EARLY SPRING IN MASSACHUSETTS. 251 
seems lonely without you. The meadows are 
like barren ground. The memory of me is 
steadily passing away from you. My path 
grows narrower and steeper, and the night is 
approaching. Yet I have faith that in the in¬ 
finite future new suns will rise and new plains 
expand before me, and I trust I shall therein 
encounter pilgrims who bear that same virtue 
that I recognized in you, who will be that very 
virtue that was you. I accept the everlasting 
and salutary law which was promulgated as 
much that spring when I first knew you, as this 
when I seem to leave you. 
My former friends, I visit you as one walks 
amid the columns of a ruined temple, you be¬ 
long to an era, a civilization and glory long 
past. I recognize still your fair proportions, 
notwithstanding the convulsions we have felt, 
and the weeds and jackals that have sprung up 
around. I come here to be reminded of the 
past, to read your inscriptions, the hieroglyph¬ 
ics, the sacred writings. We are no longer 
the representatives of our former selves. 
Love is a thirst that is never slaked. Under 
the coarsest rind the sweetest meat. If you 
would read a friend aright you must be able to 
read through something thicker and opaquer 
than horn. If you can read a friend, all lan¬ 
guages will be easy to you. Enemies publish 
