The hand-writing of your letter is so miserable, that I am not sure I have made it out. If I have it seems to me you are the same old sixpence you used to be, rather rusty, but a genuine piece.

  I see nothing for you in this earth but that field which I once christened “Briars”; go out upon that, build yourself a hut, & there begin the grand process of devouring yourself alive. I see no alternative, no other hope for you. Eat yourself up, you will eat nobody else, nor anything else.

  Concord is just as good a place as any other; there are indeed, more people in the streets of that village, than in the streets of this. This is a singularly muddy town; muddy, solitary, & silent.

  They tell us, it is March; it has been all March in this place, since I came. It is much warmer now, than it was last November, foggy, rainy, stupefactive weather indeed.

  In your line, I have not done a great deal since I arrived here; I do not mean the Pencil line, but the Staten Island line, having been there once, to walk on a beach by the Telegraph, but did not visit the scene of your dominical duties, Staten Island is very distant from No. 30 Ann St.

  I saw polite William Emerson in November last, but have not caught any glimpse of him since then. I am as usual offering the various alternations from agony to despair, from hope to fear, from pain to pleasure. Such wretched one-sided productions as you, know nothing of the universal man; you may think yourself well off.

  That baker,—[Isaac Thomas] Hecker, who used to live on two crackers a day I have not seen, nor [Rebecca Gray?] Black, nor Vathek [John Wilhelm Vethake], nor Danedaz nor [Isaiah] Rynders, or any of Emerson’s old cronies, excepting James [Henry James, Sr.], a little fat, rosy Swedenborgian amateur, with the look of a broker, & the brains & heart of a Pascal.-Wm [William Henry] Channing I see nothing of him; he is the dupe of good feelings, & I have all-too many of these now.

  I have seen something of your friends, [Giles] Waldo, and [William] Tappan, I have also seen our good man “McKean,” the keeper of that stupid place the “Mercantile Library.” I have been able to find there no book which I should like to read.

  Respecting the country about this city, there is a walk at Brooklyn rather pleasing, to ascend upon the high ground & look at the distant ocean. This is a very agreeable sight. I have been four miles up the island in addition, where I saw, the bay; it looked very well, and appeared to be in good spirits.

  I should be pleased to hear from Kamkatscha [i.e. Concord, Mass.] occasionally; my last advices from the Polar Bear [i.e. Ralph Waldo Emerson] are getting stale. In additions to this, I find that my corresponding members at Van Dieman’s land, [i.e. Fruitlands] have wandered into limbo. I acknowledge that I have not lately corresponded very much with that section.

  I hear occasionally from the World; everything seems to be promising in that quarter, business is flourishing, & the people are in good spirits. I feel convinced that the Earth has less claims to our regard, then formerly, these mild winters deserve a severe censure. But I am well aware that the Earth will talk about the necessity of routine, taxes, &c. On the whole, it is best not to complain without necessity.

  Mumbo Jumbo [Horace Greeley] is recovering from his attack of sore eyes, & will soon be out, in a pair of canvas trousers, scarlet jacket, & cocked hat. I understand he intends to demolish all the remaining species of Terichism at a meal; I think it’s probable it will vomit him. I am sorry to say, that Roly-Poly has received intelligence of the death of his only daughter, Maria; this will be a terrible wound to his paternal heart.

  I saw Teufelsdrock a few days since; he is wretchedly poor, has an attack of the colic, & expects to get better immediately. He said a few words to me, about you. Says he, that fellow Thoreau might be something, if he would only take a journey through the “Everlasting No”, thence for the North Pole. By God”, said the old clothes-bag “warming up”, I should like to take that fellow out into the Everlasting No, & explode him like a bomb-shell; he would make a loud report. He needs the Blumine flower business; that would be his salvation. He is too dry, too confused, too chalky, too concrete. I want to get him into my fingers. It would be fun to see him pick himself up.” I “camped” the old fellow in a majestic style.

  Does that execrable compound of sawdust & stagnation, Alcott still prose about nothing, & that nutmeg-grater of a [Edmund] Hosmer yet shriek about nothing,—does anybody still think of coming to Concord to live, I mean new people? If they do, let them beware of you philosophers.

Ever yrs my dear Thoreau,
W E C