Abigail Alcott writes to her brother Samuel May:
Have you seen his [A. Bronson Alcott’s] “Forrester” in the Atlantic—He thought Thoreau should have one word of wise appreciation before he left for parts unknown—Mr T. fails rapidly—he smiled as Mr Emerson read the “Forrester” to him and said “the Blue birds and Robbins are charming my solitary room bringing their music to my dulled senses—but this, brings light and love, almost renews my life.”
