CONCORD, March 2, 1842.
DEAR FRIEND,--I believe I have nothing new to tell you, for what was
news you have learned from other sources. I am much the same person
that I was, who should be so much better; yet when I realize what has
transpired, and the greatness of the part I am unconsciously acting, I
am thrilled, and it seems as if there were none in history to match
it.
Soon after John's death I listened to a music-box, and if, at any
time, that event had seemed inconsistent with the beauty and harmony
of the universe, it was then gently constrained into the placid course
of nature by those steady notes, in mild and unoffended tone echoing
far and wide under the heavens. But I find these things more strange
than sad to me. What right have I to grieve, who have not ceased to
wonder? We feel at first as if some opportunities of kindness and
sympathy were lost, but learn afterward that any _pure grief_ is ample
recompense for all. That is, if we are faithful; for a great grief is
but sympathy with the soul that disposes events, and is as natural as
the resin on Arabian trees. Only Nature has a right to grieve
perpetually, for she only is innocent. Soon the ice will melt, and the
blackbirds sing along the river which he frequented, as pleasantly as
ever. The same everlasting serenity will appear in this face of God,
and we will not be sorrowful if he is not.
We are made happy when reason can discover no occasion for it. The
memory of some past moments is more persuasive than the experience of
present ones. There have been visions of such breadth and brightness
that these motes were invisible in their light.
I do not wish to see John ever again,--I mean him who is dead,--but
that other, whom only he would have wished to see, or to be, of whom
he was the imperfect representative. For we are not what we are, nor
do we treat or esteem each other for such, but for what we are capable
of being.
As for Waldo, he died as the mist rises from the brook, which the sun
will soon dart his rays through. Do not the flowers die every autumn?
He had not even taken root here. I was not startled to hear that he
was dead; it seemed the most natural event that could happen. His fine
organization demanded it, and nature gently yielded its request. It
would have been strange if he had lived. Neither will nature manifest
any sorrow at his death, but soon the note of the lark will be heard
down in the meadow, and fresh dandelions will spring from the old
stocks where he plucked them last summer.
I have been living ill of late, but am now doing better. How do you
live in that Plymouth world, nowadays?[18] Please remember me to Mary
Russell. You must not blame me if I do _talk to the clouds_, for I
remain
Your friend,
HENRY D. THOREAU.