Hope and the future for me are not in lawns and cultivated fields, not in towns and cities, but in the impervious and quaking swamps.  When, formerly, I have analyzed my partiality for some farm which I had contemplated purchasing, I have frequently found that I was attracted solely by a few square rods of impermeable and unfathomable bog,—­a natural sink in one corner of it.  That was the jewel which dazzled me.  I derive more of my subsistence from the swamps which surround my native town than from the cultivated gardens in the village.  There are no richer parterres to my eyes than the dense beds of dwarf andromeda (Cassandra calyculata) which cover these tender places on the earth’s surface.  Botany cannot go farther than tell me the names of the shrubs which grow there,—­the high-blueberry, panicled andromeda, lamb-kill, azalea, and rhodora,—­all standing in the quaking sphagnum.  I often think that I should like to have my house front on this mass of dull red bushes, omitting other flower plots and borders, transplanted spruce and trim box, even gravelled walks,—­to have this fertile spot under my windows, not a few imported barrow-fulls of soil only to cover the sand which was thrown out in digging the cellar.  Why not put my house, my parlor, behind this plot, instead of behind that meagre assemblage of curiosities, that poor apology for a Nature and Art, which I call my front-yard?  It is an effort to clear up and make a decent appearance when the carpenter and mason have departed, though done as much for the passer-by as the dweller within.  The most tasteful front-yard fence was never an agreeable object of study to me; the most elaborate ornaments, acorn-tops, or what not, soon wearied and disgusted me.  Bring your sills up to the very edge of the swamp, then, (though it may not be the best place for a dry cellar,) so that there be no access on that side to citizens.  Front-yards are not made to walk in, but, at most, through, and you could go in the back way.

Yes, though you may think me perverse, if it were proposed to me to dwell in the neighborhood of the most beautiful garden that ever human art contrived, or else of a dismal swamp, I should certainly decide for the swamp.  How vain, then, have been all your labors, citizens, for me!

My spirits infallibly rise in proportion to the outward dreariness.  Give me the ocean, the desert, or the wilderness!  In the desert, pure air and solitude compensate for want of moisture and fertility.  The traveller Burton says of it,—­“Your morale improves; you become frank and cordial, hospitable and single-minded....  In the desert, spirituous liquors excite only disgust.  There is a keen enjoyment in a mere animal existence.”  They who have been travelling long on the steppes of Tartary say,—­“On reentering cultivated lands, the agitation, perplexity, and turmoil of civilization oppressed and suffocated us; the air seemed to fail us, and we felt every moment as if about to die of