He looked a thorough New Englander, and writers-about a quarter of them the and his bearing was full of dignity and re- townspeople. serve. Indeed, he was absolutely a law unto himself, and yet his personality was always kept in the background, so far as self-assertion or egotism was concerned. Yes, I thought, he is just what Mr. Alcott calls him, "a student of the landscape, of mankind, of rugged strength, wherever found. He would like plain people, plain ways, plain clothes, prefer earnest persons, shun publicity, love solitude and know its uses"; and when I came to have the honor of knowing him, though ever so slightly, he was the identical man of his books, the essence of refinement in thought, full of serenity and cheerful faith, united with a simple plainness of speech which was his prominent characteristic. As the days passed, I began to grow into Concord. The atmosphere is contagious. Before you know exactly what transcendentalism is, you think you have "caught" it-and for that matter, people call every man who lives within the borders of Concord a transcendentalist, without respect to shades of difference in belief. But it is impossible to resist the prevailing dreaminess. You begin to believe thoroughly and honestly in plain living and high thinking. Externals do not satisfy you; you take five dresses thither, and only wear two of them; six-buttoned gloves, for the first time in your life, do not seem to count for much in the sum total of your happiness. Every morning I went to the nine-o'clock lecture, which lasted till eleven or a little after, when the conversation began and lasted till twelve. The afternoon was given up to special classes, informal meetings at various houses, rambles through the beautiful woods, and sails on that loveliest and slowest of rivers that steals unobserved along the meadows without a murmur or a pulse-beat. Half-past seven in the evening brought us together again, the students numbering usually about fifty; but often, on special occasions, as many as eighty. They were naturally all past middle life, thinkers, readers, After the morning lectures I usually walked along the homeward path with Mr. Alcott and Dr. Harris, whom I had known previously in educational matters, and their kindly and helpful conversation always served as a sort of text-book to the often profound and metaphysical lectures. I visited Mr. Emerson's house on many different occasions; once on a memorable Sunday evening, when the Rev. W. E. Channing (nephew and biographer of Dr. Channing) gave, at the request of the host, a beautiful and characteristic talk upon "The Four Ascending Stages of the Christ-life." The house is a plain, square, wooden one, standing behind a grove of pine trees, which conceal it from the passer-by. At the rear is a large garden, which has been famous for years for its roses and rare collection of hollyhocks-the flowers that Wordsworth loved. There are large, square rooms on both sides of the house, divided by a long hall, at the end of which I remember an old picture of Ganymede. On the right is the study, lined on one side with plain shelves of books. A large writing-table occupies the center of the room, which has on one side a huge fireplace, over which hangs a fine copy of Michael Angelo's Fates. Here are many little curiosities in letters and books,-reminiscences of Landor, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Carlyle, Thoreau, and the patriot John Brown. Here also came chatty little Frederika Bremer, whose dress buttons, it is recorded, never were on terms of intimacy with their buttonholes. The large parlor fills the southern part of the house, and is charmingly hung and furnished in crimson, without trace of decorative art. I remember very well a portrait of one of his daughters hanging there, and a most beautiful one of the wife he has left behind him. Mrs. Emerson (always called Queenie by her husband) is as dainty and spirituelle a woman as one can imagine. Her complexion is as delicate and pale as a rose leaf, her eyes a vivid dark blue, and her snow-white hair is ornamented with an indescribable little tulle cap, tied under her soft chin with pale blue ribbons. It is such a lovely adjunct of a lovely personality, that more than one "sonnet" or "ode" to Mrs. Emerson's cap was written during my visit. Her gown used always to be of plain, black silk, and her exquisite appearance, in conjunction with her sweet, quiet manner, made her the center of admiration in that little circle. The eldest daughter, Miss Ellen Emerson, the last member of the home trio, was indeed "the angel of the house." Her daughterly devotion was unparalleled; she was her father's strength and comfort, and, when his memory began to fail, his best interpreter. The house is rich in reminiscences, for almost every person of note who has visited this country has partaken of its genial hospitality. On one occasion, ten or fifteen people being present for conversation, a voluble lady from Chicago, who was passing the Sabbath in Concord, went up to Mr. Emerson on leaving the room, and insisted on shaking hands with him, saying, in rather a blatant voice: "Don't you remember me, Mr. Emerson? I met you ten years ago at Dr. B's house; have you forgotten me?" I can see now the painful struggle of memory in the eyes, the patient look about the mouth, and hear the intensely pathetic ring in the voice as he answered brokenly, "I am a very old man, madam. I cannot remember many things." He was still erect in his carriage, however, and seemed generally to be in good health, his only distressing symptom being his failing memory. He seemed to be always a glad and attentive listener, and if he sometimes kept aloof from general conversation where there were many people present, he was always studiously thoughtful of the comfort and pleasure of his guests. Every night that I spent in Concord was enriched by the conversation of that noble and venerable friend, the revered and eminent champion of innocent childhood; to whom the lisp of infancy comprehended the wisdom of the ancients, and who has been instrumental in revealing the truth of things to a greater number of mothers and educators than any woman of the day. Her mind is a complete storehouse of fascinating and varied knowledge, and her memory endless. After she had unbound her silvery hair for the night she always settled herself for a comfortable season of reminiscence, which often lasted till midnight, and was frequently interrupted by her brother, who came. every half-hour to the foot of the stairs and called impatiently, "Elizabeth, Elizabeth! pray go to bed!" "Ah, not quite yet, dear Mr. Peabody," I used to whisper, pleadingly, from the upper landing. "We are just remembering Mazzini and Browning, and Harriet Martineau is coming next. I shall go home in two days, and we must do Margaret Fuller and Dr. Channing to-morrow night, and finish kindergarten on the next.” She told me chapter after chapter of the home life of her two famous brothers-in-law, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Horace Mann, and talked by the hour of Thoreau, Dr. Channing, Edward Everett, and the subject of this sketch, with whom she had walked in friendship for over forty years. She spoke of the pure intellectuality of the Emersons, and the mystical, religious tendencies of the Haskins family, the two contrasts finding their unity in Ralph Waldo Emerson. He Her first acquaintance with him was through the medium of Greek lessons. was an extremely shy young man, and she a very bashful young girl, terribly afraid of him and his superior attainments. For fear of shocking her teacher by ignorance, she prepared a third of the Greek grammar for an opening lesson, and I can't say how much of the Iliad and Xenophon. On arriving at the house, he seated her without a word at one end of a long extension table, while he took his place at the other. I don't know how many years elapsed before they sat together on one side. The ingenious tutor of the present day would adopt the "one-book method" in the course of a month, but our Puritan ancestors harbored |ing to seek service so as to talk with her; no such frivolous thoughts. and also an amusing incident of his boyhood. There was no conversation; she said her lesson; he heard it; and as she went out she asked timidly, "How much shall I study for next time?" "Finish the book," said he, and shut the door. They had a strong bond of union in their mutual admiration of Edward Everett, who was his instructor in Greek. Mr. Emerson one day chanced to look through Miss Peabody's portfolio of MSS., and finding a paraphrase of the first chapter of St. John, thought it most remarkable, and sent for her, after which they became better acquainted. She told me, among other things, that during Emerson's first lectures in Boston, which had such a wonderful effect upon young people, Margaret Fuller, with whom she was most intimate, desired greatly to know the eloquent lecturer and philosopher, but no suitable opportunity of fered, for he did not care to know her. Miss Peabody tried to arrange a meeting, but with no success. "I hear she has 'intense times,' and works them off in sonnets," he said. "I'm rather afraid of her. What is there in her, anyway?" Miss Peabody answered: "Why, Mr. Emerson, when I first called upon Margaret Fuller, I felt, on leaving her, as if I had seen the universe!" "Seen the universe!" cried he, as he turned to his wife; "Queenie, we must have the young woman here if she can show us the universe!" And so Miss Peabody brought them together, or, as she expressed it, fitted the hook into the eye, for there was no lack of appreciation afterwards. Mr. Emerson had a remarkable aunt in the person of Miss Mary Emerson, who was a woman of great unconventionality, and such strong character and individuality that he called her "the power behind the throne." He told us, one afternoon at the Old Manse, numerous anecdotes of her intense love of beauty, and her desire to see a certain beautiful woman, which she gratified by pretend He desired most earnestly to read a certain book in the library, and after due consideration of the extravagant proceeding, his aunt gave him the six cents necessary to withdraw the book. He did so, and on finishing it found, to his great grief, that it was only the first volume, and the six cents with which to pay for the reading of the second was not given him for months. Speaking of her influence upon them, he exclaimed, "Why, she was as great an element in our lives as Greece or Rome!" Among the incidents of those pleasant days was our visit to the famous Concord library, in company with the Sage, the Sculptor, and the Mystic of the good old town. The library looks on the outside rather like a church, but somebody observes that the literature of Concord is no doubt its religion, and it is very appropriate that its library should be built like a church. It contains, besides its interesting "Concord Alcove " and thousands of miscellaneous books, a fine oil painting of Emerson, executed by David Scott of Edinburgh, in 1848, also a good engraving by Schroff, made from Rouse's crayon, and the wellknown bust by Gould. On the same afternoon I went to drink tea at the Old Manse, alive with memories of both Hawthorne and Emerson. Its most interesting room is that in which Emerson wrote "Nature" and many of his best poems, and where Hawthorne also wrote his "Mosses from an Old Manse," and the unfinished "Dolliver Romance." From the northern window the wife of Rev. William Emerson watched the 19th of April fight, and her granddaughter now occupies the house. On the night preceding the closing of the School of Philosophy, Mr. Emerson delivered a lecture on "Aristocracy," in the town hall, which was listened to by a large audience. The platform was richly adorned with flowers, and the occasion was a most memorable one to all of us. KATE D. SMITH, A FATAL DELUSION. Old Pete sat contentedly in front of his adobe shanty, under the shade of the brush awning, with feet perched high against the walls of his dwelling. Pete was stationmaster at Dos Palmas, a stopping place for stages and teams passing the edge of the Great Colorado Desert of California toward Arizona. There was an Indian squaw there also. Pete called her his wife. This was merely a simple-minded compliment; she answered all the purposes of a wife, cleaned dishes, and cooked; she was also the mother of several children in whom Pete showed a paternal interest. The squaw was bought by him a number of years ago. He promised the chief of the Cabazones three ponies for her, but he never paid the ponies and still kept the squaw. When Big Chief expostulated with just indignation at this dishonorable mode of procedure, Pete told him to take the woman away: he didn't want her any more, he was already tired of the beast. The worst of it all was that the squaw would not go, but preferred to remain with the white man who, be as severe as he might, could not compare with an Indian in cruelty and meanness of disposition. So she lived at the station, faithful to her master, and guarding her children with a true mother's instinct. There is a spring of excellent drinking water at Dos Palmas. From there to Yuma, across the long sand waste, there is only one watering place, and that at Frink's Spring, fifteen miles from the station. A band of engineers had recently surveyed a railroad line into Yuma. While crossing the desert two wells had been dug between Frink's and the Colorado River, but the water was undrinkable for man. It was the custom for the stages and teams to take a longer way into the Territory, going farther to the northward, thereby keeping on the line of mountain springs. VOL. V-34. The afternoon passed slowly away, and the mountain shadows grew darker and moved gradually out onto the plain, first enfolding the rich verdure of the spring, and then silently creeping over the yellow sand until they reached the snowy salt beds. Ever increasing and growing blacker, they marked their course in distinct lines on the smooth carpet of this inland sea long ago vanished from human eye. Pete bestirred himself now, and hastened away to feed his stock. This duty performed, the old man-for so they call him, although his years have not yet reached above two score-moved across the road which runs between the house and the corral; but as he looked down the valley, a line of dust rising above the trees gave evidence of an approaching team. Pete nevertheless continued on, entered the house, and began eating the beans and stewed dried meat that the squaw of his bosom put before him. Meanwhile, the cloud of dust came nearer, and presently the canvas top of a light wagon loomed up above the shrubbery. Soon the vehicle, drawn by two horses, reached the stage station. "What kind of an outfit is this?" ejaculated Pete, as he came to the door and saw the new arrivals. Two men and a woman. As ill-educated as the station-man was, he perceived instinctively that these were a different sort of persons from those with whom he had usually to deal. There was something about them that commanded respect, and yet they were simple and unpretentious, with none of the dictatorial swagger it was the custom to affect there. There was no difficulty in recognizing the Germanic type in the girl: she had flaxen hair, waving gracefully back from her forehead and tied in a simple knot behind; she was above the medium hight, rather slight, but gracefully molded. Of the men there was nothing particularly distinct- | upon the ground, and upon it set the tin ive or distinguishing. One was tall, thin, plates and cups. Pete never saw anything and dark, with a tough, wiry form, and full look so nice; and when invited to take a beard; while the other appeared much seat, on the ground of course, he said he'd below the average hight, but finely and be goll durned if he wouldn't. He thankapparently powerfully built. The former fully took the cup of coffee handed to him, exercised a paternal influence over the girl. and thought he had never tasted anything The little man was the spokesman, and quite so good. delivered himself with considerable volubility. "We should like to camp here to-night," he began, after the proper exchange of civilities. "Camp away,” replied Pete, good-naturedly; "I ain'ter goin' ter hinder yer." And then, sotto voce, the old man remarked that this was the first time any one even asked permission to camp by that spring; but at the same time, perceiving that there "wasn't much sabe" about these people, he kindly showed them a good place to unhitch at, and gave them a helping hand. While Pete and the smaller man, who had already introduced himself as James Newton, were busily engaged in attending to the horses, Full Beard, who proved to be of a taciturn nature, unloaded the wagon of such blankets and cooking utensils as might be necessary for the night's camp. "Which way yer headin'?" inquired the station-man sociably, as he placed a bucket of barley before the horse nearest him. "We are going to Yuma," answered Newton, pleasantly. "Pretty tough road, isn't it?" "Well, yes at this time o' year, 'specially. Yer know there's a forty-mile pull over the Chuckawalla Bench into the spring, and from here it's all up-hill work." While talking, Pete cast a glance at the two diminutive ten-gallon kegs that stood beside the wagon and wondered if these were the only means for transporting water that these people had. Meanwhile, Full Beard had started a fire, and the hot-water pot was singing merrily away, and the girl endeavored to bring some of the influence of refinement into these barbarous surroundings; for she had already taken a piece of white canvas and laid it After the darkness had closed in, and everything was in order for the night, they sat down on their blankets and talked. Presently the moon came up over the mountains, and the smaller stars faded away, and all was clear and bright again, without that aggressive luster which daylight brings. "Well, I don't see why, if they did it, we can't," said Newton, continuing a conversation upon the feasibility of crossing the desert, which had been interrupted for a moment by the admiration which the beauty of the night excited. "If those engineers were able to cross a hundred-mile stretch without water, and survey from four to six miles a day, why can't we do it, traveling at the rate of twenty-five or thirty miles a day? What is to stop us?" "I tell yer, stranger, yer don't know this desert business. It'll be a tougher deal than you think for, to haul across there." "Yes; but if the railroad men did it, why can't we?" inquired the tall man. "That's so," continued Newton, getting excited. "We have two good horses, a light wagon, not much load, and two ten-gallon kegs. Along the road are the wells from which we can water the stock. In four or five days we will be across." "Yer talk like chilern," says Pete, warming up at what he considered the blockheadedness of the crowd. "How long yer suppose the water in them kegs would last yer? just one day. Supposing yer double yer fresh water by adding salt, what then? Two days. And by the clock yer've ninetyfive mile ter travel. Don't talk so infernally brash. It can't be did, I tell yer." Here Full Beard stood up and began to pace to and fro, in evident deep thought. "Come, Jim, what do you say?" "I say desert, by all means." |