I really am not at all in the way of writing letters to you. I have written home five times, mere business letters about tools, stock, etc. Your letter or excuse for one last Wednesday, with Father’s enclosed, reached me. I am very sorry to hear your eyes fail. Your papers—Tribunes Sunday, and Yankee yesterday—are received. Shall send latter to CLB.

Whatever you may think, I am very busy. Looking up tools, advice, and hired man and his wife and my wife—and cattle and so forth. You recollect our friend Jonathan Leete that went with his boat blackberrying with us to the Thimbles. He drives the Sloop Branford now, and I have sent by him for some tools. I have bought an ox-cart for $25.00. I have a scow-boat of the burthen of a cartload and a half—building—for rock-weeding etc., to cost $20.00. I have a good man with his wife in view that I can probably get for pretty high wages.

I have been to Sachem’s Head but once, and then did not go into the house. I am going there again this P.M. It does look real nasty and forlorn about the house. And I do hope visitors . will keep away from me next summer. The farm generally pleases me well. There is a good deal more beautiful and valuable wood on it than I had supposed. But then—again—there’s more rocks, and there are not so many apple-trees, and the barn and house are in worse condition than I had thought them to be.

Father writes that he shall send my things tomorrow, Wednesday. If your eyes will excuse you, won’t you bring them over—and so look at the farm with me? I would like to have you look at it in winter because it will do away with that bugbear, “bleakness,”. I think. There’s nothing bleak at Sachem’s Head. That is, on my point.

At this season, it is all a swamp for several acres about the house : real juicy. And a stream from the barn yard empties itself near the front door—into the sea. The whole farm is very moist, which makes it backward in the spring. I shall try draining.

There are several educated men in the village. I have not seen any [287]

Guilford, Connecticut and Sachem’s Head

[288]

May God forgive me if I judge them and remember not their sins to visit them against their children. Mr. Hall himself told me with a smile of good pluck that the churches hated each other with all their might. Having a strong Whig church, of course, Mr. H. is a violent Whig. And he boasts that there is not but one member of his church that is a Loco Foco. It will be hard if they can’t excommunicate him before long. More than that, there are only two Locos that dare to enter the meeting house.

There’s a true Whig physician, of course. He gets no employment out of their church, and I suppose any of them would die and be ______ before they’d call in a heretic Loco. This fortunate doctor was a partner of Chittenden’s in Hartford, but heard of this rare chance for a monopoly of killing and jumped the counter. The Abolition church is just the same—doctor and all. They’ve all got sore eyes trying to go past the Whig church, Sundays, without winking. The Methodist church they call the Tory church. They are all steamed to death—go the whole hog for Polk, Texas, and slavery—for Thomson. Hot drops and steam to Heaven. Glory! Amen! “The Episcopal is a Tory church,” says Mr. Hall, “but there are some very respectable wealthy men in it and they are Whigs.”

The Old Man always confounds “Tory,” “Democrat,” and “Loco” and “Federalist” and “Whig,” much to my horror.

Oh! I would already, it seems to me, give my life to induce in this people a spirit of charity and brotherly love. May God, for Christ’s sake, help me to be the means of encouraging it. They are naturally remarkably intelligent and large minded and kind hearted, I believe. Did that sheep with a wolf’s stomach, the Reverend Mr. Dutton, bring this pestilence among the flocks? God send medicine. The soul of improvement is the improvement of the Soul.

If the gun &c. comes, call at the Stage Office and ask Phelps to call for them, if you please. You must know Phelps. Send them Thursday. Call at Trowbridge’s, if perfectly convenient, and ask if he has a Geddes’ Harrow.

I did think of coming to New Haven but give it up for the present. My love to Fred.

I have written to Geddes, Joe (Welton), & old man David.

Tell father I want the Horticulturist. Nothing of the kind here but the Boston Cultivator.