278 
WALDEN. 
« 
ground famous for the pranks of a demon not distinctly 
named in old mythology, who has acted a prominent 
and astounding part in our New England life, and de¬ 
serves, as much as any mythological character, to have 
his biography written one day; who first comes in the 
guise of a friend or hired man, and then robs and mur¬ 
ders the whole family, — New-England Rum. But his¬ 
tory must not yet tell the tragedies enacted here; let 
time intervene in some measure to assuage and lend 
an azure tint to them. Here the most indistinct and 
dubious tradition says that once a tavern stood; the 
well the same, which tempered the traveller’s beverage 
and refreshed his steed. Here then men saluted one 
another, and heard and told the news, and went their 
ways again. 
Breed’s hut was standing only a dozen years ago, 
though it had long been unoccupied. It was about the 
size of mine. It was set on fire by mischievous boys, 
one Election night, if I do not mistake. I lived on the 
edge of the village then, and had just lost myself over 
Davenant’s Gondibert, that winter that I labored with a 
lethargy,—which, by the way, I never knew whether to 
regard as a family complaint, having an uncle who goes 
to sleep shaving himself, and is obliged to sprout pota¬ 
toes in a cellar Sundays, in order to keep awake and 
keep the Sabbath, or as the consequence of my attempt 
to read Chalmers’ collection of English poetry without 
skipping. It fairly overcame my Nervii. I had just 
sunk my head on this when the bells rung fire, and in 
hot haste the engines rolled that way, led by a strag¬ 
gling troop of men and boys, and I among the foremost, 
for I had leaped the brook. We thought it was far south 
over the woods, — we who had run to fires before, — 
