REFERENCES:
R. W. Emerson: ‘Thoreau’ in the ‘Atlantic Monthly,’ August, 1862.
W. E. Channing: Thoreau: the Poet Naturalist, 1873.
F. B. Sanborn: Thoreau, ‘American Men of Letters,’ 1882.
H. S. Salt: Thoreau, ‘Great Writers,’ 1896.
I
HIS LIFE
Philippe Thoreau, of the parish of Saint Helier in the Isle of Jersey, had a son John who emigrated to America and opened a store on the Long Wharf in Boston. He married Jane Burns, daughter of a well-to-do Scotchman from the neighborhood of Stirling. John’s son John, a lead-pencil maker of Concord, Massachusetts, married Cynthia Dunbar, daughter of the Reverend Asa Dunbar, of Keene, New Hampshire. Of their four children Henry David Thoreau, the author of Walden, was the third. He was born at Concord on July 12, 1817.
After his graduation at Harvard in the Class of 1837, Thoreau taught school, learned surveying and the art of making lead-pencils, and began writing and lecturing. The episode in his life which gave him more than a local reputation was his camping out by the shore of Walden Pond. He spent two years and two months there studying how ‘to live deliberately.’ His hut, built by himself, might have seemed bare and cheerless to a victim of civilization. There was no carpet on the floor, no curtain at the window. Every superfluity was stripped off and life ‘driven into a corner’ in the hope of discovering what it was made of. Thoreau sturdily resisted the efforts of friends and neighbors to burden him with trumpery, refusing the gift of a door-mat on the plea that it was ‘best to avoid the beginnings of evil,’ and throwing a paper-weight out of the window ‘because it had to be dusted every day.’
He raised his own vegetables in a patch of ground near by, made his own bread, and spent his leisure time in recording his observations of nature and in writing his first book, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. When he was satisfied with this taste of life ‘reduced to its lowest terms,’ he went back to civilization.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack was a failure, as publishers say; meaning that it did not sell. Having published at his own expense, Thoreau was financially embarrassed when seven hundred and fifty copies of an edition of a thousand came back on his hands. He said to a friend: ‘I have added several hundred volumes to my library lately, all of my own composition.’[42] His second venture, Walden, was more fortunate. He printed a few articles in the ‘Boston Miscellany,’ ‘Putnam’s Magazine,’ the ‘New York Tribune,’ ‘Graham’s Magazine,’ and the ‘Atlantic Monthly,’ but at no time could he be said to live by literature.
His income from his lectures must have been small, and apparently he made no effort to obtain engagements. He had an exalted idea of what constitutes a good lecture, and was suspicious of oratory. He told his English acquaintance Cholmondeley that he was from time to time congratulating himself on his ‘general want of success as a lecturer.... I do my work clean as I go along, and they will not be likely to want me anywhere again.’
When Hawthorne was corresponding secretary of the Salem Lyceum, he invited Thoreau in behalf of the managers to give them a lecture. The invitation was accepted. The lecture must have had the fatal defect of being ‘interesting,’ for Thoreau was asked to speak before the Lyceum a second time the same winter.
Thoreau was a radical Abolitionist and for six years refused to pay his poll-tax, on the ground that the tax went indirectly to the support of slavery. For this delinquency he was once lodged in the town-jail over night. In 1857 he made the acquaintance of ‘one John Brown’ as a Southern-born president of a Northern college naïvely describes that terrible old man. When two years later news came of the desperate attempt at Harper’s Ferry, Thoreau gave in a church vestry at Concord his impassioned ‘Plea for Captain John Brown,’ which one of his admirers regards as the most significant of his utterances.
Of the twelve volumes forming his collected writings two only were seen by Thoreau in book form. The remaining ten have been made up of reprinted magazine articles or selections from journals and letters. The list is as follows: A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, 1849; Walden; or, Life in the Woods, 1854; Excursions (edited by R. W. Emerson and Sophia Thoreau), 1863; The Maine Woods, 1864; Cape Cod, 1865; Letters to Various Persons [with Poems], 1865; A Yankee in Canada, with Anti-Slavery and Reform Papers, 1866; Early Spring in Massachusetts, 1881; Summer, 1884; Winter, 1888; Autumn, 1892; Miscellanies, 1894; Familiar Letters of Henry David Thoreau, 1894.
Thoreau ‘travelled widely’ in Concord and made a few trips elsewhere. Aside from his excursions to the Maine woods, the White Mountains, Cape Cod, and Staten Island, he took no long journey until 1861, when he went as far west as Minnesota. He was in ill health then, and a violent cold terminating in pulmonary consumption brought about his death (May 6, 1862). It has been often mentioned as a strange fact that this man who almost symbolized the out-of-door existence, who chanted its praises, and who was unhappy unless he had at least ‘four hours a day in the woods and fields,’ should have died, at the age of forty-five, of exposure to the elements which (according to his whimsical philosophy) were more friendly than man.
II
THOREAU’S CHARACTER
Without posing, Thoreau contrived somehow to gain the reputation of a poseur. Because his nose was more Emersonian than Emerson’s, because he lived for a time at Emerson’s house (where he was beloved by every member of the family), and because he affected the Orphic and seer-like mode of expression, he was called an imitator. Because he was a recluse and a stoic, and because his letters were edited in a way to emphasize his stoicism, he has been thought to lack the human and friendly qualities.
The charge of imitation has been refuted by those who knew him best. ‘Doubtless his growth was stimulated by kindred ideas. This is all that can be granted. Utter independence, strong individuality distinguished him. His one foible was, not subserviency, but combativeness, mainly from mere love of fence when he found a worthy adversary, as his best friends knew almost too well.’[43]
In many ways Thoreau was much like other men. He was a devoted son, a brotherly brother, a helpful neighbor, a genial companion. We have his own word for it that he could out-sit the longest sitter in the village tap-room if there were occasion.
On the other hand, he was not ‘approachable’ in the common meaning of the word. He puzzled many people. He could be angular, stiff, remote, encrusted. Howells saw him in 1860, ‘a quaint stump figure of a man.’[44] He sat on one side of the room, having first placed his visitor in a chair on the other side. It was more difficult to get near him spiritually than physically. He seemed almost unconscious of his caller’s presence.
Emerson edited Thoreau’s letters so as to present ‘a most perfect piece of stoicism.’ It was the side of his friend’s character in which he most rejoiced. The book should be read exactly as Emerson intended it to be read. Later it should be supplemented by the Familiar Letters, which brings into relief the affectionate and winning side of Thoreau’s character.
III
THE WRITER
Thoreau was a painstaking student of the art of expression, but never for its own sake, always as a means to an end. One may conclude that it was not mere author’s vanity which led him to resent editorial tampering with his manuscript. He had good reasons for believing that neither Curtis of ‘Putnam’s’ nor Lowell of ‘The Atlantic’ could change his text to advantage. The question was not one of mere nicety of phrase, but of that subtile quality of style due to the inextricable interweaving of the thought and the language in which the thought is expressed.
An out-of-doors writer, Thoreau’s power to produce was in direct ratio of his intercourse with Nature. If shut up in the house he could not write at all. When he walked he stored up literary virtue. He believed that nothing was so good for the man of letters as work with the hands. It cleared the style of ‘palaver and sentimentality.’
The fresh wild beauty of Thoreau’s style (when he is at his best) may be praised without reserve. There is no danger of exaggerating its perfect novelty and attractiveness; the danger is that we may take the hint of these qualities for the reality. Thoreau could be commonplace when he chose.
IV
THE BOOKS
Early in September, 1839, the Thoreau brothers, John and Henry, made a voyage down the Concord and Merrimac rivers. The boat used was of their own building. It was painted blue and green, had wheels by which it could be dragged around the dams, and must have been as ugly as it was useful. A Week on the Concord and Merrimack records the unadventurous adventures of the two young men both on this and other excursions.
It is a medley of prose and verse, of homely common-sense and lofty speculation. Side by side with realistic portraits of plain people, farmers, fishermen, boatmen, and lock-keepers, are minute and exquisite descriptions of the life of field, mountain, stream, lake, and air. The literary allusions are many, and taken from sources as wide apart as the poles, Shattuck (the historian of Concord) and Anacreon, Gookin and Chaucer. Here is to be found the famous essay on Friendship, the spirit of which may be partly divined from this sentence: ‘I could tame a hyena more easily than my friend.’
The poetry in the volume is a stumbling-block to not a few readers. Doubtless it has its virtues, but too often Thoreau’s poetry must be forgiven for the sake of his prose. The stiff, almost self-conscious air of A Week on the Concord and Merrimack and the hobbling verse help to explain the indifference of the author’s contemporaries to a very original work.
Walden, the second of Thoreau’s books, is the better of the two, which does not mean that the first could be spared. The style is easier, the flavor more racy, the spirit more humorous. The attitude of the writer is characteristically provoking and pugnacious. The chapters abound in audacities which at once pique and delight the reader. This modern Diogenes-Crusoe, solving the problem of existence on an improvised desert-island two miles from his mother’s door-step, is a refreshing figure.
Life in the woods fascinated Thoreau. Walden is a tribute to this fascination. In the absence of domestic sounds he had the murmur of the forest, the cry of the loon, the ‘tronk’ of the frog, and the clangor of the wild-goose. Society was plenty and of the best. His neighbors were the squirrel, the field-mouse, the phœbe, the blue jay. Human companionship was not wanting, for there were visitors of all sorts, from the half-witted to those who had more wits than they knew what to do with. Matter-of-fact people were amazed at the young man’s way of living, lacking the penetration to see that he might live as he did from the humor of it. When sceptics asked him whether he thought he could subsist on vegetable food alone, Thoreau, to strike at the root of the matter at once, was accustomed to say that he ‘could live on board nails.’ ‘If they cannot understand that they cannot understand much that I say.’
The Walden episode was an experiment in emancipation, and the book is a challenge to mankind to live more simply and freely. Thoreau mocks at the worship of luxury. ‘I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself than be crowded on a velvet cushion. I would rather ride on earth in an ox-cart, with a free circulation, than go to heaven in the fancy car of an excursion train and breathe a malaria all the way.’
Excursions is a collection of nine essays. Some of them are formal and scientific with the Thoreau-esque flavor (‘Natural History of Massachusetts,’ ‘The Succession of Forest Trees,’ ‘Autumnal Tints,’ ‘Wild Apples’), others are pure Thoreau (‘A Walk to Wachusett,’ ‘The Landlord,’ ‘A Winter Walk,’ ‘Walking,’ ‘Night and Moonlight’). The flavor of these ‘wildlings of literature,’ as a devotee happily calls them, is as marked almost as that of Walden. They are, in fact, Walden in miniature.
The Maine Woods consists of three long essays, ‘Ktaadn,’ ‘Chesuncook,’ and ‘The Allegash and East Branch.’ They are readable, informing, uninspired. In the degree in which he left himself out of his pages Thoreau became as tame and conventional as the most academic of writers. The strength of some men of letters lies in conformity. Thoreau is strongest in non-conformity.
Cape Cod is far more characteristic than the Maine Woods. He who likes the savor of salt and the tonic of ocean air will enjoy this book whether he cares for Thoreau or not. It is interesting as an early contribution to the history of Cape Cod folks by a historian who was more of an enigma to the natives than they were to him.
The best part of A Yankee in Canada is not to be found in the account of the excursion to Montreal and Quebec, but in the sheaf of anti-slavery and reform papers bound up in the same volume. Here are printed the address on ‘Slavery in Massachusetts,’ the paper on ‘Civil Disobedience,’ containing the lively account of the author’s experience in Concord jail, the two addresses on John Brown, the essay on ‘Life without Principle,’ and the critical study of ‘Thomas Carlyle and his Works.’
The four volumes named for the seasons are valuable for the light they shed on Thoreau’s method as a writer, and his skill and accuracy in reporting the facts of Nature. They are sure to be read by the faithful, because the genuine Thoreau enthusiast can read his every line. The rest of the world will be content to know him by two or three of the twelve volumes bearing his name. A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, alden, the Familiar Letters, and a few essays from Excursions and the Anti-Slavery papers ought to be sufficient.
* * * * *
No more than greater men of letters can Thoreau be disposed of in a paragraph. Some of his pronounced characteristics can be, however.
He was a paradoxical philosopher. To praise Nature at the expense of civilized society, to eulogize the ‘perfection’ of the one and lament the degradation of the other, to declare solemnly that church spires deform the landscape, and that it is a mistake to do a second time what has been done once,—these declarations give a wholly incomplete but, so far as they go, not unjust idea of his manner. Taking Thoreau literally is a capital way to breed a dislike for him. Grant him his own manner of expressing his thought, make no effort to exact conformity from so wayward a genius, and at once you are, as Walt Whitman would say, ‘rapport’ with him. It is easy to exaggerate his paradoxicalness. Say to yourself as you take up the volume: ‘Now let us find out just how whimsical this fellow can be,’ and straightway he disappoints by not being whimsical at all.
If Thoreau’s praise of Nature at the expense of Society seems to border on the absurd, one must bear in mind how complete and intimate was his knowledge of what he praised. His love of forest, lake, hill, and mountain, of beast and bird, was deep, passionate, unremitting. He speaks somewhere of an old man so versed in Nature’s ways that apparently ‘there were no secrets between them.’ This might have been said of Thoreau himself. He could pay lofty tributes to the ‘mystical’ quality in Nature; but he was not a mere rhapsodist, a petty village Chateaubriand; he could come straight down to tangible facts and recount every detail of the advent of spring at Walden. His power to see and his skill in describing the thing seen unite to give the very atmosphere of life in the woods.
He was himself so complete an original and his literary attractiveness is such that Thoreau numbers among his best friends not only those who are nature-blind but the confirmed city-men as well, the frequenters of clubs, the lovers of pavements and crowds. That some of the most appreciative tributes to his genius should have come from these is but one paradox the more in the history of him who (at times) delighted above all else in the paradoxical.