EARLY SPRING IN MASSACHUSETTS. 177 
A blithe west wind is blowing over all. In 
the fine flowing haze, men at a distance seem 
shadowy and gigantic, as ill-defined and great 
as men should always be. I do not know if 
yonder be a man or a ghost. 
What a consolation are the stars to man, so 
high and out of his reach, as is his own destiny. 
.... My fate is in some sense linked with 
theirs, and if they are to persevere to a great 
* end, shall I die who could conjecture it. It 
surely is some encouragement to know that the 
stars are my fellow-creatures, for I do not sus¬ 
pect but they are reserved for a high destiny. 
Man’s moral nature is a riddle which only eter¬ 
nity can solve. 
I see laws which never fail, of whose failure 
I never conceived. Indeed, I cannot detect 
failure anywhere but in my fear. I do not fear 
that right is not right, that good is not good, 
but only the annihilation of the present exist¬ 
ence. But only that can make me incapable 
of fear. My fears are as good prophets as my 
hopes. 
March 19, 1852. Observed, as I stood with 
C-on the brink of the rill on Conantum, 
where falling a few inches it produced bubbles, 
our images three quarters of an inch long, and 
black as imps, appearing to lean towards each 
other on account of the convexity of the bub- 
12 
