The last inhabitant of these woods before me was an Irishman,Hugh Quoil (if I have spelt his name with coil enough),who occupied Wyman's tenement,-Col.Quoil,he was called.Rumor said that he had been a soldier at Waterloo.If he had lived I should have made him fight his battles over again.His trade here was that of a ditcher.Napoleon went to St.Helena;Quoil came to Walden Woods.All I know of him is tragic.He was a man of manners,like one who had seen the world,and was capable of more civil speech than you could well attend to.He wore a greatcoat in midsummer,being affected with the trembling delirium,and his face was the color of carmine.He died in the road at the foot of Brister's Hill shortly after I came to the woods,so that I have not remembered him as a neighbor.Before his house was pulled down,when his comrades avoided it as “an unlucky castle,”I visited it.There lay his old clothes curled up by use,as if they were himself,upon his raised plank bed.His pipe lay broken on the hearth,instead of a bowl broken at the fountain.The last could never have been the symbol of his death,for he confessed to me that,though he had heard of Brister's Spring,he had never seen it;and soiled cards,kings of diamonds,spades,and hearts,were scattered over the floor.One black chicken which the administrator could not catch,black as night and as silent,not even croaking,awaiting Reynard,still went to roost in the next apartment.In the rear there was the dim outline of a garden,which had been planted but had never received its first hoeing,owing to those terrible shaking fits,though it was now harvest time.It was overrun with Roman wormwood and beggar-ticks,which last stuck to my clothes for all fruit.The skin of a woodchuck was freshly stretched upon the back of the house,a trophy of his last Waterloo;but no warm cap or mittens would he want more.
Now only a dent in the earth marks the site of these dwellings,with buried cellar stones,and strawberries,raspberries,thimble-berries,hazel-bushes,and sumachs growing in the sunny sward there;some pitch pine or gnarled oak occupies what was the chimney nook,and a sweet-scented black birch,perhaps,waves where the door-stone was.Sometimes the well dent is visible,where once a spring oozed;now dry and tearless grass;or it was covered deep,-not to be discovered till some late day,-with a flat stone under the sod,when the last of the race departed.What a sorrowful act must that be,-the covering up of wells!coincident with the opening of wells of tears.These cellar dents,like deserted fox burrows,old holes,are all that is left where once were the stir and bustle of human life,and “fate,free will,foreknowledge absolute,”in some form and dialect or other were by turns discussed.But all I can learn of their conclusions amounts to just this,that “Cato and Brister pulled wool;”which is about as edifying as the history of more famous schools of philosophy.
Still grows the vivacious lilac a generation after the door and lintel and the sill are gone,unfolding its sweet-scented flowers each spring,to be plucked by the musing traveller;planted and tended once by children's hands,in front-yard plots,-now standing by wall-sides in retired pastures,and giving place to new-rising forests;-the last of that stirp,sole survivor of that family.Little did the dusky children think that the puny slip with its two eyes only,which they stuck in the ground in the shadow of the house and daily watered,would root itself so,and outlive them,and house itself in the rear that shaded it,and grown man's garden and orchard,and tell their story faintly to the lone wanderer a half-century after they had grown up and died,-blossoming as fair,and smelling as sweet,as in that first spring.I mark its still tender,civil,cheerful,lilac colors.
But this small village,germ of something more,why did it fail while Concord keeps its ground?Were there no natural advantages,-no water privileges,forsooth?Ay,the deep Walden Pond and cool Brister's Spring,-privilege to drink long and healthy draughts at these,all unimproved by these men but to dilute their glass.They were universally a thirsty race.Might not the basket,stable-broom,mat-making,corn-parching,linen-spinning,and pottery business have thrived here,making the wilderness to blossom like the rose,and a numerous posterity have inherited the land of their fathers?The sterile soil would at least have been proof against a lowland degeneracy.Alas!how little does the memory of these human inhabitants enhance the beauty of the landscape!Again,perhaps,Nature will try,with me for a first settler,and my house raised last spring to be the oldest in the hamlet.
I am not aware that any man has ever built on the spot which I occupy.Deliver me from a city built on the site of a more ancient city,whose materials are ruins,whose gardens cemeteries.The soil is blanched and accursed there,and before that becomes necessary the earth itself will be destroyed.With such reminiscences I repeopled the woods and lulled myself asleep.
