WALDEN AND ON THE DUTY OF CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE. Henry David Thoreau

to see his furniture packed in a cart and going up

      country exposed to the light of heaven and the eyes of men, a beggarly

      account of empty boxes? That is Spaulding’s furniture. I could never

      tell from inspecting such a load whether it belonged to a so called

      rich man or a poor one; the owner always seemed poverty-stricken.

      Indeed, the more you have of such things the poorer you are. Each load

      looks as if it contained the contents of a dozen shanties; and if one

      shanty is poor, this is a dozen times as poor. Pray, for what do we

      _move_ ever but to get rid of our furniture, our _exuviæ_; at last to

      go from this world to another newly furnished, and leave this to be

      burned? It is the same as if all these traps were buckled to a man’s

      belt, and he could not move over the rough country where our lines are

      cast without dragging them,—dragging his trap. He was a lucky fox that

      left his tail in the trap. The muskrat will gnaw his third leg off to

      be free. No wonder man has lost his elasticity. How often he is at a

      dead set! “Sir, if I may be so bold, what do you mean by a dead set?”

      If you are a seer, whenever you meet a man you will see all that he

      owns, ay, and much that he pretends to disown, behind him, even to his

      kitchen furniture and all the trumpery which he saves and will not

      burn, and he will appear to be harnessed to it and making what headway

      he can. I think that the man is at a dead set who has got through a

      knot hole or gateway where his sledge load of furniture cannot follow

      him. I cannot but feel compassion when I hear some trig,

      compact-looking man, seemingly free, all girded and ready, speak of his

      “furniture,” as whether it is insured or not. “But what shall I do with

      my furniture?” My gay butterfly is entangled in a spider’s web then.

      Even those who seem for a long while not to have any, if you inquire

      more narrowly you will find have some stored in somebody’s barn. I look

      upon England to-day as an old gentleman who is travelling with a great

      deal of baggage, trumpery which has accumulated from long housekeeping,

      which he has not the courage to burn; great trunk, little trunk,

      bandbox and bundle. Throw away the first three at least. It would

      surpass the powers of a well man nowadays to take up his bed and walk,

      and I should certainly advise a sick one to lay down his bed and run.

      When I have met an immigrant tottering under a bundle which contained

      his all—looking like an enormous wen which had grown out of the nape of

      his neck—I have pitied him, not because that was his all, but because

      he had all _that_ to carry. If I have got to drag my trap, I will take

      care that it be a light one and do not nip me in a vital part. But

      perchance it would be wisest never to put one’s paw into it.

      I would observe, by the way, that it costs me nothing for curtains, for

      I have no gazers to shut out but the sun and moon, and I am willing

      that they should look in. The moon will not sour milk nor taint meat of

      mine, nor will the sun injure my furniture or fade my carpet, and if he

      is sometimes too warm a friend, I find it still better economy to

      retreat behind some curtain which nature has provided, than to add a

      single item to the details of housekeeping. A lady once offered me a

      mat, but as I had no room to spare within the house, nor time to spare

      within or without to shake it, I declined it, preferring to wipe my

      feet on the sod before my door. It is best to avoid the beginnings of

      evil.

      Not long since I was present at the auction of a deacon’s effects, for

      his life had not been ineffectual:—

      “The evil that men do lives after them.”

      As usual, a great proportion was trumpery which had begun to accumulate

      in his father’s day. Among the rest was a dried tapeworm. And now,

      after lying half a century in his garret and other dust holes, these

      things were not burned; instead of a _bonfire_, or purifying

      destruction of them, there was an _auction_, or increasing of them. The

      neighbors eagerly collected to view them, bought them all, and

      carefully transported them to their garrets and dust holes, to lie

      there till their estates are settled, when they will start again. When

      a man dies he kicks the dust.

      The customs of some savage nations might, perchance, be profitably

      imitated by us, for they at least go through the semblance of casting

      their slough annually; they have the idea of the thing, whether they

      have the reality or not. Would it not be well if we were to celebrate

      such a “busk,” or “feast of first fruits,” as Bartram describes to have

      been the custom of the Mucclasse Indians? “When a town celebrates the

      busk,” says he, “having previously provided themselves with new

      clothes, new pots, pans, and other household utensils and furniture,

      they collect all their worn out clothes and other despicable things,

      sweep and cleanse their houses, squares, and the whole town of their

      filth, which with all the remaining grain and other old provisions they

      cast together into one common heap, and consume it with fire. After

      having taken medicine, and fasted for three days, all the fire in the

      town is extinguished. During this fast they abstain from the

      gratification of every appetite and passion whatever. A general amnesty

      is proclaimed; all malefactors may return to their town.—”

      “On the fourth morning, the high priest, by rubbing dry wood together,

      produces new fire in the public square, from whence every habitation in

      the town is supplied with the new and pure flame.”

      They then feast on the new corn and fruits, and dance and sing for

      three days, “and the four following days they receive visits and

      rejoice with their friends from neighboring towns who have in like

      manner purified and prepared themselves.”

      The