They do not choose us with their eyes,
But they transfix with their advice;
No partial sympathy they feel
With private woe or private weal,
But with the universe joy and sigh,
Whose knowledge is their sympathy.
Good-night.
HENRY THOREAU.

P. S. I am sorry to send such a medley as this to you. I have forwarded Lane’s Dial to Munroe, and he tells the expressman that all is right.