[The author of this article, who prefers to leave it unsigned, was an intimate personal friend of the late Miss Sophia E. Thoreau, the sister of Henry D. Thoreau. The two friends often visited each other. Their acquaintance and friendship began when Miss Thoreau was thirty-two years of age, and continued unbroken until her death in 1876. The author of the article during this period made frequent visits to the Thoreau home in Concord, none of them very brief, and many of several weeks’ duration, and participated with absolute freedom in the family life.—THE EDITORS.]
“MIDSUMMER days, the sparkling hours of winter, somber, pensive autumn, the budding life of spring, all weathers and moods of nature, awaken remembrance of Concord and the Thoreau family. I knew the town in my younger life, but through all the shifting scenes of the passing years my memories of its quiet landscapes, sedate streets, cultivated people, and hospitable homes have always remained fresh and tender. I hear of changes, of growth, of the passing away of the old and advent of the new; changes there must have been, for a, whole generation has moved off the earth to other homes and activities since those I knew were living their serene and benevolent lives, which were at once an example and a benediction to all within their influence.
What suggestions of harmony and peace the word Concord conveys, and how “the light that never was on sea or land” illumines the reveries of long ago, as I recall the happy hours spent in the dear Thoreau home! There was about all the household a perennial spring of vivacious life that made its members interesting and attractive even to the young and immature. Its members possessed large stores of anecdote and historical information relative to old Boston and neighboring towns that were always entertaining and instructive. Mr. Thoreau, the elder, and myself were excellent friends; he was quiet and gentle, often humorous, expressing his thoughts in graphic, forcible language; in fact, a ready and copious vocabulary was characteristic of every member of his family, and life went on with them so evenly and calmly that talking seemed the principal business of the days. The arrival of the mails formed the excitement of the morning. Henry usually retired to his study after breakfast, and later would reappear ready for a jaunt through field or forest, or by the river, or, if in winter, for a long skate on its frozen surface, once going sixteen miles before turning homeward—this was, however, an exceptional achievement. But wherever he wandered, on his return he always had some new and instructive fact to relate, often all aglow with enthusiasm over some discovery he had made or treasure he had found.
Henry seemed to regard Concord and its vicinity as an epitome of the universe; it was said that on his returning to Mr. Emerson a borrowed volume of Dr. Kane’s “Arctic Journey,” he remarked that “most of the phenomena noted could have been observed in Concord.” Nature revealed its secrets to his sympathetic soul; his searching eyes saw far, wide, and deep; he heard, nay, knew when to expect to hear, the first bluebird’s note; indeed, no harbinger of the seasons escaped his alert observation. Before we had begun of think of spring flowers Henry came in from a ramble and surprised us with a handful of early violets. Sophia with her gifted pencil made a drawing of them for me, appending Henry’s poem, suggested years before by precisely such a bunch tied round by a wisp of straw:
I am a parcel of vain strivings tied
By a chance bond together,
Dangling this way and that; their links
Were made so loose and wide,
Methinks,
For milder weather.
A bunch of violets without their roots,
And sorrel intermixed,
Encircled by a wisp of straw
Once coiled about their shoots,
The law
By which I’m fixed.
A nosegay which Time clutched from out
Those fair Elysian fields,
With weeds and broken stems, in haste,
Doth make the rabble rout
That waste
The day he yields.
And here I bloom for a short hour unseen,
Drinking my juices up,
With no root in the land
To keep my branches green,
But stand
In a bare cup.
Some tender buds were left upon my stem
In mimicry of life.
But ah! the children will not know,
Till time has withered them,
The woe
With which they’re rife.
But now I see I was not plucked for naught,
And after in life’s vase
Of glass set while I might survive,
But by a kind hand brought
Alive
To a strange place.
That stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours,
And by another year,
Such as God knows, with freer air,
More fruits and fairer flowers
Will bear,
While I droop here.
This graceful sketch, so exquisitely drawn, is a beautiful illustration of Sophia’s artistic temperament and skill. She had an admirably balanced nature, and plenty of sentiment of a healthy kind; there was no waste or superfluity in any direction; and this equilibrium was her defense, and sustained her under the clouds of sorrow and sickness which overshadowed much of her life.
Henry and Sophia were in perfect accord (as indeed were all the family), and her thorough knowledge of botany formed a special bond of sympathy between them. Henry placed great reliance—as did all who knew her—on his sister’s rate judgment and ability in practical matters, and he was himself a shrewd, practical man in affairs of every-day life; he once said, “I have as many trades as fingers.” A comical illustration of his readiness to cope with sudden emergencies occurred late one warm afternoon in summer, just as a short, sharp thunder-storm had passed and the sun was breaking through the dispersing clouds. We had finished supper, but were lingering at the table, when the servant threw open the door, exclaiming, with wild excitement, “Faith! th’ pig’s out o’ th’ pin, an’ th’ way he’s tearin’ roun’ Jege Hoore’s fluer-bids es enuf ter scare er budy.” Henry and his father at once rushed out in pursuit of the marauder, and the ladies flew to the windows to see the fray. Never was practical strategy more in evidence; plotting and counterplotting on both sides, repeated circumvention of well-laid plans, and a final cornering and capture of the perverse beast, who, after his delicious taste of freedom, protested loudly and vigorously against being forced to return to his prison pen. It was truly a triumph of the intellectual over the animal nature, whose brief enjoyment of wild destructive liberty was suddenly ended by the power of a superior will. It was remarked at the time how much mental and physical strength had to be expended to subdue so inferior an animal.
Henry was equally prompt and victorious when he found that the rules and regulations intended for a past generation hindered the progress of his own. I was told that a few years after his graduation from Harvard he wished to obtain the loan of certain volumes from its library, and made application to President Sparks for them; he was informed that the ancient statutes of the University permitted “clergymen and graduates who lived within twelve miles of Cambridge “ to take books from its library. “And,” said the President,” while very desirous of accommodating you, I have no right to do so unless you can show that you come within the rule.” “As to that,” said Henry, “I am not a clergyman; but when the rule of which you speak was made, twelve miles was a two hours’ journey, and I live much nearer than that.” The President recognized the ingenuity and justice of the plea by allowing him to take the books.
Henry often showed playful instincts, yet he was serious. Life was no play-day for himself or others; he seemed tremendously in earnest in trying to find the key to right living. He impressed one as being interested in all humanity and its work in the world, provided it was not sordid. Low expedients, no matter what they accomplished in the making of fame or fortune, were utterly repugnant to him. There was a conspicuous Spartan fortitude in the family character; the mother had taught it both by precept and example. They took high ground on every subject, had stem views of duty, and tolerated no vacillating or compromising measures in disposing of moral questions. This attribute of the family character was strikingly manifested when Henry submitted to be imprisoned for refusing to pay taxes during the Mexican war. He believed all war to be wrong, and that the then existing struggle was for the extension of slavery, which he abhorred. Soon after his incarceration, Mr. Emerson, whom he had always supposed was of like sentiments with himself, called at the jail, and on meeting his friend exclaimed, “Henry, why are you here?” and received for answer, “Mr. Emerson, why are you not here?”
The family were noteworthy not only for their mental gifts, but for their lofty character i they seemed incapable of pettiness, and made a principle of not being cast down or vanquished; their high spirit was temperamental on both sides of the house. Mrs. Thoreau kept her hopefulness and courage under the constant disability of feebleness of body; for she suffered under the family scourge, consumption, for many years; yet complaints she never uttered, and her stately though frail figure sitting year after year in her straight-backed chair was a picture of patience and brave endurance. Ever ready to be interested in passing events, expressing keen opinions or offering valuable suggestions, her hold on life was firm, and it was almost a surprise when she at last yielded to the inevitable and submitted to lie several days in bed before the end came. To a friend who visited her at this period Mrs. Thoreau recited Cato’s soliloquy with perfect composure and contentment. Well might a gifted woman exclaim,” She looks like a queen,” when death at last had claimed the resolute spirit, and she lay silently receiving her guests for the last time.
Notwithstanding the sturdy attitude of the family respecting all ethical questions, how delightful they were in social life—most kind, generous, and winning. Their conversation, animated and entertaining, always surrounded them with an atmosphere of cheerfulness—a genuine cheerfulness that looked upon life and all its crookedness with more than philosophic resignation.
They were spirited in the best sense; their mirthfulness had the spice of original wit, native pluck, and coherent strength, and was a natural development from their varied ancestry, by whom they were endowed with the French vivacity, Scotch shrewdness, and Puritan rectitude.
The house was a veritable haven of refuge to one who fled thither from the weary tread and turmoil of the city. Recollections crowd upon me: its undisturbed orderliness, the restful sitting-room, where the sun lay all day, passing around the comer of the house and shining in again at the west window in the late winter afternoons, making Sophia’s window-plants all-glorious, which some magic in her touch or magnetism of genuine love for the floral family always conjured into wonderfully luxuriant bloom. In memory I walk among her flower-beds (hardly a garden) enjoying the fragrance of the old time favorites; I see the graceful laburnum in blossom, and a few steps further bring me to the little pine grove in the corner of their front yard (long since sacrificed to the opening of a new street), where in an instant I am in perfect seclusion; I see the sun glinting through the moving boughs, making a dancing mosaic of light and shade on the floor of pine needles; I hear the chirping of birds and the gentle, sighing voice of the wind through the soft green branches—a lovely retreat, to which no footsteps but those of memory will evermore wander.
I recall the reading aloud of fresh new books; the evening games of chess and backgammon; the bright, often distinguished, people who came to the house; the tea-parties and evening visits; the lyceum lectures on cold winter nights; the walks by field and river, sometimes to the old battle-ground, where, one early June morning, we turned in to the shady inclosure and Sophia pointed out the unnamed graves of the British soldiers who fell in the fight, their resting-place marked by rough gray stones. A narrow field lay between us and the historic “Old Manse,” brown with age. We sat on a large boulder beneath a grand spreading tree, near the plain granite shaft commemorating the patriotic valor of the “embattled farmers” who “fired the shot heard round the world.” We looked across the slow-flowing river, where at the time of the battle stood” the old North Bridge,” to an ancient house with quaint projecting second story, memorable as one of the depositories of the warlike stores of the American patriots; the drives to Fair haven cliffs, to Walden woods,1 before those grand solitudes had been invaded and transformed; and walks to Sleepy Hollow years before it became a place of burial. If Henry happened to be with us, although we were unobservant of what was beneath our feet, his acute eyes ever active, would detect Indian arrow-heads, or some implement for domestic purposes made of flint or other hard stone. I have seen him with a stick bring to light great numbers of clam-shells, remnants of Indian feasts of long ago. It was noticeable that these shell deposits were always found in places evidently selected for their pleasant situation and outlook.
Occasionally Henry would invite us to go with him in his boat. One of these excursions was in late November, and the weather was of almost unearthly beauty; bees in great multitudes hummed loudly as they lazily floated in the golden slumberous haze only seen in the true Indian summer. At a particular spot Henry turned the boat toward the bank, saying: “We will make a call upon a wild flower that is not ordinarily at home at this date, but the unusually warm days and nights of the past fortnight may have prevented its departure; so we will knock at its door,” tapping at the upper leaves of a low-growing plant; and, verily, there was the shy, dainty little blossom underneath welcomed by at least one pair of alert, sympathetic eyes.
On our walks about the village we would not be surprised at meeting a notable lady dressed in a white flannel shroud, “trying to get some oxygen,” as she would say. This lady lived many years, and, early in life, she, determining to have everything in readiness for her demise, provided herself with a shroud; but, after a time, finding her mortuary garment inclined to turn yellow, and possibly growing a little out of style withal, she would utilize it as a morning wrapper or breakfast gown; and frequently wore it when she took her walks abroad or made morning calls on her intimate friends and neighbors; so, as year followed year, shroud followed shroud, and in the matter of her final garb death certainly found her prepared with the most approved vesture.
It was often amusing to observe Henry’s want of gallantry; in getting in or out of a boat, or if a fence or wall were to be surmounted, no hand did he stretch forth.; he assumed that a woman should be able to help herself in all such matters; but if she were defenseless, his inborn chivalry could be relied on; as in the case of a terrified girl pursued through the woods by a couple of young ruffians, sons of influential parents, Henry’s valiant rescue was most timely; and by his persistent efforts due punishment was inflicted upon the shameless offenders. Again, when a weary mother with a heavy child in her arms was struggling to reach the station, where the train had already arrived, her feet sinking in the hot sand at every step, with one glance Henry took in the situation. He bounded over the fence, transferred the child to his own arms, and, with strides that seemed to disdain the shifting sand, he moved over the ground with a conquering air that appeared to impress the inanimate engine and compel it to tarry till the belated mother and child were safely aboard the train.
No one could more heartily enjoy his family life than Henry. He invariably came down from his study for a while in the evening for conversation; the sound of the piano was sure to draw him.
Tears dim my eyes as those scenes arise before me; Sophia playing the old-time music, notably Scotch melodies, which so well suited her flexible voice, and those quaint ballads of a past generation, whose airs were often so plaintive and with so much of heartbreak in the words. All the family had rich, sweet voices. If the song was a favorite, the father would join in, and thrilling was their singing of that gem, “Tom Bowline.” I hear now the refrain:
Often Henry would suddenly cease singing and catch up h.is flute, and, musical as was his voice, yet it was a delight never to be forgotten to listen to the silvery tones that breathed from the instrument.
For general society or mixing with throngs Henry had no inclination. He once said: “I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all myself than be crowded on a velvet cushion.” In 1860 there was a general muster of all the militia of Massachusetts at Concord, and, Henry being asked if he went to see the evolutions of the troops, answered: “I had occasion to ascend a hill in the neighborhood of the encampment, and was much surprised to find how small a space so large a body of men occupied in the landscape.” Henry’s first book (“A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers”) was far from a pecuniary success, very few volumes having been sold. This was not only a disappointment but caused no small monetary embarrassment. To discharge this, he for a time turned his attention to surveying, in which he was regarded as very skillful.
The unsold portion of the above-named work—somewhat over nine hundred copies—was stored in his father’s house. The disappointment and struggle occasioned by the failure of the reading public to appreciate his first book were met by Henry in his usual philosophic way. About this time in speaking of his library, he remarked that it consisted of “about one thousand volumes, nine hundred of which were written by myself.” Once, after a day so stormy that he had not taken his customary outdoor exercise, Henry came flying down from his study when the evening was half spent. His face was unusually animated; he sang with zest, but evidently needed an unrestricted outlet for his pent-up vitality, and soon began to dance, all by himself, spinning airily round, displaying most remarkable litheness and agility; growing more and more inspirited, he finally sprang over the center-table, alighting like a feather on the other side—then, not in the least out of breath, continued his waltz until his enthusiasm abated.
I know not why I was surprised at hearing his mother refer to his “dancing days,” for I had never associated Henry with any fashionable follies, even in his boyhood; but it seems he had been taught the usual accomplishments of well-bred children.
In sad contrast to the memory of Henry in his strength arises another, some years later—of him in his decline; he had returned from the West, whither he had been in search of health, and by evening a flush had come to his cheeks and an ominous brightness and beauty to his eyes, painful to behold. His conversation was unusually brilliant, and we listened with a charmed attention which perhaps stimulated him to continue talking until the weak voice could no longer articulate.
This was the autumn before his death; in a few months his life on earth was ended. I was told that he retained his splendid courage and fortitude to the last
With toil and strife he stormed the house of Fame.
In other sense this youth was glorious,
Himself a kingdom wheresoe’er he came.
Several years after, one late summer morning, I accompanied Sophia on a pilgrimage to an old “burying-ground” near the heart of the town. She told me of her intention of removing the remains of her immediate family to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. “You know,” she said,” when dear mother is gone I shall be left alone, the last; so it must be done soon.” The graves of her kindred were all around us. We were close to the village street, but the high stone wall was a barrier between the living and the dead; if any passed on the highway, they were unseen and gave no sound; we were shut in with the dead of two centuries. As we sat on a gray slab, Sophia related incidents of family history and personal characteristics of her ancestors slumbering at our feet, and of many others, townspeople bearing the well-known names prominent in early Concord annals; legends of the farmers who cultivated the soft slopes which are such pleasing features in the local landscape, the smithy on the mill-dam, the country storekeeper, the squire in his office, the dignified parson in his study—all were portrayed in her vivid sketches so full of quaint humor and tender pathos.
As she talked, those long-quiet sleepers seemed to stand before us, with all their eccentricities and idiosyncrasies, as when they formed a part of the life of a century ago; and as she finished her graphic word-picture they vanished into the invisible, leaving but a memory of her wonderful power of delineation behind them.
We turned to leave the place—truly “God’s acre;” the air was alive with butterflies fluttering noiselessly, alighting now on purple thistle and then on a belated wild rose; that impressive description of the end of the life of the Hebrew king came to mind—“He slept with his fathers.” We took a last look at the venerable stones and grassy mounds, and as we passed from the sacred inclosure birds and insects seemed to be singing nature’s requiem for the dead.
Sauntering along the elm-shaded streets to the house whence so many of her beloved had disappeared into the great unknown, our thoughts naturally turned to the problems of life and immortality.
The religious belief of the family was, to state it briefly, the Fatherhood of God and the Brotherhood of Man. Their confidence in the eternal beneficence and justice of their Creator could not be shaken, but for dogmas and sectarian creeds they had little respect, living and dying firm in the faith that He who observes every falling sparrow could not fail the human soul when, tired of earth and hungry for immortality, it lays down its burden of flesh as it enters the eternal mansion prepared for it “from the foundation of the world.”
These Concord friends have all passed from this world to a better. They made an ineffaceable impress upon their generation in virtue of noble living; they endeavored to elevate, and were stalwart friends of the poor and downtrodden. They were among the pioneers of that small and courageous company who began the fight against our National sin and dishonor. I seldom see in these days one of the people for whose freedom a whole Nation was convulsed by battle, death, and mourning, without thinking how dimly they comprehend and how lukewarm is his their appreciation of those brave, true-friends who, despite derision, censure, and personal sacrifice, with a zeal that never faltered, prepared the way for “Massa Linkum” and his glorious proclamation of liberty to their race.
——————————
1 It may be considered strange that the author of this paper does not speak of Henry Thoreau’s life as an amateur hermit on the shore of Walden Pond; this omission is due to the fact that her acquaintance with the Thoreau family did not begin until about two after that most interesting experiment in “plain living and high thinking” had been abandoned.
