That is the very point I am now thinking of, as I sit here at my pleasant chamber window, and enjoy the balmy air of a bright summer morning, and watch the motions of the golden robin, that sits on its swinging nest on the outermost, pendulous branch of yonder elm.  The broad meadows and the steel-blue river remind me of the meadows of Unterseen, and the river Aar; and beyond them rise magnificent snow-white clouds, piled up like Alps.  Thus the shades of Washington and William Tell seem to walk together on these Elysian Fields; for it was here, that in days long gone, our great Patriot dwelt; and yonder clouds so much resemble the snowy Alps, that they remind me irresistibly of the Swiss.  Noble examples of a high purpose and a fixed will!  Do they not move, Hyperion-like on high?  Were they not, likewise, sons of Heaven and Earth?

Nothing can be more lovely than these summer mornings; nor than the southern window at which I sit and write, in this old mansion, which is like an Italian Villa.  But O, this lassitude,—­thisweariness,—­when all around me is so bright!  I have this morning a singular longing for flowers; a wish to stroll among the roses and carnations, and inhale their breath, as if it would revive me.  I wish I knew the man, who called flowers “the fugitive poetry of Nature.”  From this distance, from these scholastic shades,—­from this leafy, blossoming, and beautiful Cambridge, I stretch forth my hand to grasp his, as the hand of a poet!—­Yes; this morning I would rather stroll with him among the gay flowers, than sit here and write.  I feel so weary!

Old men with their staves, says the Spanish poet, are ever knocking at the door of the grave.  But I am not old.  The Spanish poet might have included the young also.—­No matter!  Courage, and forward!  The Romance must be finished; and finished soon.

O thou poor authorling!  Reach a little deeper into the human heart!  Touch those strings,—­touch those deeper strings, and more boldly, or the notes will die away like whispers, and no earshall hear them, save thine own!  And, to cheer thy solitary labor, remember, that the secret studies of an author are the sunken piers upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame, spanning the dark waters of Oblivion.  They are out of sight; but without them no superstructure can stand secure!

And now, Reader, since the sermon is over, and we are still sitting here in this Miserere, let us read aloud a page from the old parchment manuscript on the lettern before us; let us sing it through these dusky aisles, like a Gregorian Chant, and startle the sleeping congregation!

“I have read of the great river Euripus, which ebbeth and floweth seven times a day, and with such violence, that it carrieth ships upon it with full sail, directly against the wind.  Seven times in an hour ebbeth and floweth rash opinion, in the torrent of indiscreet and troublesome apprehensions; carrying critic calumny and squint-eyed detraction mainly against the wind of wisdom and judgment.”