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  Take one of our selectmen and put him on the highest hill in the township, and tell hire to look! What,probably, would he see? What would he select to look at? Sharpening his sight to the utmost, and putting on the glasses that suited him best, aye, using a spy-glass if he liked, straining his optic nerve, to its utmost, and making a full report. Of course, he would see a Brocken spectre of himself. Now take Julius Cesar, or Emanuel Swedenborg, or a Fiji-Islander, and set him up there! Let them compare notes afterward. Would it appear that they had enjoyed the same prospect? . . .

  Sophia brings me the drawer which held her acorns (almost all red oak) . . . (Journal, 14:212-215).

  I am glad to hear any particulars of your excursion. As for myself, I looked out for you somewhat on that Monday, when, it appears, you passed Monadnock—turned my glass upon several parties that were ascending the mountain half a mile on one side of us. In short, I came as near to seeing you as you to seeing me. I have no doubt that we should have had a good time if you had come, for I had, all ready, two good spruce houses, in which you could stand up, complete in all respects, half a mile apart, and you & B [Theophilus Brown] could have lodged by yourselves in one, if not with us.

  We made an excellent beginning of our mt life. You may remember that the Saturday previous was a stormy day. Well, we went up in the rain—wet through, and found ourselves in a cloud there at mid pm. in no situation to look about for the best place for a camp. So I proceeded at once, though the cloud, to that memorable ston “chunk yard,” in which we made our humble camp once, and there, after putting our packs under a rock, having a good hatchet, I proceeded to build a substantial house, which C[hanning] declared the handsomest he ever saw. (He never camped out before, and was, no doubt, prejudiced in its favor.) This was done about dark, and by that time we were nearly as wet as if we had stood in a hogshead of water. We then build a fire before the door, directly on the site of our little camp of two years ago, and it too a long time to burn thro’ its remains to the earth beneath. Standing before this, and turning round slowly, like meat that is roasting, we were as dry if not dierer than ever after a few hours, & so, at last we “turned in.”

  This was a great deal better than going up there in fair weather, & having no adventure (not knowing how to appreciate either fair weather or foul) but dull common—place sleep in a useless house, & before a comparatively useless fire—such as we get every night. Of course, we thanked our stars, when we saw them, which was about midnight, that they had seemingly withdrawn for a season. We had the mt all to ourselves that pm & night. There was nobody going up that day to engrave his name on the summit, nor gather blueberries. The Genius of the mts. Saw us starting from Concord & it said, There come two of our folks. Let us get ready for them—Get up a serious storm, that will send a packing these holiday guests (They may have their say another time) Let us receive them with true mt. hospitality—kill the fatted could—Let them know the value of a spruce roof, & of a fire of dead spruce stumps. Every bush dripped tears of joy at or advent. Fire did its best & received our thanks—What could fire have done in fair weather?—Spruce roof got its share of our blessings. And then such a view of the wet rocks with the wet lichens on them, as we had the next morning, but did not get again!

  We & the mt had a sound season, as the saying is. How glad we were to be wet in order that we might be dried!—how glad we were of the storm which made our house seem like a new home to us! This day’s experience was indeed lucky for we did not have a thunder shower during all our stay. Perhaps our host reserved this attention in order to tempt us to come again!

  Our next house was more substantial still. One side was rock, good for durability, the floor the same, & the roof which I made would have upheld a horse. I stood on it to do the shingling.

  I noticed, when I was at the White Mts last, several nuisances which render travelling there—abouts unpleasant. The chief of these was the mt houses. I might have supposed that the main attraction of that region even to citizens, lay in its wildness and unlikeness to the city, & yet they make it as much like the city as they can afford to. I heard that the Crawford House was lighted with gas, & had a large saloon, with its band of music, for dancing. But give me a spruce house made in the rain.

  An old Concord farmer tells me that he ascended Monadnock once, & danced on the top. How did that happen? Why, he being up there, a party of young men & women came up bringing boards & a fiddler, and having laid down the boards they made a level floor, on which they danced to the music of the fiddle. I suppose the tune was “Excelsior.” This reminds me of the fellow who climbed to the top of a very high spire, stood upright on the ball, &am; then hurrahed for—what? Why for Harrison & Tyler. That’s the kind of sound which most ambitious people emit when they culminate. They are wont to be singularly frivolous in the thin atmosphere they can’t contain themselves, though our comfort & their safety require it; it takes the pressure of many atmospheres to do this; & hence they helplessly evaporate there. It would seem, that, as they ascend, they breath shorter and shorter, and at each expiration, some of their wits leave them, till, when they reach the pinnacle, they are so light headed as to be fit only to show how the wind sits. I suspect that Emersons criticism called Monadnock was inspired not by remembering the inhabitants of N.H. as they are in the valleys, so much as by meeting some of them on the mt top.

  After several nights’ experience C came to the conclusion that he was “lying out doors,” and inquired what was the largest beast that might nibble his legs there. I fear that he did not improve all the night, as he might have done, to sleep. I had asked him to go and spend a week there. We spent 5 nights, being gone 6 days, for C suggested that 6 working days made a week, & I saw that he was ready to de-camp. However, he found his account in it, as well as I.

  We were seen to go up in the rain, grim, & silent like 2 Genii of the storm, by Fassett’s men or boys, but we were never identified afterward, though we were the subject of some conversation which we overheard. Five hundred persons at least came onto the mt. while we were there, but not one found our camp. We saw one party of three ladies & two gentlemen spread their blankets and spend the night on the top, & heard them converse, but they did not know that they had neighbors, who were comparatively old settlers. We spared them the chagrin which that knowledge would have caused them, & let them print their story in a newspaper accordingly.

  From what I heard of Fassett’s infirmities I conclude that his partner was Tap. He has moved about thirty rods farther down the mt., & is still hammering at a new castle there when you go by, while Tap is probably down cellar. Such is the Cerberus that guard this passage. There always is one you know. This is not so bad to go by as the Glen House. However, we left those Elysian fields by a short cut of our own which departed just beyond where he is stationed.

  Yes, to meet men on an honest and simple footing, meet with rebuffs, suffer from sore feet, as you did, aye & from a sore heart, as perhaps you also did,—all that is excellent. What a pity that that young prince could not enjoy a little of the legitimate experience of travelling, be dealt with simply & truly though rudely. He might have been invited to some hospitable house in the country, had his bowl of bread & milk set before him, with a clean pin-a-fore, been told that there were the punt & the fishing rod, and he could amuse himself as he chose—might have swung a few birches, dug out a woodchuck, & had a regular good time, & finally been sent to bed with the boys,—and so never have been introduced to Mr. [Edward] Everett at all. I have no doubt that this would have been a far more memorable & valuable experience than he got.

  The snow-clad summit of Mt. Washington must have been a very interesting sight from Wachusett. How wholesome winter is seen far or near, how good above all mere sentimental warm-blooded—short-lived, soft-hearted moral goodness, commonly so called. Give me the goodness which has forgotten its own deeds,—which God has seen to be good and let me. None of your just made perfect—pickled eels! All that will save them will be their picturesqueness, as with blasted trees Whatever is and is not ashamed to be good. I value no moral goodness or greatness unless it is good or great even as that snowy peak is. Pray how could thirty feet of bowels improve it? Nature is goodness crystalized. You looked into the land of promise. Whatever beauty we behold, the more it is distant, serene, and cold, the purer & more durable it is. It is better to warm ourselves with ice than with fire.

Tell Brown that he sent me more than the price of the book—viz a word from himself, for which I am greatly his debtor.

H. D. T.

  I thank you for the verses. They are quite too good to apply to me. However, I know what a poet’s license is, and will not get in the way.

  But what do you mean by that prose? Why will you waste so many regards on me, and not know what to think of my silence? Infer from it what you might from the silence of a dense pine wood. It is its natural condition, except when the winds blow, and the jays scream, & the chickadee winds up his clock. My silence is just as inhuman as that, and no more.

  You know that I never promised to correspond with you, & so, when I do, I do more than I promised.

  Such are my pursuits and habits that I rarely go abroad, and it is quite a habit with me to decline invitation to do so. Not that I could not enjoy such visits, if I were not otherwise occupied. I have enjoyed very much my visits to you and my rides in your neighborhood, and am sorry that I cannot enjoy such things oftener; but life is short, and there are other things also to be done. I admit that you are more social than I am, and far more attentive to ‘the common courtesies of life” but this is partly for the reason that you have fewer or less exacting private pursuits.

  Not to have written a note for a year is with me a very venial offence. I think that I do not correspond with any one so often as once in six-months.

  I have a faint recollection of your invitation referred to, but I suppose that I had no new nor particular reason for declining & so made no new statements. I have felt that you would be glad to see me almost whenever I got ready to come, but I only offer myself as a rare visitor, & a still rarer correspondent.

  I am very busy, after my fashion, little as there is to show for it, and feel as if I could not spend many days nor dollars in travelling, for the shortest visit must have a fair margin to it, and the days thus affect the weeks, you know. Nevertheless, we cannot forego these luxuries altogether.

  You must not regard me as a regular diet, but at most only as acorns, which too are not to be despised, which, at least, we love to think are edible in a bracing walk. We have got along pretty well together in several directions, though we are such strangers in others.

I hardly know what to say in answer to your letter.

  Some are accustomed to write many letters, others very few. I am one of the last. At any rate, we are pretty sure, if we write at all, to send those thoughts which we cherish, to that one, who we believe, will most religiously attend to them.

  This life is not for complaint, but for satisfaction. I do not feel addressed by this letter of yours. It suggests only misunderstanding. Intercouse may be good, but of what use are complaints & apologies? Any complaints I have to make is too serious to be uttered, for the evil cannot be mended.

  Turn over a new leaf

  My out-door harvest this fall has been one Canada Lynx, a fierce looking fellow, which it seems we have hereabouts; eleven barrels of apples from trees of my own planting; and a large crop of white oak acorns which I did not raise

  Please remember me to your family. I have a very pleasant recollection of your fireside, and I trust that I shall revisit it—also of your shanty & the surrounding regions.

  Yrs truly
  Henry D. Thoreau

  Returning, lunched by Westport Pond in Dartmouth, said to contain sixty acres but to [be] about two feet deep . . .

  Returning stopped upon the shore of Westport Pond in a grove of young oaks, where ourselves and old Charley ate our dinner, arriving home about 4 1/2 P.M. Showery evening.