ends, they stand related to all things through the laws of chemistry
and physics. A flower is beautiful, a shell on the beach is beautiful,
a tree in full leaf, or in its winter nudity, is beautiful; but these
things are not very simple. Complex things may be beautiful also. A
village church may be beautiful no less than a Gothic cathedral.
Emerson was himself a beautiful writer, a beautiful character, and his
works are a priceless addition to literature.

"Go out of the house to see the moon," says Emerson, "and it is mere
tinsel; it will not please as when its light shines upon your
necessary journey." This is not true in my experience. The stars do
not become mere tinsel, do they, when we go out to look at the
overwhelming spectacle? Neither does the moon. Is it not a delight in
itself to look at the full moon--

"The vitreous pour of the full moon, just tinged with blue,"

as Whitman says?

"The moon doth look round her with delight when the heavens are bare,"

says Wordsworth, and equally with delight do we regard the spectacle.
The busy farmer in the fields rarely sees the beauty of Nature. He has
not the necessary detachment. Put him behind his team and plough in
the spring and he makes a pleasing picture to look upon, but the mind
must be open to take in the beauty of Nature.

Of course Emerson is only emphasizing the fact of the beauty of
utility, of the things we do, of the buildings we put up for use, and
not merely for show. A hut, a log cabin in a clearing, a farmer's
unpainted barn, all have elements of beauty. A man leading a horse to
water, or foddering his cattle from a stack in a snow-covered field,
or following his plough, is always pleasing. Every day I pass along a
road by a wealthy man's estate and see a very elaborate stone wall of
cobblestones and cement which marks the boundary of his estate on the
highway. The wall does not bend and undulate with the inequalities of
the ground; its top is as level as a foundation wall; it is an offense
to every passer-by; it has none of the simplicity that should mark a
division wall; it is studied and elaborate, and courts your
admiration. How much more pleasing a rough wall of field stone, or
"wild stone," as our old wall-layer put it, with which the farmer
separates his fields! No thought of looks, but only of utility. The
showy, the highly ornate castle which the multimillionaire builds on
his estate--would an artist ever want to put one of t