March 20, 1842. My friend is cold and reserved because his love for me is waxing and not waning. These are the early processes; the particles are just beginning to shoot in crystals. If the mountains came to me I should no longer go to the mountains. So soon as that consummation takes place which I wish, it will be past. Shall I not have a friend in reserve? Heaven is to come. I hope this is not it. Words should pass between friends as the lightning passes from cloud to cloud.
I don't know how much I assist in the economy of nature when I declare a fact. Is it not an important fact in the history of a plant that I tell my friend where I found it? We do not wish friends to feed and clothe our bodies (neighbors are kind enough for that), but to do the like offices for our spirits. We wish to spread and publish ourselves as the sun spreads its rays, and we toss the new thought to the friend, and thus it is dispersed. Friends are those twain who, feel their interests to be one. Each knows that the other might as well have said what he said. All beauty, all music, all delight springs from apparent dualism, but real unity. My friend is my real brother. I see his nature groping yonder so like my own. Does there go one whom I know, then I go there. Comparatively speaking I care not for
