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the alarm。 Thus we kept on like true idealists； rejecting the
evidence of our senses； until at a turn in the road we heard the
crackling and actually felt the heat of the fire from over the wall；
and realized； alas！ that we were there。 The very nearness of the
fire but cooled our ardor。 At first we thought to throw a frog…pond
on to it； but concluded to let it burn； it was so far gone and so
worthless。 So we stood round our engine； jostled one another；
expressed our sentiments through speaking…trumpets； or in lower tone
referred to the great conflagrations which the world has witnessed；
including Bascom's shop； and； between ourselves； we thought that；
were we there in season with our 〃tub；〃 and a full frog…pond by； we
could turn that threatened last and universal one into another
flood。 We finally retreated without doing any mischief returned
to sleep and 〃Gondibert。〃 But as for 〃Gondibert；〃 I would except
that passage in the preface about wit being the soul's powder
〃but most of mankind are strangers to wit； as Indians are to
powder。〃
It chanced that I walked that way across the fields the
following night； about the same hour； and hearing a low moaning at
this spot； I drew near in the dark； and discovered the only survivor
of the family that I know； the heir of both its virtues and its
vices； who alone was interested in this burning； lying on his
stomach and looking over the cellar wall at the still smouldering
cinders beneath； muttering to himself； as is his wont。 He had been
working far off in the river meadows all day； and had improved the
first moments that he could call his own to visit the home of his
fathers and his youth。 He gazed into the cellar from all sides and
points of view by turns； always lying down to it； as if there was
some treasure； which he remembered； concealed between the stones；
where there was absolutely nothing but a heap of bricks and ashes。
The house being gone； he looked at what there was left。 He was
soothed by the sympathy which my mere presence； implied； and showed
me； as well as the darkness permitted； where the well was covered
up； which； thank Heaven； could never be burned； and he groped long
about the wall to find the well…sweep which his father had cut and
mounted； feeling for the iron hook or staple by which a burden had
been fastened to the heavy end all that he could now cling to
to convince me that it was no common 〃rider。〃 I felt it； and still
remark it almost daily in my walks； for by it hangs the history of a
family。
Once more； on the left； where are seen the well and lilac bushes
by the wall； in the now open field； lived Nutting and Le Grosse。
But to return toward Lincoln。
Farther in the woods than any of these； where the road
approaches nearest to the pond； Wyman the potter squatted； and
furnished his townsmen with earthenware； and left descendants to
succeed him。 Neither were they rich in worldly goods； holding the
land by sufferance while they lived； and there often the sheriff
came in vain to collect the taxes； and 〃attached a chip；〃 for form's
sake； as I have read in his accounts； there being nothing else that
he could lay his hands on。 One day in midsummer； when I was hoeing；
a man who was carrying a load of pottery to market stopped his horse
against my field and inquired concerning Wyman the younger。 He had
long ago bought a potter's wheel of him； and wished to know what had
become of him。 I had read of the potter's clay and wheel in
Scripture； but it had never occurred to me that the pots we use were
not such as had come down unbroken from those days； or grown on
trees like gourds somewhere； and I was pleased to hear that so
fictile an art was ever practiced in my neighborhood。
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