Henry D. Thoreau 19

Henry D. Thoreau 19

"Of gentle slope and wide,

As thou wert by my side;

I'll walk with gentle pace,

And choose the smoothest place,

And careful dip the oar,

And shun the winding shore,

And gently steer my boat

Where water-lilies float,

And cardinal flowers

Stand in their sylvan bowers."

 

A frivolous question has sometimes been raised whether the young

Thoreau knew what love was, like the Sicilian shepherd, who found

him a native of the rocks, a lion's whelp. With his poet-nature, he

early gathered this experience, and passed on; praising afterwards the

lion's nature in the universal god:--

 

"Implacable is Love,--

Foes may be bought or teased

From their hostile intent,--

But he goes unappeased

Who is on kindness bent.

 

"There's nothing in the world, I know,

That can escape from Love,

For every depth it goes below,

And every height above."

 

The Red Journal of five hundred and ninety-six long pages, in which

the early verses occur, was the first collection of Thoreau's

systematic diarizing. It ran on from October, 1837, to June, 1840,

and was succeeded by another journal of three hundred and ninety-six

pages, which was finished early in 1841. He wrote his first lecture

(on Society) in March, 1838, and read it before the Concord Lyceum in

the Freemasons' Hall, April 11, 1838. In the December following he

wrote a memorable essay on "Sound and Silence," and in February, 1840,

wrote his "first printed paper of consequence," as he says, on "Aulus

Persius Flaccus." The best of the early verses seem to have been

written in 1836-41. His contributions to the "Dial," which he helped

edit, were taken from his journals, and ran through nearly every

number from July, 1840, to April, 1844, when that magazine ceased.

 

For these papers he received nothing but the thanks of Emerson and the

praise of a few readers. Miss Elizabeth Peabody, in February, 1843,

wrote to Thoreau, that "the regular income of the 'Dial' does not pay

the cost of its printing and paper; yet there are readers enough to

support it, if they would only subscribe; and they will subscribe,

if they are convinced that only by doing so can they secure its

continuance." They did not subscribe, and in the spring of 1844 it

came to an end.

 

In 1842 Thoreau took a walk to Wachusett, his nearest mountain, and

the journal of this excursion was printed in the "Boston Miscellany"

of 1843. In it occurred the verses, written at least as early as

1841, in which he addresses the mountains of his horizon, Monadnoc,

Wachusett, and the Peterborough Hills of New Hampshire. These verses

were for some time in the hands of Margaret Fuller, for publication in

the "Dial," if she saw fit, but she returned them with the following

characteristic letter,--the first addressed by her to Thoreau:--

 

"[CONCORD] _18th October, 1841_.

 

"I do not find the poem on the mountains improved by mere

compression, though it might be by fusion and glow. Its

merits to me are, a noble recognition of Nature, two or

three manly thoughts, and, in one place, a plaintive music.

The image of the ships does not please me originally. It

illustrates the greater by the less, and affects me as when

Byron compares the light on Jura to that of the dark eye of

woman. I cannot define my position here, and a large class

of readers would differ from me. As the poet goes on to--

 

"Unhewn primeval timber,

For knees so stiff, for masts so limber."

 

he seems to chase an image, already rather forced, into

conceits.

 

"Yet, now that I have some knowledge of the man, it seems

there is no objection I could make to his lines (with the

exception of such offenses against taste as the lines about

the humors of the eye, as to which we are already agreed),

which I would not make to himself. He is healthful, rare,

of open eye, ready hand, and noble scope. He sets no limits

to his life, nor to the invasions of nature; he is not

willfully pragmatical, cautious, ascetic, or fantastical.

But he is as yet a somewhat bare hill, which the warm gales

of Spring have not visited. Thought lies too detached,

truth is seen too much in detail; we can number and mark

the substances imbedded in the rock. Thus his verses are

startling as much as stern; the thought does not excuse its

conscious existence by letting us see its relation with

life; there is a want of fluent music. Yet what could a

companion do at present, unless to tame the guardian of the

Alps too early? Leave him at peace amid his native snows.

He is friendly; he will find the generous office that shall

educate him. It is not a soil for the citron and the rose,

but for the whortleberry, the pine, or the heather.

 

"The unfolding of affections, a wider and deeper human

experience, the harmonizing influences of other natures,

will mould the man and melt his verse. He will seek thought

less and find knowledge the more. I can have no advice

or criticism for a person so sincere; but, if I give my

impression of him, I will say, 'He says too constantly of

Nature, she is mine.' She is not yours till you have been

more hers. Seek the lotus, and take a draught of rapture.

Say not so confidently, all places, all occasions are

alike. This will never come true till you have found it

false.

 

"I do not know that I have more to say now; perhaps these

words will say nothing to you. If intercourse should

continue, perhaps a bridge may be made between two minds

so widely apart; for I apprehended you in spirit, and you

did not seem to mistake me so widely as most of your kind

do. If you should find yourself inclined to write to me, as

you thought you might, I dare say, many thoughts would be

suggested to me; many have already, by seeing you from day

to day. Will you finish the poem in your own way, and send

it for the 'Dial'? Leave out

 

"And seem to milk the sky."

 

The image is too low; Mr. Emerson thought so too.

 

"Farewell! May truth be irradiated by Beauty! Let me know

whether you go to the lonely hut,[8] and write to me about

Shakespeare, if you read him there. I have many thoughts

about him, which I have never yet been led to express.

 

"MARGARET F.

 

"The penciled paper Mr. E. put into my hands. I have taken

the liberty to copy it. You expressed one day my own

opinion,--that the moment such a crisis is passed, we may

speak of it. There is no need of artificial delicacy, of

secrecy; it keeps its own secrets; it cannot be made false.

Thus you will not be sorry that I have seen the paper. Will

you not send me some other records of the _good week_?"

 

"Faithful are the wounds of a friend." This searching criticism would

not offend Thoreau; nor yet the plainness with which the same tongue

told the faults of a prose paper--perhaps "The Service,"--which

Margaret rejected in this note:--

 

"[CONCORD] _1st December (1841)_.

 

"I am to blame for so long detaining your manuscript. But

my thoughts have been so engaged that I have not found a

suitable hour to reread it as I wished, till last night.

This second reading only confirms my impression from the

first. The essay is rich in thoughts, and I should be

_pained_ not to meet it again. But then, the thoughts seem

to me so out of their natural order, that I cannot read

it through without _pain_. I never once feel myself in a

stream of thought, but seem to hear the grating of tools on

the mosaic. It is true, as Mr. Emerson says, that essays

not to be compared with this have found their way into the

'Dial.' But then, these are more unassuming in their tone,

and have an air of quiet good-breeding, which induces us to

permit their presence. Yours is so rugged that it ought to

be commanding."

 

These were the years of Thoreau's apprenticeship in literature, and

many were the tasks and mortifications he must endure before he became

a master of the writer's art.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VII.

 

FRIENDS AND COMPANIONS.

 

 

"Margaret Fuller," says William Henry Channing, "was indeed The

Friend; this was her vocation." It was no less the vocation of

Thoreau, though in a more lofty, unvarying, and serene manner.

 

"Literally," says the friend who best knew him, "his

views of friendship were high and noble. Those who loved

him never had the least reason to regret it. He made no

useless professions, never asked one of those questions

that destroy all relation; but he was on the spot at the

time, and had so much of human life in his keeping to the

last, that he could spare a breathing-place for a friend.

He meant friendship, and meant nothing else, and stood

by it without the slightest abatement; not veering as a

weathercock with each shift of a friend's fortune, nor like

those who bury their early friendships, in order to make

room for fresh corpses."

 

It is, therefore, impossible to sketch him by himself. He could have said, with Ellery Channing,--