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 beard 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 had that advantage at least, over you in my education.

  Lidian is too unwell to write to you and 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, today 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, accompanied with constant nausea, which makes life intolerable to her. This added to her general ill health has made her very sick. She is as yellow as saffron. 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 that he would not come again if she did so. She has Abby and Almira to take care of her, & 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 2 long and full letters to you about the household economies &c 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 dem dems!” I overheard this dialogue when Frank came clown 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, dont you? Eddy—”No-Boots!—”If Waldo were here,” said he the other night at bed-time, “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 & Fletcher—Sir Thomas Browne &c &c—”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 histhat undisciplined Parthian army-which as soon as a Roman soldier would face retreats on all hands—occasionally firing behind—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 & that you may get a fair report—& draw an inference if you can. Sometimes he will ride a broom stick 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 & 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 & unobserved.

  He brought me a poem the other day—for me—on “Walden Hermitage,” not remarkable.

  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 & 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 [Eseek] Coombs was lately found dead in the woods near Goose Pond—with his half-empty jug—after he had been missing a week.—Hugh [Whelan] 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 10½ cords.—The newspapers say that they have printed a pirated edition of your Essays in England. Is it as bad as they say—an undisguised unmitigated piracy?

  I thought that the printed scrap would entertain Carlyle—notwithstanding its history. If this generation will see out of its hindhead, why then you may turn your back on its forehead. Will you forward it to him from me?

  This stands written in your Day Book. “Sept. 3d Recd of Boston Savings Bank—on account of Charles Lane his deposit with interest 131.33 16th. Recd 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
Henry Thoreau