The Sounds of Thoreau on the Merrimac

These vibrations, undulating through the air and all heard on the Merrimac, offer the audition of Thoreau's soundscape, Hearing has a geographical quality that locates us in space; perhaps these sounds can also locate us in time, and a quieter one at that...

…we did unbend so far as to let our guns speak for us…and thus left the woods to ring with their echoes….the village murmur subsided…floating from past to future as silently as one awakes….We glided noiselessly….cow-bells tinkled louder along the banks….serenaded by the song of a dreaming sparrow or the throttled cry of an owl…deeper and more conscious silence…the distant alarm-bells…a faint tinkling music borne to these woods….the most constant and memorable sound…the barking of the house-dogs…the faintest aerial palpitation under the eaves of heaven…imitated only in a whisper…sufficiency of sound for the ear of night, and more impressive than any music…as sweet and melodious as an instrument…suggested the notes of the hunting-horn….This natural bugle resounded in the woods of the ancient world before the horn was invented….the crowing of the cock, the baying of dogs, and the hum of insects at noon….all sounds were denied entrance to our ears….the kettle sang its homely strain….the few dull, thumping, stertorous sounds which we heard impressed us with a sense of weight and irresistible motion….falls sweeter on their ears in proportion as it is nearer to the ocean….even the prattle of children….our voice is echoed by yonder wood….The boatman comes singing in to shore….a shout, or the fragment of a song, give notice of his approach….some faint sound behind us….The strokes of their mallets echoed from shore to shore….the slight, wiry, winnowing sound of their wings….the logs came down with a dust and a rumbling sound…reverberated through the woods beyond us on our side like the roar of artillery….the faint, deliberate, and ominous sound of raindrops….the trill of the hair-bird….the silence of the whole woodland choir….the tones of invisible waterfalls….the evening chant of the mosquito….the sough of the wind among the pines….the primeval echoes were awakened….What is echo….the flicker’s cackle….the inaudible panting….a startling clangor….withered stalks still rustling….we shall quietly rest…the wind breathed harder than ususal….we heard the river whirling and sucking…its mighty current making only a slight limpid, trickling sound…such a whispering bustle….gurgling water…the cattle were heard to low wildly…like a hoarse symphony or running bass to the rustling of leaves….the bleating of sheep…from whose larynx the melodies of all Congo and Guinea Coast have broke loose….I hearing get, who had but ears….so noiseless when it labored hardest, so noisy and impatient when least effective…with a subdued voice….the monotonous sound of our oars….a sort of rudimental music, suitable for the ear of Night and the acoustics of her dimly lighted halls…Pulsae referunt ad sidera valles…the valleys echoed the sound to the stars….the most excellent speech finally falls into Silence…all sounds are her servants….agreeable to our auditory nerves….harmony and purest melody….most eloquent when most silent….garrulous and noisy eras….the plectrum with which our else silent lyres are struck…

It were vain for me to endeavor to interpret the Silence.