CONCORD, November 4, 1860.
MR. BLAKE,--I am glad to hear any particulars of your excursion. As
for myself, I looked out for you somewhat on that Monday, when, it
appears, you passed Monadnock; turned my glass upon several parties
that were ascending the mountain half a mile on one side of us. In
short, I came as near to seeing you as you to seeing me. I have no
doubt that we should have had a good time if you had come, for I had,
all ready, two good spruce houses, in which you could stand up,
complete in all respects, half a mile apart, and you and B. could have
lodged by yourselves in one, if not with us.
We made an excellent beginning of our mountain life.[97] You may
remember that the Saturday previous was a stormy day. Well, we went up
in the rain,--wet through,--and found ourselves in a cloud there at
mid-afternoon, in no situation to look about for the best place for a
camp. So I proceeded at once, through the cloud, to that memorable
stone, "chunk yard," in which we made our humble camp once, and there,
after putting our packs under a rock, having a good hatchet, I
proceeded to build a substantial house, which Channing declared the
handsomest he ever saw. (He never camped out before, and was, no
doubt, prejudiced in its favor.) This was done about dark, and by that
time we were nearly as wet as if we had stood in a hogshead of water.
We then built a fire before the door, directly on the site of our
little camp of two years ago, and it took a long time to burn through
its remains to the earth beneath. Standing before this, and turning
round slowly, like meat that is roasting, we were as dry, if not
drier, than ever, after a few hours, and so at last we "turned in."
This was a great deal better than going up there in fair weather, and
having no adventure (not knowing how to appreciate either fair weather
or foul) but dull, commonplace sleep in a useless house, and before a
comparatively useless fire,--such as we get every night. Of course we
thanked our stars, when we saw them, which was about midnight, that
they had seemingly withdrawn for a season. We had the mountain all to
ourselves that afternoon and night. There was nobody going up that day
to engrave his name on the summit, nor to gather blueberries. The
genius of the mountains saw us starting from Concord, and it said,
There come two of our folks. Let us get ready for them. Get up a
serious storm, that will send a-packing these holiday guests. (They
may have their say another time.) Let us receive them with true
mountain hospitality,--kill the fatted cloud. Let them know the value
of a spruce roof, and of a fire of dead spruce stumps. Every bush
dripped tears of joy at our advent. Fire did its best, and received
our thanks. What could fire have done in fair weather? Spruce roof got
its share of our blessings. And then, such a view of the wet rocks,
with the wet lichens on them, as we had the next morning, but did not
get again!
We and the mountain had a sound season, as the saying is. How glad we
were to be wet, in order that we might be dried! How glad we were of
the storm which made our house seem like a new home to us! This day's
experience was indeed lucky, for we did not have a thunder-shower
during all our stay. Perhaps our host reserved this attention in order
to tempt us to come again.
Our next house was more substantial still. One side was rock, good for
durability; the floor the same; and the roof which I made would have
upheld a horse. I stood on it to do the shingling.
I noticed, when I was at the White Mountains last, several nuisances
which render traveling thereabouts unpleasant. The chief of these was
the mountain houses. I might have supposed that the main attraction of
that region, even to citizens, lay in its wildness and unlikeness to
the city, and yet they make it as much like the city as they can
afford to. I heard that the Crawford House was lighted with gas, and
had a large saloon, with its band of music, for dancing. But give me a
spruce house made in the rain.
[Illustration: _From the Summit of Monadnock_]
An old Concord farmer tells me that he ascended Monadnock once, and
danced on the top. How did that happen? Why, he being up there, a
party of young men and women came up, bringing boards and a fiddler;
and, having laid down the boards, they made a level floor, on which
they danced to the music of the fiddle. I suppose the tune was
"Excelsior." This reminds me of the fellow who climbed to the top of a
very high spire, stood upright on the ball, and hurrahed for--what?
Why, for Harrison and Tyler. That's the kind of sound which most
ambitious people emit when they culminate. They are wont to be
singularly frivolous in the thin atmosphere; they can't contain
themselves, though our comfort and their safety require it; it takes
the pressure of many atmospheres to do this; and hence they helplessly
evaporate there. It would seem that as they ascend, they breathe
shorter and shorter, and, at each _expiration_, some of their wits
leave them, till, when they reach the pinnacle, they are so
light-headed as to be fit only to show how the wind sits. I suspect
that Emerson's criticism called "Monadnoc" was inspired, not by
remembering the inhabitants of New Hampshire as they are in the
valleys, so much as by meeting some of them on the mountain-top.
After several nights' experience, Channing came to the conclusion that
he was "lying outdoors," and inquired what was the largest beast that
might nibble his legs there. I fear that he did not improve all the
night, as he might have done, to sleep. I had asked him to go and
spend a week there. We spent five nights, being gone six days, for C.
suggested that six working days made a week, and I saw that he was
ready to _decamp_. However, he found his account in it as well as I.
We were seen to go up in the rain, grim and silent, like two genii of
the storm, by Fassett's men or boys; but we were never identified
afterward, though we were the subject of some conversation which we
overheard. Five hundred persons at least came on to the mountain while
we were there, but not one found our camp. We saw one party of three
ladies and two gentlemen spread their blankets and spend the night on
the top, and heard them converse; but they did not know that they had
neighbors who were comparatively old settlers. We spared them the
chagrin which that knowledge would have caused them, and let them
print their story in a newspaper accordingly.
Yes, to meet men on an honest and simple footing, meet with rebuffs,
suffer from sore feet, as you did,--ay, and from a sore heart, as
perhaps you also did,--all that is excellent. What a pity that that
young prince[98] could not enjoy a little of the legitimate experience
of traveling--be dealt with simply and truly, though rudely. He might
have been invited to some hospitable house in the country, had his
bowl of bread and milk set before him, with a clean pinafore; been
told that there were the punt and the fishing-rod, and he could amuse
himself as he chose; might have swung a few birches, dug out a
woodchuck, and had a regular good time, and finally been sent to bed
with the boys,--and so never have been introduced to Mr. Everett at
all. I have no doubt that this would have been a far more memorable
and valuable experience than he got.
The snow-clad summit of Mt. Washington must have been a very
interesting sight from Wachusett. How wholesome winter is, seen far or
near; how good, above all mere sentimental, warm-blooded,
short-lived, soft-hearted, _moral_ goodness, commonly so called. Give
me the goodness which has forgotten its own deeds,--which God has seen
to be good, and let be. None of your _just made perfect_,--pickled
eels! All that will save them will be their picturesqueness, as with
blasted trees. Whatever is, and is not ashamed to be, is good. I value
no moral goodness or greatness unless it is good or great, even as
that snowy peak is. Pray, how could thirty feet of bowels improve it?
Nature is goodness crystallized. You looked into the land of promise.
Whatever beauty we behold, the more it is distant, serene, and cold,
the purer and more durable it is. It is better to warm ourselves with
ice than with fire.
Tell Brown that he sent me more than the price of the book, viz., a
word from himself, for which I am greatly his debtor.
* * * * *
Thoreau began to be more seriously ill than he had been for some
years, early in December, 1860. He exposed himself unduly in one of
his walks, while counting the rings on stumps of trees, amid snow. He
ceased much of his small activity of letter-writing; but, in
addressing Ricketson the next spring, he took the unusual pains of
writing him a letter of some length which he never sent. It was found
among his papers after death,--the first draft of it, which ran as
follows, but was left a fragment:--