But—I think I’ll write in English this time.

Your package of Tribunes by mail thankfully acknowledged.

Pleasant ride, very, I had, up, that day—but I survived with the assistance of an occasional pull at the pocket flask, its effects as usually known illustrated or held up in a Temperance lecture by the driver—who appears, by the way, a pretty clever honest fellow, fully competent to take charge of a small sack of oranges, cocoa nuts, &c., just received and landing from Brig So & So from St. Kitts, Barcelona, Barbados, I mean, or any such sort of thing.

I have been ploughing, since, breaking up old—old enough—old as the hills I’m sure, though they say it was ploughed thirty years ago—fallow—without no rocks nor roots nor nothin’. All as smooth as the lee side of the sand spit in a northweaster or that favor’d bit of Connecticut, that the sailors told about, where they have to grind the sheeps’ noses to a point ’fore they send ’em to pasture, so they can get ’em down between the stones. I haven’t dislocated my hips nor my right wrist nor my neck yet—have, all the rest.

Received also last night a grand bundle of newspapers &c. from home—a summer jacket, for which I am obliged to you—a frock of same stuff as your plaid. I mean to send your jacket down but shall not have it wash’d here.

[213]

I sent a letter to Father yesterday in answer to one I received from him last week in which he gave me a lecture on Rash marriages, &c., saying that matrimony was a subject for me not to think of for years. I’ve no intention of marrying for three or four years. But I’d just as lief as not be engaged, if I came across a suitable person, before I took a farm on my own account, fearing that after that I should have no good opportunity of selection. I think I should like to cruise for about a year, then fall desperately in love & lay off and on till I could bring about an engagement. At any rate I should hope to be married before I am twenty eight. Don’t you think I am reasonable? Well, under favorable circumstances I should do better than that, but I’ve “got a pretty large caution,” Gibson says.

This fellow makes fun for me with his Phreno-lingo. “That ’ar’ man,” says he, speaking of an overgrown chap that drawls out his talk like a psalm tune in slow time on a hand organ, “That ’ar’ man’s got a pretty considerable development of the lympfatic narve.” “He wouldn’t be afraid o’ nothin’. D’ye ’spose he would? D’ye obsarve his head? He ’ant got no caution. Not none ’tall.” He gives me a pretty good character: large caution, large firmness, small destructiveness, large veneration, large philoprogenitiveness, small hands, large eyes, small mouth, large belly. What do you think of it?

Let me hear from you and the boat as often as possible.

I write this to have ready when opportunity occurs.

I have some great “settoos” with Gibson. How do you spell that? “Set-to?” I s’pose so. He’s strong & has the advantage of me by long odds, but he does not. He isn’t quite sure of it yet. He guards altogether too well & hits—very palpably.

18th. I’ve been all day hoeing potatoes & am gratified to find that I can keep up with Mr. Welton very well without much fatigue. I find by breakfasting on bread & milk I can do without drink between meals. I think I shall live on it, pretty much. They don’t have anything else—proper good—but butter & cheese, which is very superior. They have a miserable mess of soured switchel which they think is “beer,” and they pay dear for their infatuation. I’m too temperate for it—by a pailful.

We’ve had a horse—mare, filly. No! She wasn’t a dumb baste at all, but a Yankee hoosier gal “to tea”—a character, rich! Regular Miss Higgins—Miss Squeesh. I’ve a good joke to tell you—fat! Awful! Enclosed for home, etc. as you’ll see.

Your’n