18–24 June 1838

I hate goodies. I hate goodness that preaches. Goodness that preaches undoes itself. A little electricity of virtue lurks here and there in kitch- ens and among the obscure, chiefly women, that flashes out occasional light and makes the ex- istence of the thing still credible. But one had as lief curse and swear as be guilty of this odious religion that watches the beef and watches the cider in the pitcher at table, that shuts the mouth hard at any remark it cannot twist nor wrench into a sermon, and preaches as long as itself and its hearer is awake. Goodies make us vet-y bad. We should, if the race should increase, be scarce restrained from calling for bowl and daggeir. We will almost sin to spite them.

Forever the night addresses the imagination and the interrogating soul within or behind all its functions, and how in the summer night which makes the earth more habitable, the more. Strange that forever we do not exhaust the won- der and meaning of these stars, points of light hierely, but still they speak, and ask, and warn, each moment with new mind.