There is much that is Christian in these extracts, startlingly
Christian. Any reader who bears in mind Whitman's own advice and
"dismisses whatever insults his own soul" will find plenty that is
bracing, brightening, and chastening to reward him for a little patience
at first. It seems hardly possible that any being should get evil from
so healthy a book as the "Leaves of Grass," which is simply comical
whenever it falls short of nobility; but if there be any such, who
cannot both take and leave, who cannot let a single opportunity pass by
without some unworthy and unmanly thought, I should have as great
difficulty, and neither more nor less, in recommending the works of
Whitman as in lending them Shakespeare, or letting them go abroad
outside of the grounds of a private asylum. IV

HENRY DAVID THOREAU: HIS CHARACTER AND OPINIONS


  I

Thoreau's thin, penetrating, big-nosed face, even in a bad woodcut,
conveys some hint of the limitations of his mind and character. With his
almost acid sharpness of insight, with his almost animal dexterity in
act, there went none of that large, unconscious geniality of the world's
heroes. He was not easy, not ample, not urbane, not even kind; his
enjoyment was hardly smiling, or the smile was not broad enough to be
convincing; he had no waste lands nor kitchen-midden in his nature, but
was all improved and sharpened to a point. "He was bred to no
profession," says Emerson; "he never married; he lived alone; he never
went to church; he never voted; he refused to pay a tax to the State; he
ate no flesh, he drank no wine, he never knew the use of tobacco; and,
though a naturalist, he used neither trap nor gun. When asked at dinner
what dish he preferred, he answered, 'the nearest.'" So many negative
superiorities begin to smack a little of the prig. From his later works
he was in the habit of cutting out the humorous passages, under the
impression that they were beneath the dignity of his moral muse; and
there we see the prig stand public and confessed. It was "much easier,"
says Emerson acutely, much easier for Thoreau to say _no_ than _yes_;
and that is a characteristic which depicts the man. It is a useful
accomplishment to be able to say _no_, but surely it is the essence of
amiability to prefer to say _yes_ where it is possible. There is
something wanting in the man who does not hate himself whenever he is
constrained to say no. And there was a great deal wanting in this born
dissenter. He was almost shockingly devoid of weaknesses; he had not
enough of them to be truly polar with humanity; whether you call him
demi-god or demi-man, he was at least not altogether one of us, for he
was not touched with a feeling of our infirmities. The world's heroes
have room for all positive qualities, even those which are disreputable,
in the capacious theatre of their dispositions. Such can live many
lives; while a Thoreau can live but one, and that only with perpetual
foresight. He was no ascetic, rather an Epicurean of the nobler sort; and he had
this one great merit, that he succeeded so far as to be happy. "I love
my fate to the core and rind," he wrote once; and even while he lay
dying, here is what he dictated (for it seems he was already too feeble
to control the pen): "You ask particularly after my health. I _suppose_
that I have not many months to live, but of course know nothing about
it. I may say that I am enjoying existence as much as ever, and regret
nothing." It is not given to all to bear so clear a testimony to the
sweetness of their fate, nor to any without courage and wisdom; for this
world in itself is but a painful and uneasy place of residence, and
lasting happiness, at least to the self-conscious, comes only from
within. Now Thoreau's content and ecstasy in living was, we may say,
like a plant that he had watered and tended with womanish solicitude;
for there is apt to be something unmanly, something almost dastardly, in
a life that does not move with dash and freedom, and that fears the
bracing contact of the world. In one word, Thoreau was a skulker. He did
not wish virtue to go out of him among his fellow-men, but slunk into a
corner to hoard it for himself. He left all for the sake of certain
virtuous self-indulgences. It is true that his tastes were noble; that
his ruling passion was to keep himself unspotted from the world; and
that his luxuries were all of the same healthy order as cold tubs and
early rising. But a man may be both coldly cruel in the pursuit of
goodness, and morbid even in the pursuit of health. I cannot lay my
hands on the passage in which he explains his abstinence from tea and
coffee, but I am sure I have the meaning correctly. It is this: He
thought it bad economy and worthy of no true virtuoso to spoil the
natural rapture of the morning with such muddy stimulants; let him but
see the sun rise, and he was already sufficiently inspirited for the
labours of the day. That may be reason good enough to abstain from tea;
but when we go on to find the same man, on the same or similar grounds,
abstain from nearly everything that his neighbours innocently and
pleasurably use, and from the rubs and trials of human society itself
into the bargain, we recognise that valetudinarian healthfulness which
is more delicate than sickness itself. We need have no respect for a
state of artificial training. True health is to be able to do without
it. Shakespeare, we can imagine, might begin the day upon a quart of
ale, and yet enjoy the sunrise to the full as much as Thoreau, and
commemorate his enjoyment in vastly better verses. A man who must
separate himself from his neighbours' habits in order to be happy, is in
much the same case with one who requires to take opium for the same
purpose. What we want to see is one who can breast into the world, do a
man's work, and still preserve his first and pure enjoyment of
existence. Thoreau's faculties were of a piece with his moral shyness; for they
were all delicacies. He could guide himself about the woods on the
darkest night by the touch of his feet. He could pick up at once an
exact dozen of pencils by the feeling, pace distances with accuracy, and
gauge cubic contents by the eye. His smell was so dainty that he could
perceive the foetor of dwelling-houses as he passed them by at night;
his palate so unsophisticated that, like a child, he disliked the taste
of wine--or perhaps, living in America, had never tasted any that was
good; and his knowledge of nature was so complete and curious that he
could have told the time of year, within a day or so, by the aspect of
the plants. In his dealings with animals he was the original of
Hawthorne's Donatello. He pulled the woodchuck out of its hole by the
tail; the hunted fox came to him for protection; wild squirrels have
been seen to nestle in his waistcoat; he would thrust his arm into a
pool and bring forth a bright, panting fish, lying undismayed in the
palm of his hand. There were few things that he could not do.