and the "Ambarvalia," which he loved to quote on his walks.

With what feelings Clough regarded Emerson appears in these notes in the Memoir of him by his

"Sunday.

Loads of talk with Emerson all morn

ing. Breakfast at eight displays two girls and a boy,

the family. Dinner at 2.30.

Walk with Emerson to

a wood with a pretty ish pool. Concord is very bare (so
is the country in general); it is a small sort of a vil-
lage, almost entirely of wood houses, painted white,
with Venetian blinds, green outside, with two white
wooden churches one with a stone façade of Doric
columns, however.
There are some American
elms, of a weeping kind, and sycamores, i.e. planes;
but the wood is mostly pine-white pine and yellow
pine somewhat scrubby, occupying the tops of the
low banks, and marshy hay-land between, very brown
now. A little brook runs through to the Concord
river.

"At 6.30, tea and Mr. Thoreau, and presently Mrs. Ellery Channing, Miss Channing, and others."

"Just back at Cambridge after my visit to Emerson. I was rather sleepless there, but it is very good to go to him. He appears to take things very coolly, and not to meddle with religious matters of any kind. Since visiting him, I feel a good deal more reconciled to mere 'subsistence.' If one can only have a little reasonable satisfactory intercourse now and then, subsistence may be to some purpose. But to live in a vain show of society would not do long. The Boston people have

been too well off, and don't know the realities. Emerson is really substantive."

"Emerson is the only profound man in this country." Frank Sanborn, in whom are embodied the traditions of Concord, has told its personal history in his "Thoreau."

Some may imagine that in such a town as this all the children, like Zal in Firdusi's epic, were born greyhaired, but rather like Zoroaster they were born laughing. Concord was always remarkable for the large number of its lovely little people, who might be seen in the winter skating on the marble snow through the pine woods, and in the summer bathing in the river, and at all times boating. And for young men and maidens, Goethe's Weimar with its court had hardly more festivities than Emerson's Concord. Over the graves of the Puritans went on dances, picnics, berrying parties; on the Musketaquid, where Eliot the Apostle terrified the red men with a vision of retributions more savage than their own, gay barges were sometimes seen conveying Cleopatra and her dusky beauties to be attacked. by "salvages" in war-paint darting from river-sides. fringed with waterlilies; and the grim" embattled farmers" who began the revolution sometimes returned on their anniversary to masquerade with their fair descendants.

Once in that neighbourhood I met with an unquiet soul yearning for higher social conditions, which had taken shape in his mind after the pattern shewn by Fourier. "Have you ever heard," I asked, "of the child that went about lamenting and searching for the

beautiful butterfly which she had lost? The butterfly had softly alighted upon her head, and sat there while the search went on. May not this fable apply to one who, living in Concord, searches as far as France for a true society?"

But, when I was last in Concord, it was to Germany some seemed wandering, after a philosophy; and the butterfly had changed to a grasshopper, which, near the Summer School of Philosophy," chirped me a tale of Tithonus, or Transcendentalism outliving its time and shrivelling to metaphysics. Not such was the voice that spake with no past at its back! "Concordia” is not to be muffled in metaphysics, as for one whose "Finis" was written in skull-bones instead of flowers.

"Now break up the useless mould:

Its only purpose is fulfilled.
May our eyes with joy behold

A work to prove us not unskilled.
Wield the hammer, wield,

Till the frame shall yield!

That the bell aloft may rise

The form in thousand fragments flies."

XXIV.

NATHANIEL AND SOPHIA HAWTHORNE.

N a day in Concord I saw the two men whom

ON

Michael Angelo might have chosen as emblems of Morning and Twilight, to be carved over the gates of the New World. Emerson emerged from his modern home, and the shade of well-trimmed evergreens in front, with "shining morning face," his eye beaming with its newest vision of the golden year. Hawthorne, at the other extreme of the village, came softly out of his earlier home, the Old Manse-the grey-gabled mansion, where dwelt in the past men and women who have gained new lease of existence through his genius — and stepped along the avenue of ancient ashtrees, which made a fit frame around him. A superb man he was! His erect, full, and shapely figure might have belonged to an athlete, were it not for the grace and reserve which rendered the strength of frame unobtrusive. The massive forehead and brow, with dark locks on either side, the strong nose and mouth, with another soul beneath them, might be the physiognomy of a military man or political leader- some man impelled by powerful public passions; but with this man there came through the large soft eyes a gentle glow which suffused the face and spiritualised the form.

No wonder such fascination held his college fellows to him! Longfellow used to talk in poetry when his early days at Bowdoin with Hawthorne were the theme; and the memory of President Pierce has lost some stains through his lifelong devotion to his early friend.

How the personages who had long before preceded him in that first home of his manhood had become his familiar friends and visitors - preferred to others separated from him by reason of their flesh and blood no reader of "Mosses from an Old Manse" need be told. As he came down the avenue, unconscious of any curious or admiring eye resting on him, every step seemed a leap, as if his shadowy familiars were whispering happy secrets. What was this genius loci thinking of as he walked there? It may have been about that time he mentioned the Old Manse to a friend, and wrote: "The trees of the avenue how many leaves

have fallen since I last saw them!" It was always on the fallen leaf that Hawthorne found the sentence for his romance, but to what a beautiful new life did it germinate there!

It is an almost solemn reflection that in that same Old Manse, and in the same room, were written Emerson's "Nature" and Hawthorne's "Goodman Brown."

On the twenty-eighth birthday of the American Republic was born also this last wizard of Salem; and the spirit of the day, as well as of the place, was potent in him. Much of the romance of early American history gathers about Salem. I is a charming old town, with broad streets overarched by the foliage of aged elms, and with memorable houses preserved amid the mansions of its cultured citizens. Its oldest families