Contemporary Notices and Reviews of 
Walden; or, Life in the Woods
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 "Notices of New Publications"
New York Times (22 September 1854): p. 3, col. 4.

The author of this book—Mr. HENRY D. THOREAU—is undoubtedly a man of genius.  It is not possible to open twenty pages without finding plentiful indications of that fact.  Unfortunately, however, he is an erratic genius, thoroughly impracticable, and apt to confuse rather than arrange the order of things, mental and physical.

             Mr. THOREAU, it will be remembered, was one of the earliest contributors to EMERSON'S remarkable transcendental publication, the Dial.  His eccentricities constituted one of the features of that very eccentric journal, and were well suited to it.  Subsequently he published a volume called Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers.  A great deal of observation and quaintness were incorporated in the latter work, and obtained for it some popularity here and in Europe.  Influenced by a peculiar philosophy of his own, Mr. THOREAU abandoned literature in 1845. He was probably disgusted with social life, and thought an experience of its savage phase might be agreeable.  With this idea he "borrowed an axe" and went down to Walden Pond, in the vicinity of Concord, with the intention of building a house and living in it.  The Cabin was constructed, and Mr. THOREAU occupied it for two years.  Why he returned to society after that period he does not inform us.  The present book was written in solitude, and occupied those spare moments when the author was not more profitably engaged in the labors of the field.

             As a contribution to the Comic Literature of America, Walden is worthy of some attention, but in no other respect.  The author evidently imagines himself to be a Philosopher, but he is not.  He talks constantly of "vast cosmogonal themes," but narrows them all down to the nearest line of self.  The mere fact of existence seems to satisfy Mr. THOREAU. He wonders why men aspire to anything higher than the cultivation of a patch of beans, when by that they may live—perhaps grow fat.  Mr. THOREAU has been accused of communistic principles.  This is his idea of communism: "I would rather sit on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion.  I would rather ride on earth, in an ox cart, with a free circulation, than go to Heaven in the fancy car of an excursion train, and breathe a malaria all the way."

             This is one of Mr. THOREAU'S "vast cosmogonal themes": "While civilization has been improving our houses, it has not equally improved the men who are to inhabit them.  It has created palaces, but it was not so easy to create noblemen and kings.  And if the civilized man's pursuits are no worthier than the savage's—if he [has] employed the greater part of his life in obtaining gross necessaries and comforts merely—why should he have a better dwelling than the former?"  In other words, why should he not live like a savage, to save the trouble of living like a Christian?
             Mr. THOREAU denounces everything that indicates progress.  Railroads, telegraphs, steam engines, newspapers, and everything else which the world values, offend him.  There is nothing estimable in his eyes but a log hut and a patch of beans.  On the latter he dwells with infinite delight.  It is one of the few things that does not disgust his philosophical mind.  Ascetics who have a taste for beans will find comfort in this volume.

             Mr. THOREAU is a good writer, possessed of great comic powers, and able to describe accurately many peculiar phases of nature.  But the present work will fail to satisfy any class of readers.  The literary man may be pleased with the style, but he will surely lament the selfish animus of the book.

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