“Concord, April 24, ’44.—­Dear Friends:  This evening I can say that I am settled, comfortably settled in every particular.  All that is needed for my comfort is here:  a good straw bed, a large table, carpet, washstand, book-case, stove, chairs, looking-glass—­all, all that is needful.  And this for seventy-five cents a week, including lights; wood is extra pay.  This is the inanimate about me.  The lady of the house, Mrs. Thoreau, is a woman. The only fear I have about her is that she is too much like dear mother—­she will take too much care of me.  She has told me how she used to sit up nights, waiting for a young man whom she had taken to board, to come home.  He was a stranger to her, but still she insists that she must treat all as she would her own, and even with greater care.  If you were to see her, mother, you would be perfectly satisfied that I have fallen into good hands, and met a second mother, if that is possible.”

“April 25, 1:30 P.M.—­I have just finished my dinner; it was ein herrliches Essen. Unleavened bread (from home), maple-sugar, and apples which I purchased this morning.  Previous to taking dinner I said my first lesson to Mr. Bradford in Greek and Latin.

“I am extremely well situated, and feel contented in myself, and deeply grateful to you all for your goodness in helping me to pursue the real purpose of my being.  All we can do is to be faithful to God and to the work He has given us to do, and, whatever end He may lead us to, to have that central faith that ‘all is for the best.’  There is only one life, and that is life in God; and only one death, and that is separation from Him.  And this life is not and cannot be measured by the external eye.  We must be fixed in God before we can do anything rightly—­study, labor, social, political or of any kind. . . .

“I have written this letter full of nothingness; I will be more settled the next time and do better.  Send all your love to me—­think more of heaven and we shall grow happier.  If once celestial love has touched us, we cannot rest until it dwells and abides in our hearts.  To you all I send my warmest and purest love.—­ISAAC.”

“Concord, May 2, 1844.—­Dear Friends:  It was my intention not to write home until I had received a letter from you; but as none has yet come, and I am in want of a few things, I will write you immediately.

“You can scarcely imagine how different my life is now from what it was at home.  It is like living in another world.  It is possible that you might not be suited with the conditions here, but to me they are the very ones which are congenial to my present state of being.  I am alone from early dawn to late at night; no one to intrude upon my quiet except Mr. Bradford, who occupies the hour between twelve and one to hear my recitations, and Mrs. Thoreau a few minutes in making my bed in the mornings.  The rest of my time is devoted to study, communion, and, a little of it, to reading.  How unlike the life at home!