Some of his earlier work suffers somewhat from a too faithful
discipleship of Emerson; but when he had found himself, as he has in
_Walden_, he can break away from this tendency, and there are many lovely
passages untouched by didacticism.
"The stillness was intense and almost conscious, as if it were a
natural sabbath. The air was so elastic and crystalline that it had
the same effect on the landscape that a glass has on a picture--to
give it an ideal remoteness and perfection. The landscape was bathed
in a mild and quiet light, while the woods and fences chequered and
partitioned it with new regularity, and rough and uneven fields
stretched far away with lawnlike smoothness to the horizon, and the
clouds, finely distinct and picturesque, seemed a fit drapery to hang
over fairyland."
But while there is the Wordsworthian appreciation of the peaceful moods
of Nature and of the gracious stillnesses, there is the true spirit of
the Vagabond in his Earth-worship. Witness his pleasant "Essay on
Walking":--
"We are but faint-hearted crusaders; even the walkers nowadays
undertake no persevering world's end enterprises. Our expeditions
are but tours, and come round again at evening to the old hearthside
from which we set out. Half of the walk is but retracing our steps.
We should go forth on the shortest walks, perchance, in the spirit of
stirring adventure, never to return, prepared to send back our
embalmed hearts only as relics to our desolate kingdom. If you have
paid your debts and made your will and settled all your affairs, and
are a free man, then you are ready for a walk."
There is a relish in this sprightly abjuration that is transmittible to
all but the dullest mind. The essay can take its place beside Hazlitt's
"On Going a Journey," than which we can give it no higher praise.
With all his appreciation of the quieter, the gentler aspects of nature,
he has the true hardiness of the child of the road, and has as cheery a
welcome for the east wind as he has for the gentlest of summer breezes.
Here is a little winter's sketch:--
"The wonderful purity of Nature at this season is a most pleasing
fact. Every decayed stump and moss-grown stone and rush of the dead
leaves of autumn are concealed by a clean napkin of snow. In the
bare fields and trickling woods see what virtue survives. In the
coldest and bleakest places the warmest charities still maintain a
foothold. A cold and searching wind drives away all contagion, and
nothing can withstand it but what has a virtue in it; and accordingly
whatever we meet with in cold and bleak places as the tops of
mountains, we respect for a sort of sturdy innocence, a Puritan
toughness."
But Thoreau's pleasant gossips about the woods in Maine, or on the
Concord River, would pall after a time were they not interspersed with
larger utterances and with suggestive illustrations from the Books of the
East. Merely considered as "poet-naturalist" he cannot rank with Gilbert
White for quaint simplicity, nor have his discursive essays the full,
rich note that we find in Richard Jefferies. That his writings show a
sensitive imagination as well as a quick observation the above extracts
will show. But unfortunately he had contracted a bad attack of
Emersonitis, from which as literary writer he never completely recovered.
Salutary as Emerson was to Thoreau as an intellectual irritant, he was
the last man in the world for the discursive Thoreau to take as a
literary model.
Many fine passages in his writings are spoiled by vocal imitations of the
"voice oracular," which is the more annoying inasmuch as Thoreau was no
weak replica of Emerson intellectually, showing in some respects indeed a
firmer grasp of the realities of life. But for some reason or other he
grew enamoured of certain Emersonian mannerisms, which he used whenever
he felt inclined to fire off a platitude. Sometimes he does it so well
that it is hard to distinguish the disciple from his master. Thus:--
"How can we expect a harvest of thought who have not a seedtime of
character?"