But what, after all, have I to tell?  Nothing, nothing, nothing!  I left Blithedale within the week after Zenobia’s death, and went back thither no more.  The whole soil of our farm, for a long time afterwards, seemed but the sodded earth over her grave.  I could not toil there, nor live upon its products.  Often, however, in these years that are darkening around me, I remember our beautiful scheme of a noble and unselfish life; and how fair, in that first summer, appeared the prospect that it might endure for generations, and be perfected, as the ages rolled away, into the system of a people and a world!  Were my former associates now there,—­were there only three or four of those true-hearted men still laboring in the sun,—­I sometimes fancy that I should direct my world-weary footsteps thitherward, and entreat them to receive me, for old friendship’s sake.  More and more I feel that we had struck upon what ought to be a truth.  Posterity may dig it up, and profit by it.  The experiment, so far as its original projectors were concerned, proved, long ago, a failure; first lapsing into Fourierism, and dying, as it well deserved, for this infidelity to its own higher spirit.  Where once we toiled with our whole hopeful hearts, the town paupers, aged, nerveless, and disconsolate, creep sluggishly afield.  Alas, what faith is requisite to bear up against such results of generous effort!

My subsequent life has passed,—­I was going to say happily, but, at all events, tolerably enough.  I am now at middle age, well, well, a step or two beyond the midmost point, and I care not a fig who knows it!—­a bachelor, with no very decided purpose of ever being otherwise.  I have been twice to Europe, and spent a year or two rather agreeably at each visit.  Being well to do in the world, and having nobody but myself to care for, I live very much at my ease, and fare sumptuously every day.  As for poetry, I have given it up, notwithstanding that Dr. Griswold—­as the reader, of course, knows—­has placed me at a fair elevation among our minor minstrelsy, on the strength of my pretty little volume, published ten years ago.  As regards human progress (in spite of my irrepressible yearnings over the Blithedale reminiscences), let them believe in it who can, and aid in it who choose.  If I could earnestly do either, it might be all the better for my comfort.  As Hollingsworth once told me, I lack a purpose.  How strange!  He was ruined, morally, by an overplus of the very same ingredient, the want of which, I occasionally suspect, has rendered my own life all an emptiness.  I by no means wish to die.  Yet, were there any cause, in this whole chaos of human struggle, worth a sane man’s dying for, and which my death would benefit, then—­provided, however, the effort did not involve an unreasonable amount of trouble—­methinks I might be bold to offer up my life.  If Kossuth, for example, would pitch the battlefield of Hungarian rights within an easy ride of my abode, and choose a mild, sunny morning, after breakfast, for the conflict, Miles Coverdale would gladly be his man, for one brave rush upon the levelled bayonets.  Further than that, I should be loath to pledge myself.