For remedy to which I am, in these very hours, preparing for a
sally into the green Country and deep silence; I know not
altogether how or whitherward as yet; only that I must tend
towards Lancashire; towards Scotland at last. My Wife already
waits me in Lancashire; went off, in rather poor case, much
burnt by the hot Town, some ten days ago; and does not yet
report much improvement. I will write to you somewhere in my
wanderings. The address, "Scotsbrig, Ecclefechan, N.B.," if you
chance to write directly or soon after this arrives, will,
likely, be the shortest: at any rate, that, or "Cheyne Row"
either, is always sure enough to find me in a day or two
after trying.
By a kind of accident I have fallen considerably into American
History in these days; and am even looking out for American
Geography to help me. Jared Sparks, Marshall, &c. are hickory
and buckskin; but I do catch a credible trait of human life from
them here and there; Michelet's genial champagne _froth,_--alas,
I could find no fact in it that would stand handling; and so
have broken down in the middle of _La France,_ and run over to
hickory and Jared for shelter! Do you know Beriah Green?* A
body of Albany newspapers represent to me the people quarreling
in my name, in a very vague manner, as to the propriety of being
"governed," and Beriah's is the only rational voice among them.
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