Some Unpublished Letters of Henry D. and Sophia E. Thoreau/The Brother and Sister
II.
the brother and sister.
IN one of the quietest of American villages there dwelt an earnest reader of the Weekly Tribune in the days when Horace Greeley was at his best. In one issue thereof he found George Ripley's review of Thoreau's second book, Walden, or, Life in the Woods. The reviewer had made many lengthy citations from this most awakening work, and the reading of these set aflame the heart of the distant reader. He wrote to the publishers for and obtained a copy. From the title-page of Walden he learned that Thoreau was also the author of another book, the still-born Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. This particular work the Michigan man soon found that he could not get from the publishers of Walden, nor could they inform him where it might be had, so utterly had Munroe's publication disappeared from the market. But the tang of Walden had "touched the spot" and the hungry man was ravenous for a taste of the Week. He had to write to Thoreau himself asking where that book could be bought; and thus began the correspondence, which I shall read with whatever of explanation I may be able to give.
Please bear in mind the situation: piled up in that garret-chamber, 'as high as my head,' are the seven hundred rejected books—cast into the "age" and by it most unmistakably cast out. Four years had they lain in Munroe's cellar,—more than once had he tried to get rid of them, and at last had 'suggested' that while there appeared to be no earthly use for them, he, James Munroe, 'had use for the room they occupied in his cellar.' For two years and two months had they found friendly shelter in the garret of John Thoreau. Behold! an enthusiastic letter from a distant stranger; one man who will not rest until he has read the ignored Week. Observe, if you please, the quiet calm of Thoreau's reply.
Dear Sir:
I am glad to hear that my "Walden" has interested you that perchance it holds some truth still as far off as Michigan. I thank you for your note.
The "Week" had so poor a publisher that it is quite uncertain whether you will find it in any shop. I am not sure but authors must turn booksellers themselves. The price is $1.25. If you care enough for it to send me that sum by mail (stamps will do for change), I will forward you a copy by the same conveyance.
As for the "more" that is to come, I cannot speak definitely at present, but I trust that the mine—be it silver or lead—is not yet exhausted. At any rate, I shall be encouraged by the fact that you are interested in its yield.
["So poor a publisher," indeed. It was this same James Munroe that published Emerson's Nature; and it took him twelve years to sell an edition of five hundred copies. Verily, "authors must turn booksellers themselves." "The price is $1.25." A copy of the first edition of Thoreau's Week for one dollar and twenty-five cents! Go to, thou author-bookseller, thou art not up to the trade values of books! Every one of the very volumes that James Munroe had no 'room' for, now finds warm welcome to the selectest of private libraries at—eighteen dollars a copy! If the reader wishes to recognize those copies which were bought from Thoreau himself he will turn to page 396. On the bottom margin he will find six lines written in pencil and by Thoreau himself: the addition being so much of the original text as was overlooked by the compositor.—Ed.]
It is hardly fair that I should go any farther until I have told you some little about Thoreau's Michigan correspondent. He was born in 1817, the same year as Thoreau, and was once a student at Oberlin, Ohio. "They wanted to make a 'preacher' of me," said he—quickly adding in the manner of one who has just missed a peril, "Gracious! I had a narrow escape." In fact, my aged friend has all the qualifications for Thoreau's 'Sunday School.' Pity it is, but his 'doxy is not Orthodoxy because it is n't your 'doxy. His is the doubt that is born of the supremest humility. Few indeed are they that understand it; but it matters not. Whosoever has read Walden will readily understand what that book had in it for the "wandering sheep" that had escaped from the Oberlin fold; they will as readily imagine with what haste he forwarded the one dollar and a quarter for a copy of the Week.
Dear Sir:
I forwarded to you by mail on the 31st of January a copy of my "Week" post paid, which I trust that you have received. I thank you heartily for the expression of your interest in "Walden" and hope that you will not be disappointed by the "Week" You ask how the former has been received. It has found an audience of excellent character, and quite numerous, some 2000 copies having been dispersed. I should consider it a greater success to interest one wise and earnest soul, than a million unwise and frivolous.
You may rely on it that you have the best of me in my books, and that I am not worth seeing personally, the stuttering, blundering clod-hopper that I am. Even poetry, you know, is in one sense an infinite brag and exaggeration. Not that I do not stand on all that I have written—but what am I to the truth I feebly utter!
I like the name of your county—may it grow men as sturdy as its trees. Methinks I hear your flute echo amid the oaks. Is not yours, too, a good place to study theology? I hope that you will erelong recover your turtle-dove, and that it may bring you glad tidings out of that heaven in which it disappeared.
["I am not sure but authors must turn booksellers themselves." Indeed! "I should consider it a greater success to interest one wise and earnest soul than a million unwise and frivolous!" No wonder that James Munroe had not cellar-room for the books of such a "stuttering, blundering clod-hopper."—Ed.]
After reading the Week the Michigan man wished to share the good tidings of great joy with others. There was a distant relation, an upright member of an orthodox sect; he must have a copy of the Week: it may show him how fast asleep he is! The book was mailed to the somnolent saint from Thoreau direct; but it had been as well to have sent a copy of Eliot's Indian Bible.
My aged friend chuckles when he tells you that this very copy of the Week was subsequently borrowed by a Presbyterian preacher and never returned!
On the same occasion a copy of both Walden and the Week were ordered for a brother in California. These arrived safely; and they were read and pondered under the shade of the great Sequoias, in the silence of the forest primeval. Both author and reader are long since where no shadows cloud the page. In the lumen siccum of Eternity the Thinker has learned "what argument his life to his brother's creed had lent."
Dear Sir:
I forwarded by mail a copy of my "Week" post paid to . . . . , according to your order, about ten days ago, or on the receit [sic] of your note.
I will obtain and forward a copy of "Walden" and also of the "Week" to California, to your order, post paid, for $2.60. The postage will be between 60 and 70 cents.
I thank you heartily for your kind intentions respecting me. The West has many attractions for me, particularly the lake country and the Indians, yet I do foresee what my engagements may be in the fall. I have once or twice came near going West a-lecturing, and perhaps some winter may bring me into your neighborhood: in which case I should probably see you. Yet lecturing has commonly proved so foreign and irksome to me, that I think I could only use it to acquire the means with which to make an independent tour another time.
As for my pen, I can say that it is not altogether idle, though I have finished nothing new in the book form. I am drawing a rather long bow, though it may be a feeble one, but I pray that the archer may receive new strength before the arrow is shot.
When forwarding the money for the last books ordered, a likeness of Thoreau was solicited, and having learned in some way that Thoreau was "poor," a five-dollar bill was enclosed in payment for the books and the desired picture, and it was requested that Thoreau should keep the balance "for his trouble." The reply to this kindly device is characteristic.
Henry D. Thoreau, age 39.
From a daguerreotype by B. D. Maxham, of
Worcester, Mass., taken in 1856.
Dear Sir:
On the 12 ult. I forwarded the two books to California, observing your directions in every particular, and I trust that Uncle Sam will discharge his duty faithfully. While in Worcester this week I obtained the accompanying daguerreotype—which my friends think is pretty good—though better looking than I.
Books and postage . . $2.64
Daguerreotype. . . .50
Postage . . . . .16
3.30
5 00
3 30 You will accordingly
find 1 70 enclosed with my shadow.
Thoreau had a poor throat for charity soup, no matter how tastefully it had been flavored. "Books and postage, $2.64; Daguerreotype and its postage, .66; Total, $3.30. Balance due you $1.70, and you will accordingly find $1.70 enclosed with my shadow." This holograph presents the poorest chirography of them all, the signature differing markedly from all the others. Yes, there was a shadow on his face when he wrote, for this is the only letter signed, curtly enough, "Yrs." instead of the accustomed "Yours truly" or "sincerely."
A little matter, do you say? Precisely; but did it never occur to you that the significances of life are in just its "little matters"? It is what we do and how, when not the great world is the spectator, but when the self is alone with the selfhood; then the undertone of character is heard, the 'still small voice' speaking audibly to the soul above all the roaring din of the mighty Babylon of which so many of us are in such cowardly dread.
That now aged man with whom Thoreau was then corresponding is indeed a most remarkable man. But I question if he is at all adapted for the latitude and longitude of . . . . . [The editor takes the liberty of suppressing the name.] No; we are like the Baltimore oysters labelled "extra selects." We should only mortify in a can of common oysters; so we have an uncommon can of our own. The name, it is true, isn't 'blown in the bottle'; but it is stamped on our "tin." I do not believe we would allow such an one as Thoreau's corresponent in our select can; nor do I believe Thoreau would have written a line to an "extra select." However, this sterling man, who owes little to the school and less to the college, had vouchsafed unto him the divine gift of insight. He is one of that rare few who are endowed with prescient foresight; most of us have only a purblind hindsight. We see the landscapes of life only after they have been passed, we discern the great ones of life only after they are dead—we are the "extra selects"!
[The editor is utterly unable to account for this rude and wholly unwarrantable outburst. Not a city of its size contains more people that are 'nice to know'; not any the largest city outdoes it in culture and elegant refinement. The ex-professor was recently asked if he did not mean that we are the "extra elects." His reply is not adapted for polite ears. Though it may cost him the friendship of the ex-professor, the editor trusts that he, at least, has done his duty to Society.]
Thoreau's meaning in this universe is no more a secret to this untutored man dwelling in remote Michigan than it was to the learned Fellow of Exeter College or to that graduate of Harvard who pitched his tent in Concord and taught America to think. Can you imagine what it implies to have "discovered" Thoreau in those early days; or do you imagine that Nature's "extra selects" are marked with a stencil-plate? Try and imagine what a consuming fervor is enkindled when a true Book is speaking to the soul of a man—his heart with hero-worship all aflame. If you have been capable of doing this, then you can conceive what fervid letters were sent, in those earlier days, from one earnest man in the distant West to that imperturbable and self-possessed man in "old Concord," and that conception will invest the next of Thoreau's letters with something deeper than the mere surface-reading shows.
Dear Sir:
You are right in supposing that I have not been Westward. I am very little of a traveller. I am gratified to hear of the interest you take in my books; it is additional encouragement to write more of them. Though my pen is not idle, I have not published anything for a couple of years at least. I like a private life, and cannot bear to have the public in my mind.
You will excuse me for not responding more heartily to your notes, since I realize what an interval there always is between the actual and imagined author and feel that it would not be just for me to appropriate the sympathy and good will of my unseen readers.
Nevertheless, I should like to meet you, and if I ever come into your neighborhood shall endeavor to do so. Can't you tell the world of your life also? Then I shall know you, at least as well as you me.
They never met in the flesh; but there is an old man in the West patiently waiting for a meeting where heart answers unto heart as face unto face in the refiner's silver.
An unbroken silence of more than two years followed this last letter. In the interval America was preparing to make history; chapters that should be written with her best blood and the first page with that of a hero—a man in whom was incarnated the high purpose of the Lord God Omnipotent.
There, in Virginia, Captain John Brown lay captive, "wounded and in prison." Even an Abolition paper called him a 'madman' for that which he had tried to do. The doughfaces of the North sweat clammily; the "friends of the Union" trembled for the safety of that fabric; universal consternation petrified the people. In that supreme moment a single voice was lifted up in the vestry-room of the little church in Concord wherein the first American Congress had held solemn deliberations. It was a voice that spake under a protest in which joined alike Whig, Democrat, and Abolitionist. "That speech should not be uttered; it is unwise, injudicious; it will do more harm than good," etc., etc. "I did not send to you for advice, but to announce that I am to speak"—and speak he did. It was Sunday evening, the thirtieth of October. The very next evening that intrepid voice was heard again, in Tremont Temple, and yet again in Worcester on the Wednesday following. It was the voice of one man; one man in fifty millions having the courage of his convictions; one man God-appointed to show a nation its way as the darkness was gathering around it and not a politician had the courage to strike a match to light the flickering tallow-dip of Policy.
The Western man read accounts of this one fearless voice, and wrote to Thoreau asking for the words he alone had dared to speak.
Dear Sir:
The lectures which you refer to were reported in the newspapers, after a fashion. The last one in some half dozen of them, and if I possessed one, or all, I would send them to you, bad as they are. The best, or at least longest one of the Boston Lecture was in the Boston "Atlas and Bee" of Nov. 2nd.—may be half the whole [speech]. There were others in the "Traveller" the "Journal" &c., of the same date.
I am glad to know that you are interested to see my things, and I wish I had them in printed form to send to you. I exerted myself considerably to get the last discourse printed and sold for the benefit of Brown's family—but the publishers are afraid of pamphlets, and it is now too late.
I return the stamps which I have not used.
I shall be glad to see you if I ever come your way.
This holograph is very striking in its mute significance. The words seemed to leap from Thoreau's pen. In fifteen different instances two words are written without taking the pen from the paper, in eight others three are thus continuously written, and in one line there are four impetuously chained together. There is nothing of this in the other five holographs. But, curiously, the signature to this last is the largest, boldest, clearest, and by far the best of them all. It reminds one of John Hancock's sign-manual on the Declaration of Independence. Surely, Massachusetts writes a fine hand on occasion!
There remained for Thoreau only two years and a half of his Lehrjahre: then he was "translated." Translated? Do they not say that of a Bishop when he is exalted? Even so; but is not Thoreau also a "bishop of souls"? There is now no obscuring rafter between him and the Unspeakable One who clothed him in clay that he might do his appointed work in the Universe—this little world his seed-field. Yes, it is the right word; it is his sorrowing sister's word. He was "translated" one beautiful Spring morning. It was on the sixth of May, 1862.
And now that sister is the Concord correspondent of him who long had waited and hoped for Thoreau to "come this way."
Dear Sir:
It gives me pleasure to acknowledge your note of the 18th instant, and I desire to thank you for the very friendly sympathy which you have manifested for us in this season of sorrow and affliction.
My mother and myself are the only surviving members of a family once numbering six. My elder brother, for whom you enquire, died twenty years ago, next a precious sister was called, and three years since my dear Father left us.
My brother Henry's illness commenced a year ago last December. During seventeen months never a murmur escaped him. I wish that I could describe the wonderful simplicity and child-like trust with which he accepted every experience. As he said, "he never met with a disappointment in his life, because he always arranged so as to avoid it." "He learned when he was a very little boy that he must die, and of course he was not disappointed when his time came." Indeed we cannot fed that he has died, but rather [has] been translated.
On one occasion he remarked to me that he considered perfect disease as agreeable as perfect health, since the mind always conformed to the condition of the body.
I never knew any one who set so great a value on Time as did my brother; he continued to busy himself all through his sickness, and during the last few months of his life he edited many papers for the press, and he did not cease to call for his manuscripts till the last day of his life.[1]
While we suffer an irreparable loss in the departure of my most gifted brother, still we are comforted and cheered by the memory of his pure and virtuous soul; and it is a great consolation to know that he possessed a spirit so attuned to the beauties and harmonies of Nature that the color of the sky, the fragrance of the flowers and the music of the birds ministered unceasingly to his pleasure. He was the happiest of mortals. This world a paradise. "Where there is knowledge, where there is virtue, where there is beauty, where there is progress, there is now his home."
You ask the name of my brother's traveling companion. Mr. . . ., a near neighbor and intimate friend, most frequently accompanied him in his walks. In the lines on page twenty-second of "The Week" you 
Henry D. Thoreau, age 37.
From a crayon portrait drawn in 1854 by Samuel W. Rowse.
The original is in the Concord Free Library.
will find a reference to this same friend. Mr. . . . wrote the lines sung at my brother's funeral. So sincere is his friendship for Henry, that, I doubt not, any token of esteem you may bestow for his sake, upon him, will be acceptable.
Within a few weeks we have had some photographs taken from a crayon portrait of my brother. The crayon drawing was made two years before Henry sent you his Dauguerreotype. Will you accept the inclosed picture? His friends all consider it an excellent likeness. My mother unites with me in very kind regards to yourself. It would afford us pleasure to see you at any time. Concord is the home of many worthies, Emerson, Alcott, Hawthorne, Channing, &c., all valued friends of my brother. I trust that you may be attracted to this neighborhood.
P. S. I received, by to-day's mail, a very appreciative notice of my brother from the pen of Storrow Higginson, formerly a pupil in Mr. Sanborn's school. I think the article would interest you. It is contained in the May number of the "Harvard Magazine." In the "Atlantic Monthly" for August you may look for a memorial by Mr. Emerson.
"He considered perfect disease as agreeable as perfect health, since the mind always conformed to the condition of the body." Where is there a more memorable observation? One month before, Sophia had written to Mr. Ricketson: "You ask me for some particulars regarding Henry's illness. I feel like saying that Henry was never affected, never reached by it. I never saw such a manifestation of the power of spirit over matter. Very often I have heard him tell his visitors that he enjoyed existence as much as ever. He remarked to me that there was as much comfort in perfect disease as in perfect health, the mind always conforming to the condition of the body."
There is the difference of a single word in these two statements: "comfort" in one letter, "agreeable" in the other. If the sentiment had been "cooked" for dramatic effect, there would not have been the shadow of a variation.
Of all writers, Thoreau is he whom we must read believingly. Indeed, he had long before left evidence of the unimpeachable truthfulness of this remarkable death-bed declaration.
"I am confined to the house by bronchitis, and so seek to content myself with that quiet and serene life there is in a warm corner by the fireside, and see the sky through the chimney-top. Sickness should not be allowed to extend farther than the body. We need only retreat farther within us, to preserve uninterrupted the continuity of serene hours to the end of our lives. As soon as I find my chest is not of tempered steel and my heart of adamant, I bid goodby to them and look out for a new nature. I will be liable to no accidents."—Journal, Feb'y 14th, 1841.
Twenty-two years later, brought to the supreme test, he proved the genuineness of his philosophy. He takes his place beside Socrates, Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius:
"A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried."
The crayon portrait—now in the Concord Free Library—was drawn by Samuel Worcester Rowse, and may safely be accepted as 'an excellent likeness' of Thoreau without a beard. Writing from England to Professor Norton, the poet Clough bears this testimony to the fidelity of Rowse's crayons: "Child brought me your present of Emerson's picture, which is really, I think, the best portrait of any living and known-to-me man that I have ever seen. It is a great pleasure to possess it." One year later, he had not changed his mind:—"When is Bowse coming over? Will you give him a letter to me? I continue to think his picture of Emerson the best portrait I know of anyone I know."
Sophia Thoreau's letter was written seven weeks after her brother's death,—the fresh wound still bleeding. Poor, stricken, lonely sister! Bereaved of such a brother, mourning for the 'irreparable loss,' yet prouder of her brother dead than of the countless carcases strutting in the sunlight and kept from stinking only by the cheap salt of civilization. Poor Sophia! she was quoting from her recollections of that beautiful spring day when Emerson spoke the eulogy over her brother's coffin. But, pardonably enough, she had misquoted. Emerson had said: "His soul was made for the noblest society; he had in a short time exhausted the capabilities of this world; wherever there is knowledge, wherever there is virtue, wherever there is beauty, he will find a home." He also said: "The scale on which his studies proceeded was so large as to require longevity, and we were the less prepared for his sudden disappearance. The country knows not yet, or in the least part, how great a son it has lost. It seems an injury that he should leave in the midst of his broken task, which none else can finish,—a kind of indignity to so noble a soul that it should depart out of Nature before yet he has been shown to his peers for what he is. But he, at least, is content."
my friends, having the clear testimony of his sister's letter and also Emerson's confirmation of Thoreau's deep 'content,' can we not say with that sister, "of course he was not disappointed when his time came." But, can such a life be in any sense a failure, in any sense be incomplete; is an early home-call an 'injury'; is it indeed an 'indignity' to be summoned from this pitiful Vanity Fair by the Master of the Vineyard?
Dear Friend:
Absence from home together with illness must be my apology for not before acknowledging your last kind letter.
Certainly it will give me much pleasure to present the walking-cane which you propose to send to Mr. . . . ., who feels keenly the departure of my precious brother, and who will value any token of friendship shown to his memory.
I am very glad that you have seen Higginsorfs article. It was an outburst of affection from his young heart which gratified me much. I was fortunate lately in receiving from Mr. Emerson a specimen of the "Edelweisse" Gnaphalium leontopodium, which was sent to him by a friend who brought the plant from Tyrol. How I wish dear Henry could have seen it.
I can never tell you how much I enjoyed copying and reading aloud my brother's manuscripts last winter when he was preparing them for the press. The paragraph which you quote from the essay on "Walking" impressed and charmed me particularly, I remember; and I am glad to hear you express your satisfaction in regard to the whole article.
I doubt not that ere this you have enjoyed the paper on "Autumnal Tints" I am sure that my dear Brother went to his grave as gracefully as the leaves in autumn. [The poor sister means, as undisturbedly as the leaf flashes into all the gleaming glory of the rainbow and silently obeys the Divine behest that ordains its death when Autumn winds grow chill.] Oh! that you could have known him personally: he was wonderfully gifted in conversation. [Aye; and now there is only silence and the patient waiting for the gracious manumission of Death!]
Thank you for the hints relating to yourself and family. What you say about enjoying the days as if they were made expressly for yourself denotes a spirit of rare contentment, which I am happy to know you possess.
My mother joins with me in kind regards to yourself and family.
Trusting to see you at some future time, I remain,
There has been no abatement in that 'spirit of rare contentment.' That quiet home in the West is radiant therewith, as I can testify. Cheerful and serene, the old-time friend of Thoreau and "Mother" are meekly waiting,—
"Their faces shining with the light
Of duties beautifully done."
Dear Friend:
I am happy to inform you of the safe arrival of the cane. The package reached me last evening.
It was with mingled feelings of pleasure and pain that I looked on this gift—a rare instance of friendship, most worthily bestowed.
I handed the cane at once to Mr. . . . ., who expressed great satisfaction.
The article is very chaste and beautiful. I should like to know the name of the wood.
Allow me to thank you for this token; it would have been fully appreciated by my departed brother.
Mr. . . . . will communicate with you. [Which he certainly did and after the manner of his species.] It may interest you to know that our afflictions have been heightened by an accident which happened to my dear mother, early in the season:—she fell down a long staircase, breaking her right arm and otherwise seriously injuring herself. Now, however, she is slowly recovering, and joins with me in very kind remembrances to yourself and family.
"Allow me to thank you." The italics are in the original. "Mr. . . . will communicate with you"—though in what manner this deponent saith not. This is the meaning of the italicised "me." Well, here is the 'communication' from the recipient of a most unique cane, originally designed for Thoreau himself, but arriving from distant California too late.
Dear Sir:
The cane arrived at this place last evening and was delivered to me, in perfect order.
I have in my keeping the very express-receipt that was issued to the donor of the cane, and it contains just as much pathos as the recipient's "communication"—and not an iota less! This cold-storage 'communication' of Mr. X. Y. Z. is sui generis—and yet we are told that only the amphibia have oval blood-corpuscles.
The cane was of manzanita wood, the handle was made from a buffalo horn, and the silver mountings were engraved with appropriate quotations from Thoreau's writings. It was a pious thank-offering from the two brothers—one in the far West and the other in California; but Death was swifter than friendship, and the belated tribute was given to the dead man's dearest friend. X. Y. Z.'s notelet contains just sixteen words, not one of which will spell "Thanks"; but there are two and one-half pages of "Complementary mottoes," nineteen in all: as if this grateful friend of Thoreau had said, "Two can play at that game!" Verily, we are "fearfully and wonderfully made."
I hold in my hand Sophia Thoreau's last letter to the Western man. Her mother had died, the broken home had become to the solitary mourner as a grave; its every room was haunted by the "old familiar faces," but the dear lips are silent—and that is the silence that kills.
Dear Mr. . . . .:
After several weeks' absence, I returned yesterday to Concord, to find the volume of poems you had so kindly forwarded, and without stopping to cut the leaves I hasten to thank you most heartily for this friendly remembrance.
Just now I am about to leave Concord, and shall make my home in Bangor, Maine. Mr. F. B. Sanborn's family will occupy my house.
Perhaps you are aware that my precious mother departed a year since. You will be interested to know that Mr. Channing has written a memoir of my brother, which will soon appear.
Mr. X. Y. Z. is as whimsical as ever—not calling at my house or recognizing me on the street for the past six years.
We are looking for Mr. Emerson's return [from Europe] and the town will give him a cordial reception. I hope you may see our village again: its charms increase from year to year.
I promise myself much pleasure in the poems when a little leisure is afforded me.
Please excuse this hasty note and believe me,
Twelve days after the burial of her brother Henry, Sophia Thoreau wrote to Mr. Daniel Eicketson: "Profound joy mingles with my grief. I feel as if something beautiful had happened—not death."
And something beautiful had indeed happened—another of the countless miracles that surround us here: a soul leveling this lift that it may go on to a higher; a soul that also had for its last countersign the "Æquanimitas" of the dying Roman Emperor; a soul that found 'perfect disease as agreeable as perfect health'; a soul to which this world was a paradise—a "Paradise Regained" by the clear sanity of supreme submission to the Maker; a soul that at the home-call left the only paradise it had ever seen and the purest delights that mere man can ever know,—left all as serenely and grandly as the setting sun sinks through the purple glory whose last refulgence gives the promise of another day.
Sophia Thoreau bade farewell to the "charming village" wherein she had known the unspeakable delight of companionship with such a brother and also the unutterable pang of parting which that 'something beautiful' we call 'death' entails. Think of her loneliness, of her last visit to that quiet hilltop in Sleepy Hollow: father, mother, sister, and brothers there; she the last lone lingerer here.
She was in Bangor two short years, and then "something beautiful" happened again: a family reunion where the amaranth forever blooms, where there is no night, where never a tear is known save those of that Divine compassion which is "touched with the feeling of our infirmities."
Sophia E. Thoreau.
From a daguerreotype found among her effects
after her death. Heretofore unpublished.
- ↑ "No man ever lived who paid more ardent and unselfish attention to his business."John Weiss.