way of prelude to a playful condolence with Mr. Emerson, followed by a very frank criticism: —
… “I always thought the saddest position in the world must be that of some regal dame to whom husband, court, kingdom, world look in vain for an heir! She is only supposed to eat, breathe, move, think, nay! love, for this; the book of her life is only perused for the sake of its appendix. Meanwhile, she, perhaps, persists in living on, as if her life by itself were of any consequence, is the mother of no prince, or has even the impertinence to incumber the kingdom with a parcel of princesses, girls who must be ‘weel-tochered’ to make them of any value.
“But what is this pathos compared to that perceptible in the situation of a Jove, under the masculine obligations of all-sufficingness, who rubs his forehead in vain to induce the Minerva-bearing headache! Alas! his brain remains tranquil, his fancy daughterless! Nature keeps on feeding him and putting him to sleep as if she thought the oak was of consequence, whether it bear the mistletoe or not!
“Heaven help thee, my Druid! if this blessed, brooding, rainy day do not. It is a fine day for composition, were it not in Concord. But I trow the fates which gave this place Concord, took away the animating influences of Discord. Life here slumbers and steals on like the river. A very good place for a sage, but not for the lyrist or the orator.
| “Gentle river, |
| Stealing on so slowly ever, |
| From reeds that grow thy bank along |
| Easy would flow the pastoral song. |
