Ellery Channing, in H. S. Salt, The Life of Henry David Thoreau He said to me once, standing at the
window,—"I cannot see on the outside at all. We thought ourselves great
philosophers in those wet days when we used to go out and sit down by the
wall-sides." This was absolutely all he was ever heard to say of that outward world
during his illness; neither could a stranger in the least infer that he had ever a friend
in wood or field. Henry was fond of making an ado, a wonder, a surprise, of all facts that took place out
of doors; but a picture, a piece of music, a novel, did not affect him in that fashion.
This trait of exaggeration was as pleasing as possible to his companions. Nothing was more
delightful than the enormous curiosity, the effervescing wonder, of this child of
Nature—glad of everything its mother said or did. This joy in Nature is something we
can get over, like love. And yet love,—that is a hard toy to smash and fling under
the grate, for good. But Henry made no account at all of love, apparently; he had notions
about friendship. |