oicing, 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
anchored to something not only definite, but sure and permanent. If
there were any institution 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.

Thoreau 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 God, 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
Thoreau'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 rive