STATEN ISLAND, July 8, 1843.
DEAR FRIENDS,--I was very glad to hear your voices from so far. I do
not believe there are eight hundred human beings on the globe. It is
all a fable, and I cannot but think that you speak with a slight
outrage and disrespect of Concord when you talk of fifty of them.
There are not so many. Yet think not that I have left all behind, for
already I begin to track my way over the earth, and find the cope of
heaven extending beyond its horizon,--forsooth, like the roofs of
these Dutch houses. My thoughts revert to those dear hills and that
_river_ which so fills up the world to its brim,--worthy to be named
with Mincius and Alpheus,--still drinking its meadows while I am far
away. How can it run heedless to the sea, as if I were there to
countenance it? George Minott, too, looms up considerably,--and many
another old familiar face. These things all look sober and
respectable. They are better than the environs of New York, I assure
you.
I am pleased to think of Channing as an inhabitant of the gray town.
Seven cities contended for Homer dead. Tell him to remain at least
long enough to establish Concord's right and interest in him. I was
beginning to know the man. In imagination I see you pilgrims taking
your way by the red lodge and the cabin of the brave farmer man, so
youthful and hale, to the still cheerful woods. And Hawthorne, too, I
remember as one with whom I sauntered, in old heroic times, along the
banks of the Scamander, amid the ruins of chariots and heroes. Tell
him not to desert, even after the tenth year. Others may say, "Are
there not the cities of Asia?" But what are they? Staying at home is
the heavenly way.
And Elizabeth Hoar, my brave townswoman, to be sung of poets,--if I
may speak of her whom I do not know. Tell Mrs. Brown that I do not
forget her, going her way under the stars through this chilly
world,--I did _not_ think of the wind,--and that I went a little way
with her. Tell her not to despair. Concord's little arch does not span
all our fate, nor is what transpires under it law for the universe.
And least of all are forgotten those walks in the woods in ancient
days,--too sacred to be idly remembered,--when their aisles were
pervaded as by a fragrant atmosphere. They still seem youthful and
cheery to my imagination as Sherwood and Barnsdale,--and of far purer
fame. Those afternoons when we wandered o'er Olympus,--and those
hills, from which the sun was seen to set, while still our day held on
its way.
"At last he rose and twitched his mantle blue;
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new."
I remember these things at midnight, at rare intervals. But know, my
friends, that I a good deal hate you all in my most private thoughts,
as the substratum of the little love I bear you. Though you are a
rare band, and do not make half use enough of one another.
I think this is a noble number of the _Dial_.[28] It perspires thought
and feeling. I can speak of it now a little like a foreigner. Be
assured that it is not written in vain,--it is not for me. I hear its
prose and its verse. They provoke and inspire me, and they have my
sympathy. I hear the sober and the earnest, the sad and the cheery
voices of my friends, and to me it is a long letter of encouragement
and reproof; and no doubt so it is to many another in the land. So
don't give up the ship. Methinks the verse is hardly enough better
than the prose. I give my vote for the "Notes from the Journal of a
Scholar," and wonder you don't print them faster. I want, too, to read
the rest of the "Poet and the Painter." Miss Fuller's is a noble
piece,--rich, extempore writing, talking with pen in hand. It is too
good not to be better, even. In writing, conversation should be folded
many times thick. It is the height of art that, on the first perusal,
plain common sense should appear; on the second, severe truth; and on
a third, beauty; and, having these warrants for its depth and reality,
we may then enjoy the beauty for evermore. The sea-piece is of the
best that is going, if not of the best that is staying. You have
spoken a good word for Carlyle. As for the "Winter's Walk," I should
be glad to have it printed in the _Dial_ if you think it good enough,
and will criticise it; otherwise send it to me, and I will dispose of
it.
I have not been to New York for a month, and so have not seen Waldo
and Tappan. James has been at Albany meanwhile. You will know that I
only describe my personal adventures with people; but I hope to see
more of them, and _judge_ them too. I am sorry to learn that Mrs.
Emerson is no better. But let her know that the Fates pay a compliment
to those whom they make sick, and they have not to ask, "What have I
done?"
Remember me to your mother, and remember me yourself as you are
remembered by