enemies instead of making us friends. To him who knew the
man from the inside, many of my statements sounded like
inversions made on purpose; and yet when we came to talk of
them together, and he had understood how I was looking at the
man through the books, while he had long since learned to
read the books through the man, I believe he understood the
spirit in which I had been led astray.

On two most important points, Dr. Japp added to my knowledge,
and with the same blow fairly demolished that part of my
criticism. First, if Thoreau were content to dwell by Walden
Pond, it was not merely with designs of self-improvement, but
to serve mankind in the highest sense. Hither came the
fleeing slave; thence was he despatched along the road to
freedom. That shanty in the woods was a station in the great
Underground Railroad; that adroit and philosophic solitary
was an ardent worker, soul and body, in that so much more
than honourable movement, which, if atonement were possible
for nations, should have gone far to wipe away the guilt of
slavery. But in history sin always meets with condign
punishment; the generation passes, the offence remains, and
the innocent must suffer. No underground railroad could
atone for slavery, even as no bills in Parliament can redeem
the ancient wrongs of Ireland. But here at least is a new
light shed on the Walden episode.

Second, it appears, and the point is capital, that Thoreau
was once fairly and manfully in love, and, with perhaps too
much aping of the angel, relinquished the woman to his
brother. Even though the brother were like to die of it, we