CONCORD, January 24, 1843.
DEAR FRIEND,--The other day I wrote you a letter to go in Mrs.
Emerson's bundle, but, as it seemed unworthy, I did not send it, and
now, to atone for that, I am going to send this, whether it be worthy
or not. I will not venture upon news, for, as all the household are
gone to bed, I cannot learn what has been told you. Do you read any
noble verses nowadays? or do not verses still seem noble? For my own
part, they have been the only things I remembered, or that which
occasioned them, when all things else were blurred and defaced. All
things have put on mourning but they; for the elegy itself is some
victorious melody or joy escaping from the wreck.
It is a relief to read some true book, wherein all are equally
dead,--equally alive. I think the best parts of Shakespeare would only
be enchanced by the most thrilling and affecting events. I have found
it so. And so much the more, as they are not intended for consolation.
Do you think of coming to Concord again? I shall be glad to see you. I
should be glad to know that I could see you when I would.
We always seem to be living just on the brink of a pure and lofty
intercourse, which would make the ills and trivialness of life
ridiculous. After each little interval, though it be but for the
night, we are prepared to meet each other as gods and goddesses.
I seem to have dodged all my days with one or two persons, and lived
upon expectation,--as if the bud would surely blossom; and so I am
content to live.
What means the fact--which is so common, so universal--that some soul
that has lost all hope for itself can inspire in another listening
soul an infinite confidence in it, even while it is expressing its
despair?
I am very happy in my present environment, though actually mean enough
myself, and so, of course, all around me; yet, I am sure, we for the
most part are transfigured to one another, and are that to the other
which we aspire to be ourselves. The longest course of mean and
trivial intercourse may not prevent my practicing this divine courtesy
to my companion. Notwithstanding all I hear about brooms, and
scouring, and taxes, and housekeeping, I am constrained to live a
strangely mixed life,--as if even Valhalla might have its kitchen. We
are all of us Apollos serving some Admetus.
I think I must have some Muses in my pay that I know not of, for
certain musical wishes of mine are answered as soon as entertained.
Last summer I went to Hawthorne's suddenly for the express purpose of
borrowing his music-box, and almost immediately Mrs. Hawthorne
proposed to lend it to me. The other day I said I must go to Mrs.
Barrett's to hear hers, and lo! straightway Richard Fuller sent me one
for a present from Cambridge. It is a very good one. I should like to
have you hear it. I shall not have to employ you to borrow for me now.
Good-night.
From your affectionate friend,
H. D. T.