In 1855, a year after the successful publication of Walden and six years after the disappointing publication of A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, a part of the first draft of Cape Cod appeared in "Putnam's Monthly Magazine", never to be followed by another until three years after Thoreau's death the whole book, which he had worked on for more than a decade, was issued in 1865. Like the only two books published in Thoreau's life time, Cape Cod deals with place and reveals Thoreau's sheer place sense; unlike them, however, it deals with a place which is not home. To Cape Cod Thoreau was merely a visitor; the waters of the Atlantic Ocean were not homely to him like those of Walden pond or the Concord river. The Waldener, the Man of Concord, so used to exposing his inhabitant's viewpoint and identifying himself as both "the I" and "the eye" of Concord vicinity's nature, could not but approach Cape Cod as a stranger: a stranger though, whose own existential adherence to the inhabitant's viewpoint could not but exceedingly intensify his concern with Cape Cod's inhabitants. If, therefore, Walden and A Week present the one and only viewpoint of "the I, or the first person" (Thoreau 1963:1) of the inhabitant of the place, Cape Cod readily leaves room for many other viewpoints, most of which belonging to the Cape's inhabitants. Thoreau's choice can hardly be explained with plausibility sought after, as - out of moral reasons before all - he would never let the credibility of his accounts be questioned. Rather, Thoreau’s "different eyes" (Thoreau 1985:961) narrative choice in Cape Cod is primarily place-relation based, which makes him stick to a stranger's viewpoint, but also constantly provokes his interest in (and need for) the inhabitant's viewpoint he is so well accustomed to.

"I should not talk so much about myself if there were any body else whom I knew as well. Unfortunately, I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my experience." (Thoreau 1963:1) Thoreau had written that on the very first page of Walden and had made the "narrowness" of his Walden pond experience an utmost advantage and the only possibility for a life "simplified" to art. "I have been accustomed to make excursions to the ponds within ten miles of Concord, but latterly I have extended my excursions to the sea-shore" (Thoreau 1985:851), Thoreau wrote on the very first page of Cape Cod, clearly exposing the spatial extension of his excursions as a change with regard to his previous experience. This change is far from being qualified as good or bad; it is simply pointed at as a fact. In the end of Walden Thoreau had announced his Walden experiment with life completed and had declared he had "several more lives to live" (Thoreau 1963:244). The extended excursions to Cape Cod he was obviously taking as a "life more" - a post-Walden and outside-Concord life with all its novelties and differences. Moreover, Thoreau noted, "I did not see why I might not make a book on Cape Cod, as well as my neighbor on "Human Culture". It is but another name for the same thing..." (Thoreau 1985:851). A writer before all, Thoreau could not but put in words the new experience he was gaining and thus - just as he had always done before - make it truly existent. He had already place-named his spiritual autobiography, thus turning the place name of Walden into a deep and pure symbol of deliberate living. A few years later he would not see why he might not place-name again his new book on his new life experience, but this time - and adequately to the different character of that experience - he would "extend" geography by making the place name denote "human culture".

Cape Cod opens with a Latin motto, which translates as:

Even the very co-existence of the New World place name with a Latin text makes this place name enter the broad and everlasting context of human culture - or better, makes the context of human culture enter and fill in the New World place name. But most importantly, the Latin quote clearly outlines Thoreau's idea of his new book - namely, to observe attentively and to write down his observations in a most thorough and specific way. That this had been done in the ancient times makes his work part of "human culture" and his Cape Cod title "but another name for the same thing". So he would consider "all things, even the smallest", thus making them all equally significant and subdued to no hierarchy of whatsoever kind. Such is the intention declared, which turns out to be the strictly followed principle throughout the book. Thoreau would express no preference with regard to what he sees or hears in Cape Cod; he would only carefully record everything as it comes to him and often comment on it, using his knowledge and readings. His stranger's (visitor's) approach to Cape Cod can therefore be thought of as having very much of a "Homeric" character, as Thoreau would "delineate nature carefully [...] and to the extent possible", i.e. until everything there is to be said about the thing "delineated" is felt to have been exhausted and the author's attention moves to the next thing "on the way", which in its turn will be exhausted, etc., etc... Human culture - and even older than the Latin - definitely breathes in Thoreau's epic approach towards everything and anything that Cape Cod and its inhabitants present him with: his interest remains equally high and his account equally precise and complete. However, besides the Homeric tradition, which he treasured, as shown more than clearly in Walden and the Journal, there is another - and a lot more significant - reason that underlies Thoreau's "epic" thoroughness and "Homeric" unistratous depiction.

The time Thoreau made his first two trips to Cape Cod - October 1849 and June 1850 - was also the time when he began to expand his journal from mainly a record on which to draw for books and lectures into a self-contained composition. Thoreau was to keep his journal as a separate work until the rest of his life and to make it the record of all those moments of his being that he valued. It was mostly the journal - this project of the essentially impossible completeness - that only naturally traced the transition of Thoreau's thinking "from homocentrism to ecocentrism" (Бюъл 1995:121), i.e. the process of Thoreau's increasing (scientific) interest in nature for nature's own sake. Unlike the writing of Walden - Thoreau's successful "conscious endeavor" (Thoreau 1963:67) to achieve artistic wholeness, or completeness, - the writing of Cape Cod kept on going simultaneously with the shifting direction of Thoreau's mental disposition and, along with the journal from 1850 on, was already far beyond any need for conscious endeavors whatsoever. Walden had vaguely hinted at the transition, but had deliberately suppressed it in its harmonious universe. Cape Cod (as well as The Maine Woods later) was already its clear (and deliberate) expression. If, in other words, the journal of the last decade of Thoreau's life was the record of his deepening ecocentric interest in the not-me of nature, Cape Cod was the account of his increasing interest in the otherness of places away from home and their inhabitants. These were different sides of Thoreau's thinking becoming more and more attracted by "the details" (Thoreau 1906:II,406), while never losing its (transcendental) capability of seeing aesthetic wholes. The expanded journal and the extended excursions reflected this tendency of Thoreau's later years. The self-culture Walden was pleading for was already "extended" in Cape Cod to "human culture", i.e. the culture of the others. Thoreau would devote his attention to its Cape Cod "details" completely.

The viewpoint of the stranger was therefore the most adequate one: coming not only naturally as the visitor's viewpoint, but also exposing the author's "latterly" developed interest in otherness along with his sheer sense of his own otherness as a visitor. All this is more than clearly declared in the very first sentence of Cape Cod already: "Wishing to get a better view than I had yet had of the ocean [...] I made a visit to Cape Cod..." (Thoreau 1985:851). The visitor's approach cannot be but first of all visual and therefore Thoreau needs "a better view"; his account however is not going to be simply a description of the immediately seen, but a panoramic one, as specific and complete as possible, so what he needs is "a better view". Cape Cod is based on the three visits Thoreau made to the place, but the book incorporates and deals with a lot more than what had been practically seen during the excursions. Thoreau would exhaust his topic - the place of his three visits - from all kinds of strangers' and inhabitants' perspectives, until his need for completeness of detail is saturated. His own stranger's viewpoint is therefore very rarely that of the mere observer, but is usually "extended" in order to take in itself the viewpoints of others; it never absorbs them, however, but preserves both its own otherness and theirs.

This "facetic" viewpoint demonstrates its potentials from the very start of Thoreau's narrative: beginning with the etymology of the name Cape Cod, it then offers a precise study of the Cape on the map, proceeds with a meticulous and very naturalistically detailed description of the Cohasset shipwreck along with Thoreau's comments on death, talks with the people on the shore, stories heard afterwards, verses considered applicable, data about this "rockiest shore in Massachusetts", and, after giving an account of a later excursion to the Cape, it finally pictures a peaceful and beautiful ocean. What holds this "facetic" approach together is Thoreau's overall presence: there is no story line, no plot to keep it tight, just a widely open stranger's perspective which takes hold of everything it reaches at in Cape Cod and thus makes it part of the Cape Cod narrative. Such a perspective is subject to no limitations and can freely move from description to linguistics and geography, from travel report to poetry, history, philosophy, and science, all the time remaining distanced - i.e. stranger's - regarding the place it is directed to.

Hence Thoreau's emotionally neutral tone. This neutral tone can be even striking at times, especially in his depiction of the dead bodies of the shipwrecked on the shore. Very much like Homer in the Iliad describes in every smallest detail the bloody corpses of the warriors on the battleground, Thoreau "reports" on the view of the drowned: there's no sign of emotion, not to speak of a shock. When, however, the meticulous observer in Thoreau feels his "documenting", memory preserving task completed, his distanced (neutral) perspective transforms into the closer one of the autocommentary: "I saw that corpses might be multiplied, as on the field of battle, till they no longer affect us in any degree [...] It is the individual and private that demands our sympathy." (Thoreau 1985:857) Thoreau has already taken the sight he is a stranger to into the realms of his thinking that he "inhabits": the observer's viewpoint transcends into the thinker's, which cannot be neutral any more - intellectually, at least. The not-me of the picture seen and described becomes part of Thoreau's own intellectual "habitation". The stranger's viewpoint has proved widely open enough to "host" the thinking on - and beyond - the visible. Having thus intellectually "inhabited" his stranger's account of the Cape Cod shipwreck, Thoreau is already provoked to think of the Cape's inhabitants:

As if the very thinking of the Cape's inhabitants' emotions comes to counterbalance the lack of emotions in Thoreau's own description. Moreover, thinking of the inhabitants of the shore makes him think of - and already long for - the places he himself inhabits and knows best. "I saw [...] a handsome but shallow lake..." (Thoreau 1985:861), Thoreau writes, as if having quite unexpectedly - but definitely gladly - seen what the severe sight of the ocean shore could not offer him. And although he proceeds in the emotionally neutral documentary manner, letting the reader know how this lake was formed and how the alewives were dying by thousands there, the very sight and the very mentioning of the handsome lake nearby already provides him with "a better view of the ocean": not any more "grand and sublime, but beautiful as a lake" (Thoreau 1985:861). On the one hand, Thoreau is making here a record of the changed view; but on the other hand, he is as if evoking the change in order to finally make the view of the ocean homely, i.e. peaceful, pretty and familiar. This is where Thoreau's viewpoint starts shifting between that of the stranger and that of the (almost) inhabitant: the "grand and sublime" ocean can only be viewed from a grand distance, but when "beautiful as a lake", it invites a close, even intimate look - the look Thoreau was so well used to. The smooth waters of Walden Pond would always inhabit his vision and be the centripetal force of his thinking - especially in his mature years.

Having thus "smoothed" the ocean view, Thoreau can already move to other and more "undisturbable" sights as they present themselves before his gaze: what follows is "Stage-coach Views". "We were now fairly on the Cape..." (Thoreau 1985:862), Thoreau notes and in his "Homeric"-scientific manner begins to describe all that he sees from the stage, providing all the relevant data that he knows from before or reads from the books he has with him. He quotes "Hitchcock, the geologist of the State", but mostly "the eighth volume of the Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society, printed in 1802". The quotations he uses are many and usually long; their role is that of "objective", i.e. unquestionable scientific pieces of knowledge and they serve to that end ("According to Hitchcock [...] it [the Cape] is composed almost entirely of sand"); quite often however their objectivity becomes questionable, or at least insufficient, because of Thoreau's commentaries. He would not, for instance, take it for granted that the settlement of Sandwich "appears with a more agreeable affect to the eye of the traveller", remarking that "such spots can be beautiful only to the weary traveler [...] and not to him who, with unprejudiced senses, has just come out of the woods" (Thoreau 1985:863). Thoreau has chosen to be a traveller, but would definitely not be any traveller. This indirect reference to himself in Cape Cod as a noninhabitant whose judgments come from his very special, "unprejudiced" inhabitant's experience in the woods, only naturally makes him quote his guidebook on the issue. "The inhabitants, in general, are substantial livers", the book says, immediately provoking an expected Thoreauvian comment - "that is, I suppose, they do not live as philosophers" (Thoreau 1985:863). And although the philosopher's line is no further explicitly dealt with while the stage-coach views change one after another, it implicitly persists as the mainstream of Thoreau's narrative, leading him to more or less elaborate comments on the seen and the read, i.e. to his very own spiritual "inhabitation" of the seen and the read. He can therefore never overlook what an author, pointed as the Rev. John Simpkins, "said of the [Cape Cod] inhabitants, a good while ago", namely that "no persons appear to have a greater relish for the social circle and domestic pleasures. They are not in the habit of frequenting taverns, unless on public occasions." Thoreau's one sentence comment comes as: "This is more than can be said of my townsmen" (Thoreau 1985:869).

Some time ago when experimenting with life in Walden woods, Thoreau had lived away from his hometown, but never actually away from his home and friends; he had chosen to leave behind the "quiet desperation" of his (and any) townsmen, but his formula of simplifying never excluded the company of friends and the attachment to family and home. Now, away from Concord again and a visitor to Cape Cod, Thoreau inevitably tends towards making village to village comparisons, his own sheer sense of belonging calling forth a feeling of closeness for the Cape's inhabitants because of their great "relish for the social circle and domestic pleasures" - a relish he obviously finds not in his fellow Concordians, but definitely has himself. This quote is not only an echo of the emotional warmth Thoreau felt for his home, family and friends throughout his life; neither is this comment simply a piece of local criticism. Both the quote and the comment reach far beyond the visibilities of any local distinctions, implying the philosopher of life in his veneration for home as man's existential center.

It is this same (major) direction of Thoreau's thinking that leads him then to "extend" the stage-coach view of two Italian musicians seeking shelter in Cape Cod to a vision of America as the global best home for (the best of) humankind: "Thus the great civilizer sends out its emissaries, sooner or later, to every sandy cape and light-house of the New World which the census-taker visits, and summons the savage there to surrender." (Thoreau 1985:869) The immediate sight of the European newcomers to Cape Cod easily transforms in Thoreau's thinking into the grand cultural issue of American settlement and then into the philosophical notion of deliberate choice of place to live. (A major reason for Thoreau's opinion of "the savage" as the settler's inferior was that the indigenous man never actually chose where to live. It was the settlers' experience that provided the historical background of Thoreau's life preoccupation with "where I lived and what I lived for" (Walden), i.e. with finding the right place to live.) Thoreau would always "inhabit" what he sees and what he reads, thus always producing a "where" to be (live) and write.

"The important fact is [the phenomenon's] effect on me", Thoreau wrote in his journal of the same years he was working on Cape Cod. And went on:

Although made with regard to the objects of natural science primarily, Thoreau's statement refers in general to his mature understanding of the very essence of what to him was true observation. "Somewhere between me and them" was its true territory, its right place to happen. Thoreau was able to find "the meeting place of the perceiver and the perceived" (Peck 1990:68), H. Daniel Peck rightly concludes when discussing Thoreau's method of repeated description of phenomena in the Journal. Cape Cod was also the result and the expression of repeated observation and description, the work on it gradually finalized after a last, fourth visit to the place in 1857. The book implicitly reflects the same mature Thoreau's tendency of going back and getting "a better view" that the journal of his last decade explicits. What Cape Cod offers is no less than "the subject of my vision" unfolding.

The world of Cape Cod can therefore be thought of as a world seen in (from) the betweenness of me and not-me, which - given the book's predominant place relation orientation - is also the betweenness of the stranger's and the inhabitant's viewpoint. Being a stranger to the Cape and its inhabitants, Thoreau brings to a meeting place his not-me regarding them and their not-me regarding him; his I being indispensable throughout, in return it makes their I just as indispensable. As a result, otherness is recognized and appreciated: "the point of interest" is achieved. As Peter Blakemore keenly notes of the Journal and the late natural history essays, "Thoreau devoted most of his last decade on earth to living, thinking, and writing a life and a place into imaginative existence together" (Blakemore 2000:116). Cape Cod can and should be considered as one more manifestation of this same devotion.

It is therefore that Cape Cod can hardly qualify as a travel book: offering not the expected distanced viewpoint of the stranger visiting, but the closer perspective of the betweenness of me and not-me, it becomes a generic category in its own right. In his mature years Thoreau developed a unique method of local travel that brought to his late works what objective scientific travelogues could not - "a reverence for home" (Blakemore 2000:115), as Peter Blakemore beautifully puts it. In order to "get a better view of the ocean", Thoreau made his four trips to Cape Cod wishing to become less of a stranger and more of an inhabitant there, his in-between position enabling him to see more than any travelling observer and thus to worship yet another part of his home New England.

"Giving the floor" to the Cape's inhabitants is one of Thoreau's ways to bring together perception from within and perception from without, thus creating a balanced space of me/not-me intercourse. "The Wellfleet Oysterman" is a central chapter in Cape Cod especially because of the centrality (the betweenness) of perception that unfolds in it. "The great number of windows in the ends of the houses [...] here and elsewhere on the Cape [...] struck us agreeably, - as if each of the various occupants [...] had punched a hole where his necessities required it..." (Thoreau 1985:904): such is Thoreau's initial observation on the inland of the Cape, i.e. his stranger's impression of the view before him. Thus the specifically visual is immediately brought into focus, the window being both the object seen from the outside and the possibility to see from the inside, or the in-between transparency of outside and inside that provides both-way visibility. The sight of the windows of the Cape's inhabitants somehow naturally leads the visiting strangers that Thoreau and his companion are to have a look from these windows. And so they do: seeing that the inhabitants of a house "look out the window at us" (Thoreau 1985:905), they knock at the door and walk in upon the invitation of the old man who answers it. Their position or viewpoint thus changes, as they actually "walk in" the other side of the window: "Our host took pleasure in telling us the names of the ponds, most of which we could see from his windows..." (Thoreau 1985:910). This is a position (vision) already shared by strangers and inhabitant with no more "glass" barriers between them; moreover, looking from the host's windows becomes in a way equivalent to looking through the inhabitant's eyes. And so Thoreau lets him "talk" - about Concord Fight, indigenous and imported oysters, sea-clams, ponds, flowers, King George, General Washington, garden plants... The old man is either directly given the floor, or an introductory "our host told us" brings in his stories: one way or the other, what he says always provokes interference on Thoreau's part. The stories of the Wellfleet oysterman would go on one after another, but would constantly be "interrupted" by other stories the guest/narrator has heard or read, by pieces of local history and quotations from travel books he provides, by Latin names and verse, by all kinds of additional information that seems to him indispensable. A great number of different viewpoints thus forms the texture of the mainstream narrative; however, they hardly interplay at all. What happens while the old man is talking is that some other viewpoint (a story, a quote, some piece of extra information) would interfere and persist until exhausted, then another one would follow in order to be replaced by yet another one when exhausted, etc., etc. In the meantime "our host" as if stays silent, as if "waiting" for the interventions in his narrative to stop. But these are not actually interventions in "his" narrative; what their persistent presence indicates is not a "broken" narrative, but an overall narrative completely regardless of the conventional flow of time. This is, in fact, not the oysterman's, but Thoreau's own narrative, that can incorporate everything and anything on its way and thus transcend time, i.e. turn it into "window glass" and make all-time (timelessness) "visible". Thoreau's Cape Cod "Homeric drive" towards completed "everythingness" in narration can therefore be thought of as another manifestation of his understanding of time, so beautifully expressed in Walden: "Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in [...] Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains." (Thoreau 1963:73)

"There was a strange mingling of past and present in his conversation..." (Thoreau 1985:912), Thoreau observes of the old oysterman, his own narrative perfectly depicting and adopting this "strange mingling" to the effect of making time irrelevant, fully "transparent". "The evening was not long enough for him [...] who had not yet done his stories" (Thoreau 1985:916), Thoreau goes on commenting on the ways of the Wellfleet oysterman, but also implies the disappearance of a sense of ending, or of time passing, at a certain final point of one's life in general. The old man is said to be "talking a steady stream" (Thoreau 1985:917), as if never intending to stop. "Don't hurry me; I have lived too long to be hurried" (Thoreau 1985:918), he says, his words echoing nothing but a time beyondness. And although his guests "at last cut him short in the midst of his stories", he promises to resume them in the morning (Thoreau 1985:916) and does so in his "steady stream" fashion again. It is mostly expectable then that the oysterman's clock would be "out of order" (Thoreau 1985:918), as nothing seems to be less needed in his house. The last story the old man tells is "about visions, which had reference to a crack in the clock-case made by the frost one night" (Thoreau 1985:918): Thoreau does not report on those visions, but in this one sentence gets together the issues of the visual, the temporal and their transcendence, which his joining the inhabitant of this house/shore has brought into focus.

Upon leaving the Wellfleet oysterman's house Thoreau leaves behind its walls (and windows) the in-between inhabitant's/stranger's viewpoint and assumes his "extended" stranger's perspective again. With the effect of emphasizing the previous closeness, the growing (physical) apartness of inhabitant and stranger is pointed at in a rather drastic way: a day or two after taking to the beach again, Thoreau and his companion hear that Provincetown Bank had been robbed "by two men from the interior", i.e. by strangers to the Cape, "and we learned that our hospitable entertainers did at least transiently harbor the suspicion that we were the men" (Thoreau 1985:919).

The "extension" of perspective in Cape Cod can even acquire transatlantic dimensions and become the (stranger's) European perspective towards the New World: "This light-house, known to mariners as Cape Cod or Highland Light [...] is usually the first seen by those approaching the entrance of Massachusetts Bay from Europe." (Thoreau 1985:954) The European perspective thus introduced, it only naturally brings in one of Thoreau's favorite contrasts - that between the (European) East and the (American) West. And as always with Thoreau, the credit is entirely to the West: "...the Cape is wasting here on both sides, though most on the eastern..." (Thoreau 1985:954); "The sea sends its rapacious east wind to rob the land, but [...] the land sends its honest west wind to recover some of its own." (Thoreau 1985:957); Europeans could not land here in 1606, "yet the savages came off to them in a canoe" (Thoreau 1985:958), etc. As elsewhere when pleading for the cause of the West, Thoreau speaks in Cape Cod as a westerner, i.e. as an inhabitant of the West as America. It is his (unusual) position of a stranger to the Cape however that in Cape Cod tints the (usual) "westward tendency" ("Walking") of his thinking in predominantly stranger/inhabitant terms. "The stranger and the inhabitant view the shore with very different eyes..." (Thoreau 1985:961), Thoreau states in "The Highland Light" chapter; and although this statement has a very specific reference, it is quite applicable to his overall shifting-of-viewpoints place-relation-based narrative. This narrative would never be content with either the stranger's or the inhabitant's viewpoint only, but will always seek at the inexhaustible territory of their me/not-me in-betweenness. Thus, the Highland Light-house keeper is left to "talk" a lot - just like the Wellfleet oysterman before him has been; he is "given the floor", because he is the inhabitant of the light-house and as such can speak from within it. Listening to him makes Thoreau and his companion not more than mere visitors, strangers. This "uncomfortable" position is soon to be quitted, however, and replaced by a position/viewpoint already distanced from the stranger's and closer to an inhabitant's: the Highland Light-house is pointed at as the place "where we were staying" (Thoreau 1985:966), i.e. Thoreau is adopting an almost "inhabitant's" perspective from within it. This perspective can not be and is not the Highland Light-house keeper's; it is already "the subject of my vision" unfolding through the windows of the Highland light-house. This is the perspective that allows Thoreau see the place as "a place of wonders" (Thoreau 1985:971) that turns one into "a sun of Aurora to whom the sun looms, when there are so many millions to whom it glooms rather" (Thoreau 1985:970) and makes "the edge of the bank twenty rods distant appear like a mountain pasture in the horizon" (Thoreau 1985:971). The final lines of "The Highland Light" chapter come as representative for the whole stranger/inhabitant intercourse as displayed in Cape Cod:

In/from his room in the Cape Cod light-house Thoreau has created his own world again; he has incorporated one more world into his universe, or better, has filled one more world with his own. A betweenness of these worlds thus created - the betweenness of the stranger's/inhabitant's me and the stranger's/inhabitant's not-me - the importance of "the phenomenon's effect on me" can not be better exposed. What Cape Cod offers is an "extended excursion" from home to... "home".

Blakemore 2000: P. Blakemore. Reading Home. Thoreau, Literature, and the Phenomenon of Inhabitation (ed. Richard J. Schneider). Thoreau's Sense of Place. Essays in American Environmental Writing. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press.
Buell 1995: L. Buell. The Environmental Imagination: Thoreau, Nature Writing, and the Formation of American Culture. Cambridge, MA-London, UK: Harvard University Press.
Peck 1990: H. D. Peck. Thoreau's Morning Work: Memory and Perception in A Week on Concord and Merrimack Rivers, The Journal, and Walden. New Haven: Yale University Press.
Thoreau 1906: H. D. Thoreau. The Journal of Henry David Thoreau, 14 vols. (eds. Bradford Torrey and Francis H. Allen). Boston: Houghton Mifflin.
Thoreau 1963: H. D. Thoreau. Walden. New York: Washington Square Press.
Thoreau 1985: H. D. Thoreau. Cape Cod. A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, Walden, The Maine Woods, Cape Cod. New York: The Library of America Press, 847-1040.