Concord, Mass. Thoreau writes in his journal:
4 o’clock, A.M. The Townsend Infantry encamped last night in my neighbor’s inclosure. The night still breathes slumberously over field and wood, when a few soldiers gather about one tent in the twilight, and their band plays an old Scotch air, with bugle and drum and fife attempered to the season. It seems like the morning hymn of creation. The first sounds of the awakening camp, mingled with the chastened strains which so sweetly salute the dawn, impress me as the morning prayer of an army. And now the morning gun fires. The soldier awakening to creation and awakening it . . . When to-day I saw the “Great Ball” rolled majestically along, it seemed a shame that man could not move like it. All dignity and grandeur has something of the undulatoriness of the sphere.
Boston, Mass. Thoreau’s poem “Sympathy” from the Dial is reprinted in the Boston Morning Post.
