Of one thing, my dear friend, I am certain:  if the readers of this little journey could have during its persual the companionship that the writer had when it was made, they would think it altogether delightful.  There is no pleasure comparable to that of going about the world, in pleasant weather, with a good comrade, if the mind is distracted neither by care, nor ambition, nor the greed of gain.  The delight there is in seeing things, without any hope of pecuniary profit from them!  We certainly enjoyed that inward peace which the philosopher associates with the absence of desire for money.  For, as Plato says in the Phaedo, “whence come wars and fightings and factions? whence but from the body and the lusts of the body?  For wars are occasioned by the love of money.”  So also are the majority of the anxieties of life.  We left these behind when we went into the Provinces with no design of acquiring anything there.  I hope it may be my fortune to travel further with you in this fair world, under similar circumstances.

Nook farm, Hartford, April 10, 1874.

C. D. W.

BADDECK AND THAT SORT OF THING

“Ay, now I am in Arden:  the more fool I; when I was at home,
I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.” 
—­Touchstone.

Two comrades and travelers, who sought a better country than the United States in the month of August, found themselves one evening in apparent possession of the ancient town of Boston.

The shops were closed at early candle-light; the fashionable inhabitants had retired into the country, or into the second-story-back, of their princely residences, and even an air of tender gloom settled upon the Common.  The streets were almost empty, and one passed into the burnt district, where the scarred ruins and the uplifting piles of new brick and stone spread abroad under the flooding light of a full moon like another Pompeii, without any increase in his feeling of tranquil seclusion.  Even the news-offices had put up their shutters, and a confiding stranger could nowhere buy a guide-book to help his wandering feet about the reposeful city, or to show him how to get out of it.  There was, to be sure, a cheerful tinkle of horse-car bells in the air, and in the creeping vehicles which created this levity of sound were a few lonesome passengers on their way to Scollay’s Square; but the two travelers, not having well-regulated minds, had no desire to go there.  What would have become of Boston if the great fire had reached this sacred point of pilgrimage no merely human mind can imagine.  Without it, I suppose the horse-cars would go continually round and round, never stopping, until the cars fell away piecemeal on the track, and the horses collapsed into a mere mass of bones and harness, and the brown-covered books from the Public Library, in the hands of the fading virgins who carried them, had accumulated fines to an incalculable amount.