I spent many happy moments with the eccentric Henry D. Thoreau before his remarkable works had gained him such a reputation. It was in the Summer of 1850 when I first saw this distinguished Naturalist. I met him accidentally, or rather found myself in his company one day at Provincetown. I was standing on the wharf waiting to take the stage for Truro. The driver, a small consequential sort of man, who had recently come upon the route, was bustling around, stowing away the baggage, and helping in the ladies and babies. Most of the passengers were already seated; I had secured a place on the top; the horses were restive; the driver was about to mount his box and take the reins, when a person stepped from among the bystanders and asked Jehu for a place alongside of him. He was a man of short stature, compactly built, and of florid complexion. His eyes were blue and singularly piercing, while everything about him betokened firmness and strength of character. As he took his seat I saluted him, and so did the other passengers, of whom there were several. I remarked casually upon the weather and the novelty of the scenery. I did not then know that I was speaking to one "whose opinions, conversation, studies, work and course of life," as Mr. Emerson says, "made him a searching judge of men." Had I known this, I should not have entered into conversation; I should have sat still and studied him. But I was young. I knew nothing of Walden Pond or the manner of life he had been leading. Still less did I dream that the stranger before me was then on the Cape gathering the materials for one of the most interesting and instructive works I ever read. I presume he measured me at a glance. But as I did not realize the fact, it made no difference. I kept up a conversation with him, and ere long he charmed and delighted me as he had many men before. A day or two after I found out who this interesting person was. He told me then of his strange experience—his excursions—his insatiable love of nature. We took walks together—we botanized—sometimes around the little hamlet on the Highlands, with its white lighthouse and cottage attached, where the keeper lived, and sometimes miles away. Then we would make a perilous descent down the steep bank and enter the Clay Pounds, or on the beach, above the dashing waves, sit for hours, to gaze on the vast expanse of ocean, and see the ships pass and repass. To these scenes does my mind revert as I again revisit the place....
       While there he did not mingle much with the family except at meals. Most of the time when not on his excursions he spent in his own room. Yet the charm of his conversation was such that his society was highly prized. He always found something to talk about. In his walks around the lighthouse, simple objects, such as others had passed by a hundred times without notice, afforded him opportunisy [sic] to make the most interesting and suggestive remarks.... His conversation was what the inclination of my soul and the want of my heart demanded.
       — Anonymous, "Home Correspondence: Cape Cod—Henry D. Thoreau," New York Tribune, July 24, 1869, p. 5.