I rejoice in this good will you bear to so many
friends of mine,--if they will go to you, you must thank
yourself. Best when you are mutually contented. I wished lately
I might serve Mr. Macready, who sent me your letter.--I called on
him and introduced him to Sam G. Ward, my friend and the best man
in the city, and, besides all his personal merits, a master of
all the offices of hospitality. Ward was to keep himself
informed of Macready's times, and bring me to him when there was
opportunity. But he stayed but a few days in Boston, and, Ward
said, was in very good hands, and promised to see us when he
returns by and by. I saw him in Hamlet, but should much prefer
to see him as Macready.
I must try to entice Mr. Macready out here into my pines and
alder bushes. Just now the moon is shining on snow-drifts, four,
five, and six feet high, but, before his return, they will melt;
and already this my not native but ancestral village, which I
came to live in nearly ten years ago because it was the quietest
of farming towns, and off the road, is found to lie on the
directest line of road from Boston to Montreal, a railroad is
a-building through our secretest woodlands, and, tomorrow morning,
our people go to Boston in two hours instead of three, and, next
June, in one.
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