The Thoreau
Institute at Walden Woods Library
Thoreau's Life &
Writings: Correspondence
_____
HDT to Ralph Waldo
Emerson
Concord, 12 January 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
historically 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 bar-room 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 has 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
ploughed by [Cyrus] 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 &
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 sand or on the edge of a stream; without expense to
you in the mean while, and without disturbing its possible future
values.
I read a part of the story of
my excursion to Ktadn [sic]
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. Eddie 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 sees that, if they were
to live in the same house, they would soon sit with their backs to
each other.
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.
A
Note on the Text:
-
Source:
The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau edited by
Walter Harding and Carl Bode (New York: New York University
Press, c1958) p. 203-205.
-
Report
errors to the
Curator of
Collections
|
