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In a letter dictated to his sister Sophia, Thoreau writes to the editors of the Atlantic Monthly:

Messrs, Editors,

Only extreme illness has prevented my answering your note earlier. I have no objection to having the papers you refer to printed in your monthly—if my feeble health will permit me to prepare them for the printer. What will you give me for them? They are, or have been used as, lectures of the usual length,—taking about an hour to read & I dont see how they can be divided without injury—How many pages can you print at once?—Of course, I should expect that no sentiment or sentence be altered or omitted without my consent, & to retain the copyright of the paper after you had used it in your monthly.—Is your monthly copyrighted?

Yours respectfully,
S. E. Thoreau
for H. D. Thoreau

(The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, 635-636)

11 January 1839. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes his poem “The Thaw” in his journal:

I saw the civil sun drying earth’s tears,
Her tears of joy, that only faster flowed.

Fain would I stretch me by the highway-side,
To thaw and trickle with the melting snow,
That, mingled soul and body with the tide,
I too may through the pores of nature flow.

But I, alas, nor trickle can nor fume,
One jot to forward the great work of Time,
‘Tis mine to hearken while these ply the loom,
So shall my silence with their music chime.

(Journal, 1:71)

11 January 1842. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau’s brother John dies from a tetanus infection.

An unidentified person writes to William Stevens Robinson on 2 February:

I cannot close this hasty note without referring to the sudden death of our friend Thoreau, whom you knew and loved so well. The cause seems very simple. He was stropping his razor on Saturday afternoon, and cut off a little piece of the end of his finger next to the little one, on his left hand. It was very slight,—just the skin deep enough to draw blood. He replaced the skin, and immediately put on a rag, without letting it bleed. He paid no more attention to it for two or three days, when he found it began to grow painful; and on the next Saturday he found that the skin had adhered to the finger slightly on one end, but the other part had mortified. In the evening he went to Dr. Bartlett, [Josiah Bartlett] who dressed the finger; and, with no apprehension of further difficulty, he went home. On his way he had strange sensations, acute pain in various parts of his body; and he was hardly able to get home. The next morning (Sunday) he complained of stiffness of the jaws; and at night he was seized with violent spasms, and lockjaw set in. On being told that he must die a speedy and painful death, he was unmoved. “Is there no hope?” he said. “None,” replied the doctor. Then, although his friends were almost distracted around him, he was calm, saying, “The cup that my Father gives me, shall I not drink it?” He bade his friends all good-by; and twice he mentioned your name. Not long before he died, in the intervals of his suffering, he thought he had written something, and said, “I will carry it down to Robinson: he will like to read it.” He died Tuesday, at two o’clock, P.M., with as much cheerfulness and composure of mind as if only going a short journey.

(“Warrington” Pen-portraits, 12-13)

Lidian Jackson Emerson writes to her sister Lucy Jackson Brown:

I begin my letter with the strange sad news that John Thoreau has this afternoon left this world. He died of lockjaw occasioned by a slight cut on his thumb. Henry mentioned on Sunday morning that he had been at home helping the family who were all ailing; and that John was disabled from his usual work by having cut his finger. In the evening Mr Brooks [Nathan Brooks?] came for him to go home again, and said they were alarmed by symptoms of the lockjaw in John. Monday John was given over by the physicians—and to-day he died—retaining his senses and some power of speech to the last. He said from the first he knew he should die—but was perfectly quiet and trustful—saying that God had always been good to him and he could trust Him now. His words and behaviour throughout were what Mr. Emerson [Ralph Waldo Emerson] calls manly—even great. Henry has been here this evening and seen Mr Emerson but no one else. He says John took leave of all the family on Monday with perfect calmness and more than resignation. It is a beautiful fate that has been granted him and I think he was worthy of it. At first it seemed not beautiful but terrible. Since I have heard particulars and recollected all the good I have heard of him I feel as if a pure spirit had been translated. Henry has just been here—(it is now Wednesday noon) I love him for the feeling he showed and the effort he made to be cheerful. He did not give way in the least but his whole demeanour was that of one struggling with sickness of heart. He came to take his clothes—and says he does not know when he shall return to us. We are wholly indebted to John for Waldo’s picture. Henry and myself each carried him to a sitting but did not succeed in keeping him in the right attitude—and still enough. but John by his faculty of interesting children succeeded in keeping him looking as he should while the impression was making . . .

(The Selected Letters of Lidian Jackson Emerson, 99)

11 January 1851. Clinton, Mass.

The Clinton Saturday Courant reports:

The lecture before the B[igelow]. M[echanic]. Institute last Wednesday evening, by Thomas Drew, Esq., is considered by many as abou the best lecture of the course thus far delivered,—totally obscuring the fine-spun theories of [Ralph Waldo] Emerson and placing ‘Cape Cod’ amongst those ‘trifles, light as air,’ which serve to amuse, but not instruct, the listener.

(“An Excursion to Cape Cod”)

11 January 1852. Concord, Mass.