MY REAL ESTATE. 



itual pleasures which enter through the 

 eye! It may be answered, I know, that in 

 matters of general concern it is necessary 

 to consult the greatest good of the great- 

 est number ; and that, while all the inhab- 

 itants of the town are supplied with feet, 

 comparatively few of them have eyes. 

 There is force in this, it must be admitted. 

 Possibly the highway surveyor (the high- 

 wayman, I was near to writing) is not so 

 altogether wrong in his "improvements." 

 At all events, it is not worth while for me 

 to make ^the question one of conscience, 

 and go to jail rather than pay my taxes, 

 as Thoreau did. Let it suffice to enter my 

 protest. Whatever others may desire, for 



myself, as often as I revisit W , I wish 



to be able to repeat with unction the words 

 of W 's only poet, 1 



"How dear to ray heart are the scenes of my childhood ! " 



And how am I to do that, if the " scenes " 

 have been modernized past recognition ? 



1 Since this essay was originally published (in the Atlantic 

 Monthly) I have been assured that the author of The Old 



Oaken Bucket was not born in W , but in the next town. 



Being convinced against my will, however, and finding the 

 biographical dictionaries divided upon the point, I conclude 

 to let the text stand unaltered. 



