PS 
 
 3053 
 
 A3 
 
 ait 
 
LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 r> * VTC 
 
One hundred and fifty copies printed, 
 No. 
 
Henry D. Thoreau, age 44. 
 
 From an ambrotype by Dunshee, of New Bedford, Mass., 
 taken in August, 1861. Thoreau died the following spring. 
 
. 
 
 SOME UNPUBLISHED 
 LETTERS OF 
 
 HENRY D. AND SOPHIA E. 
 
 THOREAU 
 
 A CHAPTER IN THE HISTORY 
 OF A STILL-BORN BOOK 
 
 ' ' He noblest lives and noblest dies who makes and keeps 
 his self-made laws." 
 
 The Kasldah of Haji Abdu El-YezdL 
 
 EDITED WITH A PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 BY 
 SAMUEL ARTHUR JONES 
 
 PRINTED ON THE MARION PRESS 
 
 M JAMAICA, QUEENSBOROUGH, NEW-YORK 
 1899 
 
 LIBRA 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFO2IDJ 
 
Copyright, 1898, by 
 SAMUEL ARTHUR JONES. 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 OPP. PAGE 
 
 Henry D. Thoreau, age 44 . Title 
 Home of the Thoreau family . 22 
 Henry D. Thoreau, age 39 . . 37 
 Henry D. Thoreau, age 37 . . 53 
 
 Sophia E. Thoreau 72 
 
 Burial-plot of the Thoreau family 80 
 
 From negatives by 
 
 ALFRED W. HOSMER, 
 
 Concord, Mass. 
 
PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 LEARNING that Thoreau had 
 once a Western correspondent, 
 and knowing that these of his letters 
 had not been published, it occurred 
 to the slightly irascible and some 
 what eccentric ex-professor that it 
 were worth while to make search 
 therefor: possibly that correspondence 
 might be recovered. Thoreau's cor 
 respondent was found without diffi 
 culty, an aged and venerable man, 
 and to the great surprise of the 
 ex-professor the holographs were 
 transferred to his keeping, and are 
 used by the present editor in prepar 
 ing the text of this book. 
 
 vii 
 
Thoreau's letters are in themselves 
 but a trifle, yet they give character 
 istic glimpses of him; those of his 
 sister reveal a phase of his character 
 that is not so widely known as it de 
 serves, and in justice to a dead man 
 should be. 
 
 The story of these simple letters is 
 briefly as follows: George Bipley's 
 review of Walden; or, Life in the 
 Woods, led a distant reader to write 
 to Ticknor and Company for a copy, 
 the chief incitement being the liberal 
 citations from the book itself. Upon 
 receiving the volume it was almost 
 literally devoured; a somewhat pe 
 culiar spiritual experience had pre 
 pared the way for it with that remote 
 reader; he then found it sweet in 
 the mouth, and after forty years it 
 has not proven bitter in the belly. 
 
 viii 
 
Of course the book had "found" its 
 reader, as Coleridge would say of 
 such a divine conjunction, and like 
 the famishing charity boy, that par 
 ticular reader wanted "some more." 
 That earnest man, reading Walden, 
 and one of the few of that day able to 
 read it ' between the lines/ reading 
 and pondering under the burr-oaks in 
 the silence of the forest solitude, 
 
 " felt like some watcher of the skies 
 When a new planet swims into his 
 ken." 
 
 From the title-page of Walden 
 he learned that Thoreau was also the 
 author of another book, A Week on 
 the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. 
 Failing to obtain a copy of this 
 from the publishers of Walden or 
 any other rource then known to him, 
 
 ix 
 
the seeker managed to get Thoreau's 
 address and made application directly 
 to him ; and there the correspondence 
 begins. 
 
 Thoreau and his Western corre 
 spondent never met, though at one 
 point of the hopeless journey to Min 
 nesota in search of health one hour's 
 ride would have brought them to 
 gether; but the doomed pilgrim knew 
 that he must speedily return to put 
 his house in order, for he was not 
 deceived in regard to his bodily con 
 dition. "I think," he wrote to Mr. 
 Ricketson, "that, on the whole, my 
 health is better than when you were 
 here ; but my faith in the doctors has 
 not increased." 
 
 The correspondence with Sophia 
 E. Thoreau arose from a letter of 
 condolence, on the death of her 
 brother, written more than a month 
 
after that event. A subsequent visit 
 to Concord brought the distant Mend 
 and the Thoreau survivors face to 
 face : it was the res angustce domi 
 alone that had prevented such a 
 meeting with Thoreau himself. The 
 visitor from afar was tenderly re 
 ceived by both the mourning mother 
 and sister and Thoreau's friends Al- 
 cott and Channing. Before returning, 
 the pilgrim was requested by both 
 Mrs. Thoreau and Sophia to select 
 from the library of his departed friend 
 some books for keepsakes. Thus it 
 came that both the ex-professor and 
 the present editor saw and touched 
 the very copy of Lempriere's Clas 
 sical Dictionary that had been Tho- 
 reau's when he was an undergraduate 
 in Harvard College, the first fly 
 leaf bearing the autograph: "D. H. 
 Thoreau." This is written in ink, 
 
 xi 
 
while on the succeeding leaf is the 
 pencilled inscription, "Mr. . . . from 
 S. E. Thoreau." The book selected 
 as a memento for the visitor's wife is 
 an American edition of The Specta 
 tor, two volumes in one, Philadel 
 phia, 1832. On the title-page is an 
 autograph, in a fine clerkly hand: 
 " J. Thoreau." It is the signature of 
 Thoreau's father, a man, according to 
 one biographer, "who led a plodding, 
 unambitious and respectable life in 
 Concord village." It is not men 
 tioned whether he 'kept a gig'; but 
 commend us always to the 'plodder' 
 who, from his scanty means, provides 
 his family book-shelf with a substan 
 tially bound and well printed copy of 
 the Spectator. One can readily be 
 lieve that such a man was respected, 
 gigless though he be ; but few would 
 have the hardihood to declare that a 
 
 xii 
 
father who furnishes the Spectator 
 for his children's reading is 'unambi 
 tious.' Perhaps the highest ambition 
 lies in a wise forecast that is not for 
 one's self; 
 
 "But Brutus says he was (un) am 
 bitious ; 
 And Brutus is an honorable man." 
 
 The sterling native worth of Tho- 
 reau's Western correspondent was 
 quickly discerned by not only Tho- 
 reau's mother and sister: Thoreau's 
 friends recognized and honored it. 
 The transparent-souled Alcott was 
 moved to the highest issues of friend 
 ship, as sundry inscribed presentation 
 copies of the writings of that belated 
 Platonist amply testify; and William 
 Ellery Channing, the "man of genius, 
 and of the moods that sometimes make 
 
 3 xiii 
 
genius an unhappy boon," was thawed 
 into human warmth, as specially in 
 scribed copies of his books perhaps 
 the most elusive " first (and only that) 
 editions" that ever mocked the book- 
 hunter's desire amply show, on 
 those precious shelves, where the ex- 
 professor and the present editor saw 
 them for the first and only time. One 
 who has been allowed access to those 
 richly laden shelves may be allowed, 
 without violating the sanctity of hos 
 pitality, to bear witness to the sim 
 plicity, sincerity, and serenity invest 
 ing the eventide of a true life with 
 that ineffable splendor which has in 
 it the soul's strongest assurance of a 
 dayspring beyond the mists of Life's 
 mirage. 
 
 The Froude letter and that which 
 authenticates it are not considered 
 irrelevant. The English historian's 
 
 xiv 
 
letter to the Concord " loafer" is in 
 troduced to show that although his 
 first book was 'despised and rejected' 
 of men, Thoreau had the assurances 
 that are always vouchsafed to the sol 
 itary thinker, and these from sources 
 so diverse as Oxford University, just 
 ly proud of the achievements of its 
 scholars, and the primeval oak forest 
 of a remote young State, a raw set 
 tlement, as it had been called only 
 fifty years before.* It is not whence 
 the apprehension, the agreement, the 
 assent; it is who agrees, assents, and 
 by the cordial handgrasp conveys 
 
 * "At Ypsilanti I picked up an Ann Arbor 
 newspaper. It was badly printed, but its con 
 tents were good; and it could happen nowhere 
 out of America that so raw a settlement as 
 that at Ann Arbor, where there is difficulty in 
 procuring decent accommodations, should have 
 a newspaper." 
 
 Harriet Martineau. Society in America, 
 xv 
 
to the solitary scholar, whose medi 
 tations have disturbed Mammon's 
 market-place, the calm, unfaltering 
 courage that is ever a marvel to the 
 multitude, which quietly 'bears the 
 fardels' of unthinking servitude. 
 
 The difference between the fibre 
 of a Froude and a Thoreau will be 
 quickly distinguished by those who 
 have read the exculpatory preface 
 especially w r ritten for the second edi 
 tion of Froude's Nemesis of Faith. 
 Froude faced the angry storm of in 
 censed detraction with the courage of 
 a well-equipped scholar and the dig 
 nity of a true gentleman; neverthe 
 less he had made an ' explanation': 
 not the whole world could have 
 moved Thoreau's lips to anything 
 other than a smile of infinite commis 
 eration; he would not have foregone 
 a single furlong of his accustomed 
 
 xvi 
 
'walk'; he might indeed have whis 
 pered to his own heart, 
 
 " Time cannot bend the line which 
 Truth hath writ." 
 
 The present editor has assured 
 himself that Froude's presentation 
 copy of his self-sacrificing Nemesis 
 of Faith is to this day in Emerson's 
 library at the old home, but he has 
 not been able to learn that Froude 
 also sent a copy to Thoreau; so it 
 is a safe inference that Thoreau read 
 Emerson's. A phrase in Froude's 
 letter to Thoreau shows conclusively 
 that Thoreau had learned of Froude 
 from Emerson and that Thoreau had 
 read Froude's ill-starred Nemesis 
 the "wild protest against all au 
 thority, Divine and human," as that 
 gentlest of Quakeresses, Caroline Fox, 
 
 xvii 
 
terms it. Froude writes this phrase 
 within inverted commas: "not on ac 
 count of his [Emerson's] word, but 
 because I myself have read and 
 know you." This can refer only to 
 a complimentary copy of A Week 
 on the Concord and Merrimack Riv 
 ers that had been previously sent to 
 Froude either by Thoreau or their 
 mutual friend Emerson. Thoreau 
 himself has recorded that of his 
 still-born book some ' seventy-five 
 copies were given away.' 
 
 Froude's Nemesis of Faith could 
 transmit no seismic tremors to the 
 man who would have nothing be 
 tween him and Heaven not even a 
 rafter. The blue dome with its in 
 scrutable mystery: nothing must ob 
 struct the soul's view of that! The 
 chapter in Thoreau's Week en 
 titled "Sunday" could readily cany 
 
 xviii 
 
to Froude the assurance that possibly 
 he, too, had 
 
 "Builded better than he knew," 
 
 that very possibly the angry Angli 
 can hierarchy had merely mistaken 
 a Church colic for a universal cata 
 clysm. 
 
 These two recalcitrants never 
 touched hands, albeit the ' steam 
 bridges' were both commodious and 
 convenient Their perigeum occurred 
 during Froude's much later visit to 
 Emerson, and it was in Sleepy Hol 
 low burying-ground ; but that peri 
 helion was sadly incomplete : six feet 
 of graveyard mould and death, the 
 mystery of mysteries, intervened. 
 For both of them now, no more of 
 that mystery. Oh, the boon of 'cross 
 ing the bar'! 
 
 xix 
 
A word in regard to the unusual 
 manner in which the Letters are pre 
 sented to the reader. One with 
 whom, of all men living, the present 
 editor is best acquainted (an effete 
 ex-professor, gouty, grouty, and gray- 
 headed) made these Letters the sub 
 ject of a lecture delivered in aid of a 
 Women's Gymnasium ("More pow 
 er to their elbows ! " said the ex-pro 
 fessor) located it is not necessary 
 to specify where. The text as written 
 for that occasion has been followed : a 
 convenience which all editors will 
 fully appreciate. At the risk of 
 marring the symmetry of the printed 
 page the labor-saving editor will 
 take the liberty of superposing such 
 patches of his own plain homespun 
 upon the ex-professor's tapestry as 
 occasion seems to demand (though 
 he may be tempted of the devil to 
 
 XX 
 
take undue advantage of so rare an 
 opportunity ) . Being himself ' ' as mild 
 a mannered man as ever cut a throat," 
 he owes it to himself to gently but 
 plainly deprecate the ex-professor's 
 lapses into the sarcastic. Both the 
 editor and Herr Teufelsdrockh be 
 lieve that sarcasm is the Devil's 
 patois. As that is perilous stuff, he '11 
 have none of it; the ex-professor 
 must stand for his own petard: a 
 proposition which he will be the last 
 man to reject. 
 
 The typewritten text of the ex- 
 professor's lecture is disfigured with 
 pen-and-ink interlineations, and this 
 is something so unusual that one who 
 knows him so well as doth the editor 
 could not resist the very natural curi 
 osity which led to the asking for an 
 explanation. This, as it fell from the 
 ex-professor's lips, is too characteristic 
 
 4 xxi 
 
of him to be withheld; so it shall be 
 shared with the reader though this 
 complaisance involves the editor in 
 not a little personal peril. 
 
 Be it known then, first of all, that 
 the ex-professor himself takes Tho- 
 reau very seriously ; does not by any 
 possible interpretation consider him 
 a " glittering generality," but rather 
 a "blazing ubiquity" wherever and 
 whenever the blunt, plain truth is 
 needful which time and place he 
 also believes is always and every 
 where. Perhaps an excerpt from the 
 ex-professor's lecture on "Thoreau" 
 will best serve to show his attitude. 
 (This lecture, it may be as well to 
 add, was written for and delivered 
 in a nameless territory where 'suc 
 cess' is a matter of the bank-book 
 rather than of that old-fashioned He 
 brew Book.) 
 
 xxii 
 
"I am chiefly desirous of enforcing 
 one consideration regarding this man 
 Thoreau, namely: that the brief epi 
 sode in his life by which he is com 
 monly known the shanty life at 
 Walden Pond was not the vagary 
 of an enthusiast. Reared in a family 
 to every member of which 'life was 
 something more than a parade of pre 
 tensions, a conflict of ambition or an 
 incessant scramble for the common 
 objects of desire/ Thoreau never lost 
 sight of the high ideal which inspired 
 that humble household. 
 
 "While yet an undergraduate he 
 believed that the mere beauty of this 
 world transcended far all the con 
 venience to which luxury would de 
 base it. He then thought 'the order 
 of things should be somewhat re 
 versed; the seventh should be man's 
 day of toil,, wherein to earn his living 
 
 xxiii 
 
by the sweat of his brow, and the 
 other six his Sabbath of the affections 
 and the soul, in which to range this 
 widespread garden, and drink in the 
 soft influences and sublime revelations 
 of Nature.' 
 
 "With darkened eyes Milton 
 dreamed of Paradise Lost; with an 
 unfaltering trust in the beneficence of 
 God Thoreau went forth in the broad 
 daylight to find it. Who shall say of 
 him that he failed of his quest; who 
 shall declare to the struggling millions 
 of Earth's toilers that Paradise is, in 
 deed, irretrievably lost! 
 
 "Once before there came to the 
 race a man wearing a garment of 
 camel's hair, eating locusts and wild 
 honey, and bearing a Message: per 
 haps this, too, is the veiled purpose 
 of him who abode in that much-de 
 rided shanty at Walden Pond. 
 
 xxiv 
 
"Do we not hear the sounds as of 
 satanic revelry coming from high 
 places in the land; is not every 
 hreeze burdened with the muttered 
 curses of ill-requited labor toiling for 
 the task-masters until the sweat of 
 the brow is that of a Gethsemane 
 which is only the Devil's? 
 
 "The message-bringer to the nine 
 teenth century said: Simplify your 
 lives! It is indeed a simple message, 
 but it is fraught with terrible mean 
 ing for us all. If the foundations of 
 this republic are to remain unshaken 
 in the stress of the struggle that is 
 even now looming darkly before us, 
 it is the application, by all, of Tho- 
 reau's teachings that will avert or 
 mitigate the disaster; if the end is 
 to be only ravined ruin, then will his 
 memory live in Literature as our 
 everlasting reproach." 
 
 XXV 
 
Verily our ex-professor doth take 
 Thoreau seriously; but there are 
 other matters that he takes as seri 
 ously, namely, the misconceptions of 
 Thoreau by all and sundry inepti 
 tudes; and on such occasions the ex- 
 professor certainly forgets the ameni 
 ties but righteous wrath hath also 
 its own peculiar Amen! Having said 
 this much, it is due the reader that 
 he should be allowed to get a glimpse 
 of the ex-professor in a ' spate/ Here 
 is an instance from the same lecture : 
 
 "Now let us return to the shanty 
 at Walden Pond wherein Thoreau 
 dwelt alone for some two and a half 
 years, supporting himself solely by 
 his own labor and living so 'close to 
 the bone.' Lowell has written that 
 Thoreau went there in the self-asser 
 tive mood of a hermit whose seclusion 
 is a declaration of his non-dependence 
 
 xx vi 
 
upon civilization. 'His shanty life 
 was a mere impossibility, so far as 
 his own conception of it goes, as an 
 entire independency of mankind. The 
 tub of Diogenes has a sounder bot 
 tom. Thoreau's experiment actually 
 presupposed all that complicated civil 
 ization which it theoretically abjured. 
 He squatted upon another man's land; 
 he borrows an axe; his boards, his 
 nails, his bricks, his mortar, his books, 
 his lamp, his fish-hooks, his plough, 
 his hoe, all turn state's evidence 
 against him as an accomplice in the 
 sin of that artificial civilization which 
 rendered it possible that such a per 
 son as Henry D. Thoreau should ex 
 ist at all.' I question whether in all 
 the history of criticism a blinder mis 
 conception can be found." 
 
 [Just here the ex-professor was 
 
 XXVll 
 
evidently heated. He took the cus 
 tomary sip of water with which the 
 professional lecturer prepares his 
 learned larynx for its next innings. 
 Having returned the handkerchief to 
 the left hand coat-tail pocket, the 
 ex-professor resumed.] 
 
 "In the two royal-octavo volumes 
 edited by Professor Norton, Letters 
 of James Russell Lowell, there is a 
 photogravure showing the poet sit 
 ting on the ground, by the bole of an 
 ancient elm. His hat is off, his hair 
 is parted in the middle (and this was 
 fifty years ago!), his head is thrown 
 forward so as to put his face in the 
 most favorable position for pictorial 
 effect; his whole attitude is of studied 
 ease, and the hand nearest the spec 
 tator is kid-gloved! Oh, the signi 
 ficance of that picture! Posing under 
 
 xxviii 
 
an elm in whose branches the robins 
 had built their nests long before the 
 Norsemen's prow had grated upon 
 the sands of the New England coast; 
 the small birds singing around the 
 petted poet, the fragrance of summer 
 filling the air, the scented breeze toy 
 ing with his curled locks, and he car 
 rying into that sanctuary the kid 
 glove of 'Society 7 ! Is this the man 
 to comprehend the aim and purpose 
 of Thoreau, this leather and pru 
 nella combination of 'civilization' and 
 6 culture ' ! 
 
 "Yes; I am aware that I am 
 speaking of a dead man, of a man 
 whose pig weighed more than he 
 thought it would, if one may judge 
 from the tone of his own early let 
 ters; of one whose living tongue 
 tasted the seducing sweetness of 
 earthly fame; but there is another 
 
 5 xxix 
 
dead man, one who was called away 
 'in the midst of his broken task, 
 which none else can finish,' and him 
 the kid-gloved favorite of fame and 
 fashion has flouted. There is a time 
 for all things; a time for the sweet 
 charity of silence, a time also for as 
 serting the grandeur of simple and 
 sincere manhood : brown-handed man 
 hood that never saluted Nature with 
 a kid glove. De mortuis nil nisi 
 bonum? Yes; I'll stand by that 
 sentiment; but it can also be read, 
 De mortuis nil nisi verum : it is well 
 also to stand by that! 
 
 "It was Thoreau's purpose at Wai- 
 den Pond to find out just how much 
 of Lowell's confessedly ' complicated 
 civilization' was absolutely necessary 
 in order that Man's sojourn in Nature 
 might be as sane and serene as be 
 came an immortal soul. Did he not 
 
plainly write, 'I went to the woods 
 because I wished to live deliberately, 
 to front only the essential facts of life 
 [kid gloves not being found in that 
 inventory], and see if I could not 
 learn what it had to teach, and not, 
 when I came to die, discover that I 
 had not lived. I did not wish to live 
 what was not life, living is so dear; 
 nor did I wish to practice resigna 
 tion, unless it was quite necessary. I 
 wanted to live deep and suck all the 
 marrow out of life, to live so sturdily 
 and Spartan-like as to put to rout all 
 that was not life, to cut a broad 
 swath and shave close, to drive life 
 into a corner, and reduce it to its 
 lowest terms, and, if it proved to be 
 mean, why then to get the whole and 
 genuine meanness of it, and publish 
 its meanness to the world; or if it 
 were sublime, to know it by experi- 
 
 xxxi 
 
ence, and be able to give a true ac 
 count of it in my next excursion/ 
 
 "In my next excursion that jour 
 ney made with closed eyes and folded 
 hands; hands not kid-gloved; bare 
 hands to lay hold on the realities be 
 yond this Vanity Fair that we in our 
 ignorance call 'Life.' 
 
 "Of a truth, Lowell, a clergyman's 
 son, could not read the simple chart 
 by which the son of the Concord 
 pencil-maker shaped his course amidst 
 the sunken rocks of Conventionality." 
 
 But the ex-professor's foibles are 
 making us forget the pen-and-ink in 
 terlineations that are yet awaiting 
 their explanations. 
 
 "I did not imagine," said the ex- 
 professor on the morning after his 
 lecture on the Letters, "that any but 
 
 xxxn 
 
sensible people would sit an hour to 
 hear an old fellow talk about Tho- 
 reau; but, sir, on going to the ap 
 pointed place, I found myself, and 
 most unexpectedly, facing a parlour 
 full of frills and fine linen. An ex 
 ceedingly well-dressed young man sat 
 down at the piano, and he was im 
 mediately joined by another even 
 more extraordinarily arrayed. One 
 played and the other warbled some 
 thing in a tongue unknown to the 
 builders of Babel, 1 11 warrant. I 
 have never in all my life felt so 
 much out of place since the only 
 woman to whom I ever proposed 
 laughed outright in my face. But 
 there was no escape ; I was fairly in 
 for it, and I did some curious think 
 ing whilst that nice young man was 
 warbling. The music ceased, and there 
 was a small storm of kid-gloved hand- 
 
 xxxiii 
 
clapping. That disconcerted me still 
 more; for there was my audience 
 applauding some artistic noise which 
 I felt in my very bones they did not 
 understand. I had to make peace 
 with myself before I could begin 
 with my exposition of the Thoreau 
 letters ; so I just told them right out 
 what I had been thinking of whilst 
 they were listening to that incompre 
 hensible singing. I told them I had 
 been thinking of the rude homeliness 
 of that shanty at Walden Pond, and 
 that my peculiar environment just 
 then nearly paralyzed me, and only 
 that I had the courage of my convic 
 tions, I could not read the Thoreau 
 letters then and there. Just then a 
 distinguished-looking gentleman, with 
 the greatest expanse of shirt-front I 
 had ever seen during all my earthly 
 career, adjusted an English monocle 
 
 XXXIV 
 
to his right eye and politely stared at 
 me. Worse than all, it had not en 
 tered my mind that I should have 
 bought a pair of kid gloves for the 
 occasion. 
 
 "It is astonishing how much 'pun 
 ishment 7 well-bred people will take 
 fully as smilingly as do all the 
 'fancy'; but I held them down, sir, 
 for a full hour of torment; and cer 
 tainly some things got into the talk 
 that were not in the text. The next 
 day a friend, whose wife was present, 
 told me that when she was putting 
 on her cloak, behind a screen in the 
 robing room, she heard one ultra- 
 fashionable lady say to another of the 
 same species: "Well, I never was 
 bored so in all my life!" Then I 
 knew that I had scored a success. 
 Suppose I had talked down to the 
 level of hei: comprehension!" 
 
 XXXV 
 
The ex-professor thereupon filled 
 his pipe; the present editor found 
 himself filled with reflections of 
 which there is no need to make 
 farther mention. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
SOME UNPUBLISHED LET 
 TERS OF HENRY D. AND 
 SOPHIA E. THOREAU. 
 

SOME UNPUBLISHED LET 
 TERS OP HENRY D. AND 
 SOPHIA E. THOREAU. 
 
 THE FBOUDE EPISODE. 
 
 HOW strangely human lives are 
 interlinked: the chain of in 
 fluences beginning and ending how 
 little we know where and when. 
 At the first reading of Emerson's 
 Each and All, who is not startled 
 by the lines 
 
 Nor knowest thou what argument 
 Thy life to thy neighbor's creed hath 
 lent. 
 
 Is not that enquiry a 'flash-light' for 
 the soul? 
 
 3 
 
Into these mysterious relations and 
 influences Time and Space enter not. 
 Far remote is the little monastery at 
 Zwolle, and five centuries have passed 
 since the meekest of pietists put aside 
 his pen, but if there is in this world 
 to-day a spiritual influence of potent 
 puissance it is Thomas of Kempen's 
 Imitatio Christi. The serene monk 
 has vanished, and only Omniscience 
 knoweth what argument his secluded 
 life hath lent to the variant creeds of 
 millions, who are now his 'neighbors' 
 in that Civitas Dei the son of Monica 
 has made known to us. 
 
 Say you, All that was so long 
 ago! Well, would it lose anything 
 of its mysteriousness if it were 
 of this downright to-day? That 
 which we call " to-day" also hath 
 its mysteries, and not the least 
 of them is this interlinking of our 
 4 
 
lives through and by these occult 
 influences. 
 
 Here we are gathered to-night, 
 some five hundred and twenty years 
 after the birth of Thomas a Kempis, 
 avowing his influence upon our lives. 
 He that was Thomas a Kempis had 
 lain in his grave twenty-one years 
 before the prow of the Pinta was 
 pointed towards the New World, yet 
 here are we upon a beautiful pe 
 ninsula "Peninsulam amoenam " 
 therein, and actually indebted to a 
 lady now in Italy, and whom it is 
 little likely that any one of us hath 
 ever met, indebted, I say, to this 
 remote stranger for the privilege of 
 reading a letter written fifty years 
 ago, never yet published, and having 
 an interesting bearing upon the mat 
 ter that you have come together to 
 hear about. 
 
" 145 Via Rasella, Rome, 
 Dec'r 17, 1897. 
 
 " Really, there is not much to tell 
 about the Froude letter. Miss Sophia 
 Thoreau sent for me, a few weeks 
 before her death, to give me some 
 last instructions and to ask my assis 
 tance in distributing personal things; 
 and at the same time she gave me 
 several letters for myself, among 
 them this, knowing that I would 
 value them as autographs. 
 
 "My impression is that she feared 
 people would think it too flattering, 
 and for that or some other reason she 
 did not at that time care to have it 
 published. 
 
 "She gave me other letters and 
 
 manuscripts, requesting me to place 
 
 them with my own hands in one of 
 
 the trunks deposited in the Concord 
 
 6 
 
Town Library, which were to be 
 passed on to Mr. Blake (I think that 
 was his name); I mean Thoreau's 
 literary executor. Had she wished 
 this letter to be published she would 
 undoubtedly have placed it with the 
 manuscripts which I was to put in 
 one of the boxes from which Mr. 
 Blake was to select material for pub 
 lication. 
 
 "I once showed it to Mr. Emer 
 son, who thought Mr. Blake should 
 see it at once; but as it was given 
 to me and not to him, and as I felt 
 certain Miss Thoreau did not wish it 
 published at that time, I did not act 
 upon this advice. 
 
 "I have often wondered why she 
 did not put it with the papers which 
 were to be placed in the box of man 
 uscripts. Her action was no doubt 
 intentional, as we read the letter over 
 
 7 
 
together about three weeks before 
 her death : at the same time, I think 
 there can be no harm in publishing 
 it now." 
 
 So far as pertains to our purpose 
 to-night I might go on at once to 
 the Froude letter, but in so doing I 
 should shirk a duty to the dead, for 
 the discharging of which I am sure 
 you will allow me a few moments. 
 
 If you should open a certain Life 
 of Thoreau you could read therein, 
 "Mrs. Thoreau, with her sister Lou 
 isa, and her sisters-in-law, Sarah, 
 Maria, and Jane Thoreau, took their 
 share in the village bickerings"; and 
 also that Mrs. Thoreau indulged in 
 " sharp and sudden flashes of gossip 
 and malice " : this and much else that 
 is derogatory. Now Mrs. Thoreau 
 died in 1873, and yet, in 1897, and 
 
 8 
 
so casually, the lady whose letter I 
 am reading thus testifies to the high 
 quality of the women of the Thoreau 
 family: 
 
 "The women of the Thoreau fam 
 ily seem to me quite as remarkable 
 as the men; and people who knew 
 John Thoreau considered him even 
 cleverer and more promising than 
 Henry and greatly lamented his un 
 timely death. Certainly both Helen, 
 whom I never knew, and Sophia, 
 whom I knew well, were exception 
 ally clever women. Sophia was ex 
 tremely witty, a brilliant conversa 
 tionalist, and her love of nature made 
 her the most delightful of companions 
 for a ramble through the woods and 
 meadows. 
 
 " 'Aunt Maria' was, at the time I 
 knew her, -a sweet, gentle old lady 
 
 6 9 
 
who occasionally wrote me charm 
 ing letters. Mrs. Thoreau, Henry's 
 mother, was full of kind feeling for 
 everybody, and had a generous, help 
 ful spirit. She was most kind to all 
 the children of her acquaintance, 
 often devising entertainments for 
 them; and I still have a vivid re 
 collection of the boxes of home-made 
 sweets she used to send to me when 
 I was away at school." 
 
 Are you quite ready to believe 
 that "gossip and malice" could find 
 an abiding place in such a heart as 
 this? 
 
 Now have we reached the letter 
 written when Froude had burned his 
 ships and was submitted to the slings 
 and arrows of the " black dragoons" 
 on whom John Sterling had also 
 turned his back. 
 
 10 
 
Manchester, September 3, 1849. 
 Dear Mr. Thoreau: 
 
 I have long intended to write to 
 you, to thank you for that noble ex 
 pression of yourself you were good 
 enough to send me. I know not why 
 I have not done so; except from a 
 foolish sense that I should not write 
 until I had thought of something to 
 say that it would be worth your 
 while to read. 
 
 What can I say to you except ex 
 press the honour and the love I feel 
 for you. An honour and a love 
 which Emerson taught me long ago 
 to feel, but which I feel now l not on 
 account of his word, but because I 
 myself have read and know you.' 
 
 When I think of what you are 
 of what you have done as well as 
 what you have written, I have the 
 11 
 
right to tell you that there is no 
 man living upon this earth at pres 
 ent, whose friendship or whose notice 
 I value more than yours. 
 
 What are these words! yet I wish 
 ed to say something and I must use 
 words, though they serve but seldom 
 in these days for much but lies. 
 
 In your book and in one other 
 from your side of the Atlantic, 
 "Margaret" I see hope for the com 
 ing world; all else which I have 
 found true in any of our thinkers 
 (or even yours] is their flat denial of 
 what is false in the modern popular 
 jargon but for their positive af 
 firming side, they do but fling us 
 back upon our own human nature 
 to hold on by that with our own 
 strength. A few men here and there 
 do this as the later Romans did 
 but mankind cannot, and I have gone 
 
 12 
 
, 
 
 near to despair. I am growing not 
 to despair, and I thank you for a 
 helping hand. 
 
 Well, I must see you some time 
 or other. It is not such a great mat 
 ter with these steam bridges. I wish 
 to shake hands with you and look a 
 brave man in the face. In the mean 
 time I will but congratulate you on 
 the age in which your work is cast: 
 the world has never seen one more 
 pregnant. 
 
 God bless you ! 
 
 Your friend (if you will let him 
 call you so), 
 
 J. A. Froude. 
 
 There is so much between the 
 lines here that one must go back to 
 the middle of the present century for 
 a clue. In 1849 Froude, then a Fel 
 low of Exeter College, Oxford, pub- 
 
 13 
 
lished a book The Nemesis of Faith 
 which, immediately following in 
 the wake of the "Oxford Movement," 
 gave a disagreeable shock to Angli 
 can Churchmen, lay and cleric. The 
 scholarly Fellow of Exeter College 
 had been coquetting with Catholicism. 
 He had managed to lose the faith of 
 his fathers, but had utterly failed to 
 find any surrogate ; before him surged 
 a weltering waste, pitiless storm, and 
 blinding darkness, and no place where 
 on to plant his way-worn feet. 
 
 The obnoxious book was burned 
 in the quadrangle by the Senior Fel 
 low of Oriel College; u the old, fa 
 miliar faces" either looked askance at 
 the audacious doubter or were wholly 
 averted; the Quarterlies were flooded 
 with condemnatory reviews, in which 
 even lay journalism participated, 
 and this in America as well as Great 
 
 14 
 
Britain, and the author's every hope 
 of place and preferment in the Estab 
 lished Church perished beyond all 
 expectation of resurrection: for him 
 there was no "benefit of the clergy." 
 It was a pitiful immolation, because 
 a self-immolation. As Carlyle grimly 
 told Froude he should have " burned 
 his own smoke." 
 
 The Nemesis of Faith is not a 
 wholesome book to read, because it 
 is not the doubt that is born of men 
 tal and therefore spiritual health. 
 One need only read Froude's previ 
 ous publication, The Shadows of the 
 Clouds, to discover the morbid mind. 
 The Nemesis of Faith is wholly de 
 structive and in such high matters 
 it is so fatally easy to destroy it has 
 not the shadow of an endeavor to 
 provide a shelter for the soul: that is 
 left naked, houseless, and homeless to 
 
 15 
 
the pitiless peltings of the storm of 
 doubt and unbelief. It was a moral 
 suicide in a moment of desperate 
 aberration, a soul's tragedy. 
 
 Emerson knew some time before 
 that something of this nature was im 
 minent. He wrote in his journal for 
 April, 1848: "I had an old invita 
 tion from Mr. Clough, a Fellow of 
 Oriel, and last week I had a new one 
 from Dr. Daubeny, the botanical pro 
 fessor. I went on Thursday. I was 
 housed close upon Oriel, though not 
 within it, but I lived altogether upon 
 college hospitalities, dining at Exeter 
 College with Palgrave, Froude, and 
 other Fellows, and breakfasting next 
 morning at Oriel with Clough, Dr. 
 Daubeny, etc. They all showed me 
 the kindest attentions, .... but, 
 much more, they showed me them 
 selves; who are so many of them 
 
 16 
 
very earnest, faithful, affectionate, 
 some of them highly gifted men; 
 some of them, too, prepared to make 
 great sacrifices for conscience's sake. 
 Froude is a noble youth to whom my 
 heart warms; I shall soon see him 
 again. Truly I became fond of these 
 monks of Oxford." 
 
 Evidently there was one man in 
 America to whom the devastating 
 Nemesis of Faith did not come as a 
 surprise. 
 
 Of course Thoreau learned of 
 Froude from Emerson's lips, and 
 read Emerson's copy of that " incen 
 diary" book. That Thoreau should 
 send Froude a copy of his own first 
 book then falling still-born from 
 Munroe's press was only natural, 
 considering the downrightness of that 
 chapter in the work fancifully termed 
 "Sunday." Froude's letter to Thoreau 
 
 c 17 
 
is the acknowledgment of the gift, 
 and what an acknowledgment: "I 
 have a right to tell you that there 
 is no man living upon this earth at 
 present, whose friendship or whose 
 notice I value more than yours." 
 
 These men had so much in com 
 mon. Thoreau also had forsaken the 
 faith of his fathers; but a serener 
 'pagan' never shattered the shrines 
 of the Saints. He could say, as an 
 other of our latter-day renunciants 
 has said, "I need no assurances, I 
 am a man who is preoccupied of his 
 own soul." 
 
 Thoreau was too solidly self-centred 
 to need assurances; yet he had be 
 come an author, and, being flesh and 
 blood, his heart went out to his book 
 as doth a mother's to her first-born. 
 But howsoever interpenetrated by a 
 conviction, howsoever possessed by 
 
 18 
 
% 
 
 it, howsoever driven by it, even to 
 the forsaking of all that makes life 
 dear, howsoever swerveless and in 
 domitable in service thereto, never 
 theless the solitary Thinker becomes 
 as an armed host so soon as his con 
 viction is shared by another. "I have 
 gone near to despair. I am growing 
 not to despair, and I thank you for a 
 helping hand." Such is the assurance 
 that this long-hidden letter earned to 
 Thoreau. His still-born book had 
 found one fellow-man who believed 
 it. One can readily imagine Thoreau 
 reading that old letter in the leafy 
 solitude of Walden woods, and the 
 thought of his heart is written upon 
 his sunburnt face: "My book may 
 be a sealed volume to the multitude, 
 ' caviare to the general/ but here is 
 one to whom it is intelligible, speak 
 ing audibly to the soul of him. It is 
 
 19 
 
enough if the book were written for 
 him alone: is not every true book 
 written for only him who can under 
 stand its message?" 
 
 Froude had written, " I congratulate 
 you on the age in which your work 
 is cast." Never did any compliment 
 go farther astray. Thoreau had been 
 obliged to publish at his own risk, 
 and he had gone deeply into debt for 
 the edition of one thousand volumes. 
 Little heed did the 'age' take of his 
 'cast.' 
 
 Four years after the date of 
 Froude's assuring letter, Thoreau 
 wrote in his journal: "For a year 
 or two past my publisher, falsely so 
 called, has been writing from time to 
 time to ask what disposition should 
 be made of the copies of A Week on 
 the Concord and Merrimack Rivers 
 still on hand, and at last suggesting 
 
 20 
 
'* 
 
 that he had use for the room they oc 
 cupied in his cellar. So I had them 
 all sent to me here, and they have 
 arrived to-day hy express, filling the 
 man's wagon, 706 copies out of an 
 edition of 1000, which I bought of 
 Munroe four years ago, and have 
 been ever since paying for and have 
 not quite paid for yet. The wares 
 are sent to me at last, and I have an 
 opportunity to examine my purchase. 
 They are something more substantial 
 than fame, as my back knows, which 
 has borne them up two flights of 
 stairs to a place similar to that to 
 which they trace their origin. Of the 
 remaining 290 and odd, 75 were 
 given away, the rest sold. I now 
 have a library of nearly 900 volumes, 
 over 700 of which I wrote myself. 
 Is it not well that the author should 
 behold the fruits of his labor? My 
 21 
 
works are piled up on one side of my 
 chamber as high as my head, my 
 opera omnia. This is authorship, 
 these are the works of my brain. 
 There was just one piece of good 
 luck in the venture. The unbound 
 copies were tied up by the printer 
 four years ago in stout paper wrap 
 pers, and inscribed: 
 
 H. D. Thoreau, 
 Concord River, 
 50 cops. 
 
 
 
 so Munroe had only to cross out 
 "River" and write "Mass.," and de 
 liver them to the express-man at 
 once. I can now see what I write 
 for, the result of my labors. Never 
 theless in spite of this result, sitting 
 beside the inert mass of my works, I 
 take up my pen to-night to record 
 
 22 
 
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 what thought or experience I may 
 have had, with as much satisfaction 
 as ever. Indeed I believe that the 
 result is more inspiring and better for 
 me than if a thousand had bought 
 my wares. It affects my privacy 
 less and leaves me freer." 
 
 From all that I can learn of Tho- 
 reau, I find no reason to doubt the 
 sincerity of this imperturbability. I 
 believed it to be sincere before I 
 knew of the Froude letter; I am as 
 sured of it now that I have read it. 
 Such are the secret sustainments of 
 the Thinker, and such sustainments 
 should be and ever will be vouch 
 safed; for is not he who brings a 
 message to men an Ambassador from 
 the Most High, and do not even the 
 ravens feed such Ministers Plenipo 
 tentiary? 
 
 23 
 
The assurance of the Fellow of 
 Exeter College was grateful to the 
 graduate of Harvard; but Belief is 
 not the accident of a diploma or the 
 prerogative of the aristocracy of Let 
 ters. Thoreau was to have another 
 assurance, dearer no doubt to him be 
 cause its source was so much nearer 
 the soil. 
 
 24 
 
II. 
 
 THE BEOTHEE AND SISTEE. 
 
 IN one of the quietest of American 
 villages there dwelt an earnest 
 reader of the Weekly Tribune in 
 the days when Horace Greeley was 
 at his best. In one issue thereof 
 he found George Ripley's review of 
 Thoreau's second book, Walden, or, 
 Life in the Woods. The reviewer 
 had made many lengthy citations 
 from this most awakening work, and 
 the reading of these set aflame the 
 heart of the distant reader. He 
 wrote to the publishers for and ob 
 tained a copy. From the title-page 
 of Walden he learned that Thoreau 
 was also the author of another book, 
 the still-born Week on the Concord 
 
 d 25 
 
and Merrimack Rivers. This parti 
 cular work the Michigan man soon 
 found that he could not get from the 
 publishers of Walden, nor could they 
 inform him where it might be had, so 
 utterly had Munroe's publication dis 
 appeared from the market. But the 
 tang of Walden had " touched the 
 spot" and the hungry man was ra 
 venous for a taste of the Week. He 
 had to write to Thoreau himself ask 
 ing where that book could be bought; 
 and thus began the correspondence, 
 which I shall read with whatever of 
 explanation I may be able to give. 
 
 Please bear in mind the situation: 
 piled up in that garret-chamber, 'as 
 high as my head,' are the seven hun 
 dred rejected books cast into the 
 "age" and by it most unmistakably 
 cast out. Four years had they lain 
 in Munroe's cellar, more than once 
 
 26 
 
had he tried to get rid of them, and 
 at last had 'suggested 7 that while 
 there appeared to be no earthly use 
 for them, he, James Munroe, 'had use 
 for the room they occupied in his cel 
 lar.' For two years and two months 
 had they found friendly shelter in the 
 garret of John Thoreau. Behold ! an 
 enthusiastic letter from a distant stran 
 ger; one man who will not rest until 
 he has read the ignored Week. Ob 
 serve, if you please, the quiet calm of 
 Thoreau's reply. 
 
 Concord, Jan. ISth, 1856. 
 Dear Sir: 
 
 I am glad to hear that my " Wai- 
 den" has interested you that per 
 chance it holds some truth still as 
 far off as Michigan. I thank you 
 for your note. 
 
 The " Week" had so poor a pub- 
 27 
 
Usher that it is quite uncertain whe 
 ther you will find it in any shop. I 
 am not sure but authors must turn 
 booksellers themselves. The price is 
 $ 1.25. If you care enough for it to 
 send me that sum by mail (stamps 
 will do for change), I will forward 
 you a copy by the same conveyance. 
 As for the "more" that is to come, 
 I cannot speak definitely at present, 
 but I trust that the mine be it silver 
 or lead is not yet exhausted. At 
 any rate, I shall be encouraged by 
 the fact that you are interested in its 
 yield. Yours respectfully, 
 
 Henry D. Thoreau. 
 
 ["So poor a publisher," indeed. It 
 was this same James Munroe that 
 published Emerson's Nature; and it 
 took him twelve years to sell an edi 
 tion of five hundred copies. Verily, 
 
 28 
 
" authors must turn booksellers them 
 selves." "The price is $1.25." A 
 copy of the first edition of Thoreau's 
 Week for one dollar and twenty-five 
 cents! Go to, thou author-bookseller, 
 thou art not up to the trade values of 
 books! Every one of the very vol 
 umes that James Munroe had no 
 'room' for, now finds warm welcome 
 to the selectest of private libraries at 
 eighteen dollars a copy! If the 
 reader wishes to recognize those cop 
 ies which were bought from Thoreau 
 himself he will turn to page 396. On 
 the bottom margin he will find six 
 lines written in pencil and by Tho 
 reau himself: the addition being so 
 much of the original text as was 
 overlooked by the compositor. ED.] 
 
 It is hardly fair that I should go 
 any farther- until I have told you 
 
 29 
 
some little about Thoreau's Michi 
 gan correspondent. He was born in 
 1817, the same year as Thoreau, and 
 was once a student at Oberlin, Ohio. 
 "They wanted to make a ' preacher' 
 of me," said he quickly adding in 
 the manner of one who has just 
 missed a peril, "Gracious! I had a 
 narrow escape." In fact, my aged 
 friend has all the qualifications for 
 Thoreau's 'Sunday School.' Pity it 
 is, but his 'doxy is not Orthodoxy be 
 cause it is n't your 'doxy. His is the 
 doubt that is born of the supremest 
 humility. Pew indeed are they that 
 understand it ; but it matters not. 
 Whosoever has read Walden will 
 readily understand what that book 
 had in it for the "wandering sheep" 
 that had escaped from the Oberlin 
 fold; they will as readily imagine 
 with what haste he forwarded the 
 
 30 
 
one dollar and a quarter for a copy 
 of the Week. 
 
 Concord, Feb. 10, '56. 
 Dear Sir: 
 
 I forwarded to you by mail on 
 the 31st of January a copy of my 
 " Week" post paid, which I trust 
 that you have received. I thank you 
 heartily for the expression of your 
 interest in " Walden" and hope that 
 you will not be disappointed by the 
 " Week" You ask how the former 
 has been received. It has found an 
 audience of excellent character, and 
 quite numerous, some 2000 copies 
 having been dispersed. I should con 
 sider it a greater success to interest 
 one wise and earnest soul, than a 
 million unwise and frivolous. 
 
 You may rely on it that you have 
 the best of me in my books, and that 
 31 
 
/ am not worth seeing personally, 
 the stuttering, blundering clod-hopper 
 that I am. Even poetry, you know, 
 is in one sense an infinite brag and 
 exaggeration. Not that I do not 
 stand on all that I have written 
 but what am I to the truth I feebly 
 utter! 
 
 I like the name of your county 
 may it grow men as sturdy as its 
 trees. Methinks I hear your flute 
 echo amid the oaks. Is not yours, 
 too, a good place to study theology? 
 I hope that you will erelong recover 
 your turtle-dove, and that it may 
 bring you glad tidings out of that 
 heaven in which it disappeared. 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Henry D. Thoreau. 
 
 ["I am not sure but authors must 
 turn booksellers themselves." Indeed! 
 
 32 
 
"I should consider it a greater success 
 to interest one wise and earnest soul 
 than a million unwise and frivolous!" 
 No wonder that James Munroe had 
 not cellar-room for the books of such 
 a "stuttering, blundering clod-hop 
 per." ED.] 
 
 After reading the Week the Michi 
 gan man wished to share the good tid 
 ings of great joy with others. There 
 was a distant relation, an upright 
 member of an orthodox sect; he must 
 have a copy of the Week: it may 
 show him how fast asleep he is! The 
 book was mailed to the somnolent 
 saint from Thoreau direct; but it had 
 been as well to have sent a copy of 
 Eliots Indian Bible. 
 
 My aged friend chuckles when he 
 tells you that this very copy of the 
 Week was subsequently borrowed by 
 
 6 33 
 
a Presbyterian preacher and never 
 returned! 
 
 On the same occasion a copy of 
 both Walden and the Week were 
 ordered for a brother in California. 
 These arrived safely; and they were 
 read and pondered under the shade 
 of the great Sequoias, in the silence 
 of the forest primeval. Both author 
 and reader are long since where no 
 shadows cloud the page. In the lu 
 men siccum of Eternity the Thinker 
 has learned "what argument his life 
 to his brother's creed had lent." 
 
 Concord, May 31st, '56. 
 Dear Sir: 
 
 I forwarded by mail a copy of my 
 " Week" post paid to . . . . , accord 
 ing to your order, about ten days ago, 
 or on the receit [sic] of your note. 
 I will obtain and forward a copy 
 34 
 
' of " Walden " and also of the " Week" 
 to California, to your order, post 
 paid, for $2.60. The postage will be 
 between 60 and 70 cents. 
 
 I thank you heartily for your kind 
 intentions respecting me. The West 
 has many attractions for me, parti 
 cularly the lake country and the In 
 dians, yet I do foresee what my en 
 gagements may be in the fall. I 
 have once or twice came near going 
 West a-lecturing, and perhaps some 
 winter may bring me into your neigh 
 borhood : in which case I should 
 probably see you. Yet lecturing has 
 commonly proved so foreign and irk 
 some to me, that I think I could only 
 use it to acquire the means with 
 which to make an independent tour 
 another time. 
 
 As for my pen, I can say that it 
 is not altogether idle, though I have 
 
 35 
 
finished nothing new in the book 
 form. I am drawing a rather long 
 bow, though it may be a feeble one, 
 but I pray that the archer may re 
 ceive new strength before the arrow 
 is shot. 
 
 With many thanks, yours truly, 
 
 Henry D. Thoreau. 
 
 When forwarding the money for 
 the last books ordered, a likeness of 
 Thoreau was solicited, and having 
 learned in some way that Thoreau 
 was "poor," a five-dollar bill was 
 enclosed in payment for the books 
 and the desired picture, and it was 
 requested that Thoreau should keep 
 the balance "for his trouble." The 
 reply to this kindly device is charac 
 teristic. 
 
 36 
 
Henry D. Thoreau, age 39. 
 
 From a daguerreotype by B. D. Maxham, of 
 "Worcester, Mass., taken in 1856. 
 
Concord, Saturday, June 2lst, '56. 
 Dear Sir: 
 
 On the 12 ult. I forwarded the 
 two books to California, observing 
 your directions in every particular, 
 and I trust that Uncle Sam will dis 
 charge his duty faithfully. While in 
 Worcester this week I obtained the 
 accompanying daguerreotype which 
 my friends think is pretty good 
 though better looking than I. 
 Books and postage . . $2.64 
 Daguerreotype ... .50 
 Postage .... .16 
 
 3.30 
 500 
 
 3 30 You will accordingly 
 find 1 70 enclosed with my shadow. 
 Yrs 
 
 Henry D. Thoreau. 
 
 37 
 
Thoreau had a poor throat for 
 charity soup, no matter how taste 
 fully it had been flavored. " Books 
 and postage, $2.64; Daguerreotype 
 and its postage, .66; Total, $3.30. 
 Balance due you $1.70, and you will 
 accordingly find $1.70 enclosed with 
 my shadow." This holograph pre 
 sents the poorest chirography of them 
 all, the signature differing markedly 
 from all the others. Yes, there was 
 a shadow on his face when he wrote, 
 for this is the only letter signed, 
 curtly enough, "Yrs." instead of the 
 accustomed "Yours truly" or "sin 
 cerely." 
 
 A little matter, do you say? Pre 
 cisely ; but did it never occur to you 
 that the significances of life are in 
 just its "little matters"? It is what 
 we do and how, when not the great 
 world is the spectator, but when the 
 
 38 
 
self is alone with the selfhood; then 
 the undertone of character is heard, 
 the 'still small voice' speaking audi 
 bly to the soul above all the roaring 
 din of the mighty Babylon of which 
 so many of us are in such cowardly 
 dread. 
 
 That now aged man with whom 
 Thoreau was then corresponding is 
 indeed a most remarkable man. But 
 I question if he is at all adapted for 
 
 the latitude and longitude of 
 
 [The editor takes the liberty of sup 
 pressing the name.] No; we are like 
 the Baltimore oysters labelled "extra 
 selects." We should only mortify 
 in a can of common oysters; so we 
 have an uncommon can of our own. 
 The name, it is true, isn't 'blown in 
 the bottle'; but it is stamped on our 
 "tin." I do not believe we would 
 allow such an one as Thoreau's corre- 
 
 39 
 
spondent in our select can ; nor do I 
 believe Thoreau would have written 
 a line to an "extra select." How 
 ever, this sterling man, who owes 
 little to the school and less to the 
 college, had vouchsafed unto him the 
 divine gift of insight. He is one of 
 that rare few who are endowed with 
 prescient foresight; most of us have 
 only a purblind hindsight. We see 
 the landscapes of life only after they 
 have been passed, we discern the 
 great ones of life only after they are 
 dead we are the "extra selects"! 
 
 [The editor is utterly unable to ac 
 count for this rude and wholly un 
 warrantable outburst. Not a city of 
 its size contains more people that are 
 'nice to know'; not any the largest 
 city outdoes it in culture and elegant 
 refinement The ex-professor was 
 
 40 
 
recently asked if he did not mean 
 that we are the " extra elects." His 
 reply is not adapted for polite ears. 
 Though it may cost him the friend 
 ship of the ex-professor, the editor 
 trusts that he, at least, has done his 
 duty to Society.] 
 
 Thoreau's meaning in this universe 
 is no more a secret to this untutored 
 man dwelling in remote Michigan 
 than it was to the learned Fellow of 
 Exeter College or to that graduate of 
 Harvard who pitched his tent in Con 
 cord and taught America to think. 
 Can you imagine what it implies to 
 have "discovered" Thoreau in those 
 early days; or do you imagine that 
 Nature's "extra selects" are marked 
 with a stencil-plate? Try and im 
 agine what a consuming fervor is 
 enkindled when a true Book is speak- 
 / 41 
 
ing to the soul of a man his heart 
 with hero-worship all aflame. If you 
 have been capable of doing this, then 
 you can conceive what fervid letters 
 were sent, in those earlier days, from 
 one earnest man in the distant West 
 to that imperturbable and self-pos 
 sessed man in "old Concord," and 
 that conception will invest the next 
 of Thoreau's letters with something 
 deeper than the mere surface-reading 
 shows. 
 
 Concord, July 8th, '57. 
 Dear Sir: 
 
 You are right in supposing that I 
 have not been Westward. I am very 
 little of a traveller. I am gratified 
 to hear of the interest you take in 
 my books; it is additional encourage 
 ment to write more of them. Though 
 
 42 
 
my pen is not idle, I have not pub 
 lished anything for a couple of years 
 at least. I like a private life, and 
 cannot bear to have the public in my 
 mind. 
 
 You will excuse me for not re 
 sponding more heartily to your notes, 
 since I realize what an interval there 
 always is between the actual and im 
 agined author and feel that it would 
 not be just for me to appropriate the 
 sympathy and good will of my un 
 seen readers. 
 
 Nevertheless, I should like to meet 
 you, and if I ever come into your 
 neighborhood shall endeavor to do so. 
 Can't you tell the world of your 
 life also? Then I shall know you, 
 at least as well as you me. 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Henry D. Thoreau. 
 
 43 
 
They never met in the flesh ; but 
 there is an old man in the West pa 
 tiently waiting for a meeting where 
 heart answers unto heart as face unto 
 face in the refiner's silver. 
 
 An unbroken silence of more than 
 two years followed this last letter. In 
 the interval America was preparing 
 to make history; chapters that should 
 be written with her best blood and 
 the first page with that of a hero 
 a man in whom was incarnated the 
 high purpose of the Lord God Om 
 nipotent. 
 
 There, in Virginia, Captain John 
 Brown lay captive, " wounded and in 
 prison." Even an Abolition paper 
 called him a ' madman' for that 
 which he had tried to do. The 
 doughfaces of the North sweat clam 
 mily; the " friends of the Union" 
 trembled for the safety of that fabric ; 
 
 44 
 
universal consternation petrified the 
 people. In that supreme moment 
 a single voice was lifted up in the 
 vestry-room of the little church in 
 Concord wherein the first American 
 Congress had held solemn delibera 
 tions. It was a voice that spake un 
 der a protest in which joined alike 
 Whig, Democrat, and Abolitionist. 
 "That speech should not be uttered; 
 it is unwise, injudicious; it will do 
 more harm than good," etc., etc. "I 
 did not send to you for advice, but to 
 announce that I am to speak" and 
 speak he did. It was Sunday even 
 ing, the thirtieth of October. The 
 very next evening that intrepid voice 
 was heard again, in Tremont Temple, 
 and yet again in Worcester on the 
 Wednesday following. It was the 
 voice of one man; one man in fifty 
 millions having the courage of his 
 
 45 
 
convictions; one man God-appointed 
 to show a nation its way as the dark 
 ness was gathering around it and 
 not a politician had the courage to 
 strike a match to light the flickering 
 tallow-dip of Policy. 
 
 The Western man read accounts of 
 this one fearless voice, and wrote to 
 Thoreau asking for the words he 
 alone had dared to speak. 
 
 Concord, Nov. 24th, '59. 
 Dear Sir: 
 
 The lectures which you refer to 
 were reported in the newspapers, after 
 a fashion. The last one in some half 
 dozen of them, and if I possessed 
 one, or all, I would send them to 
 you, bad as they are. The best, or 
 at least longest one of the Boston 
 Lecture was in the Boston "Atlas 
 and Bee" of Nov. 2nd. may be 
 
 46 
 
half the whole [speech]. There were 
 others in the " Traveller," the " Jour 
 nal," (fee., of the same date. 
 
 I am glad to know that you are 
 interested to see my things, and I 
 wish I had them in printed form to 
 send to you. I exerted myself con 
 siderably to get the last discourse 
 printed and sold for the benefit of 
 Browrfs family but the publishers 
 are afraid of pamphlets, and it is 
 now too late. 
 
 I return the stamps which I have 
 not used. 
 
 I shall be glad to see you if I ever 
 come your way. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Henry D. Thoreau. 
 
 This holograph is very striking in 
 its mute significance. The words 
 seemed to leap from Thoreau's pen. 
 
 47 
 
In fifteen different instances two 
 words are written without taking the 
 pen from the paper, in eight others 
 three are thus continuously written, 
 and in one line there are four impe 
 tuously chained together. There is 
 nothing of this in the other five 
 holographs. But, curiously, the sig 
 nature to this last is the largest, bold 
 est, clearest, and by far the best of 
 them all. It reminds one of John 
 Hancock's sign-manual on the De 
 claration of Independence. Surely, 
 Massachusetts writes a fine hand on 
 occasion ! 
 
 There remained for Thoreau only 
 two years and a half of his Lehrjahre: 
 then he was " translated." Trans 
 lated? Do they not say that of a 
 Bishop when he is exalted? Even 
 so; but is not Thoreau also a " bishop 
 of souls"? There is now no obscur- 
 
 48 
 
ing rafter between him and the Un 
 speakable One who clothed him in 
 clay that he might do his appointed 
 work in the Universe this little 
 world his seed-field. Yes, it is the 
 right word; it is his sorrowing sis 
 ter's word. He was "translated" one 
 beautiful Spring morning. It was on 
 the sixth of May, 1862. 
 
 And now that sister is the Concord 
 correspondent of him who long had 
 waited and hoped for Thoreau to 
 "come this way." 
 
 Concord, June 24th, 1862. 
 Dear Sir: 
 
 It gives me pleasure to acknow 
 ledge your note of the 18th itistant, 
 and I desire to thank you for the 
 very friendly sympathy which you 
 have manifested for us in this season 
 of sorrow and affliction, 
 g 49 
 
My mother and myself are the 
 only surviving members of a fam 
 ily once numbering six. My elder 
 brother, for whom you enquire, died 
 twenty years ago, next a precious 
 sister was called, and three years 
 since my dear Father left us. 
 
 My brother Henry's illness com 
 menced a year ago last December. 
 During seventeen months never a 
 murmur escaped him. I wish that 
 I could describe the wonderful sim 
 plicity and child-like trust with 
 which he accepted every experience. 
 As he said, "he never met with a 
 disappointment in his life, because he 
 always arranged so as to avoid it." 
 "He learned when he was a very 
 little boy that he must die, and of 
 course he was not disappointed when 
 his time came." Indeed we cannot 
 
 50 
 
fed that lie has died, but rather [has] 
 been translated. 
 
 On one occasion he remarked to 
 me that he considered perfect disease 
 as agreeable as perfect health, since 
 the mind always conformed to the 
 condition of the body. 
 
 I never knew any one who set so 
 great a value on Time as did my 
 brother; he continued to busy him 
 self all through his sickness, and dur 
 ing the last few months of his life he 
 edited many papers for the press, 
 and he did not cease to call for his 
 manuscripts till the last day of his 
 life.* 
 
 While we suffer an irreparable 
 loss in the departure of my most 
 
 * " No man ever lived who paid more ardent 
 and unselfish attention to his business." 
 
 John Weiss. 
 
 51 
 
gifted brother, still we are comforted 
 and cheered by the memory of his 
 pure and virtuous soul; and it is a 
 great consolation to know that he 
 possessed a spirit so attuned to the 
 beauties and harmonies of Nature 
 that the color of the sky, the fra 
 grance of the flowers and the music 
 of the birds ministered unceasingly 
 to his pleasure. He was the hap 
 piest of mortals. This world a par 
 adise. " Where there is knowledge, 
 where there is virtue, where there is 
 beauty, where there is progress, there 
 is now his home" 
 
 You ask the name of my brother's 
 traveling companion. Mr. . . . , a 
 near neighbor and intimate friend, 
 most frequently accompanied him 
 in his walks. In the lines on page 
 twenty-second of "The Week" you 
 
 52 
 
Henry D. Thoreau, age 37. 
 
 From a crayon portrait drawn in 1854 by Samuel W. Rowse. 
 The original is in the Concord Free Library. 
 
will find a reference to this same 
 friend. Mr. . . . wrote the lines 
 sung at my brother's funeral. So 
 sincere is his friendship for Henry, 
 that, I doubt not, any token of esteem 
 you may bestow for his sake, upon 
 him, will be acceptable. 
 
 Within a few weeks we have had 
 some photographs taken from a 
 crayon portrait of my brother. The 
 crayon drawing was made two years 
 before Henry sent you his Dauguer- 
 reotype. Will you accept the inclosed 
 picture? His friends all consider 
 it an excellent likeness. My mother 
 unites with me in very kind regards 
 to yourself. It would afford us plea 
 sure to see you at any time. Concord 
 is the home of many worthies, Em 
 erson, Alcott, Hawthorne, Channing, 
 &c., all valued friends of my brother. 
 
 53 
 
/ trust that you may be attracted to 
 this neighborhood. 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 S. E. Thoreau. 
 
 P. S. I received, by to-day's mail, 
 a very appreciative notice of my 
 brother from the pen of Storrow 
 Higginson, formerly a pupil in Mr. 
 Sanborn's school. I think the article 
 would interest you. It is contained 
 in the May number of the u Harvard 
 Magazine." In the "Atlantic Month 
 ly" for August you may look for a 
 memorial by Mr. Emerson. 
 
 "He considered perfect disease as 
 agreeable as perfect health, since the 
 mind always conformed to the condi 
 tion of the body." Where is there a 
 more memorable observation? One 
 month before, Sophia had written to 
 Mr. Ricketson: "You ask me for 
 
 54 
 
some particulars regarding Henry's 
 illness. I feel like saying that Henry 
 was never affected, never reached by 
 it. I never saw such a manifestation 
 of the power of spirit over matter. 
 Very often I have heard him tell his 
 visitors that he enjoyed existence as 
 much as ever. He remarked to me 
 that there was as much comfort in 
 perfect disease as in perfect health, 
 the mind always conforming to the 
 condition of the body." 
 
 There is the difference of a single 
 word in these two statements: " com 
 fort" in one letter, " agreeable" in 
 the other. If the sentiment had been 
 "cooked" for dramatic effect, there 
 would not have been the shadow of 
 a variation. 
 
 Of all writers, Thoreau is he whom 
 we must read believingly. Indeed, 
 he had long before left evidence of 
 
 55 
 
the unimpeachable truthfulness of this 
 remarkable death-bed declaration. 
 
 "I am confined to the house by 
 bronchitis, and so seek to content 
 myself with that quiet and serene 
 life there is in a warm corner by the 
 fireside, and see the sky through the 
 chimney-top. Sickness should not be 
 allowed to extend farther than the 
 body. We need only retreat far 
 ther within us, to preserve uninter 
 rupted the continuity of serene hours 
 to the end of our lives. As soon as 
 I find my chest is not of tempered 
 steel and my heart of adamant, I bid 
 goodby to them and look out for a 
 new nature. I will be liable to no acci 
 dents." Journal, FeUy 14th, 1841. 
 
 Twenty-two years later, brought 
 to the supreme test, he proved the 
 
 56 
 
genuineness of his philosophy. He 
 takes his place beside Socrates, Epic- 
 tetus, Marcus Aurelius: 
 
 "A soul supreme, in each hard 
 instance tried." 
 
 The crayon portrait now in the 
 Concord Free Library was drawn 
 by Samuel Worcester Rowse, and 
 may safely be accepted as 'an excel 
 lent likeness' of Thoreau without a 
 beard. Writing from England to 
 Professor Norton, the poet Clough 
 bears this testimony to the fidelity of 
 Eowse's crayons: "Child brought me 
 your present of Emerson's picture, 
 which is really, I think, the best por 
 trait of any living and known-to-me 
 man that I have ever seen. It is a 
 great pleasure to possess it." One 
 year later, he had not changed his 
 
 h 57 
 
mind: "When is Rowse coming 
 over? Will you give him a letter to 
 me? I continue to think his picture 
 of Emerson the best portrait I know 
 of anyone I know." 
 
 Sophia Thoreau's letter was writ 
 ten seven weeks after her brother's 
 death, the fresh wound still bleed 
 ing. Poor, stricken, lonely sister! 
 Bereaved of such a brother, mourn 
 ing for the 'irreparable loss/ yet 
 prouder of her brother dead than of 
 the countless carcases strutting in the 
 sunlight and kept from stinking on 
 ly by the cheap salt of civilization. 
 Poor Sophia! she was quoting from 
 her recollections of that beautiful 
 spring day when Emerson spoke the 
 eulogy over her brother's coffin. But, 
 pardonably enough, she had mis 
 quoted. Emerson had said : " His soul 
 was made for the noblest society; he 
 
 58 
 
had in a short time exhausted the 
 capabilities of this world; wherever 
 there is knowledge, wherever there 
 is virtue, wherever there is beauty, 
 he will find a home." He also said: 
 "The scale on which his studies pro 
 ceeded was so large as to require 
 longevity, and we were the less pre 
 pared for his sudden disappearance. 
 The country knows not yet, or in the 
 least part, how great a son it has lost. 
 It seems an injury that he should 
 leave in the midst of his broken task, 
 which none else can finish, a kind 
 of indignity to so noble a soul that it 
 should depart out of Nature before 
 yet he has been shown to his peers 
 for what he is. But he, at least, is 
 content." 
 
 my friends, having the clear 
 testimony of his sister's letter and 
 also Emerson's confirmation of Tho- 
 
 59 
 
reau's deep * content/ can we not say 
 with that sister, "of course he was 
 not disappointed when his time 
 came." But, can such a life be in 
 any sense a failure, in any sense be 
 incomplete ; is an early home-call an 
 * injury'; is it indeed an ' indignity' 
 to be summoned from this pitiful 
 Vanity Fair by the Master of the 
 Vineyard? 
 
 Concord, Oct. 20, 1862. 
 Dear Friend: 
 
 Absence from home together with 
 illness must be my apology for not 
 before acknowledging your last kind 
 letter. 
 
 Certainly it will give me much 
 pleasure to present the walking-cane 
 which you propose to send to Mr. 
 . . . . , who feels keenly the depar- 
 
 60 
 
ture of my precious brother, and who 
 will value any token of friendship 
 shown to his memory. 
 
 I am very glad that you have seen 
 Higginson's article. It was an out 
 burst of affection from his young 
 heart which gratified me much. 
 
 I was fortunate lately in receiving 
 from Mr. Emerson a specimen of 
 the " Edelweisse" Gnaphalium leonto- 
 podium, which was sent to him by a 
 friend who brought the plant from 
 Tyrol. How I wish dear Henry 
 could have seen it. 
 
 I can never tell you how much I 
 enjoyed copying and reading aloud 
 my brother's manuscripts last winter 
 when he was preparing them for the 
 press. The paragraph which you 
 quote from the essay on " Walking" 
 impressed and charmed me particu 
 larly, I remember; and I am glad 
 61 
 
to hear you express your satisfaction 
 in regard to the whole article. 
 
 I doubt not that ere this you have 
 enjoyed the paper on "Autumnal 
 Tints." I am sure that my dear 
 Brother went to his grave as grace 
 fully as the leaves in autumn. [ The 
 poor sister means, as undisturbedly as 
 the leaf flashes into all the gleaming 
 glory of the rainbow and silently 
 obeys the Divine behest that ordains 
 its death when Autumn winds grow 
 chill.] Oh! that you could have 
 known him personally: he was 
 wonderfully gifted in conversation. 
 [Aye; and now there is only silence 
 and the patient waiting for the gra 
 cious manumission of Death!] 
 
 Thank you for the hints relating 
 
 to yourself and family. What you 
 
 say about enjoying the days as if 
 
 they were made expressly for your- 
 
 62 
 
self denotes a spirit of rare content 
 ment, which I am happy to know 
 you possess. 
 
 My mother joins with me in kind 
 regards to yourself and family. 
 
 Trusting to see you at some future 
 time, I remain, 
 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 S. E. Thoreau. 
 
 There has been no abatement in 
 that 'spirit of rare contentment.' 
 That quiet home in the West is 
 radiant therewith, as I can testify. 
 Cheerful and serene, the old-time 
 friend of Thoreau and " Mother" are 
 meekly waiting, 
 
 " Their faces shining with the light 
 Of duties beautifully done." 
 
 63 
 
Concord, March 4th, 1863. 
 Dear Friend: 
 
 I am happy to inform you of the 
 safe arrival of the cane. The pack 
 age reached me last evening. 
 
 It was with mingled feelings of 
 pleasure and pain that I looked on 
 this gift a rare instance of friend 
 ship, most worthily bestowed. 
 
 I handed the cane at once to Mr. 
 . . . . , who expressed great satis 
 faction. 
 
 The article is very chaste and 
 beautiful. I should like to know the 
 name of the wood. 
 
 Allow me to thank you for this 
 token; it would have been fully ap 
 preciated by my departed brother. 
 
 Mr will communicate with 
 
 you. [Which he certainly did and 
 after the manner of his species.] 
 
 64 
 
It may interest you to know that 
 our afflictions have been heightened 
 by an accident which happened to 
 my dear mother, early in the season: 
 she fell down a long staircase, 
 breaking her right arm and other 
 wise seriously injuring herself. Now, 
 however, she is slowly recovering, 
 and joins with me in very kind re 
 membrances to yourself and family. 
 Yours truly, 
 
 8. E. Thoreau. 
 
 "Allow me to thank you." The 
 italics are in the original. "Mr. . . . 
 will communicate with you" though 
 in what manner this deponent saith 
 not. This is the meaning of the itali 
 cised "me." Well, here is the t com 
 munication' from the recipient of a 
 most unique cane, originally designed 
 
 i 65 
 
for Thoreau himself, but arriving 
 from distant California too late. 
 
 Concord, March 4, 1863. 
 Dear Sir: 
 
 The cane arrived at this place last 
 evening and was delivered to me, in 
 perfect order. 
 
 X. Y. Z. 
 
 I have in my keeping the very 
 express-receipt that was issued to 
 the donor of the cane, and it contains 
 just as much pathos as the recipient's 
 " communication" and not an iota 
 less! This cold-storage 'communica 
 tion' of Mr. X. Y. Z. is sui generis 
 and yet we are told that only the 
 amphibia have oval blood-corpuscles. 
 
 The cane was of manzanita wood, 
 the handle was made from a buffalo 
 horn, and the silver mountings were 
 
 66 
 
engraved with appropriate quotations 
 from Thoreau's writings. It was a 
 pious thank-offering from the two 
 brothers one in the far West and 
 the other in California; but Death 
 was swifter than friendship, and the 
 belated tribute was given to the dead 
 man's dearest friend. X. Y. Z.'s note- 
 let contains just sixteen words, not 
 one of which will spell "Thanks"; 
 but there are two and one-half pages 
 of " Complementary mottoes," nine 
 teen in all: as if this grateful friend 
 of Thoreau had said, "Two can play 
 at that game!" Verily, we are "fear 
 fully and wonderfully made." 
 
 I hold in my hand Sophia Tho 
 reau's last letter to the Western man. 
 Her mother had died, the broken 
 home had become to the solitary 
 mourner as a grave ; its every room 
 was haunted by the "old familiar 
 
 67 
 
faces," but the dear lips are silent 
 and that is the silence that kills. 
 
 Concord, May 24th, 1873. 
 Dear Mr : 
 
 After several weeks 9 absence, I re 
 turned yesterday to Concord, to find 
 the volume of poems you had so 
 kindly forwarded, and without stop 
 ping to cut the leaves I hasten to 
 thank you most heartily for this 
 friendly remembrance. 
 
 Just now I am about to leave 
 Concord, and shall make my home 
 in Bangor, Maine. Mr. F. B. San- 
 born' s family will occupy my house. 
 
 Perhaps you are aware that my 
 precious mother departed a year since. 
 
 You will be interested to know 
 that Mr. Channing has written a 
 memoir of my brother, which will 
 soon appear. 
 
 68 
 
Mr. X. Y. Z. is as whimsical as 
 ever not calling at my house or 
 recognizing me on the street for the 
 past six years. 
 
 We are looking for Mr. Emer 
 son's return [from Europe] and the 
 town will give him a cordial recep 
 tion. I hope you may see our village 
 again: its charms increase from 
 year to year. 
 
 I promise myself much pleasure in 
 the poems when a little leisure is af 
 forded me. 
 
 Please excuse this hasty note and 
 believe me, 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 8. E. Thoreau. 
 
 Twelve days after the burial of her 
 brother Henry, Sophia Thoreau wrote 
 to Mr. Daniel Ricketson: "Profound 
 joy mingles with my grief. I feel as 
 
 69 
 
if something beautiful had happened 
 not death." 
 
 And something beautiful had in 
 deed happened another of the 
 countless miracles that surround us 
 here: a soul leveling this lift that it 
 may go on to a higher; a soul that 
 also had for its last countersign the 
 " J5quanimitas" of the dying Roman 
 Emperor; a soul that found 'per 
 fect disease as agreeable as perfect 
 health'; a soul to which this world 
 was a paradise a " Paradise Re 
 gained" by the clear sanity of su 
 preme submission to the Maker; a 
 soul that at the home-call left the 
 only paradise it had ever seen and 
 the purest delights that mere man 
 can ever know, left all as serenely 
 and grandly as the setting sun sinks 
 through the purple glory whose last 
 refulgence gives the promise of 
 another day. 
 
 70 
 
Sophia Thoreau bade farewell to 
 the " charming village" wherein she 
 had known the unspeakable delight 
 of companionship with such a brother 
 and also the unutterable pang of part 
 ing which that i something beautiful' 
 we call 'death' entails. Think of her 
 loneliness, of her last visit to that 
 quiet hilltop in Sleepy Hollow: fa 
 ther, mother, sister, and brothers 
 there; she the last lone lingerer 
 here. 
 
 She was in Bangor two short 
 years, and then " something beauti 
 ful" happened again: a family re 
 union where the amaranth forever 
 blooms, where there is no night, 
 where never a tear is known save 
 those of that Divine compassion 
 which is "touched with the feeling 
 of our infirmities." 
 
 71 
 
Sophia E. Thoreau. 
 
 From a daguerreotype found among her effects 
 after her death. Heretofore unpublished. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 Two Visits to Concord, Mass. 
 
 From an old Diary. 
 
 Sept. 1st, 1863. Arrived at Concord about 
 5 p. m. Stopped at the Middlesex House. 
 Soon after, went across the way to a book 
 store and bought a copy of the " Boston Com 
 monwealth." On the first page found Tho- 
 reau's poem "The Departure," 
 
 In this roadstead I have ridden. 
 
 This is the first publication of it. I accepted 
 it as a sort of introduction meant for me. 
 
 This [place] appears like a quite orderly, 
 staid New England town and somewhat re 
 minds me of Oberlin, Ohio, twenty years ago. 
 
 Somehow, I feel a singular contentedness 
 and as if my good genius had, for the time, 
 got the upper hand of all obstacles and alone 
 presided. In the morning, if my health will 
 permit, intend viewing some scenes and places 
 more dear to me than I can well tell. 
 73 
 
Sept. 2nd. After breakfast went into the 
 "old" and also the "new" burying ground; 
 then to the new cemetery "Sleepy Hollow." 
 The ground is rolling and finely shaded with 
 pines and oaks. Did not find what I was in 
 pursuit of. Enquired of a man at work there 
 where the Thoreaus' burying place was. He 
 said, "At the new grounds." I also asked if I 
 pronounced the name Thoreau right. Went to 
 the place specified and found one grave with 
 headstone marked, "John Thoreau, Jr.," and 
 another near by newer and unmarked. 
 
 Then left for the Walden woods by the old 
 Lincoln road. Found the pond, beanfield and 
 site of Thoreau's house. The beanfield is now 
 growing trees, pine, birch, etc., in rows, quin 
 cunx order a fine sight! 
 
 P. M. To the old Battle-ground back of 
 the old Manse. Found two other men there, 
 visitors like myself. One of them read off the 
 inscriptions on the monument in a clear, loud 
 tone of voice, bordering somewhat on the 
 pompous. 
 
 After supper at the hotel, called upon the 
 Thoreaus, mother and sister. Found them 
 rather expecting me. Was made quite wel 
 come and urgently requested to get my things 
 from the hotel and stop with them did so. 
 
 They are decidedly bright-appearing women 
 74 
 
the mother, I should say, about sixty-five, 
 the daughter [Sophia] forty. The conversa 
 tion drifted readily to [the subject of] the son 
 and brother. Mr. X. called and planned a 
 walk for both of us to-morrow. Found him 
 sociable and attentive. During the evening 
 more talk about Thoreau's last illness. His 
 mother said: "Why, this room [their parlor] 
 did not seem like a sick-room. My son wanted 
 flowers and pictures and books all around 
 here 5 and he was always so cheerful and 
 wished others to be so while about him. And 
 during the nights he wanted the lamp set on 
 the floor and some chairs put around it so that 
 in his sleepless hours he could amuse himself 
 with watching the shadows." 
 
 Sept. 4. Fitful sleeping last night: too full 
 of thinking. This A. M. called upon Alcott 
 with Miss Thoreau. Had a fine interview 
 with him. He talked about Carlyle, Tho 
 reau, books, his own experience, etc. I did 
 not see his daughter Louise. She had just 
 come back from the Army Hospital at Wash 
 ington j had lost part of her hair and so was 
 unpresentable. 
 
 This P. M., X. Y. Z. and I took our walk. 
 
 Went off to the S. W. of the village (on 'the 
 
 old Marlborough Road/ I think) and finally 
 
 struck Concord river in a curve where X. said 
 
 75 
 
he and Thoreau used to go in bathing. X. 
 wanted me to repeat that performance with 
 him; I let him go in, while I took notes. The 
 opposite and sunward bank is lined with a 
 thick growth of evergreens which cast their 
 dark shadow into the water below. The faint 
 ripple on its surface gave the view the appear 
 ance of an inverted forest seen through a huge 
 sheet of frosted glass. From here we went up 
 on to the Concord Cliffs. X. showed me the 
 Hollowell Place, Baker Farm, and the house 
 where John Field the Irishman once lived. 
 Thence to Walden Pond through a growth of 
 young timber, where X. showed me a patch, a 
 rod or so square, of "American Yew" [Taxus 
 Canadensis] which, he said, Thoreau was very 
 partial to, not showing it to everybody. 
 
 From the Pond and house-plot (the building 
 itself has been moved away some three miles 
 North) through the deserted beanfield, to the 
 Lincoln Road where, following North, through 
 a hollow, X. pointed out to me, a few rods away, 
 "Blister's Spring," whither I went, lay down 
 and took a good, cold drink to the memory of 
 the writer who has given it its consequence. 
 
 Sept. 4th. At home with the Thoreau fam 
 ily. P. M. Went with Miss Thoreau up, N. W., 
 on to the hill ( "Nashawtuck"? ). A fine view ! 
 Ponkawtasset off to the N. E. a mile or so. 
 76 
 
The Assabet, at the north of us, winding its 
 way to the Concord River below. The old 
 North Bridge, the Monument near by and the 
 village spread out in its beauty. 
 
 Sept. 5th. A. M. Took a ride with the two 
 Misses Thoreau, maiden aunts of Thoreau, and 
 Sophia. Called on Mr. [Edmund] Hosmer 
 not at home. Then on Mr. Platt; a pleasant 
 time with him. Afterwards drove to Mr. 
 Bull's home. He is the originator of the Con 
 cord grape that I had already sent for. Found 
 Mr. B. a splendid talker and an enthusiastic 
 garden man. P. M. Went alone to Walden 
 Pond. Took a swim in it. Called at the patch 
 of American Yew and at the Cliffs. Evening 
 with the Thoreaus at their home. 
 
 Sept. 6th. Before breakfast, visited the 
 "new" burying ground. Found Thoreau's 
 grave. After breakfast, took quite a walk, 
 N. E. of the town and mostly in the woods. 
 (I have doubtless crossed and recrossed the 
 dear, absent man's path so many times in this 
 morning's trip!) Found, on my return, that 
 Mr. Hosmer had been at the Thoreaus' to re 
 turn my call of yesterday. Went soon after 
 dinner to see him and stayed there until X. 
 came, by agreement, to visit the "Estabrook 
 Country" (they call it) to take a look at the 
 Thoreau hut. It had been moved there some 
 77 
 
years before. Took a memento, a broken 
 shingle, as a fitting emblem. Here is the field 
 of boulders, some from eight to ten feet high, 
 and such clumps of barberry bushes ! Evening 
 at Mrs. Horace Mann's with Miss Thoreau. 
 Met there Miss Elizabeth Peabody, Mrs. 
 Mann's sister, and her eldest son [Mrs. Horace 
 Mann's], who accompanied Thoreau on his 
 trip West seeking health. Found the young 
 man greatly interested in Botany. Miss Pea- 
 body spoke very feelingly and freely of Mar 
 garet Fuller of blessed memory. 
 
 Sept. Itli. Arose rather early this morning 
 and took a walk westward some mile and a 
 half to a mill on the Assabet. On returning, 
 found a branch from a young maple already 
 turned of a fire-red, a part of which I broke oft 2 
 and took back with me and threw up into the 
 branches of an evergreen that faced one side 
 of the Thoreau house. After breakfast, it 
 caught Mrs. Thoreau's eye and she began 
 wondering what it meant. When I showed 
 her, she exclaimed: "There! that was just 
 like my son, Henry." I couldn't help but feel 
 a little flattered. 
 
 Afternoon. Took a ride up the Assabet 
 with Mr. S. That was a very pleasant inter 
 view : Mr. S. seemed so easily to make it such 
 he talked so kindly and well of Thoreau. 
 78 
 

 After this, called upon Mr. Alcott, in com 
 pany with X., also upon Mr. Emerson. A 
 pleasant fifteen or twenty minutes' interview. 
 Mr. Emerson enquired if I knew much about 
 the Michigan University; spoke in high terms 
 of President Tappan ; asked if the young men 
 of the West were not, some of them at least, 
 seeking for more light and truth. 
 
 After dinner, when I bade the Thoreaus 
 good bye, Mrs. Thoreau's sister, having come 
 down from her room, stood at the foot of the 
 stairs weeping. It was a tender leave-taking. 
 
 Second Visit to Concord. 
 
 Eleven years later. 
 
 August 27th, 1874. At the Middlesex House 
 once more, arriving a little after noon. Dined 
 and then started for Walden Pond. On my 
 way out, on the Lincoln Road, I stopped at 
 Blister's Spring, and as it had become a 
 sacred fountain, I lay down and deliberately 
 drank seven swallows of its cool, clear water 
 to the memory of its absent poet. And now 
 upon the site -of that house in which Henry 
 79 
 
Thoreau lived nearly thirty years ago, I sit 
 writing up this diary of to-day. 
 
 It is a beautiful place! The book "Walden," 
 telling of his life here, first notified me of 
 its author and his writings: that formed an 
 epoch in my life. 
 
 The cabin is gone, long since moved away, 
 but, Thank God ! they cannot move this foun 
 dation nor the pleasant memories. 
 
 Passed along the pond side toward the S. W. 
 to find the Concord Cliffs. Found a man in 
 charge of the picnic grounds on the railroad 
 side of the pond, of whom I enquired the way. 
 He had never heard of such a place, but I got 
 there all the same. The vale, lake, river run 
 ning through it, looked much as they did 
 eleven years ago. The [Irishman's] house on 
 the Baker Farm has disappeared. Went around 
 West and North to the village, and then to 
 Sleepy Hollow cemetery. I found all the Tho 
 reau graves (the remains having been removed 
 thither since my visit, eleven years ago) up 
 back on a little, shaded hill, and having neat, 
 plain brown headstones. A little farther on I 
 found a short, thick slab of marble, at the head 
 of a grave and on it was marked "Hawthorne." 
 A silent farewell to the graves of the Thoreaus 
 and then I went to the hotel. 
 
 After supper went to visit once more the old 
 80 
 
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Battle-ground and the Monument. On my re 
 turn, took a look at the new monument (erect 
 ed to the memory of the fallen friends in the 
 late war) standing on the public square. When 
 here before in '63, it was war time and soldiers 
 were being mustered into service, and they 
 were encamped on the same open square. Now 
 only some of their names are on record there. 
 Such is life! 
 
 Aug. 29th. Arose at 5 o'clock and took an 
 early walk on North side of R. E. This is a 
 grand old town! How quiet and restful the 
 people seem! After breakfast went to call 
 upon X. His housekeeper went up stairs and 
 notified him, and he came down with quite a 
 visible scowl on his countenance, but when I 
 told him who I was, he soon called me to 
 mind, brightened up, was quite cordial and 
 made me welcome to his room below, for read 
 ing, writing, and so forth. I accepted this 
 offer with pleasure, in the meantime making 
 an arrangement for a walk together in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 2 o'clock, P. M. Started out with Mr. X. for 
 a trip of over one and a half or two miles 
 S. E., on what they call the Old Virginia 
 Road, to see the house where Thoreau was 
 born. I found my companion a little captious 
 and uneasy I did not keep to the foot-path 
 k 81 
 
beside the road! In our conversing, I forgot 
 to do it, which seemed to annoy him. (His 
 whims showed themselves otherwise during 
 that walk.) 
 
 We found the house; X. was good-natured 
 and communicative; he pointed out to me the 
 corner room wherein Channing's "Poet-Na 
 turalist" first saw daylight. We returned by 
 the way of Mr. Alcott's, took tea with the fam 
 ily and stayed there until nearly nine o'clock. 
 The older daughter, Louise, was away from 
 home, but I met her sister May. She is quite 
 an artist; bright, active, a good talker, some 
 what forward, and she reminded me of some 
 shrewd, sprightly young man that had tra 
 velled. She is quite busy, painting and selling 
 her work her father said to raise money 
 for taking a third trip to Europe. For a few 
 moments I thought of patronising her a little ; 
 so, pricing a piece of her painting on a black 
 panel about the size of a chair slat, I found it 
 to be $25.00. I " threw up the sponge." 
 
 Mr. A. read to me from the manuscript of 
 a forthcoming book. I liked it much, but X. 
 became visibly restive (A. noticed it) and fi 
 nally left the room to go and talk with the wo 
 men. Afterwards, X. evidently felt that he had 
 misdone, so on leaving he protested that he 
 was interested in hearing A.'s writings read by 
 82 
 
him, and he made an appointment thereupon 
 to go with me there tomorrow afternoon for 
 that very purpose. Returned to the hotel at 
 9.30 P. M. (The idea of repeating that call at 
 Alcotfs to gratify a whim!) 
 
 Aug. 30th. Up at six o'clock for a walk past 
 the old Monument and up Ponkawtasset hill, 
 on the side of which William Ellery Channing 
 once lived and got the credit for going farther 
 to visit Thoreau in his hut in midwinter than 
 any other living man "that was not a poet!" 
 It was pleasant to stand there and see the 
 placid Concord running through the meadows, 
 where thirty-five years ago, near this time of 
 the year, Henry Thoreau and his brother 
 rowed down this stream upon that trip on the 
 account whereof were strung the beads that 
 glitter and gleam in Thoreau's first book. 
 
 In the afternoon, called upon X. to go to 
 Mr. Alcott's to hear him read. A. did " read " ; 
 and X. and I sat and [X.] very civilly listened 
 to him. 
 
 During the reading Mrs. Alcott came in, 
 and I had the pleasure of making farther ac 
 quaintance with her. She seemed a kind, 
 sweet, motherly woman. After the reading 
 broke up, a pleasant general chat ensued.* 
 
 * "A general chat" and Alcott, the Great Converger, present! 
 We trust that our diarist is truthful. ED. 
 
 83 
 
Tea was announced, and contrary to my in 
 tention, I ate there again. After that Alcott 
 gave me some of his books. 
 
 Mr. S. had learned that I was in town. So 
 he found X. and myself and invited us to his 
 house this evening. I found that he was liv 
 ing in the Thoreau home of eleven years ago. 
 In the meantime Mrs. Thoreau has died, and 
 her daughter, Sophia, gone to live with rela 
 tives in Maine. He gave me some interesting 
 information about William B. Wright, author 
 of "The Brook and other Poems," Shelley's 
 later publishers, Walt Whitman, John Bur 
 roughs, Wilson Flagg, etc. After which cake 
 and ale were served, and X. and I left. 
 
 Aug. 31st. Arose this morning about Four 
 o'clock and started for a last visit to Walden 
 Pond. I shall probably not see it again. Here 
 I sit with my back against a little pine sap 
 ling, now growing on the site where once 
 stood the hut. A few feet in front of me is a 
 small but gradually increasing pile of stones 
 to which every friend of Thoreau is expected 
 to add his unit. I brought one up from the 
 pond as my contribution and pencilled on it 
 the word " Bethel." I also set out near by a 
 plant of "Life-everlasting" that I had found 
 while on the way here. 
 
 As I sit here facing the pond, I observe on 
 84 
 
my left, about fourteen or fifteen rods distant, 
 a grove of those tall "arrowy" pines, such as 
 Thoreau used for his house-building twenty- 
 nine years ago. There is apparently not a 
 breath of air stirring. Birds are singing about 
 me and even the hum of an occasional mos 
 quito is still heard. I left the pond, passing 
 out by the beanfield. The grove of trees that 
 Thoreau planted thereon in payment for his 
 occupancy, looked quite sorry from the effects 
 of a fire that had run through there some time 
 previously. 
 
 A very genial last visit to X. He gave me a 
 number of books, just as he had done at my 
 first visit. As I bade him good bye, saying 
 this would be my last visit to Concord that 
 I should not see it again, he answered: "Oh, 
 yes, you will." 
 
 85 
 
Our last glimpse of Thoreau's Western cor 
 respondent shall be a fragment from one of 
 his letters to Thoreau's sister, Sophia. 
 
 " I often meet your brother in my dreams 
 and with this peculiarity about these meet 
 ings: while, as you know, our night- visions 
 are often abnormal, grotesque, and disap 
 pointing, in this case I uniformly find my 
 high ideal of him while [I am] awake, fully 
 sustained. Occasionally he has become as it 
 were transfigured to me, beyond my power to 
 describe. So I have for some time been in the 
 habit of associating him with the North pole- 
 star, as through every hour of the twenty-four 
 it keeps its one position in the heavens." 
 
 It is much to have inspired such a friend 
 ship, and it passeth riches to have been capa 
 ble of such an inspiration. It fitly marks an 
 epoch in a man's life. 
 
 86 
 
THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
 RENEWED BOOKS ARE SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE 
 RECALL 
 
 LIMITED CIRCULATION 
 
 LIBRARY, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, DAVIS 
 
 Book SHp-50m-8,'63(D9954s4)458 
 
Jones, S. A. 
 Some unpublished 
 
 CaU Number: 
 
 PS3053 
 
 A3 
 
 1899 
 
 308452