asylum to the fugitive slave, he expressed him in strong disapprobation, but still in his placid manner.
“Here is a spring famous for its excellent water,” said Emerson, as he pulled up near some lofty trees by the road-side. “May I give you a glass?”
I thanked him in the affirmative, and he alighted, fastened the reins to a tree, and soon returned with a glass of water clear as crystal from the spring.
A glass of water! How much may be comprised in this gift. Why it should become significant to me on this occasion I cannot say; but so it was. I have silently within myself combated with Emerson from the first time that I became acquainted with him. I have questioned with myself in what consisted this power of the spirit over me, when I so much disapproved of his mode of thinking, when there was so much in him which was unsatisfactory to me; in what consisted his mysterious magical power; that invigorating, refreshing influence, which I always experience in his writings, or in intercourse with him? After this cordial draught of clear water from the spring, given by his hand, I understood it. It is precisely this crystal, pure, fresh, cold water, in his individual character, in his writings, which has refreshed and will again and yet again refresh me.
I have opposed Emerson in thought with myself, and in conversation with others, who have blindly admired him. I shall oppose him also in public from the conviction within my own soul of the highest justice and necessity. But in long years to come, and when I am far from here, in my own native land, and when I am old and grey, yes, always, always will moments recur when I shall yearn towards Waldo Emerson, and long to receive from his hand that draught of fresh water.—For wine, warmth-infusing, life-renovating wine, I would go to another.
Emerson baptises in water; another there is who baptises with the spirit and with fire.
