Log Search Results

  I see thick ice and boys skating all the way to Providence, but know not when it froze, I have been so busy writing my lecture; probably the night of the 4th. In order to go to Blue Hill by Providence Railroad, stop at Readville Station (Dedham Low Plain once), eight miles; the hill apparently two mile east. Was struck by the Providence depot, its towers and great length of brick. Lectured in it.

  Went to R. Williams’s Rock on the Blackstone with Newcomb and thence to hill with an old fort atop in Seekonk, Mass., on the east side of the bay, whence a fine view down it. At lecture spoke with a Mr. [Brook?] Clark and Vaughn and Eaton . . .

  Skating is fairly begun. The river is generally frozen over, though it will bear quite across in very few places. Much of the ice in the middle is dark and thin, having been formed last night, and when you stamp you sec the water trembling in spots here and there . . .

  What is wanting above is merely an engraving of Eagleswood, which I have used. I trust that you got a note from me at Eagleswood about a fortnight ago. I passed thru’ Worcester on the morning of the 25th of November, and spent several hours (from 3.30 to 6.20) in the travellers’ room at the Depot, as in a dream, it now seems. As the first Harlem train unexpectedly connected with the first from Fitchburg, I did not spend the forenoon with you, as I had anticipated, on account of baggage &c—If it had been a seasonable hour I should have seen you, i.e. if you had not been gone to a horse-race. But think of snaking a call at half past three in the morning! (Would it not have implied a 3 o clock in the morning courage in both you & me?) As it were ignoring the fact that mankind are really not at home—are not out, but so deeply in that they cannot be seen—nearly half their hours at this season of the year. I walked up & down the Main Street at half past 5 in the dark, and paused long in front of [Theo] Brown’s store trying to distinguish its features; considering whether I might safely leave his “Putnam” in the door handle, but concluded not to risk it. Meanwhile a watchman (?) seemed to be watching me, & I moved off. Took another turn around there, a little later, and had the very earliest offer to the Transcript from an urchin behind, whom I actually could not see, it was so dark. So I withdrew, wondering if you & B would know that I had been there. You little dream who is occupying Worcester when you are all asleep. Several things occurred there that night, which I will venture to say were not put into the Transcript. A cat caught a mouse at the depot, & gave it to her kitten to play with. So the world famous tragedy does on by night as well as by day, & nature is emphatically wrong. Also I saw a young Irishman kneel before his mother, as if in prayer, while she wiped a cinder out of his eye with her tongue; and I found that it was never too late (or early?) to learn something.—These things transpired whole you and B. were, to all practical purposes, no where, & good for nothing,—not even for society,—not for horse races, nor the taking back of Putman’s Magazine. It is true I might have recalled you to life, but it would have been a cruel act, consider the kind of life you would have come back to.

  However, I would fain write to you now by broad daylight, and report to you some of my life, such as it is, and recall you to your life which is not always lived by you, even by day light.

  Blake! Blake! Are you awake? Are you aware what an ever-glorious morning this is? What long expected never to be repeated opportunity is now offered to get life & knowledge?

  For my part, I am trying to wake up, to wring slumber out of my pores; For, generally, I take events as unconcernedly as a fence post,—absorb wet & cold like it, and am pleasantly ticked with lichens slowly spreading over me. Could I not be content then to be a cedar post, which lasts 25 years? Would I not rather be that than the farmer that set it? or he that preaches to that farmer?—& go to the heaven of posts at last? I think I should like that as well as any would like it. But I should not care if I sprouted into a living tree, put forth leaves & flowers, & have fruit.

  I am grateful for what I am & have. My thanksgiving is perpetual. It is surprising how contented one can be with nothing definite—only a sense of existance. Well anything for variety. I am ready to try this for the next 1000 years, & exhaust it. How sweet to think of! My extremities well charred, and my intellectual part too, so that there is no danger of worm or rot for a long while. My breath is sweet to me. O how I laugh when I think of my vague indefinite riches. No run on my bank can drain it—for my wealth is not possession but enjoyment.

  What are all these years made for? And now another winter comes, so much like the last? Cant we satisfy the beggars once and for all? Have you got in your wood for this winter? What else have you got in? Of what use a great fire on the hearth & a confounded little fire in the heart? Are you prepared to make a decisive campaign—to pay for your costly tuition—to pay for the suns of past summers—for happiness & unhappiness lavished upon you?

  Does not Time go by swifter than the swiftest quine trotter or racker?

  Stir up Brown—Remind him of his duties, which outrun the date & span of Worcester’s years past & to come. Tell him to be sure that he is on the Main Street, however, narrow it may be—& to have a lit sign, visible by night as well as by day.

  Are they not patient waiter—They who wait for us? They shall not be losers.

  Thomas Cholmondeley, my English acquaintance, is here, on his way to the West Indies. He wants to see New Bedford, a whaling town. I told him that I would like to introduce him to you there, thinking more of his seeing you than New Bedford. So we propose to come your way tomorrow. Excuse this short notice, for the time is short. If, on any account, it is inconvenient to see us, you will treat us accordingly.

Yours truly
Henry D. Thoreau

  It is somewhat of a lichen day. The bright-yellow sulphur lichens on the walls of the Walden road look novel, as if I had not seen them for a long time. Do they not require cold as much as moisture to enliven them? What surprising forms and colors! Designed on every natural surface of rock or tree . . .

  Returning up the railroad, I see the great tufts of sedge in Heywood’s meadow curving over like locks of the meadow’s hair, above the snow . . . The death of Irving, which at any other time would have attracted universal attention, having occurred while these things were transpiring, goes almost unobserved . . .

  Enclosed find Fifteen Dollars ($15.00) in eastern funds in settlement of your bill of 28th. ulto. Please acknowledge receipt to

Yours Truly
L. Johnson & Co