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  The largest scarlet oak that I remember hereabouts stands by the penthorum pool in the Sleepy Hollow cemetery, and is now in its prime . . .

  One shopkeeper has hung out woollen gloves and even thick buckskin mittens by his door, foreseeing what his customers will want as soon as it is finger-cold, and determined to get the start of his fellows . . .

  P.M.—To Ministerial Swamp.

  The small cottony leaves of the fragrant everlasting in the fields for some time, protected, as it were, by a little web of cotton against frost and snow,—a little dense web of cotton spun over it,—entangled in it,—as if to restrain it from rising higher . . .

  The other day I thought that my health must be better,—that I gave at last a sign of vitality,—because I experienced a slight chagrin. But I do not see how strength is to be got into my legs again. These months of feebleness have yielded few, if any, thoughts, though they have not passed without serenity, such as our sluggish Musketaquid suggests.I hope that the harvest is to come. I trust that you have a least warped up the stream a little daily, holding fast by your anchors at night, since I saw you, and have kept my place for me while I have been absent.

  Mr. Ricketson of New Bedford has just made me a visit of a day and a half, and I have had a quite good time with him. He and Channing have got on particularly well together. He is a man of very simple tastes, notwithstanding his wealth; a lover of nature; but above all, singularly frank and plain-spoken. I think that you might enjoy meeting him.

  Sincerity is a great but rare virtue, and we pardon to it much complaining, and the betrayal of many weaknesses. R. says of of himself, that he sometimes thinks that he has all the infirmities of genius without the genius; is wretched without a hair-pillow, etc.: expresses a great and awful uncertainty with regard to “God,” “Death,” his “immortality”; says, “If I only knew,” etc. He loves Cowper’s “Task” better than any thing else; and thereafter, perhaps, Thomson, Gray, and even Howitt. He has evidently suffered for want of sympathizing companions. He says that he sympathizes with much in my book, but much in them is naught to him,—”namby-pamby,”—”stuff,”—”mystical.” Why will not I, having common sense, write in plain English always; teach men in detail how to live a simpler life, etc.; not go off into ————? But I say that I have no scheme about it, no designs on men at all; and if I had, my mode would be to tempt them with the fruit, and not with the manure. To what end do I lead a simple life at all, pray? That I may teach others to simplify their lives?—and so all our lives be simplified merely, like an algebraic formula? Or not, rather that I may make use of the ground I have cleared, to live more worthily and profitably? I would fainly lay the most stress forever on that which is the most important,—imports the most to me,—though it were only (what it is likely to be) a vibration in the air. As a preacher, I should be prompted to tell men, not so much to get their wheat-bread cheaper, as of the bread of life compared with which that is bran. Let a man only taste these loaves, and he becomes a skillful economist at once. He’ll not waste much time in earning those. Don’t spend your time drilling soldiers, who may turn out hirelings after all, but give to undrilled peasantry a country to fight for. The school begins with what they call the elements, and where do they end?

  I was glad to hear the other day that [T.W.] Higginson and _____ were gone to Ktaadn; it must be some much better to go to than a Woman’s Rights or Abolition Convention; better still, to the delectable primitive mounts within you, which you have reamed of from your youth up, and seen perhaps in the horizon, but never climbed.

  But how do you do? Is the air sweet to you? Do you find anything at which you can work, accomplishing something solid from day to day? Have you put sloth and doubt behind, considerable?—had one redeeming dream this summer? I dreamed, last night, that I could vault over any height it pleased me. That was something; and I contemplated myself with a slight satisfaction in the morning for it.

  Methinks I will write you. Methinks you will be glad to hear. We will stand on solid foundations to one another,—I a column planted on this shore, you on that. We meet the same sun in his rising We were built slowly, and have come to our bearing. We will not mutually fall over that we may meet, but will grandly and eternally guard the straits. Methinks I see an inscription on you, which the architect made, the stucco being morn off to it. The same of that ambitious worldly king is crumbling away. I see it toward sunset in favorable lights. Each must read for the other, as might a sailer-by. Be sure you are a star—y—pointing still. How is it on your side. I will not require an answer until you think I have paid my debts to you.

  I have just got your letter from Ricketson, urging me to come to New Bedford, which possibly I may do. He says I can wear my old clothes there.

  Let me be remembered in your quiet house.

   These are warm, serene, bright autumn afternoons. I see far off the various-colored gowns of cranberry pickers against the green of the meadow. The river stands a little way over the grass again, and the summer is over . . .