Celestia Colby letter to Emily 4 Oct 1858

I'm both amused and vexed that it should be so. When I sit as a sort of critical spectator in a crowd of a score or more men and women longing for companionship, but finding it not, throughout the mortal tedium of a long, glorious summer afternoon, when earth or through or during a bright starlit winter eve, when earth and air are full of poetry, and hear nothing discussed, but money, and the means of getting it, hear this one tell of her butter that one of her cheese, one of his "crows", another of his calves & swine, all talking at once and all of "one unchanging theme" money, money, I'm sometimes think of the nursery tale of the little old woman who in a similar crowd kept saying at every lull in the gab (isn't that the proper word?) "my goose, she - - ". But ere she could enlighten her auditors as to the wonderful feats of her "goose" (which for ought I know, may have equalled or excelled that famous biped that laid a golden egg every day,) some one whose lungs were better stronger than her own interrupted her, so that she got no further advanced in her interesting story than her oft repeated "my goose she - - " When I return from such a gathering, with "my soul thirst and hunger" all unsatisfied, I am more the vexed, I am pained, deeply pained that the [human] mind should feed so contentedly on husks and chaff, and I feel a wild longing of soul for a higher and holier converse with my fellow beings. And I say "Strange, that the mind formed Through the Universe to range, Should so ignobly cling to earth, Fond of its trifles and its toys.

Strange, that when we are forever cursing another Eve because she eat the apple, and fretting beneath and resting of toil, we forget that the mind, the intellect - was never bowed to the yoke but left free as the fetterless wind! But we, in our blindness forge a chain that binds our very soul to toil, and plod onward as if we supposed we were not only sentenced to earn our bread by the sweat of the brow, but to sweeten it by talking ever of our ceaseless sound of monotonous cares. For such people, and their name is Legion, the earth is robed in beauty all in vein; they see not the glory of the sunshine, the harmony of colors blended as artistically in the ever varying hues of Dame Natures vestments, the wealth of beauty that crowns the year, and they hear the music in the myriad of voices that swell a ceaseless anthem of praise to the All Father. Talk to them of beauty, poetry, love, and they have no ears , or at least they hear not; but say money or cheese, (how I hate the word but not the substance,) and they are all attention. There is enthusiasm, a sordid enthusiasm, in the eye, and interest and excitement and the countance, but lift not the veil from the holy of holies with your own heart, "cast not your pearls" of thought and feeling before them for there is no answering return, only the sneer of "sentiment of," "nonsense."

You wrote of a pleasant excursion in company with Cousin Laurie, the dear friend whom I've heard [crossed out] seen or only with the spirits eyes. I'm really envious and do covet such a trip in spite of the commandment to

"covet not" be be. A week at the Hampton Beach! It seems to me a life time of bliss might- be condensed into a week by the shore of old ocean! In my waking dreams, I too have stood by its sounding shore, and my heart thrills even now with the wild luxury of such a dreams, I should not wish to be there in a crowd; but with a chosen few, of kindred heart and tried souls, who could look with me in silence, or sense aloud. as Natures changeful mood inspired our wayward spirits - how I should enjoy, nay exult in my own existence, and feel something swelling within, too deep for words, something that allies my soul to nature and its [] There is a bright spot in the future, I see its light now, by the shore of the mighty ocean and feast my eyes and my soul upon its grandeur. Will you and [Lan] greet me there and let me see the caskets that enshrines the spirits I've learned to love? But for the present I have no excursions, only from the kitchen to the buttery, from the buttery to the kitchen or wearisome march at best I varied by frequent trips over the blank over the plank to the cheese house and down the grassy path to the cheese house - very monotanous compared with Hampton Beach, and your Brentwood Home

But I make these excursions back and forth scores of times every day, during the summer; sometimes with the low, sweet music of happy thoughts, keeping time to the joyous beat of my heart; sometimes the slow weary march, is to the dirge like wailing of bitter, despair -ing, rebellious thoughts; but there is ever a voice from

"cross" of the heavenly with the earthly, as we farmers say; and this mixture is scarce enough in this matter of fact world; I mean the outward physical world as it still smiles in all its virgin beauty, as if fresh from the finishing hand of the Great Artist But the world of mind, so [and] material of, so grovelling , where it should be spiritual and soaring.

I am a very [matter of fa - crossed out] common place personage, and I live in the midst of a very common place people; who, if they are not entitled to the appellation of men or women of "one idea" they all at least have "one idea", one aspiration, [or] "to make money", and they all [have one - crossed out] are equally fortunate in having one method of making it; [] making butter and cheese, [inasmuch] that this is brighest corner of the [Buckey] state rejoices in the well earned title of "cheesedom". And that you may see that I have caught the one mania of the place and the people, let me tell you that our productions are unrivalled, "can't be beat," as every dairy man or women says of her own [part] butter and cheese

Well as I told you, money, butter, and cheese, cows, calves, horses, sheep and pigs are not only our "staple productions" but also staple there for conversation at all of our chance gatherings and they furnish an agreeable interlude to the Sabbath services of the santuary, and are sandwhiched in between the sermons by way of giving spice to the word I suppose. Now this is no caricature, but a sober, serious, solemn-choly fact. And sometimes

Ive been looking over cousins Laurie's fancy introduction, for fancy it is. Only think, she says you've given liberty to set forth your perfections and imperfections; but I fear this could not be done in the short space of one letter, even if long as this; though the perfections might be written on a much smaller space!" Now isnt that frank, and highly suggestive? Well I must confess I like you all the better for that. I've a mortal horror of model people. I've known a few intimately, but they were sort of human icebergs! And I've made frequent voyages of discovery nay rather in search of discovery in discoveries, but I never - found their hearts! And finally come to the conclusion that they had none. I've never seen their eyes light up with the enthusiasm of joy, nor flash with the lurid flames of anger, have never felt the sound warmth of sympathy, nor the quickening fires of love enkindled by their presence; precise, nice and decidedly prim about them. Now such people always excite my aversion; I feel all the "old Adam" within me [perhaps I ought to say Eve but - crossed out] Eve perhaps I ought to call it but I prefer laying the "original sin" to our fore father, instead of our [fore] mother stirred up and I am all ready for the commission of some grieveous crime against or code of ettiquette, if not against the immaculate decaloque. In short their presence makes me feel wicked, and I want to do something to shock them ["or fully"] just to see if they have real human "nerves" and are not fanciful automations. But thanks to cousin Lauries] introduction