CONCORD, January 12, 1848.
It is hard to believe that England is so near as from your letters it
appears; and that this identical piece of paper has lately come all
the way from there hither, begrimed with the English dust which made
you hesitate to use it; from England, which is only historical
fairyland to me, to America, which I have put my spade into, and about
which there is no doubt.
I thought that you needed to be informed of Hugh's progress. He has
moved his house, as I told you, and dug his cellar, and purchased
stone of Sol Wetherbee for the last, though he has not hauled it; all
which has cost sixteen dollars, which I have paid. He has also, as
next in order, run away from Concord without a penny in his pocket,
"crying" by the way,--having had another long difference with strong
beer, and a first one, I suppose, with his wife, who seems to have
complained that he sought other society; the one difference leading to
the other, perhaps, but I don't know which was the leader. He writes
back to his wife from Sterling, near Worcester, where he is chopping
wood, his distantly kind reproaches to her, which I read straight
through to her (not to his bottle, which he has with him, and no doubt
addresses orally). He says that he will go on to the South in the
spring, and will never return to Concord. Perhaps he will not. Life is
not tragic enough for him, and he must try to cook up a more highly
seasoned dish for himself. Towns which keep a barroom and a gun-house
and a reading-room, should also keep a steep precipice whereoff
impatient soldiers may jump. His sun went down, _to me_, bright and
steady enough in the west, but it never came up in the east. Night
intervened. He departed, as when a man dies suddenly; and perhaps
wisely, if he was to go, without settling his affairs. They knew that
that was a thin soil and not well calculated for pears. Nature is rare
and sensitive on the score of nurseries. You may cut down orchards and
grow forests at your pleasure. Sand watered with strong beer, though
stirred with industry, will not produce grapes. He dug his cellar for
the new part too near the old house, Irish like, though I warned him,
and it has caved and let one end of the house down. Such is the state
of his domestic affairs. I laugh with the Parcæ only. He had got the
upland and the orchard and a part of the meadow plowed by Warren, at
an expense of eight dollars, still unpaid, which of course is no
affair of yours.
I think that if an honest and small-familied man, who has no affinity
for moisture in him, but who has an affinity for sand, can be found,
it would be safe to rent him the shanty as it is, and the land; or you
can very easily and simply let nature keep them still, without great
loss. It may be so managed, perhaps, as to be a home for somebody, who
shall in return serve you as fencing stuff, and to fix and locate your
lot, as we plant a tree in the sand or on the edge of a stream;
without expense to you in the meanwhile, and without disturbing its
possible future value.
I read a part of the story of my excursion to Ktaadn to quite a large
audience of men and boys, the other night, whom it interested. It
contains many facts and some poetry. I have also written what will do
for a lecture on "Friendship."
I think that the article on you in _Blackwood's_ is a good deal to get
from the reviewers,--the first purely literary notice, as I remember.
The writer is far enough off, in every sense, to speak with a certain
authority. It is a better judgment of posterity than the public had.
It is singular how sure he is to be mystified by any uncommon sense.
But it was generous to put Plato into the list of mystics. His
confessions on this subject suggest several thoughts, which I have not
room to express here. The old word _seer_,--I wonder what the reviewer
thinks that means; whether that _he_ was a man who could _see more
than himself_.
I was struck by Ellen's asking me, yesterday, while I was talking with
Mrs. Brown, if I did not use "_colored_ words." She said that she
could tell the color of a great many words, and amused the children at
school by so doing. Eddy climbed up the sofa, the other day, _of his
own accord_, and kissed the picture of his father,--"right on his
shirt, I did."
I had a good talk with Alcott this afternoon. He is certainly the
youngest man of his age we have seen,--just on the threshold of life.
When I looked at his gray hairs, his conversation sounded pathetic;
but I looked again, and they reminded me of the gray dawn. He is
getting better acquainted with Channing, though he says that, if they
were to live in the same house, they would soon sit with their backs
to each other.[37]
You must excuse me if I do not write with sufficient directness to
yourself, who are a far-off traveler. It is a little like shooting on
the wing, I confess.
Farewell. HENRY THOREAU.