off saying, “It seems to me,” and boldly feel, It is so TO ME.  My character has got its natural regulator, my heart beats, my lips speak truth, I can walk alone, or offer my arm to a friend, or if I lean on another, it is not the debility of sickness, but only wayside weariness.  This is the philosophy I want; this much would satisfy me.

    ’Then Novalis says, “Philosophy is the art of discovering the
    place of truth in every encountered event and circumstance, to
    attune all relations to truth.”

    ’Philosophy is peculiarly home-sickness; an over-mastering
    desire to be at home.

    ’I think so; but what is there all-comprehending;
    eternally-conscious, about that?’

* * * * *

’Sept., 1832.—­“Not see the use of metaphysics?” A moderate portion, taken at stated intervals, I hold to be of much use as discipline of the faculties.  I only object to them as having an absorbing and anti-productive tendency.  But ’tis not always so; may not be so with you.  Wait till you are two years older, before you decide that ’tis your vocation.  Time enough at six-and-twenty to form yourself into a metaphysical philosopher.  The brain does not easily get too dry for that.  Happy you, in these ideas which give you a tendency to optimism.  May you become a proselyte to that consoling faith.  I shall never be able to follow you, but shall look after you with longing eyes.’

* * * * *

’Groton.—­Spring has come, and I shall see you soon.  If I could pour into your mind all the ideas which have passed through mine, you would be well entertained, I think, for three or four days.  But no hour will receive aught beyond its own appropriate wealth.

’I am at present engaged in surveying the level on which the public mind is poised.  I no longer lie in wait for the tragedy and comedy of life; the rules of its prose engage my attention.  I talk incessantly with common-place people, full of curiosity to ascertain the process by which materials, apparently so jarring and incapable of classification, get united into that strange whole, the American public.  I have read all Jefferson’s letters, the North American, the daily papers, &c., without end.  H. seems to be weaving his Kantisms into the American system in a tolerably happy manner.’

* * * * *

* * ’George Thompson has a voice of uncommon compass and beauty; never sharp in its highest, or rough and husky in its lowest, tones.  A perfect enunciation, every syllable round and energetic; though his manner was the one I love best, very rapid, and full of eager climaxes.  Earnestness in every part,—­sometimes impassioned earnestness,—­a sort of “Dear friends, believe, pray believe, I love you, and you MUST believe as I do” expression,