Berkshire-hill country, and every hillside and valley on that lovely sunny day, was like a blaze of glory, and now we were to live in it for awhile in this lovely village.

And then next day was such a day-indescribable—such as only October can produce—and we have them only once a year! soft warmth, and dreamy sunshine, and a large party wandering about under these beautiful trees, gathering the bright-hued branches exclaiming in ecstasy over the colours, and the children shouting with glee, Every step seemed to bring us to new and brighter colours. And then when tired with one long ramble, we returned with our bright boughs through the village streets-the early sunset had begun, and was lighting up the grand old elms and brilliant maples, with such radiant hues, that we seemed to be colour-bearers walking under triumphal arches-brightened with the glory of another world than ours. Thoreau somewhere

says " October is the sunset of the year-November its later twilight." For three weeks I stayed in this lovely village, the oldest about Boston, and interesting in so many ways-rich for this country with historical recollections, and full of revolutionary mementoes.

It was there they had the Centennial Celebration,

last spring, of the first battle of the Revolution.
A pleasant walk under an arch of elm trees all
the way leads
you to the battlefield-so long long
since covered with softest turf—and we crossed
the pretty bridge over the quiet Concord, and
stood by the statue of the Minute Man-with one
verse of Emerson's famous ode engraved upon the
pedestal :-

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,

Here once the embattled farmers stood,

And fired the shot heard round the world.

It was a lovely place to see the sunsets-the bright clouds reflected in the placid water, and the bright o'erhanging trees also, colouring its dark depths. In this walk we always passed by the "Old Manse," which stood just as it does now in those days, owned by the same family-the "Ripleys." The grandmother held the baby in her arms and looked out upon the battle where her husband was fighting. They showed us the window one day, when a friend who knew the family took us to see the house. They keep it as nearly as possible as it was then, and it is as quaint and interesting as it can be. Hawthorne lived there a little while when he was first married, and wrote the "Mosses from an Old Manse" there, and he gives a description of the old

house in the preface to that book. There is something in one of the little panes of glass of the windows written by him with his wife's diamond, and their two names. And one Sunday afternoon we wandered all over Sleepy Hollow, the village cemetery-such a lovely place for sleep—and found Hawthorne's grave. He lies alone, as he loved to be in life-alone on a hill top, with the solemn pines above him, and the simplest headstone to mark his grave. His wife, you know, died, and was buried near London. We covered the grave with our beautiful October leaf blossoms. And then not far off we found a tablet with "Henry Thoreau" upon it, and we could not but drop our garlands of leaves there; for how he loved and wrote of their "autumnal tints," that make the world so beautiful! You know he lived in the woods for two years, and wrote from his heart about them. A strange, eccentric being he must have been. Emerson wrote the most beautiful "Biographical Sketch" of him.

I mustn't forget to tell you too that often in our rambles we met the great man of the village—and that he always stopped and smiled, and talked as simply and kindly as if he was not high as the stars above us common folk. He came to see us too, and asked us to take tea at his house (his wife is an invalid and never makes calls); of course we went

and were delighted; it was like going into the holy of holies. The atmosphere of the house was so pure and unworldly somehow; everthing so simple and yet so refined. Miss Ellen Emerson, the unmarried daughter, has a beautiful head; the brow and eyes of a saint, and the rarest smile. She is her father's right hand now; they seem to work and think together. They were getting ready a new book of his for the press. He said he could

do nothing without Ellen.

Well, I stayed in that dear little New England village three weeks. We saw the elms and maples scatter their bright treasures to the winds; saw the lovely colours glow and gleam for a little while upon the ground, and then fade into brown dry leaves that rustled and cracked under our feet as we walked. But that wasn't the last of the colour; "the later twilight," you remember-for now came flaming into rich, darker brilliancy, the scarlet and crimson oaks that till now had been dark green, and they were relieved and set off by the deep yellow-like pure gold of the white-stemmed birch trees. If you could only have seen Walden Pond on one of those late warm days, when the sun was very brilliant, bringing out the colours wonderfully. The oaks were like flames, even in shady places, giving out such colour that the light seemed to

come from them, and then lower down on the beautiful shores of the tiny lake came the delicate little yellow birch leaves, always quivering upon their silver-white stems, and reflected again—white stems and golden and crimson leaves-in that crystal clean water! It was unreal and fairy-like; a picture of beauty that has haunted me ever since, but I can't describe it to bring it before you as it was to us that day. Perhaps Thoreau could have done so, but no one else.

THE "SCHOOL OF PHILOSOPHY" AT CONCORD, 1880.

The Concord Correspondent of the "Chicago Tribune" (September, 1880) gives the following sketch of Emerson at the age of seventy-seven:"An old man with large eyes, prominent nose, and awkward carriage, may often be seen shyly stealing into the 'School of Philosophy,' just after the beginning of the lecture. Passing through the aisle on tiptoe, he seats himself in a huge ear-lap chair at the left of the platform. The lips of the Sphinx are sealed, and their peaceful expression and the faraway look in the eyes would seem to indicate that the discussion going on has not sufficient interest to draw him from the calm joy of reverie. But in which he leans forward now and then

the way