Letter from Horace Sumner Lyman on pleasant weather and his friendship with Miss Swift

Are not self conscious – and cannot [?] between a thing, and their [?] of a thing. They are incapable of farming a clear conception. They can remember well and compare slightly. Hence they can reason some. I was interested in observing in a biography of [Goetho] that he formed some conception of evolution, carrying it not only through the material but [?] the moral world. He had vast mind. But I will not speak so much of [Goetho] seeing he is not a man you admire very much.

It is evening now. I took a long walk today being, as it were, a remarkably fine day. The afternoon was clear and soft, and almost cloudless. There were a few clouds low down on the horizon, that melted and bent, and formed again, making tufs over whirls its sunlight floated, settling in brighter beauty the brilliancy of the sky. It has been far the finest of any of the days I have seen since last spring and pleasanter than any since last fall. The days in the spring were hot and wilting making one think of haste and buzzing flies, with big thunder caps glomming over the tress low down. But today has been [?] less for this proper warmth, the skylit kind of wired, the invigorating air, aced that seen of repase, and ebbing away, that makes autumn beautiful and sad. The grape is growing amazingly, and the trees have not yet become golden. It is singular how one’s feelings change in regard to a person. Miss Swift is just a good combination as formally, but for some reason this poet does not inspire me so strongly. From being in the habit of putting in my spare time [?] the beauties of her mind and character. I think that on my walk of these hours I did not think of her once. When I do think of her it is with an uneasy sense of something gone. From a frank way saying anything I pleased, I feel under constrained in her presence. From protecting the [?] just as long as probable, I feel more like burying through, and being gone. I don’t hear all she says, and am sometimes [?] by her appealing to me for an opinion on some matter under discussion, which I have not attended to. I still like to hear her sing because she is a good singer; not [?] because it is she. Yet I do not see why I should not like her as well as ever, she is just as figurant, as entertaining; her eyes are as pretty. She pays just as much attention to me. The explanation may be this; that there is really nothing particular in each of us to please the other, except in a [pleasant] way; or it is because a friendship has grown. Where a liking commences with a good deal of gentle, and advances rapidly, as it surly did in this case, in my part, it must at once proceed to a logical conclusion, perfect familiarity and mutual satisfaction. Anything that hinders this mutual development must destroy the friendship. Now in this case, our friendship advanced almost at once to the limits of conscious acquaintance. The bars between common acquaintance and clear friendship seemingly high and improbable, destroyed the natural development of my liking, to nothing in particular coming of it. The fine indefinable touches that one soul gives another, are very curious. It is as easy to feel whether one likes you, as to feel whether you like him. It often makes you dislike people when you feel their liking for you; but often you feel no liking for them until you feel their liking for you. This while business is a curious problem. So curious and interesting that I rather doubt whether I have the proper stuff in me to woo and win anymore. While in the middle of the process I should probably stop to see how I was feeling, take notes, look out for the probabilities, and become so interested in the problem that I should forget all about the [?] and winning, then its fair one would look at me coldly, and all would be over. I could not tolerate the thought of trying to get somebody I did not love, I should think anybody I did could do so much better elsewhere, that I should not try to improve my inferiority upon her matchlessness. Hence the problem seems beyond solution. All the qualities are unknown, hid yet there is a certain dismalness in gazing down the vista of years, and seeing myself going it alone, subsisting on the cold charity if cheap acquaintanceship, like the Meyers; as growing my own life, feeding on my own mind, like Mr. [Stonebridge]. Ah, little Mary girl, when you leave a home of your own, you will keep a chair in the corner for little Pumpkin. So “Wherverso’er my steps may lead me Meekly at the door I’ll stay Pious lords will come to feed me, And I’ll wonder on my way. Each will feel a touch of gladness When my aged farm appears. Each will shed a tear of sadness, Though I reck not of his tears. Ah well for the [?] I have a home. At T. G.

Tell me succinate all about yourselves. Give me a picture of your inner life, I hope that school is going well, although perhaps it does not deserve to.

Elmer Keene has not been feeling well. He has a boil on each cheek, making him look as if he were a bruiser, good night.

H.S.L