f the Crusades.

THE LAST OF THE PURITANS.[1]

I have a word to say of Thoreau, and of an episode which brought his
character into bold relief, and which has fairly earned for him a place
in American history, as well as in our literature.

I do not wish now to give any account of the life of Thoreau. In the
preface to his volume called "Excursions" you will find a biographical
sketch, written by the loving hand of Mr. Emerson, his neighbor and
friend. Neither shall I enter into any justification of Thoreau's
peculiar mode of life, nor shall I describe the famous cabin in the
pine woods by Walden Pond, already becoming the Mecca of the Order of
Saunterers, whose great prophet was Thoreau. His profession of
land-surveyor was one naturally adopted by him; for to him every hill
and forest was a being, each with its own individuality. This
profession kept him in the fields and woods, with the sky over his head
and the mold under his feet. It paid him the money needed for his
daily wants, and he cared for no more.

He seldom went far away from Concord, and, in a half-playful way, he
used to view everything in the world from a Concord standpoint. All
the grandest trees grew there and all the rarest flowers, and nearly
all the phenomena of nature could be observed at Concord.

"Nothing can be hoped of you," he said, "if this bit of mold under your
feet is not sweeter to you than any other in this world--in any world."

Although one of the most acute of observers, Thoreau was never reckoned
among the scientific men of his time. He was never a member of any
Natural History Society, nor of any Academy of Sciences, bodies which,
in a general way, he held in not altogether unmerited contempt. When
men band together for the study of nature, they first draft a long
constitution, with its attendant by-laws, and then proceed to the
election of officers, and, by and by, the study of nature becomes
subordinate to the maintenance of the organization.

In technical scientific work, Thoreau took little pleasure. It is
often pedantic, often bloodless, and often it is a source of
inspiration only to him by whom the work is done. Animals and plants
were interesting to him, not in their structure and genealogical
affinities, but in their relations to his mind. He loved wild things,
not alone for themselves, but for the tonic effect of their savagery
upon him.

"I wish to speak a word for nature," he said, "for absolute