STATEN ISLAND, October 1, 1843.
DEAR MOTHER,--I hold together remarkably well as yet,--speaking of my
outward linen and woolen man; no holes more than I brought away, and
no stitches needed yet. It is marvelous. I think the Fates must be on
my side, for there is less than a plank between me and--Time, to say
the least. As for Eldorado, that is far off yet. My bait will not
tempt the rats,--they are too well fed. The _Democratic Review_ is
poor, and can only afford half or quarter pay, which it _will_ do; and
they say there is a _Ladies' Companion_ that pays,--but I could not
write anything companionable. However, speculate as we will, it is
quite gratuitous; for life, nevertheless and never the more, goes
steadily on, well or ill-fed, and clothed somehow, and "honor bright"
withal. It is very gratifying to live in the prospect of great
successes always; and for that purpose we must leave a sufficient
foreground to see them through. All the painters prefer distant
prospects for the greater breadth of view and delicacy of tint. But
this is no news, and describes no new conditions.
Meanwhile I am somnambulic at least,--stirring in my sleep; indeed,
quite awake. I read a good deal, and am pretty well known in the
libraries of New York. Am in with the librarian (one Dr. Forbes) of
the Society Library, who has lately been to Cambridge to learn
liberality, and has come back to let me take out some un-take-out-able
books, which I was threatening to read on the spot. And Mr. McKean, of
the Mercantile Library, is a true gentleman (a former tutor of mine),
and offers me every privilege there. I have from him a perpetual
stranger's ticket, and a citizen's rights besides,--all which
privileges I pay handsomely for by improving.
A canoe race "came off" on the Hudson the other day, between
Chippeways and New Yorkers, which must have been as moving a sight as
the buffalo hunt which I witnessed. But canoes and buffaloes are all
lost, as is everything here, in the mob. It is only the people have
come to see one another. Let them advertise that there will be a
gathering at Hoboken,--having bargained with the ferryboats,--and
there will be, and they need not throw in the buffaloes.
I have crossed the bay twenty or thirty times, and have seen a great
many immigrants going up to the city for the first time: Norwegians,
who carry their old-fashioned farming-tools to the West with them, and
will buy nothing here for fear of being cheated; English operatives,
known by their pale faces and stained hands, who will recover their
birthright in a little cheap sun and wind; English travelers on their
way to the Astor House, to whom I have done the honors of the city;
whole families of emigrants cooking their dinner upon the
pavement,--all sunburnt, so that you are in doubt where the
foreigner's face of flesh begins; their tidy clothes laid on, and then
tied to their swathed bodies, which move about like a bandaged
finger,--caps set on the head as if woven of the hair, which is still
growing at the roots,--each and all busily cooking, stooping from time
to time over the pot, and having something to drop in it, that so they
may be entitled to take something out, forsooth. They look like
respectable but straitened people, who may turn out to be Counts when
they get to Wisconsin, and will have this experience to relate to
their children.
Seeing so many people from day to day, one comes to have less respect
for flesh and bones, and thinks they must be more loosely joined, of
less firm fibre, than the few he had known. It must have a very bad
influence on children to see so many human beings at once,--mere herds
of men.
I came across Henry Bigelow a week ago, sitting in front of a hotel in
Broadway, very much as if he were under his father's stoop. He is
seeking to be admitted into the bar in New York, but as yet had not
succeeded. I directed him to Fuller's store, which he had not found,
and invited him to come and see me if he came to the island. Tell Mrs.
and Miss Ward that I have not forgotten them, and was glad to hear
from George--with whom I spent last night--that they had returned to
C. Tell Mrs. Brown that it gives me as much pleasure to know that she
thinks of me and my writing as if I had been the author of the piece
in question,--but I did not even read over the papers I sent. The
_Mirror_ is really the most readable journal here. I see that they
have printed a short piece that I wrote to sell, in the _Dem. Review_,
and still keep the review of "Paradise," that I may include in it a
notice of another book by the same author, which they have found, and
are going to send me.
I don't know when I shall come home; I like to keep that feast in
store. Tell Helen that I do not see any advertisement for her, and I
am looking for myself. If I could find a rare opening, I might be
tempted to try with her for a year, till I had paid my debts, but for
such I am sure it is not well to go out of New England. Teachers are
but poorly recompensed, even here. Tell her and Sophia (if she is not
gone) to write to me. Father will know that this letter is to him as
well as to you. I send him a paper which usually contains the
news,--if not all that is stirring, all that has stirred,--and even
draws a little on the future. I wish he would send me, by and by, the
paper which contains the results of the Cattle-Show. You must get
Helen's eyes to read this, though she is a scoffer at honest
penmanship.