Thoreau’s Last Letter*
as related by
Franklin B. Sanborn
(1895)
The last letter of Henry Thoreau, written by the hand of his sister, was sent to Myron Benton, a young literary man then living in Dutchess County, New York, who had written a grateful letter to the author of “Walden” (January 6, 1862), though quite unacquainted with him. Mr. Benton said that the news of Thoreau’s illness had affected him as if it were that “of a personal friend whom I had known a long time,” and added: “The secret of the influence by which your writings charm me is altogether as intangible, though real, as the attraction of Nature herself. I read and re-read your books with ever fresh delight. Nor is it pleasure alone; there is a singular spiritual healthiness with which they seem imbued,— the expression of a soul essentially sound, so free from any morbid tendency.” After mentioning that his own home was in a pleasant valley, once the hunting-ground of the Indians, Mr. Benton said: —
“I was in hope to read something more from your pen in Mr. Conway’s ‘Dial,’ [1] but only recognized that fine pair of Walden twinlets. Of your two books, I perhaps prefer the ‘Week,’ — but after all, ‘Walden’ is but little less a favorite. In the former, I like especially those little snatches of poetry interspersed throughout. I would like to ask what progress you have made in a work some way connected with natural history, — I think it was on Botany, — which Mr. Emerson told me something about in a short interview I had with him two years ago at Poughkeepsie. . . . If you should feel perfectly able at any time to drop me a few lines, I would like much to know what your state of health is, and if there is, as I cannot but hope, a prospect of your speedy recovery.”
Two months and more passed before Thoreau replied; but his habit of performing every duty, whether of business or courtesy, would not excuse him from an answer, which was this: —
To Myrong B. Benton
(At Leedsville,, N.Y.)
Concord, March 21, 1862
DEAR SIR, — I thank you for your very kind letter, which, ever since I received it, I have intended to answer before I died, however briefly. I am encouraged to know, that, so far as you are concerned, I have not written my books in vain. I was particularly gratified, some years ago, when one of my friends and neighbors said, “I wish you would write another book, — write it for me.” He is actually more familiar with what I have written than I am myself.
The verses you refer to in Conway’s “Dial,” were written by F.B. Sanborn of this town. I never wrote for that journal.
I am pleased when you say that in “The Week” you like especially “those little snatches of poetry interspersed through the book,” for these, I suppose, are the least attractive to most readers. I have not been engaged in any par ticular work on Botany, or the like, though, if I were to live, I should have much to report on Natural History generally.
You ask particularly after my health. I suppose that I have not many months to live; but, of course, I know nothing about it. I may add that I am enjoying existence as much as ever, and regret nothing.
Yours truly,
Henry D. Thoreau
by Sophia E. Thoreau
He died May 6, 1862; his mother died March 12, 1872, and his sister Sophia, October, 1876. With the death of his aunt, Maria Thoreau, nearly twenty years after her beloved nephew, the last person of the name in America (or perhaps in England) passed away.
Notes
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