It is true
that we might do a vast amount of good if we were wealthy, but it is
also highly improbable; not many do; and the art of growing rich is not
only quite distinct from that of doing good, but the practice of the one
does not at all train a man for practising the other. "Money might be of
great service to me," writes Thoreau; "but the difficulty now is that I
do not improve my opportunities, and therefore I am not prepared to have
my opportunities increased." It is a mere illusion that, above a certain
income, the personal desires will be satisfied and leave a wider margin
for the generous impulse. It is as difficult to be generous, or anything
else except perhaps a member of Parliament, on thirty thousand as on
two hundred a year. Now Thoreau's tastes were well defined. He loved to be free, to be
master of his times and seasons, to indulge the mind rather than the
body; he preferred long rambles to rich dinners, his own reflections to
the consideration of society, and an easy, calm, unfettered, active life
among green trees to dull toiling at the counter of a bank. And such
being his inclination he determined to gratify it. A poor man must save
off something; he determined to save off his livelihood. "When a man has
attained those things which are necessary to life," he writes, "there is
another alternative than to obtain the superfluities; _he may adventure
on life now_, his vacation from humbler toil having commenced." Thoreau
would get shelter, some kind of covering for his body, and necessary
daily bread; even these he should get as cheaply as possible; and then,
his vacation from humbler toil having commenced, devote himself to
Oriental philosophers, the study of nature, and the work of
self-improvement. Prudence, which bids us all go to the ant for wisdom and hoard against
the day of sickness, was not a favourite with Thoreau. He preferred that
other, whose name is so much misappropriated: Faith. When he had secured
the necessaries of the moment, he would not reckon up possible accidents
or torment himself with trouble for the future. He had no toleration for
the man "who ventures to live only by the aid of the mutual insurance
company, which has promised to bury him decently." He would trust
himself a little to the world. "We may safely trust a good deal more
than we do," says he. "How much is not done by us! or what if we had
been taken sick?" And then, with a stab of satire, he describes
contemporary mankind in a phrase: "All the day long on the alert, at
night we unwillingly say our prayers and commit ourselves to
uncertainties." It is not likely that the public will be much affected
by Thoreau, when they blink the direct injunctions of the religion they
profess; and yet, whether we will or no, we make the same hazardous
ventures; we back our own health and the honesty of our neighbours for
all that we are worth; and it is chilling to think how many must lose
their wager. In 1845, twenty-eight years old, an age by which the liveliest have
usually declined into some conformity with the world, Thoreau, with a
capital of something less than five pounds and a borrowed axe, walked
forth into the woods by Walden Pond, and began his new experiment in
life. He built himself a dwelling, and returned the axe, he says with
characteristic and workmanlike pride, sharper than when he borrowed it;
he reclaimed a patch, where he cultivated beans, peas, potatoes, and
sweet corn; he had his bread to bake, his farm to dig, and for the
matter of six weeks in the summer he worked at surveying, carpentry, or
some other of his numerous dexterities, for hire. For more than five
years this was all that he required to do for his support, and he had
the winter and most of the summer at his entire disposal. For six weeks
of occupation, a little cooking and a little gentle hygienic gardening,
the man, you may say, had as good as stolen his livelihood. Or we must
rather allow that he had done far better; for the thief himself is
continually and busily occupied; and even one born to inherit a million
will have more calls upon his time than Thoreau. Well might he say,
"What old people tell you you cannot do, you try and find you can." And
how surprising is his conclusion: "I am convinced that _to maintain
oneself on this earth is not a hardship, but a pastime_, if we will live
simply and wisely; _as the pursuits of simpler nations are still the
sports of the more artificial_." When he had enough of that kind of life, he showed the same simplicity
in giving it up as in beginning it. There are some who could have done
the one, but, vanity forbidding, not the other; and that is perhaps the
story of the hermits; but Thoreau made no fetich of his own example, and
did what he wanted squarely. And five years is long enough for an
experiment, and to prove the success of transcendental Yankeeism. It is
not his frugality which is worthy of note; for, to begin with, that was
inborn, and therefore inimitable by others who are differently
constituted; and again, it was no new thing, but has often been equalled
by poor Scotch students at the universities. The point is the sanity of
his view of life, and the insight with which he recognised the position
of money, and thought out for himself the problem of riches and a
livelihood. Apart from his eccentricities, he had perceived, and was
acting on, a truth of universal application. For money enters in two
different characters into the scheme of life. A certain amount, varying
with the number and empire of our desires, is a true necessary to each
one of us in the present order of society; but beyond that amount, money
is a commodity to be bought or not to be bought, a luxury in which we
may either indulge or stint ourselves, like any other. And there are
many luxuries that we may legitimately prefer to it, such as a grateful
conscience, a country life, or the woman of our inclination. Trite,
flat, and obvious as this conclusion may appear, we have only to look
round us in society to see how scantily it has been recognised; and
perhaps even ourselves, after a little reflection, may decide to spend a
trifle less for money, and indulge ourselves a trifle more in the
article of freedom. III

"To have done anything by which you earned money merely," says Thoreau,
"is to be" (have been, he means) "idle and worse." There are two
passages in his letters, both, oddly enough, relating to firewood, which
must be brought together to be rightly understood. So taken, they
contain between them the marrow of all good sense on the subject of work
in its relation to something broader than mere livelihood. Here is the
first: "I suppose I have burned up a good-sized tree to-night--and for
what? I settled with Mr. Tarbell for it the other day; but that wasn't
the final settlement. I got off cheaply from him. At last one will say:
'Let us see, how much wood did you burn, sir?'