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  Believe me when I say that I mean to do the errand you have asked of me, and that soon. But I am not sanguine of success, and have hardly a hope that it will be immediate if ever. I hardly know a soul that could publish your article all at once, and ‘To be continued’ are words shunned like a pestilence. But I know you have written a good thing about [Thomas] Carlyle—too solidly good, I fear, to be profitable to yourself or attractive to publishers. Didst thou ever, O my friend! ponder on the significance and cogency of the assurance, “Ye cannot serve God and Mammon,” as applicable to Literature—applicable, indeed, to all things whatsoever. God grant us grace to endeavor to serve Him rather than Mammon—that ought to suffice us. In my poor judgment, if any thing is calculated to make a scoundrel of an honest man, writing to sell is that very particular thing.

Yours, heartily,
Horace Greeley.

Remind Ralph Waldo Emerson and wife of my existence and grateful remembrance.

  At sunset, the glow being confined to the north, it tinges the rails on the causewav lake-color, but behind they are a dead dark blue. I must look for the rudbeckia which Bradford says he found yesterday behind Joe Clark’s.

  Started a woodcock in the woods. Also saw a large telltale, I think yellow-shanks, whose note I at first mistook for a jay’s, giving the alarm to some partridges. The Polygonum orientale, probably some days, by Turnpike Bridge, a very rich rose-color large flowers . . .

  How earthy old people become,—mouldy as the grave! Their wisdom smacks of the earth. There is no foretaste of immortality in it . . .

  P.M.—With Russell to Fair Haven by boat . . . (Journal, 6:446-9).

Chenopodium hybridium, a tall rank weed, five feet at least, dark-green, with a heavy (poisonous?) odor compared to that of stramonium; great maple(?)—shaped leaves. How deadly this peculiar heavy odor! . . .

  What a variety of old garden herbs—mints, etc.—are naturalized along an old settled road, like this to Boston which the British travelled! And then there is the site, apparently, of an old garden by the tarnyard, where the spearmint grows so rankly. I am intoxicated with the fragrance. Though I find only one new plant (the cassia), yet old acquaintances grow so rankly, and the spearmint intoxicates me so, that I am bewildered, as it were by a variety of new things. An infinite novelty. All the roadside is the site of an old garden where fragrant herbs have become naturalized . . .

  I have just received and read yours of yesterday, and in reply would say, that myself and family will be very glad to have a visit from you as you propose, next week—As you have fixed upon no particular time, I will be at the Head of the River depot for you by the Monday afternoon train from Boston which arrives about 6 o’clock The p.m. train from Boston for N. Bedford leaves at 4 ½ p.m.

  I am glad to inform you that my health & spirits are better than they have been for some years & I can I trust infuse a little new physical life into you at which I am pretty good. I have just raised my wife from a frustrating illness, by an intelligent faith. What you want is to live easy, just like an intelligent Indian who is a little poorly—giving nature a fair chance—your body is well enough (normally) but the brain works too hard, the engine above is a little too heavy for the craft below — so slack up & let off the steam & float awhile along shore just using the helm occasionally as occasion requires.

  I am sorry to hear of Mr Alcott’s lameness & hope he will soon recover. My son Arthur is a surgeon in the U.S. Navy on board ship Nightingale, & expects to sail from Brooklyn Navy Yard to-morrow. My wife who is you know constitutionally delicate had the bronchitis a few years ago & is now entirely well of it—her lungs which were weak and attended with cough much improved—her trouble now indigestion and palpitation of heart but getting better slowly of these. I am her doctor. I feel that your treatment should be directed to the brain principally & the remedy rest or agreeable occupation without excitement.

  I was hardly wise I fear in writing about my late experiences which I find were considerably aroused by domestic afflictions yet not without some good results I hope.

Yours truly
D. Ricketson