5–11 March 1838

Yesterday (Sunday) was a beautiful day, mild, calm,and though the earth is covered with snow, somewheres two feet deep, yet the day and the night, moonlit, were as good for thought, if the man were rested and peaceful, as any in the year. The meteorology of thought I like to note.

Read in Montaigne's chapter on Seneca and Plutarch a very good critique on the systems and methods on which I expended my petu- lance in these pages yesterday. Montaigne is spiced throughout with rebellion, as much as Alcott or my young Henry Thoreau.

There was a simple man grew so suddenly rich that, coming one day into his own stately door and hall in a reverie, he felt on his mind the accustomed burden of fear that now he should see a great person, and was making up his mouth to ask firmly if was at home, when he bethought himself who is ? Who is it I should ask for ? And on second thought, he saw it was his own house, and he was .