bed. With it I lay myself down in confidence. There is a good spirit in the little vial.
February 25th.—Where did I leave you last, my child? Yes, I know! I was going to hear Fanny Kemble. She read the “Midsummer Night's Dream.” But this dream I have never quite understood, nor thought much of, nor do I yet, spite of Fanny Kemble's masterly reading. The evening at the A.'s was pleasant to me. Miss A. is a good and charming young girl, with sense and sterling character, and really a musical talent for the piano. Besides this, Emerson was kind and conversable. He is much struck with Fanny Kemble's appearance and talent. He now had seen her for the first time, and said, in speaking of her, “What an abundance there is in her! She is Miranda, Queen Catherine, and many more at the same time!”
He likes strongly-expressed individuality. And so do I. But Emerson sees human beings too much merely as individuals. He says of one person, “that is an actress!” of another, “that is a saint!” of a third, “that is a man of business!” and so on, and sets them away each one in his corner, after he has clapped his ticket upon them. And so indeed has every planet its own axis on which it turns; but its greatest importance seems to me to consist in its relationship to the sun, that centre around which it revolves, and which determines its life and its course.
I shall not now write any more to you from Boston, because I must get ready for my journey, and I have much to do in the way of visits and letter-writing before I can creditably leave the city and neighbourhood. But ah! that will hardly be possible. I cannot bear much; the least exertion brings on fever. The air is again cold and keen, and I am again not well—I know not whether from the air or the food, or whether from people and all one's social duties. But this I know, that I shall soon again be well. The climate, and I myself, here in this
