January 27.
As I stand under the hill beyond J. Hosmer's and look over the plains westward toward Acton and see the farmhouses nearly half a mile apart, few and solitary, in these great fields between these stretching woods, out of the world, where the children have to go far to school;
- the still, stagnant, heart-eating, life-everlasting, and gone-to-seed country, so far from the postoffice where the weekly paper comes, wherein the newmarried wife cannot live for loneliness, and the young man has to depend upon his horse for society;
- see young J. Hosmer's house, whither he returns with his wife in despair after living in the city, –– I standing in Tarbell's road, which he alone cannot break out, ––
- the world in winter for most walkers reduced to a sled track winding far through the drifts, all springs sealed up and no digressions;
- where the old man thinks he may possibly afford to rust it out, not having long to live, but the young man pines to get nearer the post-office and the Lyceum, is restless and resolves to go to California, because the depot is a mile off (he hears the rattle of the cars at a distance and thinks the world is going by and leaving him);
- where rabbits and partridges multiply, and muskrats are more numerous than ever, and none of the farmer's sons are willing to be farmers, and the apple trees are decayed, and the cellar-holes are more numerous than the houses, and the rails are covered with lichens, and the old maids wish to sell out and move into the village, and have waited twenty years in vain for this purpose and never finished but one room in the house, never plastered nor painted, inside or out, lands which the Indian was long since dispossessed [of], and now the farms are run out, and what were forests are grain-fields, what were grain-fields, pastures;
- dwellings which only those Arnolds of the wilderness, those coureurs de bois, the baker and the butcher visit, to which at least the latter penetrates for the annual calf, –– and as lie returns the cow lows after; –– whither the villager never penetrates, but in huckleberry time, perchance, and if he does not, who does?
- where some men's breaths smell of rum, having smuggled in a jugful to alleviate their misery and solitude;
- where the owls give a regular serenade; ––
I say, standing there and seeing these things, I cannot realize that this is that hopeful young America which is famous throughout the world for its activity and enterprise, and this is the most thickly settled and Yankee part of it. What must be the condition of the old world! The sphagnum must by this time have concealed it from the eye.
In new countries men are scattered broadcast; they do not wait for roads to place their houses on, but roads seek out the houses, and each man is a prince in his principality and depends on himself. Perchance when the virgin soil is exhausted, a reaction takes place, and men concentrate in villages again, become social and commercial, and leave the steady and moderate few to work the country's mines.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 27, 1852
The cellar-holes are more numerous than the houses. See November 30, 1851 ("My eye rested with pleasure on the white pines."); May 18, 1857 ("There is a very grand and picturesque old yellow birch in the old cellar northwest the yellow birch swamp. . . . In woods close behind Easterbrook's place. . . a wild apple tree in the old cellar there . . .Call it Malus cellaris, that grows in an old cellar-hole."); November 6, 1857 ("As for the yellow birch cellar-hole, Ephraim Brown told him that old Henry Flint (an ancestor of Clark's wife) dug it, and erected the frame of a house there, but never finished it, selling out, going to live by the river. It was never finished.")
January 27. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, January 27
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A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau
"A book, each page written in its own season,
out-of-doors, in its own locality.”
~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2025
