parsimonious Muse, and waste my time from my true studies.
England I see as a roaring volcano of Fate, which threatens to
roast or smother the poor literary Plinys that come too near for
mere purpose of reporting.

I have even fancied you did me a harm by the valued gift of
Antony Wood;--which, and the like of which, I take a lotophagous
pleasure in eating. Yet this is measuring after appearance,
measuring on hours and days; the true measure is quite other,
for life takes its color and quality not from the days, but the
dawns. The lucid intervals are like drowning men's moments,
equivalent to the foregoing years. Besides, Nature uses us. We
live but little for ourselves, a good deal for our children, and
strangers. Each man is one more lump of clay to hold the world
together. It is in the power of the Spirit meantime to make him
rich reprisals,--which he confides will somewhere be done.--Ah,
my friend, you have better things to send me word of, than
these musings of indolence. Is Frederic recreated? Is Frederic
the Great?

Forget my short-comings and write to me. Miss Bacon sends me
word, again and again, of your goodness. Against hope and sight
she must be making a remarkable book. I have a letter from her,
a few days ago, written in perfect assurance of success! Kindest
remembrances to your wife and to your brother.

Yours faithfully,
R.W. Emerson