It chanced that I walked that way across the fields the following night， about the same hour， and hearing a low moaning at this spot， I drew near in the dark， and discovered the only survivor of the family that I know， the heir of both its virtues and its vices， who alone was interested in this burning， lying on his stomach and looking over the cellar wall at the still smouldering cinders beneath， muttering to himself， as is his wont.  He had been working far off in the river meadows all day， and had improved the first moments that he could call his own to visit the home of his fathers and his youth.  He gazed into the cellar from all sides and points of view by turns， always lying down to it， as if there was some treasure， which he remembered， concealed between the stones，where there was absolutely nothing but a heap of bricks and ashes. The house being gone， he looked at what there was left.  He was soothed by the sympathy which my mere presence， implied， and showed me， as well as the darkness permitted， where the well was covered up； which， thank Heaven， could never be burned； and he groped long about the wall to find the well-sweep which his father had cut and mounted， feeling for the iron hook or staple by which a burden had been fastened to the heavy end ―― all that he could now cling to ――to convince me that it was no common "rider."  I felt it， and still remark it almost daily in my walks， for by it hangs the history of a family.

　　Once more， on the left， where are seen the well and lilac bushes by the wall， in the now open field， lived Nutting and Le Grosse. But to return toward Lincoln.

　　Farther in the woods than any of these， where the road approaches nearest to the pond， Wyman the potter squatted， and furnished his townsmen with earthenware， and left descendants to succeed him.  Neither were they rich in worldly goods， holding the land by sufferance while they lived； and there often the sheriff came in vain to collect the taxes， and "attached a chip，" for form's sake， as I have read in his accounts， there being nothing else that he could lay his hands on.  One day in midsummer， when I was hoeing，a man who was carrying a load of pottery to market stopped his horse against my field and inquired concerning Wyman the younger.  He had long ago bought a potter's wheel of him， and wished to know what had become of him.  I had read of the potter's clay and wheel in Scripture， but it had never occurred to me that the pots we use were not such as had come down unbroken from those days， or grown on trees like gourds somewhere， and I was pleased to hear that so fictile an art was ever practiced in my neighborhood.

　　The last inhabitant of these woods before me was an Irishman，Hugh Quoil （if I have spelt his name with coil enough）， who occupied Wyman's tenement ―― Col. Quoil， he was called.  Rumor said that he had been a soldier at Waterloo.  If he had lived I should have made him fight his battles over again.  His trade here was that of a ditcher.  Napoleon went to St. Helena； Quoil came to Walden Woods. All I know of him is tragic.  He was a man of manners， like one who had seen the world， and was capable of more civil speech than you could well attend to.  He wore a greatcoat in midsummer， being affected with the trembling delirium， and his face was the color of carmine.  He died in the road at the foot of Brister's Hill shortly after I came to the woods， so that I have not remembered him as a neighbor.  Before his house was pulled down， when his comrades avoided it as "an unlucky castle，" I visited it.  There lay his old clothes curled up by use， as if they were himself， upon his raised plank bed.  His pipe lay broken on the hearth， instead of a bowl broken at the fountain.  The last could never have been the symbol of his death， for he confessed to me that， though he had heard of Brister's Spring， he had never seen it； and soiled cards， kings of diamonds， spades， and hearts， were scattered over the floor.  One black chicken which the administrator could not catch， black as night and as silent， not even croaking， awaiting Reynard， still went to roost in the next apartment.  In the rear there was the dim outline of a garden， which had been planted but had never received its first hoeing， owing to those terrible shaking fits， though it was now harvest time.  It was overrun with Roman wormwood and beggar-ticks， which last stuck to my clothes for all fruit.  The skin of a woodchuck was freshly stretched upon the back of the house， a trophy of his last Waterloo； but no warm cap or mittens would he want more.

　　第二天晚上，我湊巧又走過了火燒地，差不多在同樣的時候，那里我聽到了低沉的呻吟聲，我在黑暗中摸索著走近去，發現我認識這個人，他是那家的唯一的子孫；他承繼了這一家人的缺點和優點；也惟有他還關心這火災，現在他撲倒在地窖邊上，從地窖的墻邊望到里面還在冒煙的灰燼，一面喃喃自語，這是他的一個習慣。一整天來，他在遠遠的河邊草地上干活，一有自己可以支配的時間，就立即來到他的祖先的家，他的童年時代就是在這里過的。他輪流從各個方向，各個地點，望著地窖，身子總躺著，好像他還記得有什么寶藏，藏在石塊中間，但什么也沒有，只有磚石和灰燼。屋子已經燒去了，他要看看留下來的部分。僅僅因為我在他的身邊，他就仿佛有了同情者，而得到安慰，他指點給我看一口井，盡可能從黑暗中看到它被蓋沒的地方；他還沿著墻久久地摸索過去，找出了他父親親手制造和架起來的吊水架，叫我摸摸那重的一端吊重物用的鐵鉤或鎖環，――現在他還能夠抓到的只有這一個東西了，――他要我相信這是一個不平凡的架子。我摸了它，后來每次散步到這里總要看看它；因為它上面還鉤著一個家族的歷史。

　　在左邊，在可以看見井和墻邊的丁香花叢的地方，在現在的空地里，曾經住過納丁和勒。格洛斯。可是，讓我們回到林肯去吧。

　　在森林里比上述任何一個地方還要遠些，就在路最最靠近湖的地點，陶器工人魏曼蹲在那里，制出陶器供應鄉鎮人民，還留下了子孫來繼續他的事業。在世俗的事物上，他們也是很貧窮的，活著的時候，勉勉強強地被允許擁有那塊土地：鎮長還常常來征稅，來也是白來，只能“拖走了一些不值錢的東西”，做做形式，因為他實在是身無長物；我從他的報告里發現過上述的活。仲夏的一天，我正在鋤地，有個帶著許多陶器到市場去的人勒住了馬，在我的田畔問我小魏曼的近況。很久以前，他向他買下了一個制陶器用的輪盤，他很希望知道他現在怎么樣。我只在經文之中讀到過制陶器的陶土和轆盤，我卻從未注意過，我們所用的陶器并不是從那時留傳到今天的絲毫無損的古代陶器，或者在哪兒像葫蘆般長在樹上的，我很高興地聽說，這樣一種塑造的藝術，在我們附近，也有人干了。

　　在我眼前的最后一個林中居民是愛爾蘭人休。夸爾（這是說如果我說他的名字舌頭卷得夠的活），他借住在魏曼那兒，――他們叫他夸爾上校。傳說他曾經以士兵的身份參加過滑鐵盧之戰。如果他還活著，我一定要他把戰爭再打一遍。他在這里的營生是挖溝。拿破侖到了圣赫勒拿島，而夸爾來到了瓦爾登森林。凡我所知道的他的事情都是悲劇。他這人風度很好，正是見過世面的人，說起話來比你所能聽得到的還要文雅得多呢。

　　夏天里，他穿了一件大衣，因為他患著震顫性譫妄癥，他的臉是胭脂紅色的。我到森林中之后不久，他就死在勃立斯特山下的路上，所以我沒把他當作鄰居來記憶了。在他的房子被拆以前，他的朋友都認為這是“一座兇險的堡壘”，都是避而不去的，我進去看了看，看到里面他那些舊衣服，都穿皺了，就好像是他本人一樣，放在高高架起的木板床上。火爐上放著他的斷煙斗，而不是在泉水邊打破的碗。所謂泉水，不能作為逝世的象征而言，因為他對我說，雖然他久聞勃立斯特泉水之名，卻沒有去看過；此外，地板上全是骯臟的紙牌，那些方塊。黑桃、紅心的老K等等。有一只黑羽毛的小雞，沒有給行政官長捉去，黑得像黑夜，靜得連咯咯之聲也發不出來的，在等著列那狐吧，它依然棲宿在隔壁房間里。屋后有一個隱約像園子似的輪廓，曾經種過什么，但一次也沒有鋤過，因為他的手抖得厲害，現在不覺已是收獲的時候了。羅馬苦艾和叫化草長滿了，叫化草的小小的果實都貼在我的衣服上。一張土撥鼠皮新近張繃在房屋背后，這是他最后一次滑鐵盧的戰利品，可是現在他不再需要什么溫暖的帽子，或者溫暖的手套了。

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