we did not
look upon him exactly through Mr. Emerson's marine-glass; and, though
the Professor did his hospitable best to sustain his end of the
conversation, it swayed off gracefully into monologue. We listened
deferentially while the philosopher pronounced Bronson Alcott the
greatest mind of our day--I think he said the greatest since Plato.
He was capable of it, in moments of his own exaltation. I thought I
detected a twinkle in my father's blue eye; but the fine curve of his
lips remained politely closed; and our distinguished guest spoke on.

There was something noble about this ardent way of appreciating his
friends, and Emerson was distinguished for it, among those who knew
him well.

Publishers understood that his literary judgment was touchingly warped
by his personal admirations. He would offer some impossible MS. as the
work of dawning genius; it would be politely received, and filed in
the rejected pigeon-holes. Who knows what the great man thought when
his friend's poem failed to see the light of the market?

On this particular occasion, the conversation changed to Browning.
Now, the Professor, although as familiar as he thought it necessary to
be with the latest poetic idol, was not a member of a Browning
class; and here, again, his attitude towards the subject was one of
well-mannered respect, rather than of abandoned enthusiasm. (Had
it only been Wordsworth!) A lady was present, young, and of the
Browningesque temperament. Mr. Emerson expressed himself finely to
the effect that there was something outside of ourselves about
Browning--that we might not always grasp him--that he seemed, at
times, to require an extra sense.

"Is it not because he touches our extra moods?" asked the lady. The
poet's face turned towards her quickly; he had not noticed her before;
a subtle change touched his expression, as if he would have liked
to say: For the first time since this subject was introduced in this
Calvinistic drawing-room, I find myself understood.

It chanced that we had a Chaucer Club in Andover at that time; a small
company, severely selected, not to flirt or to chat, but to work. We
had studied hard for a year, and most of us had gone Chaucer mad.
This present writer was the unfortunate exception to that idolatrous
enthusiasm, and--meeting Mr. Emerson at another time--took modest
occasion in answer to a remark of his to say something of the sort.

"Chaucer interests me, certainly, but I cannot make