Henry D. Thoreau 35

Henry D. Thoreau 35

"FRIEND RICKETSON,--You know that I never promised to

correspond with you, and so, when I do, I do more than

I promised. Such are my pursuits and habits, that I

rarely go abroad; and it is quite a habit with me to

decline invitations to do so. Not that I could not enjoy

such visits, if I were not otherwise occupied. I have

enjoyed very much my visits to you, and my rides in your

neighborhood, and am sorry that I cannot enjoy such things

oftener; but life is short, and there are other things also

to be done. I admit that you are more social than I am,

and more attentive to 'the common courtesies of life;' but

this is partly for the reason that you have fewer or less

exacting private pursuits. Not to have written a note for

a year is with me a very venial offense. I think I do not

correspond with any one so often as once in six months.

I have a faint recollection of your invitation referred

to; but I suppose I had no new or particular reason for

declining, and so made no new statement. I have felt that

you would be glad to see me almost whenever I got ready

to come; but I only offer myself as a rare visitor, and

a still rarer correspondent. I am very busy, after my

fashion, little as there is to show for it, and feel as if

I could not spend many days nor dollars in traveling; for

the shortest visit must have a fair margin to it, and the

days thus affect the weeks, you know.

 

"Nevertheless, we cannot forego these luxuries altogether.

Please remember me to your family. I have a very pleasant

recollection of your fireside, and I trust that I shall

revisit it; also of your shanty and the surrounding

regions."

 

He did make a last visit to this friend in August, 1861, after his

return from Minnesota, whither he went with young Horace Mann, in

June. And it was to Mr. Ricketson that Sophia Thoreau, two weeks after

her brother's death, wrote the following account of his last illness:--

 

"CONCORD, _May 20, 1862_.

 

"DEAR FRIEND,--Profound joy mingles with my grief. I feel

as if something very beautiful had happened,--not death.

Although Henry is with us no longer, yet the memory of his

sweet and virtuous soul must ever cheer and comfort me. My

heart is filled with praise to God for the gift of such a

brother, and may I never distrust the love and wisdom of

Him who made him, and who has now called him to labor in

more glorious fields than earth affords!

 

"You ask for some particulars relating to Henry's illness.

I feel like saying that Henry was never affected, never

reached by it. I never before 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 well 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. The thought

of death, he said, could not begin to trouble him. His

thoughts had entertained him all his life, and did still.

When he had wakeful nights, he would ask me to arrange the

furniture, so as to make fantastic shadows on the wall,

and he wished his bed was in the form of a shell that he

might curl up in it. He considered occupation as necessary

for the sick as for those in health, and has accomplished

a vast amount of labor during the past few months, in

preparing some papers for the press. He did not cease to

call for his manuscript till the last day of his life.

During his long illness I never heard a murmur escape

him, or the slightest wish expressed to remain with us.

His perfect contentment was truly wonderful. None of his

friends seemed to realize how very ill he was, so full of

life and good cheer did he seem. One friend, as if by way

of consolation, said to him, 'Well, Mr. Thoreau, we must

all go.' Henry replied, 'When I was a very little boy,

I learned that I must die, and I set that down, so, of

course, I am not disappointed now. Death is as near to you

as it is to me.'

 

"There is very much that I should like to write you about

my precious brother had I time and strength. I wish you

to know how very gentle, lovely, and submissive he was in

all his ways. His little study bed was brought down into

our front parlor, when he could no longer walk with our

assistance, and every arrangement pleased him. The devotion

of his friends was most rare and touching. His room was

made fragrant by the gifts of flowers from young and old.

Fruit of every kind which the season afforded, and game of

all sorts, were sent him. It was really pathetic, the way

in which the town was moved to minister to his comfort.

Total strangers sent grateful messages, remembering the

good he had done them. All this attention was fully

appreciated and very gratifying to Henry. He would

sometimes say, 'I should be ashamed to stay in this world

after so much has been done for me. I could never repay

my friends.' And they remembered him to the last. Only

about two hours before he left us, Judge Hoar called with

a bouquet of hyacinths fresh from his garden, which Henry

smelt and said he liked, and a few minutes after he was

gone another friend came with a dish of his favorite jelly.

I can never be grateful enough for the gentle, easy exit

which was granted him. At seven o'clock, Tuesday morning,

he became restless, and desired to be moved. Dear Mother,

aunt Louisa, and myself were with him. His self-possession

did not forsake him. A little after eight he asked to be

raised quite up. His breathing grew fainter and fainter,

and without the slightest struggle, he left us at nine

o'clock,--but not alone; our Heavenly Father was with us.

 

"Your last letter reached us by the evening mail on Monday.

Henry asked me to read it to him, which I did. He enjoyed

your letters, and felt disappointed not to see you again.

Mr. Blake and Mr. Brown came twice to visit him, since

January. They were present at his funeral, which took

place in the church. Mr. Emerson read such an address as

no other man could have done. It is a source of great

satisfaction that one so gifted knew and loved my brother,

and is prepared to speak such brave words about him at this

time. The 'Atlantic Monthly' for July will contain Mr.

Emerson's memories of Henry. I hope that you saw a notice

of the services on Friday, written by Mr. Fields, in the

'Transcript.'

 

"Let me thank you for your very friendly letters. I trust

we shall see you in Concord, Anniversary Week. It would

give me pleasure to make the acquaintance of your family,

of whom my brother has so often told me. If convenient,

will you please bring the ambrotype of Henry which was

taken last autumn in New Bedford. I am interested to see

it. Mr. Channing will take the crayon likeness to Boston

this week to secure some photographs. My intention was to

apologize for not writing you at this time; but I must

now trust to your generosity to pardon this hasty letter,

written under a great pressure of cares and amidst frequent

interruptions. My mother unites with me in very kind

regards to your family.

 

"Yours truly,

 

"S. E. THOREAU."

 

To Parker Pillsbury, who would fain talk with Thoreau in this last

winter concerning the next world, the reply was, "One world at a

time." To a young friend (Myron Benton) he wrote a few weeks before

death:--

 

"CONCORD, _March 21, 1862_.

 

"DEAR SIR,--I thank you for your very kind letter, which,

ever since I received it, I have intended to answer before

I died, however briefly. I am encouraged to know, that, so

far as you are concerned, I have not written my books in

vain. I was particularly gratified, some years ago, when

one of my friends and neighbors said, 'I wish you would

write another book--write it for me.' He is actually more

familiar with what I have written than I am myself. I am

pleased when you say that in 'The Week' you like especially

'those little snatches of poetry interspersed through the

book;' for these, I suppose, are the least attractive to

most readers. I have not been engaged in any particular

work on Botany, or the like, though, if I were to live, I

should have much to report on Natural History generally.

 

"You ask particularly after my health. I _suppose_ that

I have not many months to live; but, of course, I know

nothing about it. I may add, that I am enjoying existence

as much as ever, and regret nothing.

 

"Yours truly, HENRY D. THOREAU,

 

"By SOPHIA E. THOREAU."

 

"With an unfaltering trust in God's mercies," wrote Ellery

Channing, "and never deserted by his good genius, he most bravely

and unsparingly passed down the inclined plane of a terrible

malady--pulmonary consumption; working steadily at the completing

of his papers to his last hours, or so long as he could hold the

pencil in his trembling fingers. Yet if he did get a little sleep to

comfort him in this year's campaign of sleepless affliction, he was

sure to interest those about him in his singular dreams, more than

usually fantastic. He said once, that having got a few moments of

repose, 'sleep seemed to hang round his bed in festoons.' He declared

uniformly that he preferred to endure with a clear mind the worst

penalties of suffering rather than be plunged in a turbid dream by

narcotics. His patience was unfailing; assuredly he knew not aught

save resignation; he did mightily cheer and console those whose

strength was less. His every instant now, his least thought and work,

sacredly belonged to them, dearer than his rapidly perishing life,

whom he should so quickly leave behind."

 

Once or twice he shed tears. Upon hearing a wandering musician in the

street playing some tune of his childhood he might never hear again,

he wept, and said to his mother, "Give him some money for me!"

 

"Northward he turneth through a little door,

And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue,

Flattered to tears this aged man and poor;

But no--already had his death-bell rung,

The joys of all his life were said and sung."

 

He died on the 6th of May, 1862, and had a public funeral from the

parish church a few days later. On his coffin his friend Channing

placed several inscriptions, among them this, "Hail to thee, O

man! who hast come from the transitory place to the imperishable."

This sentiment may stand as faintly marking Thoreau's deep, vital

conviction of immortality, of which he never had entertained a doubt

in his life. There was in his view of the world and its Maker no room

for doubt; so that when he was once asked, superfluously, what he

thought of a future world and its compensations, he replied, "Those

were voluntaries I did not take,"--having confined himself to the

foreordained course of things. He is buried in the village cemetery,

quaintly named "Sleepy Hollow," with his family and friends about him;

one of whom, surviving him for a few years, said, as she looked upon his low head-stone on the hillside, "Concord is Henry's monument, covered with suitable inscriptions by his own hand."