Thoreau writes in his journal:
When I walk in the fields of Concord and meditate on the destiny of this prosperous slip of the Saxon family, the unexhausted energies of this new country, I forget that this which is now Concord was once Musketaquid, and that the American race has had its destiny also . . . I have been walking this afternoon over a pleasant field planted with winter rye, near the house, where this strange people once had their dwelling-place.
