Bill Wheeler had two clumps for feet and progressed slowly, by short steps, having frozen his feet once, as I understood. Him I have been sure to meet once in five years, progressing into the town on his stubs, holding the middle of the road as if he drove an invisible herd before him. Out of what confines, whose hired man having been, I never knew. He seemed to belong to a different caste from other men.
One day since this, not long ago, I saw in my walk a kind of shelter such as woodmen might use, in the woods by the Great Meadows, made of meadow hay cast over a rude frame. Thrusting my head in at a hole, as I am wont to do in such cases, I found Bill Wheeler there curled up asleep on the hay, who, being suddenly wakened from a sound sleep, rubbed his eyes and inquired if I found any game, thinking I was sporting.
I came away reflecting much on that man's life, - how he communicated with none; how now, perchance, he did chores for none; how low he lived, perhaps from a deep principle, that he might be some mighty philosopher, simplifying life, returning to nature, having turned his back on towns; how many things he had put off, - luxuries, comforts, human society, even his feet, - wrestling with his thoughts. I would have liked to know what view he took of life.
A month or two after this, as I heard, he was found dead among the brush over back of the hill, - so far decomposed that his coffin was carried to his body and it was put into it with pitchforks.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 16, 1852
post-script
I have my misgivings still that he may have died a Brahmin's death, dwelling at the roots of trees at last, and been absorbed into the spirit of Brahm; though I have since been assured that he suffered from disappointed love, — was what is called love-cracked, — than which can there be any nobler suffering, any fairer death, for a human creature? — that that made him to drink, froze his feet, and did all the rest for him. Why have not the world the benefit of his long trial ?
I came away reflecting much on that man's life, - how he communicated with none; how now, perchance, he did chores for none; how low he lived, perhaps from a deep principle, that he might be some mighty philosopher, simplifying life, returning to nature, having turned his back on towns; how many things he had put off, - luxuries, comforts, human society, even his feet, - wrestling with his thoughts. I would have liked to know what view he took of life.
A month or two after this, as I heard, he was found dead among the brush over back of the hill, - so far decomposed that his coffin was carried to his body and it was put into it with pitchforks.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 16, 1852
post-script
I have my misgivings still that he may have died a Brahmin's death, dwelling at the roots of trees at last, and been absorbed into the spirit of Brahm; though I have since been assured that he suffered from disappointed love, — was what is called love-cracked, — than which can there be any nobler suffering, any fairer death, for a human creature? — that that made him to drink, froze his feet, and did all the rest for him. Why have not the world the benefit of his long trial ?
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau
"A book, each page written in its own season,
out-of-doors, in its own locality.”
~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2022
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