Few American writers have been so rooted in a single place as Henry
David Thoreau. Born in Concord, Massachusetts, sixteen miles west of
Boston, Thoreau spent nearly all his short life, some forty-four years, in
the vicinity of his native town – “the most estimable place in all the
world” he deemed it – with only brief sojourns beyond New England.
Like many of his contemporaries, he did try out the big city, living close
to Manhattan in 1843, an aspiring writer, age twenty-six, with hopes of a
literary career. But he quickly recoiled from the urban scene. “I don't like
the city better, the more I see it, but worse,” he wrote Ralph Waldo
Emerson. “I am ashamed of my eyes that behold it. It is a thousand times
meaner than I could have imagined. … The pigs in the street are the most
respectable part of the population.” Homesick, he was back in Concord
within six months. Only once did he stray outside the United States, for
a week-long excursion to Montreal and Quebec. To this “Yankee in
Canada,” it was a disappointing jaunt. “What I got by going to Canada
was a cold.” Thoreau was simply happiest in his hometown, where he
“traveled a good deal,” exploring the ponds, woods, and fields, observing
and provoking the neighbors, and transforming his chosen ground, in
Walden and in his journals, into a sacred site on the American literary
landscape. Concord, he declared, is “my Rome, and its people … my
Romans.”