Now Comes Good Sailing
An Elegy for Henry
Today May 6th is the anniversary of the death of Henry David Thoreau, who if you know me closely you know is one of my dearest figures and influences, along with the writers and thinkers and farmers of Concord, Massachusetts, a place of great importance in my life and great comfort to my heart.
19th century Concord. I often wish so badly that I could transport myself there, if even for a day. I do love to visit there now, and I’m fairly certain it hasn’t changed all that much, save for a few modern details and added shops, and the people of course. A good thing about modern Concord though, is the great New England style appreciation for its history and past, a dedication to preservation - both of knowledge, and of the physical evidence of it all - artifacts, books, manuscripts, buildings, art, antiques, even their plants and native species. There are exceptions and nuance to everything, even throughout history, but the general ideology seems to be one of caretaking the past while adapting to changing times and evolving mindfully into the future, a timeline and place in collaboration with itself.
I will admit that I am very sleepy today, so my mind feels a bit foggy. I rose this morning thinking about Henry, thinking about writing this post, and I also woke up wanting to go back to sleep. For some reason I first awoke around 3am, unable to find sleepiness again, and spent a few hours reading and thinking and wandering around instead. I usually wake up every morning at 7:26am, nearly on the dot, so today my schedule is a bit thrown off and wonky. I want to tell you about my own personal history with Concord, about Henry’s books and poems and their role in my own life, but for now, a simple elegy focused on Henry on this day that it his, not his birth-day but his last-day, the day he departed from earth, as important a day as the one when he arrived.
Henry was born in Concord on July 12, 1817, and he died of tuberculosis on May 6, 1862, when he was 44. He had been ill on and off with the disease since it was first contracted in 1835, and in his last year, he didn’t leave the house for months, unable to see visitors or get up from his bed. It’s strange to imagine him bedridden, one who is known for his saunters and observational walks through nature near and far. In fact it was a venture outdoors in 1860 which sent his illness into a more serious state - a late night excursion into the woods to count the rings of tree stumps during a rainstorm which resulted in bronchitis. Henry realized his disease was terminal, that this was perhaps the last phase of his life, so he continued working as long as he could, editing his unpublished writings like Maine Woods and Excursions, and trying to persuade publishers to print updated versions of Walden and A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. He wrote in his journals, he wrote letters to keep up discourse and correspondence, he continued everything until he was too weak to continue anymore.
Henry was not afraid of death. He accepted it as he accepted life, and wrote about it here and there with such peace and tranquility. He embraced the idea as he embraced the experience itself. Of course I was not there, and I never knew him myself, but after reading and knowing him closely from afar, I feel I can speak for certain aspects of him with confidence and surety. It is written that friends and neighbors were shocked by how relaxed he was about his state in his final days. It was more than acceptance, it seems to be something more of gratitude, knowing that death was a fair and even trade in exchange for being allowed to live. I think his death was very peaceful, maybe the most peaceful moment of all his life.
Henry’s last words before he moved into death were, ‘Now comes good sailing,’ and then two individual words, ‘moose’ and ‘Indian.’ Oh, Henry, you are the best. Now comes good sailing. Embracing every moment and transition either without fear or with fear as a tail wind. Tranquility, peace, and freedom, the ultimate freedom.
I believe that Henry truly lived deeply and fully while here on Earth. 44 years of adventures, excursions, brave statements and fearless explorations. He lived a life of words, both written and spoken. He challenged old ways of thinking, he spoke up for individuals, for communities of people, and for the animals, for the trees and flora, for the birds and insects. I think Henry felt a wide and heavy spectrum of emotions - frustration and disappointment, sadness and loneliness at times, and also great astonishment and amusement. I think he was/is a complex and often misunderstood individual, and I also find in his writings such moments of extraordinary peace, especially while understanding and feeling connected with nature and wildness, those moments when he knew he was interconnected with everything, part of something bigger than him, bigger than all of us. He observed and studied the cycles of nature with such patience and dedication. He saw births, lives, deaths before his eyes. He took notes and remembered details. He saw himself as part of it all.
Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote these words for Henry’s eulogy, printed in the Atlantic Monthly. It’s nice to read them and think about friendly walks with Henry, and to think of him in his solitude. I like to imagine him reading a favorite book, drinking a cup of tea. What music did he like, what did his laugh sound like. What did his shoes look like sitting by the door at the end of the day. Where did he put his tie. Would he mind that today we read and study his journals and personal letters. Would he have preferred those pages to remain private. Would he be surprised we still remember him today, 162 years after his death. He is remembered and beloved as he was in life. He had regular talks, visits, and discourse with neighbors and friends, and a great crowd gathered at his funeral in Concord to celebrate and honor him. Our beloved Henry. I hope wherever you are there is good sailing. I believe that there is.
Some of Henry’s words about death
Death is the penalty we all pay for the privilege of life. All say, How hard it is we have to die,-a strange complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to live.
When it’s time to die, let us not discover that we have never lived.
The unpreventable aspects of life can never be evil; death is one of those inevitable features, so we need to accept it with equanimity.
Death is beautiful when seen to be a law, and not an accident. It is as common as life.
When the leaves fall, the whole earth is a cemetery pleasant to walk in. I love to wander and muse over them in their graves. Here are no lying nor vain epitaphs.
On the death of a friend, we should consider that the fates through confidence have devolved on us the task of a double living, that we have henceforth to fulfill the promise of our friend's life also, in our own, to the world.
Live your life, do your work, then take your hat.
What did this post remind you of? Do any of these quotes inspire any thoughts or journaling of your own? Henry was an avid note taker and journal keeper, a great practice we should all remember and push ourselves to do more frequently if we aren’t already. What will you do today? Will you read some words of Henry’s today? Do you have a favorite line or book of his? Please share any thoughts or words in the comments. Thank you so very much for reading and for celebrating Henry with me today.
Thoreau Society Annual Gathering July 10-14 2024 in Concord
Writings, Books, Essays, Poems, Lectures, Journals, and Manuscripts
Writings from The Atlantic Monthly
As I read today’s post, I am reminded of the gratitude I feel for being able to learn so much from you. I am always open to learning, and know I will always be enlightened through your words. I love reading, a love that was nurtured by my mother, who took me, as a young child, to our local library, where I borrowed, read, and then returned books endlessly. My mom also read to me and my younger sister some classic works, especially those of Louisa May Alcott.
I completely agree with these thoughts of life and death. In a few weeks I will be eighty, a very meaningful number to me, for it is a reminder of how many years of life I’ve experienced, and also of the number yet to come. I feel no fear of death, but rather gratitude for the many joys, experiences, and blessings that I’ve had throughout my nearly eighty years. I have also had unimaginable loss and sorrow, as well as inexplicable struggles with life threatening illness, but somehow, against the odds, I’ve survived.
I shall continue living my life, my way, sharing joy and loving kindness wherever the opportunity presents itself. Thank you for being a bearer of goodness.
Greetings from Concord, Jesse! This is such a beautiful post honoring dear Henry❣️I just finished a wonderful book that I think you would love called The Boatman: Henry David Thoreau ‘s River Years by Robert Thorson about Henry’s daily sailing on the Concord, Assabet and Sudbury Rivers and studying the marshes and meadows of Musketaquid. I am actually about to go on my daily walk near there soon and will send a wish for Henry in the River ripples. Thanks again for the beautiful words.