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  Looking westward now, at 4 P.M., I see against the sunlight, where the twigs of a maple and black birch intermingle, a little gossamer or fine cobwebs, but much more the twigs, especially of the birch, waving slightly, reflect the light like cobwebs. It is a phenomenon peculiar to this season,—when the twigs are bare and the air is clear. I cannot easily tell what is cobweb and what twig, but the latter often curve upward more than the other . . .

  How long we will follow an illusion! On meeting that one whom I call my friend, I find that I had imagined something that was not there.I am sure to depart sadder than I came. Nothing makes me so dejected as to have met my friends, for they make me doubt if it is possible to have any friends. I feel what a fool I am. I cannot conceive of persons more strange to me than they actually are; not thinking, not believing, not doing as I do; interrupted by me . . .

  Your truly welcome note of the 31st ult. reached me only this evening. I am sorry our English Australian has not been in Concord. He is quite an original, and appeared to be as familiar with the Concord worthies, as though he had been a fellow townsman of theirs. He is a young man, but has seen a good deal of the world, inside and outside,—has lived some years in and about London, and fellowshipped with all sorts of folks, authors, gypsies, vagrants, &c., his accounts of which are entertaining—talks easy and well, has no vain pretensions, although I found incidentally that he is highly connected—I believe, with the family of the celebrated Lord Lyttleton, of monody memory – wears common cheap clothes, and carries his own baggage, a small leathern bag, is short and rather stout, full beard and of sandy complexion, smokes a pipe a good deal, likes malt liquor and an occasional glass of whiskey or gin, but he is by no means intemperate, only English and cosmopolitan habits. He has a little book in project to be called “Pots of Beer,” the chapters headed Pot First, Pot Second, &c., so on—Conversations and reflections over these inspiring vessels. (P.S. Of wrath?)

  I told Channing about him (who, by the way—C.—I found at his old post at the Mercury office, last week), and he said that you would not like his pipe. This puts me to thinking, as Jack Downing would say, and I want to take this opportunity to apologize for having so often offended you by my untimely puffs. I assure you, in future, that I will strive to refrain in your presence, for I am ready to “acknowledge the corn,” and plead guilty, craving pardon for my manifold sins against your purer tastes.

  I feel deeply disappointed and somewhat chagrined at my failure in going to Europe, and hope to master sufficient courage to embark again next spring, when I shall probably go from New York, whence like the decensus averni there is no return. You would like to know more about my voyage. I was really “half seas over,” as you intimate, in more senses than one, for my sea-sickness operated on my brain like a potent stimulus, accompanied with the most painful vertigo. I felt somewhat as I conclude a dancing dervish might, after having spun round for some time, that is if they ever do so, or is it only the Shakers that perform these gyrations? But the newspaper I send you will give you an account of my experiences on board ship. The paragraph about the moose is quite Thoreau -ish / -ian—take your choice—and the phrase, tribute to the sea, is, I think, borrowed from your account of your winter voyage to Nantucket, some years ago.

  I have published my history of New Bedford in a neat duodecimo of 400 pages, and am prospecting for a volume of poems—also writing some sketches called “Smoke from my Pipe”—in the second chapter of which I introduce a certain philosopher, a friend of mine, who built his own house, earned his own livelihood, and lived alone some years, a genial man, a scholar, &c. Can you guess him out? I think I may also introduce, all of course, in a respectful and quiet way, some other of the Concordian band—but more of this anon, as we authors say, when we roll out our line.

  I am quite tempted by your kind invitation to visit Concord during the “Indian summer,” should such a boon come this month. I may go for Boston soon, and may also possibly get as far as Concord for a few days—but whether I do or not, I want you to come down and visit me, I value your acquaintance highly, and I want to see Mr. Emerson and Father Alcott once more. Life is too short, and noble men and women too scarce, for me to lose any opportunity of enjoying the society of such, when I can do so without obtrusion.

  With my warm regards to your family and my other Concord friends, and hoping to hear from you again very soon, I remain, yours faithfully,

  Daniel Ricketson.

  Please return the newspaper.

  I am amused by your account of your party in the rain under your little tent. I trust your friends were quite contented with your hospitality.

  I hear a hylodes (?) from time to time. Shrub oaks are red, some of them. Hear the loud laughing of a loon on Flint’s, apparently alone in the middle. A wild sound, heard far and suited to the wildest lake . . .