Early Letters of George Wm. Curtis eBook

And I have had a long vacation, too.  I think, on the very day after I wrote my last letter to you, as I was whetting my scythe for the last swath of the season, my hat half fell off, and suddenly raising my hand to catch it, I thrust it against the scythe and cut my thumb just upon the joint.  It has healed, but I shall never find it quite as agile as formerly.  I could not use the hand—­my right hand—­for more than a fortnight.  It was like losing a sense to lose its use.  After a week of inaction in Concord, I went to Rhode Island and remained three weeks, and am now at home a fortnight.  I came back more charmed than ever with Concord, which hides under a quiet surface most precious scenes.  I suppose we see more deeply into the spirit of a landscape where we have been happy.  Then we behold the summer bloom.  It is spring or autumn or winter to men generally.

We shall remain with Capt.  Barrett through the winter.  The spring will bring its own arrangements, or rather the conclusion of those which are formed during the winter.  I suspect that our affections, like our bodies, have been transplanted to Massachusetts, and that our lives will grow in the new soil.  Not at all ambitious of settling and becoming a citizen, I am very well content with the nomadic life until obedience to the law of things shall plant me in some home.

And are you still at home in the Farm?  Rumors, whose faces I cannot fairly see, pass by me sometimes, breathing your name and others.  But I have long ago turned rumor out-of-doors as an impostor and impertinent person, who apes the manners and appearance of its betters.  I shall receive none as from you, however loudly they may shout your name, except they show your hand and seal.

Autumn has already begun to leave the traces of her golden fingers upon the brakes, and occasionally upon some tall nut-trees.  It seems as if she were trying her skill before she comes like a wind over the landscape.  She warbles a few glittering notes before the mournful, majestic Death-song.

Dear friend, why should I send you this chip of ore out of the mine of regard which is yours in my heart?  Come and dig in it.

Your friend,

G.W.  CURTIS.

XVIII

CONCORD, January 12, ’45.

My dear Friend,—­I have written Burrill to look at the Custom-house, and inquire about the method of warming by water.  He replies that he has been there, but defers writing to you until he learns more about the matter.  Through him I received a message from Isaac to tell you that he (I) can procure an edition of the Beethoven Sonatas (26, I believe) for about $10.

I think it highly probable that I shall pass some weeks in Providence next month, and so will defer my day with you at Brook Farm until that time, of which I will inform you.