THOUGH the evening at Mr. and Mrs. Sanborns, and the memorable family dinner at Mr. and Mrs. Emersons, have most pleasantly and permanently filld my memory, I must not slight other notations of Concord. I went to the old Manse, walkd through the ancient garden, enterd the rooms, noted the quaintness, the unkempt grass and bushes, the little panes in the windows, the low ceilings, the spicy smell, the creepers embowering the light. Went to the Concord battle ground, which is close by, scannd Frenchs statue, the Minute Man, read Emersons poetic inscription on the base, lingerd a long while on the bridge, and stoppd by the grave of the unnamed British soldiers buried there the day after the fight in April 75. Then riding on, (thanks to my friend Miss M. and her spirited white ponies, she driving them,) a half hour at Hawthornes and Thoreaus graves. I got out and went up of course on foot, and stood a long while and ponderd. They lie close together in a pleasant wooded spot well up the cemetery hill, Sleepy Hollow. The flat surface of the first was densely coverd by myrtle, with a border of arbor-vitæ, and the other had a brown headstone, moderately elaborate, with inscriptions. By Henrys side lies his brother John, of whom much was expected, but he died young. Then to Walden pond, that beautifully embowerd sheet of water, and spent over an hour there. On the spot in the woods where Thoreau had his solitary house is now quite a cairn of stones, to mark the place; I too carried one and deposited on the heap. As we drove back, saw the School of Philosophy, but it was shut up, and I would not have it opend for me. Near by stoppd at the house of W. T. Harris, the Hegelian, who came out, and we had a pleasant chat while I sat in the wagon. I shall not soon forget those Concord drives, and especially that charming Sunday forenoon one with my friend Miss M., and the white ponies.