With many men their fine manners are a lie all over, a skin coat or finish of falsehood. They are not brave enough to do without this sort of armor which they wear night and day.
March 30, 1840. Pray what things interest me at present? A long soaking rain, the drops trickling down the stubble, while I lay drenched on a last year's bed of wild oats by the side of some bare hill, ruminating. These things are of moment. To watch tnis crystal globe just sent from heaven to associate with me. While these clouds and this sombre drizzling weather shut all in, we two draw nearer and know one another. The gathering in of the clouds with the last rush and dying breath of the wind, and then the regular dripping of twigs and leaves the country over, give the impression of inward comfort and sociableness. The drenched stubble and trees that drop beads on you as you pass, their dim outline seen through the rain on all sides drooping in sympathy with yourself, these are my undisputed territory, this is nature's English comfort. The birds draw closer and are more familiar under the thick foliage, composing new strains on their roosts against the sunshine.
March 30, 1841. I find my life growing slovenly when it does not exercise a constant supervision over itself. Its deeds accumulate. Next
