everything from himself, and does all for himself, reposes upon himself and in himself. The new man is a stoic, but not stern as such; he is beautiful and gentle. "Wherever he comes life blooms: in the circle of friends it becomes as a holy day; nectar and ambrosia pour forth at his approach; but he himself needs no friend. He needs none, not even God; he himself becomes godlike, inasmuch as that he does not need him. He conquers heaven, inasmuch as he says to heaven, “I desire thee not!” He descends down into nature as a restorer, governs and places it under the spell of his influence, and it—is his friend. In it he has that which suffices him; the divinities of the woods whisper to him their peace and their self-sufficingness; there is not a mole-hill which has not a star above it; there is no sorrow which the healing life of nature cannot heal. He says farewell to the proud world; he tramples upon the greatness of Rome and Greece in this little rural home where he in the trees can see God. Emerson's language is compressed and strong, simple, but singularly plastic. His turns of thought are original; old ideas are reproduced in so new and brilliant a manner that one fancies them heard for the first time. The divining-rod of genius is in his hand. He is master in his own domain. His strength seems to me peculiarly to be that of the critic, a certain grand contempt and scorn of the mediocre of the weak and paltry wherever he sees it, and he sees it in much and in many things. He chastises it without mercy; but, at the same time, with wonderful address. Emerson's performances in this way are really quite regal. They remind me of our King Gustavus Adolphus the Great, when he took the criminal soldier by the hair, and delivered him over to punishment, with the friendly words, “Come, my lad, it is better that thy body now suffer chastisement than that thy soul go to hell.” Yet there is more in Emerson even than the intention
