EARLY SPRING IN MASSACHUSETTS. 175 
rods. I do not know any better twigs for this 
purpose. 
You can’t read any genuine history, as that 
of Herodotus or the Venerable Bede, without 
perceiving that our interest depends not on the 
subject, but on the man, or the manner in 
which he treats the subject, and the impor¬ 
tance he gives it. A feeble writer, and with¬ 
out genius, must have what he thinks a great 
theme, which we are already interested in 
through the accounts of others; but a genius, 
— a Shakespeare, for instance, —- would make 
the history of his parish more interesting than 
another’s history of the world. Wherever men 
have lived there is a story to be told, and it de¬ 
pends chiefly on the story-teller, the historian, 
whether that is interesting or not. 
March 19, 1841. No true and brave person 
will be content to live on such a footing with his 
fellows and himself as the laws of every house¬ 
hold now require. The house is the very haunt 
and lair of our vice. I am impatient to with¬ 
draw myself from under its roof as an unclean 
spot. There is no circulation there. It is full 
of stagnant and mephitic vapors. 
March 19, 1842. When I walk in the fields 
of Concord and meditate on the destiny of this 
prosperous slip of the Saxon family, the unex¬ 
hausted energies of this new country, I forget 
