[No paragraph breaks in the original. These were added for ease of reading. Lack of capitalization in some places is as the original, and not typos on my part.]West Springfield March 22, 1844
Dear L-
Your letter of the fourteenth of Febr'y was rec'd and read with much satisfaction. Your "Stockbridge Visitor" did not produce "serious impressions" upon me, if seriousness was stamped upon the face of your letter, it was occasioned by the fact that women cant go a courting when they want to get married, and so have to ask the men to write "love letters" to them. Tell Julia that the truth cuts like a knife, and I am almost cut in "tew"[.] Tell her also that I am tired in waiting for her reply. She waits so long I am afraid I shall get to be an Ole Bachelor if she dont "[...]" soon. She must hurry. If she puts it off much longer, I'll hunt up somebody else, so "that will trouble her I know". I mean to get married afore I get to be an old bachelor.
But you know I am young yet, only "17 or 18" you know. Then my letter to her made a laughable scene; well I thought it would. I saw her father a few days since. Then she was the roguish commentator on the old bachelor's lament. What is more pitiable than an "old maid"? and yet Julia will be one if she neglects too long to answer the "love letters". Charlotte Owen tells me that Delia Moseley conducted so bad at a religious meeting that her father called in requisition.
These girls are wild things. I don't know as I can tame them. Cant you help me Lydia?-
In our early days we we [sic] are volatile and mirthful, but when we pass the middle age of life, and begin to decline we can say with a beautiful writer, that "the glory of the Summer is gone by - the beautiful greenness has become withered and dead" because we are then passing the down hill of life.
But "were this all - were there no associations of moral desolation - of faded hopes - of hearts withering in the bosoms of the loving connected with the decaying scenery around us, we should not indulge in a moment's melancholy. The season of flowers will come again, the streams will flow gracefully and lightly as before, the trees will again cross their cumberous loads of foilage [sic] to the sunlight, and b the mossy stone and winding rivulet, the young blossoms will start up as at the bidding of their fairy guardians."
I have been led to the above reflections this day, because it completes the thirty second anniversary of my birth day. Yes I have been permitted to behold the pleasant scenes and salubrious sunshine of thirty two summers; and been preserved through the frosts of as many winters. yes God's mercy has been continued unto me these many years. You are much younger than myself - when you have seen fourteen years more you will then look upon life in a very different manner from what you do now.
[Corner missing, which took some of the text away in the following paragraph.]
When I look back upon life, I consider it [...] hardly worth living for, yet we are all eager [...] Yet, although I have no desire to live life over again [...] many a pleasant time, many happy seasons, and [...] rest may be reckoned those of last summer - [...] they were mingled with Hendrickism and I am [...] sick of that I assure you. I have detected so much perfidy in the Hendricks, especially in Chauncey, that I am heartily sick of them. But to return, life may be enjoyed with happiness while young, but when the "stormy period" arrives we don't take so much enjoyment, then the cares of life and its attendant circumstances, so occupy our time and attention that we cannot suffer our minds to be free long enough to be happy, but you are young, you dont mean to embark in the storm, these "five years yet" you say. Well 23 years, that wont be very old.
Shall we have another visit to Mt Tom this year? Charlotte Owen is sick, though I suppose not bad.
I have sent you some papers containing some of my communications. Mr De Kay and Mr De Forrest attract attention. There was such a rush for copies of the "Christmas Eve in Scotland" that they printed a second edition. Major Slack gets off some stories too.
Give my love to that Julia, and say that I hope I shall see her, if the truth does cut, her remarks fit like a duck's foot in the mud. When shall you spend another week at home? Perhaps I may see you then.
Yours, Herman Smith