Thoreau writes his poem “The Thaw” in his journal:
Her tears of joy, that only faster flowed.
Fain would I stretch me by the highway-side,
To thaw and trickle with the melting snow,
That, mingled soul and body with the tide,
I too may through the pores of nature flow.
But I, alas, nor trickle can nor fume,
One jot to forward the great work of Time,
‘Tis mine to hearken while these ply the loom,
So shall my silence with their music chime.
Ralph Waldo Emerson writes in his journal:
Let us call Goose Pond the Drop, or God’s Pond. Henry Thoreau says. “No; that will shock the people; call it Satan’s Pond and they will like it, or still better, Tom Wyman’s Pond.” Alas! say I, for the Personality that eats us up (Journals and Miscellaneous Notebooks of Ralph Waldo Emerson, 7:165).
Thoreau writes his poems “The Dream Valley” and “Love” in his journal:
We two that planets erst had been
Are now a double star,
And in the heavens may be seen,
Where that we fixed are.
Yet, whirled with subtle power along,
Into new space we enter,
And evermore with spheral song
Revolve about one centre.
Thoreau writes his poems “The deeds of kings and meanest hedger” and “The Evening Wind” in his journal:
The eastern mail comes lumbering in,
With outmost waves of Europe’s din;
The western sighs adown the slope,
Or ‘mid the rustling leaves doth grope,
Laden with news from Californ’,
Whate’er transpired hath since morn,
How wags the world by brier and brake,
From hence to Athabasca lake.
Thoreau writes in his journal:
When the poetic frenzy seizes us, We run and scratch with our pen, delighting, like the cock, in the dust we make, but do not detect where the jewel lies, which perhaps we have in the meantime cast to a distance, or quite covered up again (Journal, 1:73).
Thoreau writes in his journal:
It takes a man to make a room silent (Journal, 1:73).
Thoreau’s brother John advertises the Concord Academy in the Yeoman’s Gazette. The advertisements continue in every issue through 13 April.
Terms for the Quarter:
English branches, $4.00
Languages included 6.00
He will be assisted in the classical department by Henry D. Thoreau, the present instructor.
N. B. Writing will be particularly attended to.
John Thoreau, Jr., Preceptor.
Concord, Feb. 9, 1838
Thoreau writes his poem “The Peal of the Bells” in his journal:
Then forth to the youngling rocks I glide,
Where over the water, and over the land,
The bells are booming on either hand.
Now up they go ding, then down again dong,
And awhile they swing to the same old song,
And the metal goes round at a single bound,
A-lulling the fields with its measured sound,
Till the tired tongue falls with a lengthened boom
As solemn and loud as the crack of doom . . .
Ralph Waldo Emerson writes to Thoreau:
The dull weather and some inflammation still hold me in the house, and so may cost you some trouble. I wrote Miss [Margaret] Fuller at Groton a week ago that as soon as Saturday (tomorrow) I would endeavor to send her more accurate answers to her request for information in respect to houses likely to be let in Concord. As I know that she & her family must be anxious to learn the facts, as soon as may be, I beg you to help me in procuring the information today, if your engagements will leave you space for this charity.
My questions are
1. Is Dr. Gallup’s [William Gallup] house to be vacant shortly, &, if so, what is the rent?
It belongs, I believe, to Col. Shattuck. [Daniel Shattuck]
2. What does Mrs Goodwin determine in regard to the house now occupied by Mr. [Francis R.?] Gourgas? Since, if she do not wish to apply for that house, I think that will suit Mrs. F. If it is to be had, what is the rent?
Col. Shattuck is also the [lessor] of this house.
3. What is the rent of your Aunts’ [Jane and Maria Thoreau] house, & when will it be rentable?
4. Pray ask your father if he knows of any other houses in the village that may want tenants in the Spring.
If sometime this evening you can without much inconvenience give me an answer to these queries, you will greatly oblige your imprisoned friend
R. W. Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson writes to Thoreau:
Mrs [Lucy Jackson] Brown wishes very much to see you at her house tomorrow (Saturday) Evening to meet Mr [Amos Bronson] Alcott. If you have any leisure for the Useful Arts, L[idian] E[merson] is very desirous of your aid. Do not come at any risk of the Fine.
R. W. E.
Thoreau writes his poem “A Shrike” in his journal:
Warbles with might and main
The fearless shrike, as all agog
To find in fog his gain.
His steady sails he never furls
At any time o’ Year,
And, perched now on Winter’s curls,
He whistles in his ear.
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Cheap persons will stand upon ceremony, because there is no other ground, but to the great of the earth we need no introduction, nor do they need any to us.
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau and his brother John build a boat, which they name “Musketaquid,” for a trip on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers (The Days of Henry Thoreau, 88).
Amos Bronson Alcott writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Who hay not admired the twelve labors? And yet nobody thinks if Hercules had sufficient motive for racking his bones to that degree. Men are not so much virtuous as patrons of virtue, and every one knows that it is easier to deal with the real possessor of a thing than the temporary guardian of it.
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Ralph Waldo Emerson writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Edmund Sewall arrives in Concord with his mother to visit his grandmother, the Thoreaus’ boarder, Mrs. Joseph Ward. Over the next several days, Thoreau takes him sailing on the Concord River, hiking to the Cliffs, and to Walden Pond (The Days of Henry David Thoreau, 77).
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes his poem “Sympathy” in his journal:
Eternity may not the chance repeat,
But I must tread my single way alone,
In sad remembrance that we once did meet,
And know that bliss irrevocably gone.
The spheres henceforth my elegy shall sing,
For elegy has other subject none;
Each strain of music in my ears shall ring
Knell of departure from that other one.
Make haste and celebrate my tragedy;
With fitting strain resound, ye woods and fields;
Sorrow is dearer in such case to me
Than all the joys other occasion yields . . .
Where ever and anon I slaked my thirst
Like a tired traveller at some poet’s well,
Which from the teeming ground did bubbling burst,
And tinkling thence adown the page it fell.
Still through the leaves its music you might hear,
Till other springs fell faintly on the ear.
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes his poem “The Assabet” in his journal:
Rivers from the sun do flow,
Springing with the dewy morn;
Voyageurs ‘gainst time do row,
Idle noon nor sunset know,
Ever even with tile dawn.
Since that first “Away! away!”
Many a lengthy league we’ve rowed,
Still the sparrow on the spray
Hastes to usher in the day
With her simple stanza’d ode.
Thoreau writes his poem “The Breeze’s Invitation” in his journal:
Where the freest zephyrs blow,
Batten on the oak tree’s rustle,
And the pleasant insect bustle,
Dripping with the streamlet’s flow
What if I no wings do wear,
Thro’ this solid-seeming air
I can skim like any swallow ;
Whoso dareth let her follow,
And we’ll be a jovial pair.
Ellen Sewall writes to her father Edmund Quincy Sewall Sr. on 31 July:
But to return to the day I left Brookline—Aunt Ann and Grandma and the rest were rather better [than] when I saw them before—I dined there, and cousin Joseph went to the stage office to secure my passage in the Concord stage. It came for me at twenty minutes of four—I was the first passenger taken up—soon after, Mr. and Mrs. Lowell, Aunt Maria’s friends, with their little boy got in, and Mr. Shattuck also. The ride to Concord was delightful. I never enjoyed a stage ride so much in my life. We had some gentle showers, but none to incommode us much. About noon there was a very violent shower, attended with a great deal of wind, which had laid the dust completely. You mention in your letter that the storm was very violent with you. Dear Aunt [Prudence Ward] and Grandmother [Prudence Bird Ward] I found well, and the rest of the family too.
Ellen Sewall writes to her father Edmund Quincy Sewall Sr. on 31 July:
Thoreau writes his poem “Stanzas” in his journal:
But mine are far between;
Content, I cry, for, sooth to say,
Mine brightest are, I weep.
For when my sun doth deign to rise
Though it be her noontide,
Her fairest field in shadow lies,
Nor can my light abide . . .
Ellen Sewall writes to her father Edmund Quincy Sewall Sr. on 31 July:
Ellen Sewall writes to her father Edmund Quincy Sewall Sr. on 31 July:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Ellen Sewall writes to her father Edmund Quincy Sewall Sr. on 31 July:
Ellen Sewall writes to her father Edmund Quincy Sewall Sr. on 31 July:
Ralph Waldo Emerson writes in his journal:
Ellen Sewall writes to her father Edmund Quincy Sewall Sr.:
She [Prudence Bird Ward] and Aunty send a great deal of love to you all and Mr’s John and Henry desire their respects. Mrs. Thoreau does not know I am writing or she would send love too.
I shall certainly be with you Saturday unless there is a violent storm, which I trust will not be the case. They are all very urgent for me to remain another week, but I of course say decidedly no.
Ralph Waldo Emerson writes to Thomas Carlyle:
I have a young poet in this village named Thoreau, who writes the truest of verses (The Correspondence of Emerson and Carlyle, 246).
Thoreau and his brother John begin their voyage on the Concord River:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
From our tent here on the hillside, through that isosceles door, I see our lonely mast on the shore, it may be as an eternity fixture, to be seen in landscapes henceforth, or as the most temporary standstill of time, the boat just come to anchor, and the mast still rocking to find its balance.
No human life is in night,—the woods, the boat, the shore,—yet is it lifelike. The warm pulse of a young life beats steadily underneath all. This slight wind is where one artery approaches the surface and is skin deep.
While I write here, I hear the foxes trotting about me over the dead leaves, and now gently over the grass, as if not to disturb the dew which is falling. Why should we not cultivate neighborly relations with the foxes? As if to improve upon our seeming advances, comes one to greet us nosewise under our tent-curtain. Nor do we rudely repulse him. Is man powder and the fox flint and steel? Has not the time come when men and foxes shall lie down together?
Hist! there, the musquash by the boat is taking toll of potatoes and melons. Is not the age of a community of goods? His presumption kindles in me a brotherly feeling. Nevertheless. I get up to reconoitre, and tread stealthily along the shore to make acquaintance with him. But on the riverside I can see only the stars reflected in the water, and now, by some ripple ruffling the disk of a star, I discover him.
In the silence of the night the sound of a distant alarm bell is borne to these woods. Even now men have fires and extinguish them, and, with distant horizon blazings and barking of dogs, enact the manifold drama of life.
We begin to have an interest in sun, moon, and stars. What time riseth Orion? Which side the pole gropeth the bear? East, West, North, and South,—where are they? What clock shall tell the hours for us?—Billerica, midnight.
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Concord, Mass. An advertisement for Concord Academy with Thoreau’s brother John as preceptor appears in the Yeoman’s Gazette. The ad runs through 21 September (Yeoman’s Gazette, 7 September 1839:3).
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Ralph Waldo Emerson writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
As the wise is not anxious that time wait for him, neither does lie wait for it (Journal, 1:92).
Ellen Sewall writes to her aunt Prudence Ward on 29 September:
He gave us a very interesting account of his jaunt to the White Mountains—what a delightful time they must have has—should not you have liked to have gone? Georgie thought “Henry” (as he persisted in calling him) a most entertaining gentleman, for he had innumerable stories of wild animals to tell him which amused him very much.
Her brother Edward adds to the same letter:
Ralph Waldo Emerson writes to his brother William:
Ralph Waldo Emerson writes in his journal:
Prudence Bird Ward writes to a friend:
Ralph Waldo Emerson writes to Samuel Gray Ward:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Ralph Waldo Emerson writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal regarding “Prometheus’ answer to Io’s question” (Journal, 1:94).
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes his poem “Farewell” in his journal:
When I to thee this being have resigned,
Well knowing where, upon a future day,
With us’rer’s craft more than myself to find.
Ralph Waldo Emerson writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Ralph Waldo Emerson writes to Samuel Gray Ward:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Ralph Waldo Emerson writes to Samuel Gray Ward:
Ralph Waldo Emerson writes to his aunt, Mary Moody Emerson:
Ellen Sewall writes to her aunt Prudence Ward:
I have wished you and John and Henry here a thousand times this week, for the ocean has, if possible, looked finer than it did last week . . . I hope dear Aunty you have had no more occasion for Thorough Wort, alias Thoreauwort . . .
Does Dr. Thoreau continue to give advice gratis? I do not clean my brasses half as quick without the accompaniment of his flute.
John Thoreau Jr. writes to George Sewall:
I send you a letter for New Year’s Day, just such as they sell at the Post Office for ten cents, and you must ask Sister Ellen to read it to you, and let her pay the postage for the pleasure of looking into it.
When we arrived at Concord we found the snow in the same state in which we left it, a foot and a half deep; still sticking to the trees and houses; the face of the clock upon the Meetinghouse being entirely covered with it. Should you not think it pretty strange to get into a stage at Scituate where there was not enough snow for your Donkey, and after riding a little while step out where the snow was too deep for the largest carts?
We learned that Sammy Black had acted rather queerly during our absence, for the day before we got home, being in a fit, and anxious to get out of the room, he did not wait for the opening of a door, but dashed through a window, breaking a pane of glass without injuring himself at all; pretty nimble fellow, don’t you think he was?
Our boys have amused themselves for a few days past with snowballing matches, and grand sport they made of it. The little fellows attacked some of the largest boys, and the giants were very tender to the small ones, and strove not to hurt them. The snow was very hard and the balls flew fast, and sometimes a little captain got a thump with a huge lump of it, but no one was foolish enough to get angry, and they had a fine time. The School went out Christmas day upon the river to skate, and played with some sticks bent up at the end which they call “Hawkies”, knocking a rubber ball about upon the ice. The boys here sometimes have bonfires while skating; the fire resting upon small hillocks sticking up in the meadows, and they gather around to warm themselves with great satisfaction, but if they are pretty lazy, and stand long in one spot, they are quite apt to get into the cellar; as in the story I told Edmund.
Did you and Edmund hang up your stockings the night before Christmas? Perhaps you don’t know what I mean, but when I was a little boy I was told to hang my clean stocking with those of my brother and sister in the chimney corner the night before Christmas, and that “Santa Claus”, a very good sort of sprite, who rode about in the air upon a broomstick (an odd kind of horse I think) would come down the chimney in the night, and fill our stockings if we had been good children, with dough-nuts, sugar plums and all sorts of nice things; but if we had been naughty we found in the stocking only a rotten potato, a letter and a rod. I got the rotten potato once, had the letter read to me, and was very glad that the rod put into the stocking was too short to be used. And so we got something every year until one Christmas day we asked a girl at school what “Santa Claus” had left her the night before, but she did not understand us, and when we told her about all the nice things which he had left us, and showed her some candy, she said she did not believe it; that our mother had purchased the candy at her father’s shop the night before, for she saw her. We ran home as fast as we could scud to enquire about it, and learned that what the girl had said was true, that there was no “Santa Claus”, and that our mother had put all those good things into our stockings. We were very sorry, I assure you, and we have not hung up our stockings since, and “Santa Claus” never gives us anything now. If they tell you any stories about “Santa Claus” at Scituate, I advise you Master George to hang up the longest stocking you can find.
I determined one night to sit up until morning that I might get a sight at him when he came down the chimney. I was just about your age George; I got a little cricket and sat down by the fireplace looking sharp up into the chimney, and there I sat about an hour later than my usual bed time, I suppose, when I fell asleep and was carried off to bed before I knew anything about it. So I have never seen him, and don’t know what kind of a looking fellow he was.
I am glad to hear that you are studying Geography; you must dig away hard at it and I think you will like it very much. Here is a picture of Master George Sewall studying Geography. [ drawing ]
I send Miss Ellen some Opals, from South America, for her Cabinet, a couple of books for Edmund, the larger I give him; the smaller I throw in but will not recommend it. You must give my love to Father and Mother. I send you Sir nothing but a letter, and now if sister has read it through to you very carefully you may give her a kiss for me and wish her a Happy New Year!!
So much from one who loves little boys but not brats.
John Thoreau Jr.
