--I meditated accordingly, but without any very wonderful
result. Then at eight o'clock bothered myself till after nine with this
eternal tale of Tieck. The forenoon was spent in scribbling; but at
eleven o'clock my thoughts ceased to flow,--indeed, their current has
been wofully interrupted all along,--so I threw down my pen, and set out
on the daily journey to the village. Horrible walking! I wasted the
customary hour at the Athenaeum, and returned home, if home it may now be
called. Till dinner-time I labored on Tieck's tale, and resumed that
agreeable employment after the banquet.

Just when I was at the point of choking with a huge German word, Molly
announced Mr. Thoreau. He wished to take a row in the boat, for the last
time, perhaps, before he leaves Concord. So we emptied the water out of
her, and set forth on our voyage. She leaks, but not more than she did
in the autumn. We rowed to the foot of the hill which borders the North
Branch, and there landed, and climbed the moist and snowy hillside for
the sake of the prospect. Looking down the river, it might well have
been mistaken for an arm of the sea, so broad is now its swollen tide;
and I could have fancied that, beyond one other headland, the mighty
ocean would outspread itself before the eye. On our return we boarded a
large cake of ice, which was floating down the river, and were borne by
it directly to our own landing-place, with the boat towing behind.

Parting with Mr. Thoreau I spent half an hour in chopping wood, when
Molly informed me that Mr. Emerson wished to see me. He had brought a
letter of Ellery Channing, written in a style of very pleasant humor.
This being read and discussed, together with a few other matters, he
took his leave, since which I have been attending to my journalizing
duty; and thus this record is brought down to the present moment.

* * * * *

_April 25._--Spring is advancing, sometimes with sunny days, and
sometimes, as is the case now, with chill, moist, sullen ones. There is
an influence in the season that makes it almost impossible for me to
bring my mind down to literary employment; perhaps because several
months' pretty constant work has exhausted that species of
energy,--perhaps because in spring it is more natural to labor actively
than to think. But my impulse now is to be idle altogether,--to lie in
the sun, or wander about and look at the revival of Nature from her
deathlike slumber