He was simple in his habits, and fond of being out of doors, but
not--after his college days--as a sportsman. While living beside the
Concord, he rowed frequently, with a dreamy devotion to the pastime, and
was fond of fishing; swimming, too, he enjoyed. But his chief exercise
was walking; he had a vast capacity for it, and was, I think, never even
seen upon horseback. At Brook Farm he "belabored the rugged furrows"
with a will; and at the Old Manse he presided over his garden in a
paradisiacal sort of way. Books in every form he was always eager for,
sometimes, as has been reported, satisfying himself with an old almanac
or newspaper, over which he would brood as deeply as over richly stored
volumes of classic literature. At other times he was fastidious in his
choice, and threw aside many books before he found the right one for the
hour. [Footnote: He would attach himself to a book or a poem apparently
by some law perceptible only to himself, perhaps often giving an
interest by his own genius. A poem On Solitude, in Dryden's Miscellany,
was at one time a special favorite with him.
It begins:--
"O Solitude, my sweetest choice,
Places devoted to the Night,
Remote from Tumult and from Noise,
How you my restless thoughts delight!"
And the last stanza has these lines:--
"O, how I solitude adore,
That element of noblest wit,
Where I have learned Apollo's lore,
Without the pains to study it."]
An impression has been set afloat that he cared nothing for books in
themselves, but this is incorrect.
Pages:
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335