I have not been very well for a few days—ate too many apples &c. and then took brandy to counteract them—and then not being better off, took apples to counteract the brandy. And so I have been going on, but it’s confounded hard to make the proper average. This morning I felt stupid as an owl at noon day—and tried to balance accounts by eating half a dozen green pears and drinking a stiff dose of brandy, and going to bed. Now I have got up—but don’t feel any better. Under such circumstances I should never think of answering a letter that came from anybody but you, unless a mere business inquiry as to how I’d have the money sent, or the like. I suppose that sounds like anything but a compliment, but ’tis one.

I am very sorry you cannot come; that’s all I’ve got to say about it. I guess I shall be here in September, and I shall hope to see you then. I don’t know where I shall be this coming winter. Perhaps I shall try to get onto Norton’s farm in Farmington—perhaps with Townsend in East Haven—perhaps on my own. I shall try to be situated so as to be likely to study more than to work. Do you think I shall be contented on a farm—15 miles from New Haven, and three miles from neighbors? I mean civilized ones, gentlemen, doctors, lawyers and ministers.

By the way, I am beginning to have a horror of ministers. They are such a set of conceited, dogmatical, narrow minded, misanthropic, petty mind [276]tyrants. I am most afraid to have such opinions but the fact is, I have acquired for good or evil a great many independent and agrarian and revolutionary ideas and ways of thinking which would frighten such kind folks as my good mother, or Mrs. Baldwin, not a little.

And now I am about it, it was just on this account that I wanted to see you. I don’t know what to think about many things—and I wanted you to help me. Nobody can understand what I mean but you. I am full of speculation; and I respect one set of men so little above another, that now I have no very decided opinion on any subject that I have not examined for myself. I mean that I am not to be led by the nose any longer by any man or men—by any teacher, priest, party or church. I give no man leave to call me Whig or Presbyterian, and no man has the right to say I am not a Patriot and a Christian. I have not joined any church—I cannot believe it is best I should —nor am I likely to at present.

As for identifying myself with that set of men, the most bigoted, self complaisant, pharisaical, anti-advancing, anti-reforming, stiff necked old Jew Christians, agreeing on one thing, and that without a true meaning—to call themselves Presbyterians—if I am to have my feelings, dispositions, and opinions, I might almost say, known by my name I would prefer to be called Unitarian or Universalist. I suppose you would be very sorry to hear that I was one—so I tell you I am not by any means—but I should be neither frightened or horror struck to hear that you or John was. I suppose every reasoning creature must be full of “doubts” and in my opinion the more a man doubts, the more of a thinking animal he is. How intellectual I must be! I doubt everything pretty near—but understand such doubting does not affect (at least for worse) my happiness.

In fact my doubts are built on this—I will think and act right, I will find Truth and be governed by it, so far as I can, with the light God is pleased to give me. I will be accountable to no one but God for my opinions and actions. Trusting in Him for light I will not fear for nor care for what man thinks of, or does towards me. I am liable to mistake myself—but so far as I do judge myself, this is my paramount governing principle. I hope so anyway, and except from the consciousness of yielding to temptation, and thinking and acting contrary to my own more solemn, more rational and better intentions—as I often do most wickedly—what can I be sorry for? Whether it is because I am endowed with a sluggish, unfeeling heart, or I am a Philosopher or a Christian I do not know, but I certainly do not feel disappointments much or have gloomy anticipations.

I certainly have been declaring Independence this summer, and cutting myself loose from the common rafts of men. I shall hitch on again I suppose when I think there’s occasion—but I shall attach myself not by proxy. I don’t give my helm to Father, Mother, Schoolmaster, editor or minister, again.

[277]

I suppose it was because perhaps a little, I had this vagabond feeling that I fancied Sartor Resartus. Why, it took me three weeks to read through the first book, but when I got along about the “Everlasting No!” I was enchanted with it and some parts I have laid on my bed and read and thought over by hours—again and again. One of my temptations in the wilderness is coming off now, and the very consciousness of fighting the devil with a posse of Presbyterian priests and Methodist elders, and infidels and so forth at his back and fighting for Truth and God’s glory is better than ’tis to be following your file leader like a machine.

But the mail won’t stop for me to write nonsense. I am very glad Charley is not more broken down by the loss of his father. I had written a letter of sympathy and condolence to him but so unsatisfactorily expressed, and looking so much like a ceremony I would not send it.

We are all cursedly selfish—guess you are not worse than the rest except when you have got the dyspepsia blues. You are not romantic—imaginative enough to be in love. Otherwise you are reasonably in love as much as I am.

Ask John how to direct—or direct here so ’twill be forwarded. Love to the “46.”