it, howsoever driven by it, even to the forsaking of all that makes life dear, howsoever swerveless and indomitable in service thereto, nevertheless the solitary Thinker becomes as an armed host so soon as his conviction is shared by another. "I have gone near to despair. I am growing not to despair, and I thank you for a helping hand." Such is the assurance that this long-hidden letter carried to Thoreau. His still-born book had found one fellow-man who believed it. One can readily imagine Thoreau reading that old letter in the leafy solitude of Walden woods, and the thought of his heart is written upon his sunburnt face: "My book may be a sealed volume to the multitude, 'caviare to the general,' but here is one to whom it is intelligible, speaking audibly to the soul of him. It is
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