November 14.
Friday.
Surveying the Ministerial Lot in the southwestern part of the town.
Unexpectedly find Heywood's Pond frozen over thinly, it being shallow and coldly placed.
Surveying the Ministerial Lot in the southwestern part of the town.
Unexpectedly find Heywood's Pond frozen over thinly, it being shallow and coldly placed.
In the evening went to a party. It is a bad place to go to, — thirty or forty persons, mostly young women, in a small room, warm and noisy.
Was introduced to two young women.
The first one was as lively and loquacious as a chickadee; had been accustomed to the society of watering-places, and therefore could get no refreshment out of such a dry fellow as I.
Was introduced to two young women.
The first one was as lively and loquacious as a chickadee; had been accustomed to the society of watering-places, and therefore could get no refreshment out of such a dry fellow as I.
The other was said to be pretty-looking, but I rarely look people in their faces, and, moreover, I could not hear what she said, there was such a clacking, — could only see the motion of her lips when I looked that way.
I could imagine better places for conversation, where there should be a certain degree of silence surrounding you, and less than forty talking at once. Why, this afternoon, even, I did better.
There was old Mr. Joseph Hosmer and I ate our luncheon of cracker and cheese together in the woods. I heard all he said, though it was not much, to be sure, and he could hear me. And then he talked out of such a glorious repose, taking a leisurely bite at the cracker and cheese between his words; and so some of him was communicated to me, and some of me to him, I trust.
These parties, I think, are a part of the machinery of modern society, that young people may be brought together to form marriage connections. What is the use of going to see people whom yet you never see, and who never see you? I begin to suspect that it is not necessary that we should see one another.
Some of my friends make singular blunders. They go out of their way to talk with certain young women of whom they think, or have heard, that they are pretty, and take pains to introduce me to them. That may be a reason why they should look at them, but it is not a reason why they should talk with them.
I confess that I am lacking a sense, perchance, in this respect, and I derive no pleasure from talking with a young woman half an hour simply because she has regular features. The society of young women is the most unprofitable I have ever tried. They are so light and flighty that you can never be sure whether they are there or not there.
I prefer to talk with the more staid and settled, settled for life, in every sense.
I met a man yesterday afternoon in the road who behaved as if he was deaf, and I talked with him in the cold in a loud tone for fifteen minutes, but that uncertainty about his ears, and the necessity I felt to talk loudly, took off the fine edge of what I had to say and prevented my saying anything satisfactory. It is bad enough when your neighbor does not understand you, but if there is any uncertainty as to whether he hears you, so that you are obliged to become your own auditor, you are so much the poorer speaker, and so there is a double failure.
I could imagine better places for conversation, where there should be a certain degree of silence surrounding you, and less than forty talking at once. Why, this afternoon, even, I did better.
There was old Mr. Joseph Hosmer and I ate our luncheon of cracker and cheese together in the woods. I heard all he said, though it was not much, to be sure, and he could hear me. And then he talked out of such a glorious repose, taking a leisurely bite at the cracker and cheese between his words; and so some of him was communicated to me, and some of me to him, I trust.
These parties, I think, are a part of the machinery of modern society, that young people may be brought together to form marriage connections. What is the use of going to see people whom yet you never see, and who never see you? I begin to suspect that it is not necessary that we should see one another.
Some of my friends make singular blunders. They go out of their way to talk with certain young women of whom they think, or have heard, that they are pretty, and take pains to introduce me to them. That may be a reason why they should look at them, but it is not a reason why they should talk with them.
I confess that I am lacking a sense, perchance, in this respect, and I derive no pleasure from talking with a young woman half an hour simply because she has regular features. The society of young women is the most unprofitable I have ever tried. They are so light and flighty that you can never be sure whether they are there or not there.
I prefer to talk with the more staid and settled, settled for life, in every sense.
I met a man yesterday afternoon in the road who behaved as if he was deaf, and I talked with him in the cold in a loud tone for fifteen minutes, but that uncertainty about his ears, and the necessity I felt to talk loudly, took off the fine edge of what I had to say and prevented my saying anything satisfactory. It is bad enough when your neighbor does not understand you, but if there is any uncertainty as to whether he hears you, so that you are obliged to become your own auditor, you are so much the poorer speaker, and so there is a double failure.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 14, 1851
Unexpectedly find Heywood's Pond frozen over thinly, it being shallow and coldly placed. See November 23, 1850 (" If I am surprised to find ice on the sides of the brooks, I am much more surprised to find a pond in the woods, containing an acre or more, quite frozen over so that I walk across it. It is in a cold corner, where a pine wood excludes the sun. In the larger ponds and the river, of course, there is no ice yet. I lay down on the ice and look through at the bottom.") ; December 11, 1853 ("We find Heywood's Pond frozen five inches thick.. . . This ice being whitened and made partially opaque by heat, while the surface is quite smooth, perhaps from new freezings, reflects the surrounding trees, their forms and colors, distinctly like water. The white air-bubbles are the quicksilver on the back of the mirror.") See also A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, First Ice.
I derive no pleasure from talking with a young woman. Compare April 23, 1857 ("I saw at Ricketson's a young woman, Miss Kate Brady, twenty years old. . .I never heard a girl or woman express so strong a love for nature.")
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