I made two small excursions from Boston, one of which was to Concord, because I wished to see Emerson and Elizabeth H. once more, before leaving America for ever. I cannot exactly tell why I wished it, but my soul seemed to require it of me. I must see Emerson yet once more.
I reached Concord in the afternoon, and took up my quarters with Elizabeth H. We went together to Emerson's. Both he and his wife were from home. I went for a moment into Emerson's study, a large room, in which everything was simple, orderly, unstudied, comfortable. No refined sentiment of beauty has, as is the case at the Downings', converted the room into a temple, in which stand the statues of the heroes of science and literature. Ornament is banished from the sanctuary of the stoic philosopher; the furniture is comfortable, but of a grave character, merely as implements of usefulness; one large picture only is in the room, but this hangs there with a commanding power; it is a large oil painting, a copy of Michael Angelo's glorious “Parcæ.” The goddesses of fate, as there represented, are not horrible, they are too noble and beautiful for that, although inflexible. The one in particular, who holds the thread of life in her hand, is beautiful; she who holds the shears to sever the thread, looks up to the former with a questioning, compassionate expression, and the other replies by a smile of the most beautiful assurance and trust. Mortal cannot gaze upon it without resigning himself with confidence to the hands of the immortal, maternal powers.
Upon the large table in the centre of the room, at which Emerson sits and writes, just opposite the picture, lay a number of papers, but all in perfect order. I stood silent for a moment in the room. Emerson's spirit seemed to pervade its calm, pure atmosphere.
In the evening I saw Emerson at Elizabeth H.'s. He was kind and bright, like himself in his most amiable
