CONCORD, February 23, 1848.
DEAR WALDO,--For I think I have heard that that is your name,--my
letter which was put last into the leathern bag arrived first.
Whatever I may _call_ you, I know you better than I know your name,
and what becomes of the fittest name if in any sense you are here with
him who _calls_, and not there simply to be called?
I believe I never thanked you for your lectures, one and all, which I
heard formerly read here in Concord. I _know_ I never have. There was
some excellent reason each time why I did not; but it will never be
too late. I have that advantage, at least, over you in my education.
Lidian is too unwell to write to you; so I must tell you what I can
about the children and herself. I am afraid she has not told you how
unwell she is,--or to-day perhaps we may say has been. She has been
confined to her chamber four or five weeks, and three or four weeks,
at least, to her bed, with the jaundice. The doctor, who comes once a
day, does not let her read (nor can she now) nor _hear_ much reading.
She has written her letters to you, till recently, sitting up in bed,
but he said he would not come again if she did so. She has Abby and
Almira to take care of her, and Mrs. Brown to read to her; and I also,
occasionally, have something to read or to say. The doctor says she
must not expect to "take any comfort of her life" for a week or two
yet. She wishes me to say that she has written two long and full
letters to you about the household economies, etc., which she hopes
have not been delayed. The children are quite well and full of
spirits, and are going through a regular course of picture-seeing,
with commentary by me, every evening, for Eddy's behoof. All the
Annuals and "Diadems" are in requisition, and Eddy is forward to
exclaim, when the hour arrives, "Now for the demdems!" I overheard
this dialogue when Frank [Brown] came down to breakfast the other
morning.
_Eddy._ "Why, Frank, I am astonished that you should leave your boots
in the dining-room."
_Frank._ "I guess you mean _surprised_, don't you?"
_Eddy._ "No, boots!"
"If Waldo were here," said he, the other night, at bedtime, "we'd be
four going upstairs." Would he like to tell papa anything? No, not
anything; but finally, yes, he would,--that one of the white horses in
his new barouche is broken! Ellen and Edith will perhaps speak for
themselves, as I hear something about letters to be written by them.
Mr. Alcott seems to be reading well this winter: Plato, Montaigne, Ben
Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Sir Thomas Browne, etc., etc. "I
believe I have read them all now, or nearly all,"--those English
authors. He is rallying for another foray with his pen, in his latter
years, not discouraged by the past, into that crowd of unexpressed
ideas of his, that undisciplined Parthian army, which, as soon as a
Roman soldier would face, retreats on all hands, occasionally firing
backwards; easily routed, not easily subdued, hovering on the skirts
of society. Another summer shall not be devoted to the raising of
vegetables (Arbors?) which rot in the cellar for want of consumers;
but perchance to the arrangement of the material, the brain-crop which
the winter has furnished. I have good talks with him. His respect for
Carlyle has been steadily increasing for some time. He has read him
with new sympathy and appreciation.
I see Channing often. He also goes often to Alcott's, and confesses
that he has made a discovery in him, and gives vent to his admiration
or his confusion in characteristic exaggeration; but between this
extreme and that you may get a fair report, and draw an inference if
you can. Sometimes he will ride a broomstick still, though there is
nothing to keep him, or it, up but a certain centrifugal force of
whim, which is soon spent, and there lies your stick, not worth
picking up to sweep an oven with now. His accustomed path is strewn
with them. But then again, and perhaps for the most part, he sits on
the Cliffs amid the lichens, or flits past on noiseless pinion, like
the barred owl in the daytime, as wise and unobserved. He brought me a
poem the other day, for me, on Walden Hermitage: not remarkable.[38]
Lectures begin to multiply on my desk. I have one on Friendship which
is new, and the materials of some others. I read one last week to the
Lyceum, on The Rights and Duties of the Individual in Relation to
Government,--much to Mr. Alcott's satisfaction.
Joel Britton has failed and gone into chancery, but the woods continue
to fall before the axes of other men. Neighbor Coombs[39] was lately
found dead in the woods near Goose Pond, with his half-empty jug,
after he had been rioting a week. Hugh, by the last accounts, was
still in Worcester County. Mr. Hosmer, who is himself again, and
living in Concord, has just hauled the rest of your wood, amounting to
about ten and a half cords.
The newspapers say that they have printed a pirated edition of your
Essays in England. Is it as bad as they say, and undisguised and
unmitigated piracy? I thought that the printed scrap would entertain
Carlyle, notwithstanding its history. If this generation will see out
of its hind-head, why then you may turn your back on its
forehead. Will you forward it to him for me?
[Illustration: _The Hosmer House_]
This stands written in your day-book: "September 3d. Received of
Boston Savings Bank, on account of Charles Lane, his deposit with
interest, $131.33. 16th. Received of Joseph Palmer, on account of
Charles Lane, three hundred twenty-three 36/100 dollars, being the
balance of a note on demand for four hundred dollars, with interest,
$323.36."
If you have any directions to give about the trees, you must not
forget that spring will soon be upon us.
Farewell. From your friend,