I do not wish to see John ever again,—I mean him who is dead,—but that other, whom only he would have wished to see, or to be, of whom he was the imperfect representative. For we are not what we are, nor do we treat or esteem each other for such, but for what we are capable of being.
As for Waldo, he died as the mist rises from the brook, which the sun will soon dart his rays through. Do not the flowers die every autumn? He had not even taken root here. I was not startled to hear that he was dead; it seemed the most natural event that could happen. His fine organization demanded it, and nature gently yielded its request. It would have been strange if he had lived. Neither will nature manifest any sorrow at his death, but soon the note of the lark will be heard down in the meadow, and fresh dandelions will spring from the old stocks where he plucked them last summer.
I have been living ill of late, but am now doing better. How do you live in that Plymouth world, nowadays?[18] Please remember me to Mary Russell. You must not blame me if I do talk to the clouds, for I remain
Your friend,
Henry D. Thoreau.
TO MRS. LUCY BROWN (AT PLYMOUTH).
Concord, January 24, 1843.
Dear Friend,—The other day I wrote you a letter to go in Mrs. Emerson's bundle, but, as it seemed unworthy, I did not send it, and now, to atone for that, I am going to send this, whether it be worthy or not. I will not venture upon news, for, as all the household are gone to bed, I cannot learn what has been told you. Do you read any noble verses nowadays? or do not verses still seem noble? For my own part, they have been the only things I remembered, or that which occasioned them, when all things else were blurred and defaced. All things have put on mourning but they; for the elegy itself is some victorious melody or joy escaping from the wreck.
It is a relief to read some true book, wherein all are equally dead,—equally alive. I think the best parts of Shakespeare would only be enchanced by the most thrilling and affecting events. I have found it so. And so much the more, as they are not intended for consolation.
Do you think of coming to Concord again? I shall be glad to see you. I should be glad to know that I could see you when I would.
We always seem to be living just on the brink of a pure and lofty intercourse, which would make the ills and trivialness of life ridiculous. After each little interval, though it be but for the night, we are prepared to meet each other as gods and goddesses.