He began to fall more and more into a detailed
materialistic treatment; he went into the business doggedly, as one who
should make a guide-book; he not only chronicled what had been important
in his own experience, but whatever might have been important in the
experience of anybody else; not only what had affected him, but all that
he saw or heard. His ardour had grown less, or perhaps it was
inconsistent with a right materialistic treatment to display such
emotions as he felt; and, to complete the eventful change, he chose,
from a sense of moral dignity, to gut these later works of the saving
quality of humour. He was not one of those authors who have learned, in
his own words, "to leave out their dulness." He inflicts his full
quantity upon the reader in such books as "Cape Cod," or "The Yankee in
Canada." Of the latter he confessed that he had not managed to get much
of himself into it. Heaven knows he had not, nor yet much of Canada, we
may hope. "Nothing," he says somewhere, "can shock a brave man but
dulness." Well, there are few spots more shocking to the brave than the
pages of "The Yankee in Canada." There are but three books of his that will be read with much pleasure:
the "Week," "Walden," and the collected letters. As to his poetry,
Emerson's word shall suffice for us, it is so accurate and so prettily
said: "The thyme and marjoram are not yet honey." In this, as in his
prose, he relied greatly on the goodwill of the reader, and wrote
throughout in faith. It was an exercise of faith to suppose that many
would understand the sense of his best work, or that any could be
exhilarated by the dreary chronicling of his worst. "But," as he says,
"the gods do not hear any rude or discordant sound, as we learn from the
echo; and I know that the nature towards which I launch these sounds is
so rich that it will modulate anew and wonderfully improve my rudest
strain." IV

"What means the fact," he cries, "that a soul which has lost all hope
for itself can inspire in another listening soul such an infinite
confidence in it, even while it is expressing its despair?" The question
is an echo and an illustration of the words last quoted; and it forms
the key-note of his thoughts on friendship. No one else, to my
knowledge, has spoken in so high and just a spirit of the kindly
relations; and I doubt whether it be a drawback that these lessons
should come from one in many ways so unfitted to be a teacher in this
branch. The very coldness and egoism of his own intercourse gave him a
clearer insight into the intellectual basis of our warm, mutual
tolerations; and testimony to their worth comes with added force from
one who was solitary and disobliging, and of whom a friend remarked,
with equal wit and wisdom, "I love Henry, but I cannot like him." He can hardly be persuaded to make any distinction between love and
friendship; in such rarefied and freezing air, upon the mountain-tops of
meditation, had he taught himself to breathe. He was, indeed, too
accurate an observer not to have remarked that "there exists already a
natural disinterestedness and liberality" between men and women; yet, he
thought, "friendship is no respecter of sex." Perhaps there is a sense
in which the words are true; but they were spoken in ignorance; and
perhaps we shall have put the matter most correctly, if we call love a
foundation for a nearer and freer degree of friendship than can be
possible without it. For there are delicacies, eternal between persons
of the same sex, which are melted and disappear in the warmth of love. To both, if they are to be right, he attributes the same nature and
condition. "We are not what we are," says he, "nor do we treat or esteem
each other for such, but for what we are capable of being." "A friend is
one who incessantly pays us the compliment of expecting all the virtues
from us, and who can appreciate them in us." "The friend asks no return
but that his friend will religiously accept and wear and not disgrace
his apotheosis of him." "It is the merit and preservation of friendship
that it takes place on a level higher than the actual characters of the
parties would seem to warrant." This is to put friendship on a pedestal
indeed; and yet the root of the matter is there; and the last sentence,
in particular, is like a light in a dark place, and makes many mysteries
plain. We are different with different friends; yet if we look closely
we shall find that every such relation reposes on some particular
apotheosis of oneself; with each friend, although we could not
distinguish it in words from any other, we have at least one special
reputation to preserve: and it is thus that we run, when mortified, to
our friend or the woman that we love, not to hear ourselves called
better, but to be better men in point of fact. We seek this society to
flatter ourselves with our own good conduct. And hence any falsehood in
the relation, any incomplete or perverted understanding, will spoil even
the pleasure of these visits. Thus says Thoreau again: "Only lovers know
the value of truth." And yet again: "They ask for words and deeds, when
a true relation is word and deed." But it follows that since they are neither of them so good as the other
hopes, and each is, in a very honest manner, playing a part above his
powers, such an intercourse must often be disappointing to both. "We may
bid farewell sooner than complain," says Thoreau, "for our complaint is
too well grounded to be uttered." "We have not so good a right to hate
any as our friend." "It were treason to our love
   And a sin to God above,
   One iota to abate
   Of a pure, impartial hate." Love is not blind, nor yet forgiving. "O yes, believe me," as the song
says, "Love has eyes!" The nearer the intimacy, the more cuttingly do we
feel the unworthiness of those we love; and because you love one, and
would die for that love to-morrow, you have not forgiven, and you never
will forgive, that friend's misconduct. If you want a person's faults,
go to those who love him. They will not tell you, but they know. And
herein lies the magnanimous courage of love, that it endures this
knowledge without change. It required a cold, distant personality like that of Thoreau, perhaps,
to recognise and certainly to utter this truth; for a more human love
makes it a point of honour not to acknowledge those faults of which it
is most conscious. But his point of view is both high and dry. He has
no illusions; he does not give way to love any more than to hatred, but
preserves them both with care like valuable curiosities. A more
bald-headed picture of life, if I may so express myself, has seldom been
presented.