grand.
Written January 13, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 218
The mass of men do not know how to cultivate the fields they traverse. The mass glean only a scanty pittance where the thinker reaps an abundant harvest.
Written May 6, 1858, in his Journal, vol. X, pp. 404–405
Men will pay something to look into a travelling showman’s box but not to look upon the fairest prospects on the earth.
Written May 25, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 235
It would be sweet to deal with men more, I can imagine, but where dwell they? Not in the fields which I traverse.
Written January 4, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 205
The way to compare men is to compare their respective ideals—The actual man is too complex to deal with.
Written winter 1845–1846, in his Journal, vol. 2, p. 222
What troubles men lay up for want of a little energy and precision!
Written September 16, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, p. 329
We slander the hyena; man is the fiercest and cruelest animal.
“Paradise (to be) Regained” in Reform Papers, p. 22
Men think that it is essential that the Nation have commerce, and export ice, and talk through a telegraph, and ride thirty miles an hour, without a doubt, whether they do or not; but whether we should live like baboons or like men, is a little uncertain.
Walden, p. 92
When we want culture more than potatoes, and illumination more than sugar-plums, then the great resources of a world are taxed and drawn out, and the result, or staple production, is, not slaves, nor operatives, but men,—those rare fruits called heroes, saints, poets, philosophers, and redeemers.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 177
There are nine hundred and ninety-nine patrons of virtue to one virtuous man.
“Resistance to Civil Government” in Reform Papers, p. 69
But why should not the New Englander try new adventures, and not lay so much stress on his grain, his potato and grass crop, and his orchards?—raise other crops than these? Why concern ourselves so much about our beans for seed, and not be concerned at all about a new generation of men?
Walden, p. 164
Instead of noblemen, let us have noble villages of men. If it is necessary, omit one bridge over the river, go round a little there, and throw one arch at least over the darker gulf of ignorance which surrounds us.
Walden, p. 110
Every man should stand for a force which is perfectly irresistible. How can any man be weak who dares to be at all? Even the tenders plants force their way up through the hardest earth, and the crevices of rocks; but a man no material power can resist. What a wedge, what a beetle, what a catapult, is an earnest man! What can resist him?
To H.G.O. Blake, May 2, 1848, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, pp. 220–221
An ordinary man will work every day for a year at shovelling dirt to support his body, or a family of bodies, but he is an extraordinary man who will work a whole day in a year for the support of his soul.
To H.G.O Blake, February 27, 1853, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 298
The wood-sawyer, through his effort to do his work well, becomes not merely a better wood-sawyer, but measurably a better man.
To H.G.O. Blake, December 19, 1853, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 311
Only think, for a moment, of a man about his affairs! How we should respect him! How glorious he would appear! Not working for any corporation, its agent, or president, but fulfilling the end of his being! A man about his business would be the cynosure of all eyes.
To H.G.O. Blake, August 8, 1854, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 331
A man cannot be too circumspect in order to keep in the straight road, and be sure that he sees all that he may at any time see, that so he may distinguish his true path.
To H.G.O. Blake, May 2, 1848, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 221
How prompt we are to satisfy the hunger & thirst of our bodies; how slow to satisfy the hunger & thirst of our souls!
To H.G.O. Blake, February 27, 1853, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 298
If a man believes and expects great things of himself, it makes no odds where you put him, or what you show him, (of course, you cannot put him anywhere nor show him anything), he will be surrounded by grandeur.
To H.G.O. Blake, May 20, 1860, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 579
I cannot conceive of persons more strange to me than they actually are; not thinking, not believing, not doing as I do; interrupted by me. My only distinction must be that I am the greatest bore they ever had. Not in a single thought agreed; regularly balking one another. But when I get far away, my thoughts return to them. That is the way I can visit them.
Written November 3, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 282; emended from manuscript Journal (MA 1302, The Morgan Library & Museum, New York)
Shall not a man have his spring as well as the plants?
Written June 9, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 84
The more we know about the ancients the more we find that they were like the moderns.
Written September 2, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 30
Many seem to be so constituted that they can respect only somebody who is dead or something which is distant.
Written November 28, 1860, in his Journal, vol. XIV, p. 277
Everyman proposes fairly and does not willfully take the devil for his guide, as our shadows never fall between us and the sun. Go towards the sun and your shadow will fall behind you.
Written February 8, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 261
I think that the existence of man in nature is the divinest and most startling of all facts. It is a fact which few have realized.
Written May 21, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 229
Why is it that in the lives of men we hear more of the dark wood than of the sunny pasture?
Written October 29, 1857, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 143
In order to avoid delusions I would fain let man go by & behold a universe in which man is but as a grain of sand.
Written April 2, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 419
With all this opportunity, this comedy and tragedy, how near all men come to doing nothing! It is strange that they did not make us more intense and emphatic, that they do not goad us into some action. Generally, with all our desires and restlessness, we are no more likely to embark in any enterprise than a tree is to walk to a more favorable locality.
Written May 29, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 390
The New Englander is a pagan suckled in a creed outworn.
Superstition has always reigned.
It is absurd to think that these farmers dressed in their Sunday clothes proceeding to church differ essentially in this respect from the Roman peasantry. They have merely changed the names & numbers of their gods.
Written June 5, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 6, p. 179
One sensible act will be more memorable than a monument as high as the moon.
Written June 26, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 154
Man has a million eyes & the race knows infinitely more than the individual. Consent to be wise through your race.
Written September 15, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 115
It is for want of a man that there are so many men.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 171
Do what nobody else can do for you. Omit to do anything else.
To H.G.O. Blake, August 9, 1850, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 265
Let him see that he does only what belongs to himself and to the hour.
“Resistance to Civil Government” in Reform Papers, p. 84
A man does best when he is most himself.
Written January 21, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 274
If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.
Walden, p. 326
How many men have you seen that did not belong to any sect, or party, or clique?
Written August 9, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 88
At each step man measures himself against the system.
Written January 31, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 242
We are constantly invited to be what we are.
Written February 3, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 245
Do a little more of that work which you have sometime confessed to be good—which you feel that society & your justest judge rightly demands of you. Do what you reprove yourself for not doing. Know that you are neither satisfied nor dissatisfied with yourself without reason. Let me say to you & to myself in one breath—Cultivate the tree which you have found to bear fruit in your soil.
Written after July 29, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 95
The universe seems bankrupt as soon as we begin to discuss the character of individuals.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 260
To be sure there is no telling what an individual may do, but it is easy to tell what half a dozen men may not do unless they are to a certain extent united as one.
To Ralph Waldo Emerson, May 21, 1848, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 227
If you would learn to speak all tongues and conform to the customs of all nations, if you would travel farther than all travellers, be naturalized in all climes, and cause the Sphinx to dash her head against a stone, even obey the precept of the old philosopher, and Explore thyself.… Start now on that farthest western way, which does not pause at the Mississippi or the Pacific, nor conduct toward a worn-out China or Japan, but leads on direct a tangent to this sphere, summer and winter, day and night, sun down, moon down, and at last earth down too.
Walden, p. 322
FIG. 8. The slug with which Thoreau’s cousin, George Thatcher, killed a moose, as described in “Chesuncook” in The Maine Woods. Thoreau wrote, “My companion keeps it to show to his grandchildren.” Photographer: Jim Cunningham. Courtesy of Nathaniel T. Wheelwright and Jim Cunningham.
These modern ingenious sciences and arts do not affect me as those more venerable arts of hunting and fishing, and even of husbandry in its primitive and simple form; as ancient and honorable trades as the sun and moon and winds pursue, coeval with the faculties of man, and invented when these were invented.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 57
As I ran down the hill toward the reddening west, with the rainbow over my shoulder, and some faint tinkling sounds borne to my ear through the cleansed air, from I know not what quarter, my Good Genius seemed to say,—Go fish and hunt far and wide day by day,—farther and wider,—and rest thee by many brooks and hearth-sides without misgiving.
Walden, p. 207
Perhaps the hunter is the greatest friend of the animals hunted, not excepting the Humane Society.
Walden, p. 211
It is remarkable that many men will go with eagerness to Walden Pond in the winter to fish for pickerel & yet not seem to care for the landscape. Of course it cannot be merely for the pickerel they may catch. There is some adventure in it but any love of nature which they may feel is certainly very slight & indefinite. They call it going a-fishing & so indeed it is, though perchance their natures know better. Now I go a-fishing & a-hunting every day but omit the fish & the game—which are the least important part. I have learned to do without them. They were indispensable only as long as I was a boy.
Written January 26, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 5, pp. 455–456
Such is oftenest the young man’s introduction to the forest, and the most original part of himself. He goes thither at first as a hunter and fisher, until at last, if he has the seeds of a better life in him, he distinguishes his proper objects, as a poet or naturalist it may be, and leaves the gun and fish-pole behind. The mass of men are still and always young in this respect.
Walden, pp. 212–213
As for fowling, during the last years that I carried a gun my excuse was that I was studying ornithology, and sought only new or rare birds. But I confess that I am now inclined to think that there is a finer way of studying ornithology than this. It requires so much closer attention to the habits of the birds, that, if for that reason only, I have been willing to omit the gun.
Walden, pp. 211–212
I like sometimes to take rank hold on life and spend my day more as the animals do.
Perhaps I have owed to this employment and to hunting, when quite young, my closest acquaintance with Nature.
Walden, p. 210
Yet notwithstanding the objection on the score of humanity, I am compelled to doubt if equally valuable sports are ever substituted for these; and when some of my friends have asked me anxiously about their boys, whether they should let them hunt, I have answered, yes,—remembering that it was one of the best parts of my education,—make them hunters, though sportsmen only at first, if possible, mighty hunters at last, so that they shall not find game large enough for them in this or any vegetable wilderness,—hunters as well as fishers of men.
Walden, p. 212
In California and Oregon, if not nearer home, it is common to treat men exactly like deer which are hunted, and I read from time to time in Christian newspapers how many “bucks,” that is, Indian men, their sportsmen have killed.
Written October 21, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, pp. 416–417
But this hunting of the moose merely for the satisfaction of killing him—not even for the sake of his hide, without making any extraordinary exertion or running any risk yourself, is too much like going out by night to some woodside pasture and shooting your neighbor’s horses.
The Maine Woods, p. 119
We cannot but pity the boy who has never fired a gun; he is no more humane, while his education has been sadly neglected. This was my answer with respect to those youths who were bent on this pursuit, trusting that they would soon outgrow it. No humane being, past the thoughtless age of boyhood, will wantonly murder any creature, which holds its life by the same tenure that he does. The hare in its extremity cries like a child.
Walden, p. 212
I hunt with a glass; for a gun gives you but the body while a glass gives you the bird.
Reported by Frederick L. H. Willis in Alcott Memoirs, p. 92
Do you think that I should shoot you if I wanted to study you?
In reply to George Bartlett on being asked if he ever shoots a bird to study it, as recorded in Hector Waylen’s “A Visit to Walden Pond” (Natural Food, July 1895)
Can he who has discovered only some of the values of whalebone and whale oil be said to have discovered the true use of the whale? Can he who slays the elephant for his ivory be said to have “seen the elephant”? These are petty and accidental uses; just as if a stronger race were to kill us in order to make buttons and flageolets of our bones; for everything may serve a lower as well as a higher use. Every creature is better alive than dead, men and moose and pine-trees, and he who understands it aright will rather preserve its life than destroy it.
The Maine Woods, p. 121
There is unquestionably this instinct in me which belongs to the lower orders of creation; yet with every year I am less a fisherman, though without more humanity or even wisdom; at present I am no fisherman at all. But I see that if I were to live in a wilderness I should again be tempted to become a fisher and hunter in earnest.
Walden, p. 214
When one man has reduced a fact of the imagination to be a fact to his understanding, I foresee that all men will at length establish their lives on that basis.
Walden, p. 11
I find that actual events, notwithstanding the singular prominence which we all allow them, are far less real than the creations of my imagination.
To H.G.O. Blake, August 9, 1850, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 265
This world is but canvass to our imaginations. I see men with infinite pains endeavoring to realize to their bodies, what I, with at least equal pains, would realize to my imagination,—its capacities; for certainly there is a life of the mind above the wants of the body and independent of it. Oft en the body is warmed, but the imagination is torpid; the body is fat, but the imagination is lean and shrunk. But what avails all other wealth if this is wanting?
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 292
Sometimes in our prosaic moods, life appears to us but a certain number more of days like those which we have lived, to be cheered not by more friends and friendship, but probably fewer and less. As, perchance, we anticipate the end of this day before it is done, close the shutters, and with a cheerless resignation commence the barren evening whose fruitless end we clearly see, we despondingly think that all of life that is left is only this experience reflected a certain number of times. And so it would be, if it were not for the faculty of imagination.
Written February 13, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 445; emended from manuscript Journal (MA 1302, The Morgan Library & Museum, New York)
Often an inquisitive eye may detect the shores of a primitive lake in the low horizon hills, and no subsequent elevation of the plain has been necessary to conceal their history. But it is easiest, as they who work on the highways know, to find the hollows by the puddles after a shower. The amount of it is, the imagination, give it the least license, dives deeper and soars higher than Nature goes.
Walden, p. 288
Generally speaking, a howling wilderness does not howl: it is the imagination of the traveller that does the howling.
The Maine Woods, p. 219
They are of sick and diseased imaginations who would toll the world’s knell so soon.
“Natural History of Massachusetts,” in Excursions, p. 5
What a faculty must that be which can paint the most barren landscape and humblest life in glorious colors. It is pure & invigorated senses reacting on a sound & strong imagination.
Written August 21, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 3
It is the imagination of poets which puts those brave speeches into the mouths of their heroes.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 379
We should endeavor practically in our lives to correct all the defects which our imagination detects.
To H.G.O. Blake, May 2, 1848, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 220
The excursions of the imagination are so boundless.
Written September 20, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 85
There is this moment proposed to me every kind of life that men lead anywhere or at any time—or that imagination can paint. By another spring I may be a mail carrier in Peru, or a South African planter, or a Siberian exile, or a Greenland whaler, or a settler on the Columbia River—or a Canton merchant, or a soldier in Mexico, or a mackerel fisher off Cape Sable, or a Robinson Crusoe in the Pacific, or a silent navigator of any sea.
“Reform and the Reformers” in Reform Papers, p. 196
I have much to learn of the Indian, nothing of the missionary.
The Maine Woods, p. 181
Myriads of arrow-points lie sleeping in the skin of the revolving earth, while meteors revolve in space. The footprint, the mind-print of the oldest men.
Written March 28, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, p. 92
Time will soon destroy the works of famous painters and sculptors, but the Indian arrowhead will balk his efforts and Eternity will have to come to his aid. They are not fossil bones, but, as it were, fossil thoughts, forever reminding me of the mind that shaped them. I would fain know that I am treading in the tracks of human game,—that I am on the trail of mind,—and those little reminders never fail to set me right.
Written March 28, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, p. 91
We survive in one sense in our posterity and in the continuance of our race—but when a race of men, of Indians for instance, becomes extinct, is not this the end of the world for them? Is not the world forever beginning & coming to an end both to men and races?
Written December 29, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 7, p. 209
The ferry here took us past the Indian island. As we left the shore, I observed a short shabby washerwoman-looking Indian; they commonly have the woe-begone look of the girl that cried for spilt milk—just from “up river,”—land on the Oldtown side near a grocery, and drawing up his canoe, take out a bundle of skins in one hand, and an empty keg or half-barrel in the other, and scramble up the bank with them. This picture will do to put before the Indian’s history, that is, the history of his extinction.
The Maine Woods, p. 6
I think that the farmer displaces the Indian even because he redeems the meadow, and so makes himself stronger and in some respects more natural.
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 206
Here and there still you will find a man with Indian blood in his veins. An eccentric farmer descended from an Indian Chief—Or you will see a solitary pure blooded Indian looking as wild as ever among the pines—one of the last of the Massachusetts tribes stepping into a railroad car with his gun & pappoose.
Still here and there an Indian squaw with her dog—her only companion—lives in some lone house—insulted by school children—making baskets & picking berries her employment.… A lone Indian woman without children—accompanied by her dog—weaving the shroud of her race—performing the last services for her departed race.
Written after July 16, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 93
A squaw came to our door today, with two pappooses, and said—“Me want a pie.” Theirs is not common begging. You are merely the rich Indian who shares his goods with the poor. They merely offer you an opportunity to be generous and hospitable.
Written after October 31, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 130
There is, in fact, a remarkable and unexpected resemblance between the degraded savage and the lowest classes in a great city. The one is no more a child of nature than the other. In the progress of degradation, the distinction of races is soon lost.
The Maine Woods, p. 78
Our Indian said that he was a doctor, and could tell me some medicinal use for every plant I could show him.… According to his account, he had acquired such knowledge in his youth from a wise old Indian with whom he associated, and he lamented that the present generation of Indians “had lost a great deal.”
The Maine Woods, p. 235
The muskrat and the fresh water muscle are very native to our river. The Indian, their human compare, has departed.
Written October 7, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 12
The arrow shot by the Indian is still found occasionally sticking in the trees of our forest.
Written after July 1, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 91
But the Indian is absolutely forgotten but by some persevering poets. By an evident fate the white man has commenced a new era. What do our anniversaries commemorate but white men’s exploits? For Indian deeds there must be an Indian memory—the white man will remember his own only.
Written between 1842 and 1844, in his Journal, vol. 2, pp. 38–39
The French respected the Indians as a separate & independent people and speak of them & contrast themselves with them as the English have never done. They not only went to war with them but they lived at home with them.
Written February 8, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 337
The constitution of the Indian mind appears to be the very opposite of that of the white man. He is acquainted with a different side of nature. He measures his life by winters not summers. His year is not measured by the sun but consists of a certain number of moons, & his moons are measured not by days but by nights. He has taken hold of the dark side of nature—the white man the bright side.
Written October 25, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 385
Indians generally, with whom I have talked, are not able to describe dimensions or distances in our measures with any accuracy. He could tell, perhaps, at what time we should arrive, but not how far it was.
The Maine Woods, p. 131
The charm of the Indian to me is that he stands free and unconstrained in nature—is her inhabitant and not her guest—and wears her easily and gracefully. But the civilized man has the habits of the house. His house is a prison in which he finds himself oppressed and confined, not sheltered and protected. He walks as if he sustained the roof. He carries his arms as if the walls would fall in and crush him and his feet remember the cellar beneath. His muscles are never relaxed.
Written April 26, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 304
There can be no more startling evidence of their being a distinct and comparatively aboriginal race, than to hear this unaltered Indian language, which the white man cannot speak nor understand. We may suspect change and deterioration in almost every other particular, but the language which is so wholly unintelligible to us. It took me by surprise, though I had found so many arrow-heads, and convinced me that the Indian was not the invention of historians and poets. It was a purely wild and primitive American sound.
The Maine Woods, p. 136
When a new country like North America is discovered, a few feeble efforts are made to Christianize the natives before they are all exterminated, but they are not found to pay, in any sense. But then energetic traders of the discovering country organize themselves, or rather inevitably crystallize, with a vast rat-catching society, tempt the natives to become mere vermin-hunters and rum-drinkers, reserving half a continent for the field of their labors. Savage meets savage, and the white man’s only distinction is that he is the chief.
Written April 8, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, p. 124; emended from manuscript Journal (MA 1302, The Morgan Library & Museum, New York)
Our orators might learn much from the Indians. They are remarkable for their precision—nothing is left at loose ends. They address more senses than one so as to preclude misunderstanding.
Written January 1, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 7, p. 221
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.
Walden, p. 75
My companion and I having a minute’s discussion on some point of ancient history, were amused by the attitude which the Indian, who could not tell what we were talking about, assumed. He constituted himself umpire, and, judging by our air and gesture, he very seriously remarked from time to time, “you beat,” or “he beat.”
The Maine Woods, p. 242
Indians like to get along with the least possible communication and ado.
The Maine Woods, p. 272
I had observed that he did not wish to answer the same question more than once, and was oft en silent when it was put again for the sake of certainty, as if he were moody. Not that he was incommunicative, for he frequently commenced a long-winded narrative of his own accord,—repeated at length the tradition of some old battle, or some passage in the recent history of his tribe in which he had acted a prominent part, from time to time drawing a long breath, and resuming the thread of his tale, with the true story-teller’s leisureliness, perhaps after shooting a rapid,—prefacing with “well-by-by,” & c., as he paddled along.
The Maine Woods, p. 289
I have made a short excursion into the new world which the Indian dwells in, or is. He begins where we leave off. It is worth the while to detect new faculties in man,—he is so much the more divine; and anything that fairly excites our admiration expands us. The Indian, who can find his way so wonderfully in the woods, possesses so much intelligence which the white man does not,—and it increases my own capacity, as well as faith, to observe it. I rejoice to find that intelligence flows in other channels than I knew.
To H.G.O. Blake, August 18, 1857, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 491
If we could listen but for an instant to the chaunt of the Indian muse, we should understand why he will not exchange his savageness for civilization.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 56
The Indian does well to continue Indian.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 56
To the thinker, all the institutions of men, as all imperfection, viewed from the point of equanimity, are legitimate subjects of humor.
“Thomas Carlyle and His Works” in Early Essays and Miscellanies, pp. 235–236
In short, as a snow-drift is formed where there is a lull in the wind, so, one would say, where there is a lull of truth, an institution springs up.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 177
One generation abandons the enterprises of another. Many an institution which was thought to be an essential part of the order of society, has, in the true order of events, been left like a stranded vessel on the sand.
“Reform and the Reformers” in Reform Papers, p. 189
The way in which men cling to old institutions after the life has departed out of them & out of themselves reminds me of those monkies which cling by their tails—aye whose tails contract about the limbs—even the dead limbs of the forest and they hang suspended beyond the hunters reach long after they are dead. It is of no use to argue with such men. They have not the apprehensive intellect but merely as it were a prehensile tail.
Written August 19, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 376
In my short experience of human life I have found that the outward obstacles which stood in my way were not living men but dead institutions.
Written after June 20, 1846, in his Journal, vol. 2, p. 262
I love mankind. I hate the institutions of their forefathers.
Written after June 20, 1846, in his Journal, vol. 2, p. 262
The rich man… is always sold to the institution which makes him rich.
“Resistance to Civil Government” in Reform Papers, p. 77
Most with whom you endeavor to talk soon come to a stand against some institution in which they appear to hold stock,—that is, some particular, not universal, way of viewing things. They will continually thrust their own low roof, with its narrow skylight, between you and the sky, when it is the unobstructed heavens you wish to view.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, pp. 167–168
I do not value any view of the universe into which man & the institutions of man enter very largely & absorb much of the attention. Man is but the place where I stand & the prospect (thence) hence is infinite.
Written April 2, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, pp. 419–420
The Reformer who comes recommending any institution or system to the adoption of men, must not rely solely on logic and argument, or on eloquence and oratory for his success, but see that he represents one pretty perfect institution in himself, the centre and circumference of all others, an erect man.
“Reform and the Reformers” in Reform Papers, p. 184
What institutions of man can survive a morning experience?
Written May 24, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 234
Some institutions—most institutions, indeed, have had a divine origin. But of most that we see prevailing in society nothing but the form, the shell, is left—the life is extinct—and there is nothing divine in them.
Written August 19, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, pp. 377–378
It is surprising to what extent the world is ruled by cliques. They who constitute, or at least lead, New England or New York society, in the eyes of the world, are but a clique, a few “men of the age” and of the town, who work best in the harness provided for them. The institutions of almost all kinds are thus of a sectarian or party character. Newspapers, magazines, colleges, and all forms of government and religion express superficial activity of a few, the mass either conforming or not attending.
Written August 9, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 86
How much of the life of certain men goes to sustain—to make respected—the institutions of society.
Written September 6, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 48
The startings and arrivals of the cars are now the epochs in the village day. They go and come with such regularity and precision, and their whistle can be heard so far, that the farmers set their clocks by them, and thus one well conducted institution regulates a whole country.
Walden, pp. 117–118
Some years ago, the State met me in behalf of the church, and commanded me to pay a certain sum toward the support of a clergyman whose preaching my father attended, but never I myself.… I did not see why the schoolmaster should be taxed to support the priest, and not the priest the schoolmaster.… However, at the request of the selectmen, I condescended to make some such statement as this in writing:—“Know all men by these presents, that I, Henry Thoreau, do not wish to be regarded as a member of any incorporated society which I have not joined.”
“Resistance to Civil Government” in Reform Papers, p. 79
How little appreciation of the beauty of the landscape there is among us!
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 217
A man can never say of any landscape that he has exhausted it.
Written April 19, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 54
When the far mountains are invisible the near ones look the higher.
Written after May 12, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 72
Summer and winter our eyes had rested on the dim outline of the mountains in our horizon, to which distance and indistinctness lent a grandeur not their own, so that they served equally to interpret all the allusions of poets and travellers.
“A Walk to Wachusett” in Excursions, p. 29
Many a man when I tell him that I have been on to a mountain asks if I took a glass with me. No doubt, I could have seen further with a glass and particular objects more distinctly—could have counted more meeting-houses; but this has nothing to do with the peculiar beauty and grandeur of the view which an elevated position affords. It was not to see a few particular objects as if they were near at hand as I had been accustomed to see them, that I ascended the mountain, but to see an infinite variety far & near in their relation to each other thus reduced to a single picture.
Written October 20, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 378
We could, at length, realize the place mountains occupy on the land, and how they come into the general scheme of the universe. When first we climb their summits, and observe their lesser irregularities, we do not give credit to the comprehensive intelligence which shaped them; but when afterward we behold their outlines in the horizon, we confess that the hand which moulded their opposite slopes, making one to balance the other, worked round a deep centre, and was privy to the plan of the universe.
“A Walk to Wachusett” in Excursions, p. 42
If I wished to see a mountain or other scenery under the most favorable auspices, I would go to it in foul weather, so as to be there when it cleared up; we are then in the most suitable mood, and nature is most fresh and inspiring. There is no serenity so fair as that which is just established in a tearful eye.
The Maine Woods, p. 175
When once I have learned my place in the sphere I will fill it once for all.
Written February 4, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 246
I doubt if in the landscape there can be anything finer than a distant mountain-range. They are a constant elevating influence.
Written May 17, 1858, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 430
An island always pleases my imagination, even the smallest, as a small continent and integral portion of the globe.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 243
The land seemed to grow fairer as we withdrew from it.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 22
When, formerly, I have analyzed my partiality for some farm which I had contemplated purchasing, I have frequently found that I was attracted solely by a few square rods of impermeable and unfathomable bog—a natural sink in one corner of it. That was the jewel which dazzled me. I derive more of my subsistence from the swamps which surround my native town than from the cultivated gardens in the village.
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 204
Beck Stow’s swamp! What an incredible spot to think of in town or city! When life looks sandy & barren—is reduced to its lowest terms—we have no appetite & it has no flavor—then let me visit such a swamp as this deep & impenetrable where the earth quakes for a rod around you at every step,—with its open water where the swallows skim & twitter—its meadow & cotton grass—its dense patches of dwarf andromeda now brownish green—with clumps of blue-berry bushes—its spruces & its verdurous border of woods imbowering it on every side.
Written July 17, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 226
I enter a swamp as a sacred place—a sanctum sanctorum. There is the strength—the marrow of Nature.
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 205