It was a great selfish disappointment that you did not come, but I am glad and thankful that you concluded to remain. I fear John will not succeed in getting more correspondences for you, but I should be very glad to hear that you felt able to go on next summer as you propose. Even if you give up Hungary, I would stay late enough in the Spring to see the World’s Fair. I wish you could get up to Sweden and see something of domestic life there, and the same for Italy—and for a similar reason.

Do you recollect my old Theory of Compensations in National Character? The good side of Swedish character (by character I mean development) we know from Miss Bremer and others. Go you and see, not its faults, but the dangers [that] belong to these good customs and impulses. Of the misery and sin of Italy we have heard enough. I want you to go and appreciate the happiness and nobleness that produce or belong to those particular sins & miseries. I am sure they are there, as I am that I am high because I am low, weak because I am strong.

If you could get to Hungary and really know the people, take an unprejudiced view of their condition & character, learn what really is their Revolutionary impulse, it would be most rare, interesting and valuable. For my part I really am anxious to get some advice about that people from a man that really knows something about them; and I think others must be.

Your letter about yourself and the good you thought you were getting was delightful. I do think so, too. I am more and more constantly aware of the good I received—direct effect on my—spirit. I should say that I had more independence, freedom of thought—was less influenced by the mere fact of others’ opinions—cared less for their opinions—or at least was influenced less by them than before. At the same time I may, and hope I have (or shall have) more personal regard and respect for them—certainly more charity and brotherhood with those who differ totally with me. I am less dependent decidedly on the approval of others and have more faith in myself and dignity of mind (even less of exterior, perhaps).

I have no doubt that you will have grown greatly. But I meant to speak of another effect. I am disappointed in the increased power I have over others, as yet. The mere fact of having been to Europe is worth nothing. To me, in looking at another, it always was an expectation of an increased value to the man—rightly so. But I have now this impression that here people do not respect anyone sincerely. Representatives only it seems to me they bow to—as clergymen of religion, &c.

Everybody does seem horridly selfish and wrapped up in personal concerns, as you described the Manchester editor to us. The show of interest [366]they make seems to be merely formal. They, in the closet, think nothing of you except as you have something to buy or sell. Surely I, who am going cross and reserved, do really love and pray for them, though they go to California or I to Europe.

You have very greatly improved in your style of writing, it seems to us, since you have been in Germany. Do you not take more pains to finish and unite your letters than you did?

I was alone when I opened The Horticulturist this month. And when I turned to the article, “Domestic Life in Germany” and saw it was yours, I threw the book down on the floor and laughed, I was so glad. It was about economy, stoves, and my friend’s house in Hamburgh—and credited “C.L. in the Independent.” I have written to Downing to tell him who you are.

He wants me to write him in familiar letters Rural Impressions of Germany, &c. I find I can not do it. I saw and know too little of Germany to write distinctly upon it. But I agree with him that whoever could do it would be in the way of doing a good deal of small good. Our rural character is in transitu and wants help from Germany. What I do wish very earnestly, Charley (and if I could, would urge most seriously) is that Mrs. Gray [do it]—every way fitted, just the person of all others. It is our women that are at fault in this Rural taste, or rather in their entire want of Rural taste. And what a woman like Mrs. G. would see, would tell, would, even [if] it seemed trite and common place coming from a woman of her taste and information, would influence them. I wish you would persuade her to write a letter or two for The Horticulturist. There is this month the most sensible ideas on the architectural character of churches that has appeared in this country. Do make a serious appeal to Mrs. Gray. I am much in earnest.

In The Courant this week (recollect weekly and daily, great circulation) is an abstract with extracts of your Holstein—farm house letter. Very good. You did the farming very well. Don’t be afraid to go into particulars. You know a good deal of agriculture. The remark on draining will really be worth something in Connecticut. This from The Bulletin. The Saturday Evening Gazette in which your letters are also published used to have a considerable number of subscribers at Collinsville, I remember, and I presume has an extensive circulation in such places.

Your remarks on colleges read very good—reasonable & convincing. Your German letters, particularly the Hamburg & country letters, have been the most popular you have written, I guess.

If you go to Swiss land. I can get you a letter to Hall’s father in law there, an ultra evangelical, rear guard professor at Geneva.

I had a very pleasant visit from Hen Barnes. Did I tell you? He intended to be here again when you came. He is terribly in love, as usual, with the sex in general—or ideal. But there is nobody here to suit such men [367]as he and I. I honestly advise you to look out [for] a wife in Europe. I don’t believe there are any left here to suit us.

Princeton works admirably as an Emetic with Henry. That is, you understand, they give him such a stiff dose of poisoned doctrine that instead of being injured by it he throws up something else with it. He says right out they are perfect jackasses the whole concern of them.

“What do you understand [by] that Mr. Barnes?”

“Why, I understand just what it says, and I think St. Paul was mistaken about it. That’s the way I explain it.”

“But I don’t understand you Brother Barnes. Do you not think St. Paul was inspired?”

“Inspired?—yes, inspired—but, that’s no reason he should never make a mistake.”

He has preached some sermons in Philadelphia that the ministers have blowed him for. He says he wishes he could get once permanently settled, a wife and a salary, and he’d tell ’em something. Dam the whole trade I say. If you are determined to get into the shoes of the devil to do good, when there are so many other honest and honorable ways, I shall think myself a fool.

I don’t know but two priests in the country that have not gone with the majority (of church paying citizens) in this damnable Fugitive Slave Law reaction—Beecher and Storrs. God give them better company.

You know, perhaps, Dr. Taylor has addressed a “Union Meeting,” and his lickspittle has been published in the Journal of Cotton with half a column of leaded type of flattering introduction. Ditto Dr. Cox—ditto two other Doctors whose very names it is not becoming a free man to write. Can’t you touch upon this matter in your letters? What do sincere Christian Democrats say about it in Germany?

They have a new Principal at the High School—Hartford—a regular mean lying Compromiser I should think. John probably tells you about him. Their great hope would be that you would come back and take the place when they kick him out—but I have a greater hope.

Congress and the New York legislature have only talked on unimportant subjects yet. There is fun in Massachusetts. The Free Soilers bargained to get a U.S. Senator for 6 years—if they gave the Governor to Locos. The Locos hardly dare to do it. Oh, if the Whigs & F.S. would put in Horace Mann, would it not be capital! Or if they could make a Union Whig Governor & Phillips, Senator. But there’s no promise of any such thing.

Mr. Atwood—I beg pardon, (of course, such a man is the) Reverend Mister Atwood, Locofoco candidate for Governor in New Hampshire turned three somersets in a week writing as many letters, each condemning the sentiments of the other in regard to Fugitives. He is likely to be promoted [368]to the excellency. Don’t despair of the country, Charly. Recollect ten years ago and the Gag—law.

I have begun writing a book. But if I go on far, I cannot finish it this winter. I have not landed at Liverpool yet, but have faith that I shall get there pretty strong. I have been invited to take the Whig nomination for Town Clerk, and Justice of Peace, and to deliver an agricultural address at East Windsor (Wouldn’t I give their Orthodox fits?) but have declined principally on account of wanting the time if I write.

I have a great lot of trees coming. 5,000 shipped 29th November and not here yet. Some of the packets are making seventy days passage. Think of it! More than two months of the Henry Clay!

That remark of yours about tenacity of attachment is worth more than a paragraph if it is worthwhile to write upon it [at] all. I won’t go into it, but merely say that I think you are quite wrong about me. That in character I am much more so than you and John. It is simply previous caution and a subjection to duty which would make me appear otherwise. Else do you not think I should marry?

As it is, I am likely to be all along a bachelor or to marry believing that the “highest element of love” is not of earth, and so secure from disappointment if I shall not find it. Anyway, I am convinced that in this I am less likely to lose my own love—to change my love, as you say, than you are or John. But not for the reason that you suppose. Improbable as it may sound to you, I do not love rashly—foolishly. I do not Love easily. My attachments are always worth more than I reckon them. I always find it so. I see but one exception to the rule that I always underestimate rather than otherwise the character and talents of those I am most a friend to. In that exception my attachment increases. While yours and John’s decrease. I say my attachment increases, but it is a grievous sad attachment, and constantly moved to active, improving kindness. Your attachment is weakened and you are moved to despise and neglect. Of course, I speak in extremes. It’s a painful subject anyway.

I doubt if I shall ever “love” till I marry (or am engaged) but I shall not marry a woman that I shall not be very likely to love very dearly when I safely can. I do not know such a one. I am not sure but Miss Neill comes as near it as any, as John thinks. I wish you would ask her what she thinks of it.

I want Murray’s Rhine to put in my book, if you can send it by anyone. I want those books much. If there is no quicker way, without a great deal of trouble, send me back the list & I will order by a New York house—or send it to Stevens and ask him to hand to a New York house in London and pay or become responsible for it, & I will remit. Or send them & I will pay the house in New York. I am in a hurry.