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[239] in Europe. I will endeavor to render it more public. The ‘Paradiso’ is finished, and I hope the impression will soon begin.

Your sincere friend,

John, Duke of Saxony.

To Charles S. Daveis.

Manchester, September 10, 1848.
1 My dear Charles,—you have not kept your tryst. . . . . However, I dare say we shall find a room for you, if you will find a locus poenitentioe for us, though, as we have no safety-valve in our territory, like the Tremont House, and as our own hotel is rather popular, not to say populous, just now, I recommend it to you to give us notice a day or two if you have any kind purpose in our favor . . . . We have had beautiful weather ever since you were here, and much good, pleasant company staying with us. I only wish you had been with us to share our pleasures, both rural and marine, bucolic and piscatory.

Of the external world I know little. I have been in Boston but once for above two months, and hope not to be obliged to go there again for above a month more. But, now and then, somebody comes to me wandering over the morning dew,—as the shepherds did to Parnell's Hermit,—and I hear in this way of the bustle of the great world of our little city, without being incommoded by its stir. From what I hear I suspect the early Taylorites in my neighborhood do not feel so easy as they did when I saw them last . . . . . Moreover, they begin to be afraid, as Macbeth did, that they have ‘'filed their minds,’ after all, for somebody's else benefit and not for their own, or that of their party. They begin to be afraid, in short, that Taylor may not be chosen. . . . . . I am, on the contrary, of the mind of the elder brother in ‘Comus’:—

I incline to hope, rather than fear,
And gladly banish squint suspicion.

I shall vote for Taylor, and if you do as well for him in Maine as Vermont has done, you will yet give him your personal vote as an elector . . . .

I write to you about politics because there is nothing else hereabouts to send you, except a little orthodoxy from the village church, or a


1 This and the two following summers were passed by Mr. Ticknor on the northern shore of Massachusetts Bay, where he had hired a pleasant house, standing on the edge of a cliff directly by the sea, and having a hundred acres of wood and field around it.

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