liked Arnold's critical essays very much, but was not partial to his poetry. Sainte-Beuve he considered the great French writer. He said 'I don't meddle with Auguste Comte,' in reply to the question whether he was interested in the positive philosophy. 'Thoreau was a true genius, and so great was his mastery of the phenomena of nature that it would need another Linnæus, as well as a poet, properly to edit his writings.' . . Of Buckle he spoke with admiration, comparing his erudition with Gibbon's fulness of learning, and cited his chapters on France in particular as a splendid contribution to history. . . . Carlyle being mentioned, Emerson defended him from Margaret Fuller's criticism in her letters, and said that 'Carlyle purposely made exaggerated statements, merely to astonish his listeners. His attitude toward America during our war was unfortunate, but no more than could be expected." Mr. Emerson's visitor records what Carlyle is reported to have said regarding a distinguished English poet of the "fleshly school," but his pronunciamento is too scathing and hideous to be given in print.

HARMONY BETWEEN HIS LIFE AND TEACHINGS.

"Emerson's is one of those radiant lives scattered at wide intervals through history, which become the

fixed stars of humanity. A youth of purest, fiery aspiration, a manhood devoted to the eloquent exposition in word and act of moral truths, an old age of serene benevolence-in his case the traditional fourscore years allotted to our kind were literally passed upon the heights, in daily familiarity with ideas and emotions which are generally associated only with moments of exaltation. His uncompromising devotion to Truth never hardened into dogmatism, his audacious rejection of all formalism never soured into intolerance, his hatred of sham never degenerated into a lip-protest and a literary trick, his inflexible moral purpose went hand in hand with unbounded charity. In him the intellectual keenness and profundity of a philosopher, and the imagination of a poet, were combined with that child-like simplicity and almost divine humility which made him the idol of his fellow-townsmen and the easily accessible friend of the ignorant and the poor. No discrepancy exists between his written words and the record of his life. He fought his battle against error and vice, not with the usual weapons of denunciation and invective, but by proclaiming in speech and deed the beauty of truth and virtue. He has founded no school, he has formulated no theory, he has abstained from uttering a single dogma, and yet his moral and intellectual in

fluence has made itself felt as an active and growing power for highest good over the whole breadth of the continent."-"Emerson's Personality," by Emma Lazarus, “The Century,” July, 1882.

LATEST GLIMPSES OF EMERSON.

One of the latest glimpses we have of Emerson, in his home surroundings, is from the journal of Walt Whitman, the American poet, who paid a visit to Concord in the Autumn of last year (1881). He dined with Emerson and his family, and on two successive days spent several hours in their company. The following sentences I cull from Whitman's journal, now before me :—

Camden, N. J., Dec. 1, 1881.—During my last three or four months' jaunt to Boston and through New England, I spent such good days at Concord, and with Emerson, seeing him under such propitious circumstances, in the calm, peaceful, but most radiant, twilight of his old age (nothing in the height of his literary action and expression so becoming and impressive), that I must give a few impromptu notes of it all. So I devote this cluster entirely to the man, to the place, the past, and all leading up to, and forming, that memorable and peculiar Personality, now near his 80th year-as I

have just seen him there, in his home, silent, sunny, surrounded by a beautiful family."

"Concord, Mass., Sept. 17.-Never had I a better piece of better luck befall me: a long and blessed evening with Emerson, in a way I couldn't have wished better or different. For nearly two hours he has been placidly sitting where I could see his face in the best light near me. Mrs. S.'s back parlour well fill'd with people, neighbours, many fresh and charming faces, women, mostly young, but some old. My friend A. B. Alcott and his daughter Louisa were there early. A good deal of talk, the subject Henry Thoreau-some new glints of his life and fortunes, with letters to and from himone of the best by Margaret Fuller, others by Horace Greeley, W. H. Channing, etc.—one from Thoreau himself, most quaint and interesting. My seat and the relative arrangement were such that, without being rude or anything of the kind, I could just look squarely at E., which I did a good part of the two hours. On entering he had spoken very briefly, easily and politely to several of the company, then settled himself in his chair, a trifle. pushed back, and, though a listener and apparently an alert one, remained silent through the whole talk and discussion. And so, there Emerson sat, and I looking at him. A good colour in his face,

eyes clear, with the well-known expression of sweetness, and the old clear-peering aspect quite the same."

"Next Day.-Several hours at E.'s house, and dinner there. An old familiar house (he has been in it thirty-five years), with the surrounding furnishment, roominess, and plain elegance and fulness, signifying democratic ease, sufficient opulence, and an admirable old-fashioned simplicity modern luxury, with its mere sumptuousness and affectation, either touched lightly upon, or ignored altogether. Of course the best of the present occasion (Sunday, September 18th, 1881) was the sight of E. himself. As just said, a healthy colour in the cheeks, and good light in the eyes, cheery expression, and just the amount of talking that best suited, namely, a word or short phrase only where needed, and almost always with a smile. Besides Emerson himself, Mrs. E., with their daughter Ellen, the son Edward and his wife, with my friend F. S. and Mrs. S., and others, relatives and intimates. Mrs. Emerson, resuming the subject of the evening before (I sat next to her), gave me further and fuller information about Thoreau, who years ago, during Mr. E.'s absence in Europe in 1848, had lived for some time in the family, by invitation.

"Let me conclude by the thought, after all the