SOURCE: Murray, Donald M. “Symbolic Landscape in the Greylock Episode of Thoreau's Week.” American Transcendental Quarterly 1, no. 2 (June 1987): 123‐32.

[In the following essay, Murray offers a Freudian reading of the ascent of Mt. Greylock, claiming that Thoreau was motivated by Oedipal conflicts.]

We are closer than ever before to an understanding of young Thoreau's psychological problems, and we see more clearly than ever before the formal patterns in his book, A Week On the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. Yet certain striking features of the chapter “Tuesday” remain unexplained. There is an arresting quality in the brief portrait of the young woman in a dishabille whom Thoreau meets on the ascent of Mt. Greylock (which he calls Saddle‐back) as there is in the longer portrait of the uncivil man, Rice.¹ It is a quality not fully accounted for by the fact that these people had been part of the outward reality of the experience, like the various fishermen or villagers who pass briefly before our eyes as we float along; one feels that Thoreau had with both some emotional transaction that he does not choose to probe. There is something odd, too, about the fact that the Rice episode is out of its chronological place in the story of the ascent. And, finally, it is strange that Thoreau used the Greylock experience at all; it occurred in 1844, whereas the Week purportedly covers a journey made in 1839, a journey that had in fact included the ascent of a much greater peak, Mt. Washington.

To be sure, the Greylock experience was fresher in his mind, and it did serve to accent the rhythm of ascent and descent, one of the several “binary relationships”² that careful readers have found in the book. Yet these facts do not account for the curious intensity and for the sequence of the portraits. What I would like to do is describe the portraits, explain the position of these portraits in the book and, finally, discuss their psychological symbolism.

The young woman, it will be recalled, is mistress of the last house but one in the ravine up which Thoreau hikes toward the summit. It is an attractive place:

I had thoughts of returning to this house, which was well kept and so nobly placed, the next day, and perhaps remaining a week there, if I could have entertainment. Its mistress was a frank and hospitable young woman, who stood before me in a dishabille, busily and unconcernedly combing her long black hair while she talked, giving her head the necessary toss with each sweep of the comb, with lively, sparkling eyes, and full of interest in that lower world from which I had come, talking all the while as familiarly as if she had known me for years, and reminding me of a cousin of mine. She at first had taken me for a student from Williamstown, for they went by in parties, she said, either riding or walking, almost every pleasant day, and were a pretty wild set of fellows; but they never went by the way I was going.

(Week 182‐183)

Dark and vivacious, combing her hair in the manner of a Lorelei maiden—she is unusual, and perhaps unique, among Thoreau's characterizations of women.³ One remembers the fact that he resisted the blandishments of a talkative girl at a party once (Journal 3:115, Nov. 14, 1851); one recalls the obstructive wife of farmer Hollowell or the slovenly spouse of John Field in Walden; the comic ladies without teeth in the coach on Cape Cod; and the fat squaws in The Maine Woods.

In the other portrait, that of Rice, Thoreau gives us a magnificent grump, a man crudely uncommunicative and defensive, who lives up to a local reputation for impoliteness. The vignette is much longer than that of the mistress of the ravine, not because Rice says more, certainly, but because Thoreau is at such pains to explain away the man's boorishness as “natural wildness”—indeed, the whole ostensible point of the portrait is to illustrate healthy incivility—and to convince us that he could accept Rice for what he was. Like the other characterization it is alive, and it is sometimes charged with feeling:

I remarked that it was a wild and rugged country he inhabited, and worth coming many miles to see. “Not so very rough neither,” said he, and appealed to his men to bear witness to the breadth and smoothness of his fields. …

(Week 205)

There are several such comic exchanges, together with Thoreau's rather overstated assertations that he, Thoreau, could accept Rice in spite of his incivility:

He was, indeed, as rude as a fabled satyr. But I suffered him to pass for what he was,—for why should I quarrel with nature—and was even pleased at the discovery of such a singular natural phenomenon. I dealt with him as if to me all manners were indifferent, and he had a sweet, wild way with him.

(Week 206)

And so on. At length, Thoreau prepares to go to his room, saying that he will be off, in the morning, before anyone else is up. But Rice says that there will be breakfast for the guest,

and as he lighted the lamp I detected a gleam of true hospitality and ancient civility, a beam of pure and even gentle humanity, from his bleared and moist eyes. It was a look more intimate with me, and more explanatory, than any words of his could have been if he had tried to his dying day.

(Week 207)

For a philosophical travel book, the two characterizations have unusual vividness. The other interesting fact about them is that in the text the episodes involving these persons are presented out of the order of their occurrence.

The “Tuesday” chapter begins with a narrative about breaking camp and setting out in the fog. Then Thoreau says he is reminded that once he encountered dense fog when coming down from Mt. Greylock, and he proceeds to tell the story of the ascent of the mountain.

He had walked, he says, over the hills “in serene summer days” and had come over Hoosack Mountain and down into North Adams. There (like a hero procuring talismanic objects before a quest)⁴ he purchased rice and sugar and a tin cup, and started up what is now the Notch Road and then the Bellows Pipe trail. There were farms and houses there then—now only stone walls remain among the trees—and at the last house but one he met a young woman. At the last house of all, a man spoke to him, advising him not to take the difficult route he had chosen (as prophet or sibyl usually gives warning to a hero embarking on a quest). Using his compass, however, Thoreau found his way easily enough. On the summit, with the resourcefulness of an Odysseus, he dug a little well for drinking water, and then spent the night there, protected from the cold only by boards. At dawn he climbed the observation tower⁵ and watched the sunlight come flooding in over the world above the clouds. It was an experience close to ecstasy. On the way down, he encountered the fog—the phenomenon which had served as a reason for introducing the whole Greylock episode.

The account of his climb concluded, Thoreau continues the chapter with the scenes and events of Tuesday on the Merrimack River in 1839, together with some comparatively unremarkable digressions. Some eleven pages later (Week 202), during a discussion of civility, he introduces as illustration the story of his meeting with the uncivil Rice. We are back in 1844.

He begins by saying that “early one summer morning” he had left the Connecticut River valley and had traveled “up the bank of a river, which came in from the west.”⁶ The words “summer morning” recall the “serene summer days” with which he began the narrative of the ascent at the beginning of the chapter; but for no discernible reason he does not identify the river which comes in from the west. It has to be the Deerfield, which joins the Connecticut at the town of Greenfield, and it would seem as appropriate to name it as it was, earlier, to name Hoosack Mountain Saddleback, and the notch called the Bellows.

He describes the valley, however, giving great attention to the beauty of the scene and noting how the mountains seem to close in behind him as he goes through a “romantic and retired valley” (Week 203). In the last valley he reaches that day, he finds the Rice farm, where, he has been told, overnight guests are received, though the host is uncivil. Uncivil he turns out to be with his gruff answers and quirky defensiveness. There are no women in evidence about the place, and the one child Thoreau speaks to is as impolite as Rice himself. Rice does emit one gleam of civility, as shown in the passage quoted above, at the end of the evening. In the morning, Thoreau is off before anyone else is up. Just after leaving the Rice farm, he meets an old man carrying a milk pail, a person whose unresponsiveness is a comic echo of Rice's attitude.

The meeting with the young woman, the ascent, and then—much later—the Rice episode: that is the order of events in the text. The historical order was different, and Thoreau's inner life may have been different from that of the carefree summer hiker that he presents to us in the pages of the Week.

The walking trip in the summer of 1844 took him first to Mt. Monadnock in southwestern New Hampshire, then to Greylock in the western part of Massachusetts. Descending Greylock, he met Channing, who accompanied him to the Catskills in New York State. We do not know exactly why he undertook this three‐part mountain climbing journey, for there is no extant Journal covering the period, and the relevant passages in the Week say little about his state of mind. But the trip may have been self‐therapy at a time of uneasiness. He had concluded the romance with Ellen Sewall several years before; he had lost his brother in 1842; he had endured an unhappy sojourn in Staten Island in 1843; and, of course, he had not yet found a place to settle down and write the book that was within him. Richard Lebeaux, who provides us with the most complete picture to date of the young Thoreau, believes that by this time he had probably lost all conscious yearning for a sexual relationship with a woman, and with regard to selfhood generally, he was impatient to define his identity. “Cut off forever from closeness to his brother, unable and unwilling to become involved in sexual and marital relationships, alienated from the community, uncomfortable with his parents and with Emerson, Thoreau felt a deep need to ‘fortify’ his personal territory” (207).

On the surface, the account in the Week gives no hint of any sexual concerns, to be sure, nor any indication of impatience to define the self. Thoreau presents himself as a hiker traversing a charming river valley, finding time to bathe, pick berries, have a nap at noonday under a maple tree, and notice the picturesque scenery.⁷ In the descriptions of this scenery, though, he may be revealing symbolically some deep‐seated preoccupations that have to do with both sexuality and self‐definition.

One notices his emphasis on romantic valleys and his interest in climbing mountains. One recalls, then, the fact that the earth has always been imaged as the body of Mother Nature. “Men innately regard the land as organic and animate,” says Paul Shepard. They respond “to caves and tunnels as orifices, to ridges as thighs, mountains as breasts … (Man In The Landscape 109). In ancient times, says Erich Neumann, the mountain could stand for and be worshipped as the Great Mother. Mountains were thrones, as well, and a king came to power by mounting the throne (44, 99).

The term “Mother Nature” is conventional. “But with Thoreau”—to quote Raymond Gozzi—“‘Mother Nature’ was more than a simple image having slight psychological implications; with him mother‐nature was in a significant way a substitutive image for his mother, and as such it gave rise to a host of attitudes toward nature that are alien to the ordinary person, who is not so oriented” (232). Thoreau writes in his Journal, for instance: “Then she is my mother earth” (Journal 1:315), and “I milk the sky and the earth” (Journal 5:478). In “Walking,” he regrets that we “are so early weaned from her [Nature's] breast to society,” and Channing said of him: “He loved Nature in the lump. He had the filial feeling, the veneration of a son for his mother.”⁸

Here in the Greylock episode he does not use the term Mother Nature, nor does he refer to ravines as parts of the body of the Mother, but his frequent images of ravine and mountain suggest the archetypal.⁹ And the ravine which opens out into a vista, which he seems to like best, is of particular importance. According to Shepard it is a symbolic image frequently seen in nineteenth‐century American literature and painting.

The geological basis for the image was the cross‐axial water gap, the notch which cuts across our north‐south ranges like the Appalachian Range (of which Thoreau's Berkshires are a part).¹⁰ Such apertures are, typically, deep cuts which look out on wide valleys or plains. Their picturesque charm was glorified in the paintings of Cole and Durand and in the writing of Bryant, Cooper, Irving, and even Poe. They are symbolic, representing clefts in the body of the earth. Entrance is penetration of that body, and reemergence to the outside valley is, one must suppose, rebirth to an enlarged and illuminated view of the world. The traveler through such clefts suddenly finds himself looking out on a spacious and beautiful scene. In “The Domain of Arnheim,” for instance, the visitor floats down a river in a narrowing gorge, between shaggy mountains, and then bursts out into a paradise of sweet sounds and sights in an amphitheatre of purple mountains.

Shepard does not mention Thoreau, and the valleys Thoreau traverses in the Week are not exactly cross‐axial (any more than they are, as a matter of fact, in the “Domain of Arnheim”), but they conform to the physical appearance that Shepard finds typical.

Thus as Thoreau describes the valley where Rice’s farm lay, he thinks of a passage in the Faerie Queene (Book III, which has much to do with sexual impulses) that pictures a secluded glade where Belphoebe takes the wounded squire Timias. It is a shaded valley that opens out to reveal a vista:

And like a stately theatre it made,
Spreading itself into a spatious plaine; …

(III. v. 39. 5‐6; Week 303)

Thus also, as Thoreau walks up the Bellows Pipe, he sees vales where “from glen‐like seclusion” one could overlook “the country at great elevation” (Week 181), and he recalls the similar sloping valleys of Staten Island, where he had sojourned the year before. At the heads of these valleys lay secure and sheltered leafy recesses, from which he could look out “through a widening vista, over miles of forest and stretching salt marsh.”

When walking in the interior there, in the midst of rural scenery, where there was as little to remind me of the ocean as amid the New Hampshire hills, I have suddenly, through a gap, a cleft or “clove road,” as the Dutch settlers called it, caught sight of a ship under full sail, over a field of corn, twenty or thirty miles at sea.

(Week 181‐182)¹¹

Clefts in the earth, and wondrous vistas beyond. The little vales Thoreau sees (or remembers) along the way down the Deerfield valley have this pattern; so does the major action of the ascent of the mountain. He walks up the Bellows Pipe ravine “with a sort of awe … filled with indefinite expectations as to what kind of inhabitants and what kind of nature [he] should come to at last” (Week 181). Then he meets the charming woman, a sort of nymph of the ravine, for whom he feels a definite attraction. After speaking with her, he seems to have reacted the way the speaker did in Wordsworth's “Stepping Westward” after he had been greeted on the shores of Loch Ketterine by a fine lady:

I liked the greeting; ‘twas the sound
Of something without place or bound;
And seemed to give me spiritual right
To travel through that region bright.

He mounts to the summit. There, the next morning, he sees a vista of ethereal beauty. He is in “dazzling halls of Aurora” (Week 189).

The landscape in Thoreau's account of his ascent of Greylock, then, is sexually symbolic, though not as obviously or repulsively so as in Melville's description of the same route in his story “The Tartarus of Maids.”¹² And for both the characterization of the young woman and that of Rice, Thoreau has used settings with sexual symbolism, suggesting that both portraits are in some way reflective of the same aspect of his inner life. What meaning did these people have for Thoreau? An obvious approach to be tested in attempting to answer the question is the Freudian one.

Freudian interpretation of Thoreau is by no means new. The first important work was that of Raymond Gozzi, whose dissertation is so often referred to that one wonders why it was never published. Gozzi theorized that Thoreau suffered from an unresolved oedipus complex and cited biographical facts as well as much symbolic imagery from the writings to support this theory. Thus, there is the fact that as a child Thoreau slept in his parents' bedroom and may well have witnessed their sexual intercourse; this would have exacerbated his hostility toward his father and, subsequently, his guilt feelings about this hostility. Thus, the frequent oral imagery in connection with nature (“I milk the sky and the earth”) could show this continuing unconscious fixation on his mother; and the diatribes against the state, business, and the organized church could show his continued unconscious hostility toward authority, or any father‐figure. At the same time, Thoreau consciously loved his father; there was a crippling ambivalence in his feeling. Thus, at the time of the father's death, when Henry wrote in his Journal about Indians, excusing their barbarism, it was as if to say that the wild man (Thoreau considered his father a violent man, Gozzi believes) had a right to existence.

Gozzi does not mention the Greylock episode but is convinced that to Thoreau nature is “a substitutive image for his mother” (232) and that climbing another mountain, Mt. Katahdin, was to him “like taking possession of mother nature, challenging the father” (237).

Carl Bode, in “The Half‐Hidden Thoreau,” supports Gozzi's “remarkable findings,” and gives additional instances of Thoreau's sexual nature‐imagery and of his ambivalence toward father figures like Emerson. According to Bode, Thoreau probably had severe feelings of guilt after his father was dead and he, Henry, had finally “triumphed” (104).

Richard Lebeaux's recent study of Thoreau is based on the work of Erik Erikson. Lebeaux explains that, unlike Freud, Erikson does not limit himself to the interpretation of childhood experience. Nevertheless, Erikson does build on Freud, Lebeaux says, and like Gozzi and Bode, Lebeaux believes that Thoreau was ambivalent toward his father. Even without considering the Oedipus complex directly.

… it becomes possible to hypothesize that Thoreau was torn between, on the one hand, a desire to be “manly,” independent, free from feminine domestic and village domination, in a position to challenge authority and surpass it, to be in some way “successful,” and on the other hand, the fear and guilt accompanying manliness, ambition, and success, and a need to be nonaggressive and submissive, a need for “failure” which would allay guilt feelings.

(35)

Lebeaux naturally then sees Thoreau as challenging the father figures. What Gozzi failed to see, he says, was that the

pattern of challenging and surpassing the father (and all other male figures) developed early in Thoreau's life and continued into his adolescent and adult years. Often he was put—or put himself—into a situation in which he might challenge or supersede fathers and father‐figures; such situations could have reawakened the guilts and fears associated with the Oedipal project.

(55)

Lebeaux does not happen to comment on the Greylock episode, any more than did Gozzi or Bode, but it seems clear that the interpretations made by these three scholars can be amplified and supported by a Freudian reading of that episode.

In a Freudian reading of the Greylock adventure, Thoreau is the son bent on conquest of the mother, replacement of the father. Climbing the mountain is challenging the father; and Rice, the father‐figure he meets just before the ascent, is naturally gruff to the point of hostility. The son is ambivalent toward this father‐figure: he wants to accept him and even like him, yet he leaves early, not taking advantage of the gruff man's one overture of friendliness. The son then meets yet another father‐figure, the old man with the milk pail, and this time asks for food (Thoreau asked the old man if he had any cheese in his hut) but is rejected. he pushes on and penetrates the steep‐sided head of the valley.¹³ Here he meets a woman, whom he finds charming. Not surprisingly, she has two traits stressed by writers who have described Cynthia Thoreau, Henry's mother: she is dark‐haired (Cynthia was dark‐eyed) and a vivacious talker (Sanborn, Life 20; Canby 16, 19). Henry is attracted but resists an inclination to tarry or to go back to her home. As Lebeaux says, “Success with a woman could be identified with challenging and defeating the father …” (57). Inspired by his meeting with this mother‐figure, however, the son mounts to the summit, where he has an ecstatic experience. “It was such a country as we might see in dreams, with all the delights of paradise” (Week 188). Then, as the clouds rise, there comes a feeling of “unworthiness,” or guilt.

But alas, owing, as I think, to some unworthiness in myself, my private sun did stain himself, and

“Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly wrack on his celestial face,”—

for before the god had reached the zenith the heavenly pavement rose and embraced my wavering virtue, or rather I sank down again into that “foreign world,” from which the celestial Sun had hid his visage. …

(Week 190)

Descent of the mountain brings a depression of spirits like that which occurs after sexual intercourse. Thoreau says he soon found himself “in the region of cloud and drizzling rain” (Week 190).

The Freudian interpretation seems to fit quite neatly, especially if one puts the account of Rice into the story at the point where the event actually occurred—before the meeting with the young woman. Why didn't Thoreau tell it that way?

In writing the Week, he was composing, some time after the events described, in the manner that he was to perfect in the writing of Walden: that is, inserting and arranging within a large framework the mosaic bits previously composed at different times. He even altered some of the bits as he inserted them. As Carl Hovde's study of the manuscripts and the revisions has shown, he altered the portrait of Rice, leaving out the fact that the man had been drinking (“The Writing” 224). This alteration made the incivility natural rather than chemically induced, and perhaps it also allowed more easily for an ambivalent attitude toward Rice. It prevented such simple reactions as pity or disgust. The “bleared and moist eyes” with which Rice at the end of the episode conveys his gleam of hospitality probably belong to the actual toper. The man in the revised portrait, on the other hand, not only represents better the abstract idea of incivility, as Hovde says, but he also has some dignity. He is the sort of man a son could love, or want to love, in spite of his crustiness.

In any case, the Rice episode is not only shifted around, as frequently happened to pieces of usable material in Thoreau's workshop, but it is altered and disguised as well. It is so effectively disguised that even Hovde does not apparently see it as related to the Greylock phase of the hike; he refers to it only as an event that occurred on Thoreau's “trip to the Catskills” (“The Writing” 211). One wonders whether perhaps Thoreau was uncomfortable with the normal order of things, even if unconscious of any reason for the discomfort. He might thus have suppressed certain connections, during the creative process, just as a dreamer alters and disguises emotionally charged images. One wonders, finally, whether Thoreau the son felt guilt at having displaced the father and so removed him altogether from the story of the conquest of the mountain.

We cannot know. Hence, to realize where and how the Rice episode fits into the actual sequence of events does not advance definitively the study of Thoreau's life and art. Yet examination of the displacement of the episode, and of the sexual imagery that relates it to other episodes, does suggest that Thoreau's emotional life in the period between the walking trip and the publication of the Week includes a fair share of sexual disturbance. As to aesthetic matters, on the other hand, it must be said that awareness of the dislocation of Rice does not enhance our conception of the Week as a conscious and careful arrangement of parts. We would have to say instead that concerns other than formal ones dominated in the planning of this chapter. This fact would suggest that similar psychological concerns may have motivated other digressions in the book.

Finally, examination of the Greylock adventure serves to ally Thoreau more closely than before with the fictionists of the Romantic period. It was not only Melville the romancer who pictured the mountain as an archetypal landscape, but also Thoreau the writer of factual “travel books” or non‐fictional “essays.” And, incongruous though it may seem, this ascetic young New Englander with his knapsack full of books, this confirmed young bachelor, followed a route like that taken by Wagner's Knight Tanhäuser in the vales of Thuringia. Both threaded the cleft earth. Tanhäuser found Venus; Thoreau found his charming woman. To both, the female beckoned: Geliebter, komm'!

Notes

1. The woman was probably Rebecca Darling Eddy (b. 1808), the wife of Preserved Eddy (Eddy 224). Foundations of what was probably her house are still observable. The uncivil man, according to Florida, Massachusetts town records, was Erastus Rice (1798‐1856) who died of “long continued intemperance and congestion of the brain.” Richard Bridgman comments on the woman's sensuality (43), and Stephen Adams discusses her mythic significance (3‐4).

2. Discussed by Frederick Gerber (336). Other critics who have seen such patterns are J. J. Boies and Jonathan Bishop.

3. There is of course the description of the gentle maiden (Ellen Sewall) who once sailed in his boat, but it is not graphic and is lacking in vitality (Week 46‐48).

4. Throughout the ascent, Thoreau deftly hints at ironic parallels between his journey and heroic legend. The comparisons are not as strongly mock‐heroic as in the battle of the ants in Walden, but they serve to indicate that the account is more than a record of surface events.

5. The wooden structure Thoreau climbed has since been replaced by a stone memorial tower, but a photograph of the earlier building, constructed in 1841 (not 1844, as the caption says) may be seen in the lodge at the summit.

6. F. B. Sanborn identifies the river as the Deerfield (First and Last Journeys 1: 30‐31). As Carl Hovde says, Thoreau often makes his descriptions less specific in transferring them from journal to book (“Conception of Character” 5‐6). Such practice was, however, by no means consistent in the Week. Thoreau's account of his entire Greylock adventure is reproduced, with illustrations and commentary, in Howarth 54‐80.

7. The tone seems at odds with the facts. I believe Thoreau did hike the distance—some 29 hilly miles—in one day, for he had shown himself capable of such marathon walks on other tours. But it would not have been an idle summer stroll.

8. The quotations from “Walking” and from Channing are in Gozzi (244); original sources are “Walking” 291 and Sanborn's Life 341.

9. Explaining Jung, Neumann writes of the archetype: “But not only does it act as a magnetic field, directing the unconscious behavior of the personality through the pattern of behavior set up by the instincts; it also operates as a pattern of vision in the consciousness, ordering the psychic material with symbolic images” (6).

10. See Shepard, “The Cross Valley Syndrome.”

11. Thoreau saw Katerskill Clove on the latter part of the trip under discussion. See Woodson; also Alf Evers, who discusses cloves at some length, mentioning the derivation from the Dutch kloove and pointing out the similarity of this word to the English cleft, “a gash or cut in the body of mother earth” (227).

12. Richard Chase refers to Mt. Woedolor (of Melville's story “The Tartarus of Maids”) as a “Berkshire Venusberg” (160). Woedolor is Greylock (Saddleback) and Thoreau's “the Bellows” is Melville's “Mad Maid's Bellows Pipe.” For identification of Woedolor as Greylock, see Eby.

13. The U. S. Geological Survey map of the Williamstown quadrangle shows, at this point, the sharply rising sides of a narrow ravine: the ridge to the west is 900 feet higher than the valley floor; that on the east is 313 feet higher.

Works Cited

Adams, Stephen. “Looking for Thoreau's Dark Lady.” Thoreau Society Bulletin 161 (Fall 1982): 3‐4.

Bishop, Jonathan. “The Experience of the Sacred in Thoreau's Week.” English Literary History 33 (1966): 66‐91.

Bode, Carl. “The Half‐hidden Thoreau.” Thoreau In Our Season. Ed. John H. Hicks. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1962. 104‐117.

Boies, J. J. “Circular Imagery in Thoreau's Week.” College English 26 (1965): 350‐355.

Bridgman, Richard. Dark Thoreau. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1982.

Canby, Henry Seidel. Thoreau. Boston: Houghton, 1939.

Chase, Richard. Herman Melville: A Critical Study. New York: Macmillan, 1949.

Eby, E. H. “Herman Melville's ‘Tartarus of Maids.’” Modern Language Quarterly 1 (1940): 95‐100.

Eddy, Ruth Devereux. The Eddy Family In America: A Geneology. Boston: Eddy Family Association, 1930.

Evers, Alf. The Catskills: From Wilderness to Woodstock. New York: Doubleday, 1972.

Gerber, Frederick. “A Space for Saddleback: Thoreau's A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers.” The Centennial Review 4 (Summer 1980): 322‐337.

Gozzi, Raymond. “Tropes and Figures: A Psychological Study of David Henry Thoreau.” Diss. New York University, 1957.

Hovde, Carl F. “The Conception of Character in A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers.” The Thoreau Centennial. Ed. Walter Harding. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1964. 5‐15.

———. “The Writing of Henry D. Thoreau's A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers: A Study in Textual Materials and Techniques.” Diss. Princeton University, 1956.

Howarth, William L. Thoreau In the Mountains. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1982.

Lebeaux, Richard. Young Man Thoreau. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1977.

Neumann, Erich. The Great Mother: An Analysis of the Archetype. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1963.

Sanborn, F. B. The First and Last Journeys of Thoreau. Boston: The Bibliophile Society, 1905.

———. The Life of Henry David Thoreau. Boston: Houghton, 1917.

Shepard, Paul. “The Cross Valley Syndrome.” Environmental Essays On the Planet As a Home. Ed. Paul Shepard and David McKinley. Boston: Houghton, 1971, 87‐94.

———. Man In the Landscape: A Historic View of the Esthetics of Nature. New York: Knopf, 1967.

Thoreau, Henry. The Journal of Henry D. Thoreau. Ed. Bradford Torrey and Francis H. Allen. Boston: Houghton, 1906.

———. “Walking.” Excursions. Boston: Houghton, 1893. 251‐305.

———. A Week On the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. Ed. Carl F. Hovde, William L. Howarth, and Elizabeth Hall Witherall. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980.

Woodson, Thomas. “Thoreau's Excursion to the Berkshires and Catskills.” Emerson Society Quarterly 21 (1975): 82‐92.