He was a true citizen of the wilderness.  Thoreau would have liked him, as he liked Indians and woodchucks, and the smell of pine forests; and, if Old Phelps had seen Thoreau, he would probably have said to him, “Why on airth, Mr. Thoreau, don’t you live accordin’ to your preachin’?” You might be misled by the shaggy suggestion of Old Phelps’s given name—­Orson—­into the notion that he was a mighty hunter, with the fierce spirit of the Berserkers in his veins.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.  The hirsute and grisly sound of Orson expresses only his entire affinity with the untamed and the natural, an uncouth but gentle passion for the freedom and wildness of the forest.  Orson Phelps has only those unconventional and humorous qualities of the bear which make the animal so beloved in literature; and one does not think of Old Phelps so much as a lover of nature,—­to use the sentimental slang of the period,—­as a part of nature itself.

His appearance at the time when as a “guide” he began to come into public notice fostered this impression,—­a sturdy figure with long body and short legs, clad in a woolen shirt and butternut-colored trousers repaired to the point of picturesqueness, his head surmounted by a limp, light-brown felt hat, frayed away at the top, so that his yellowish hair grew out of it like some nameless fern out of a pot.  His tawny hair was long and tangled, matted now many years past the possibility of being entered by a comb.

His features were small and delicate, and set in the frame of a reddish beard, the razor having mowed away a clearing about the sensitive mouth, which was not seldom wreathed with a childlike and charming smile.  Out of this hirsute environment looked the small gray eyes, set near together; eyes keen to observe, and quick to express change of thought; eyes that made you believe instinct can grow into philosophic judgment.  His feet and hands were of aristocratic smallness, although the latter were not worn away by ablutions; in fact, they assisted his toilet to give you the impression that here was a man who had just come out of the ground, —­a real son of the soil, whose appearance was partially explained by his humorous relation to-soap.  “Soap is a thing,” he said, “that I hain’t no kinder use for.”  His clothes seemed to have been put on him once for all, like the bark of a tree, a long time ago.  The observant stranger was sure to be puzzled by the contrast of this realistic and uncouth exterior with the internal fineness, amounting to refinement and culture, that shone through it all.  What communion had supplied the place of our artificial breeding to this man?