strength and a power to do and
endure. He could outrun, outrow, outwalk any of his townsmen. In him
developed the confidence of the athlete--the confidence of the athlete
who dies young. Thoreau was an athlete, and he died as the athlete
dieth. Irregular diet and continued exposure did their work--the vital
powers became reduced, the man "caught cold," bronchitis followed, and
the tuberculae laughed.

* * * * *

During Thoreau's life he published but two volumes, and these met with
scanty sale. Since his death ten volumes have been issued from his
manuscripts and letters, and his fame has steadily increased.

Boston had no recognition for Thoreau as long as he was alive. Among the
most popular writers of the time, feted and feasted, invited and
exalted, were George S. Hillard, N. P. Willis, Caroline Kirkland, George
W. Green, Parke Godwin and Charles F. Briggs. These writers, who had the
run of the magazines, would have smiled in derision if told that the
name and fame of uncouth Thoreau would outlive them all. They wrote for
the people who bought their books, but Thoreau dedicated his work to
time. He wrote what he thought, but they wrote what they thought other
people thought.

In the publication of "The Dial," Thoreau took a hearty interest, and
was a frequent contributor. The official organ of the
transcendentalists, however, paid no honorariums--it was both sincere
and serious, and died in due time of too much dignity. The "Atlantic
Monthly" accepted one article by Thoreau, and paid for it, but as James
Russell Lowell, the editor, used his blue pencil a trifle, without first
consulting the author, he never got an opportunity to do so again.

Horace Greeley had interested himself in Thoreau's writings and gotten
several articles accepted by Graham's and also Putnam's Magazine. "The
Week" had been published on the author's guaranty that enough copies
would be sold the first year to cover the cost. After four years, of the
edition of one thousand copies only three hundred were disposed of, and
these were mostly given away. To pay the publisher for the expense
incurred, Thoreau buckled down and worked hard at surveying for a year.

The only man he ever knew, of whom he stood a little in awe, was Walt
Whitman. In a letter to Blake he says:

Nineteenth November, Eighteen Hundred Fifty-six.--Alcott has been
here, and last Sunday I went with him to Greeley's farm, thirty-six