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fancies them heard for the first time. The
diviningrod of genius is in his hand. He is a
master in his domain. It seems to me that his real
strength is criticism, a certain grand contempt and
scorn for the weak, paltry, and mediocre wherever he
sees it, and he sees it in much and 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, when he took the
criminal soldier by the hair and delivered him up 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 of chastisement. The
writings of this scorner of imperfection, of the mean
and small, this bold exacter of perfection in man,
have for me a fascination which amounts almost to
magic! I often object to him; I quarrel with him; I
see that his stoicism is one-sidedness, his pantheism
an imperfection, and I know what is greater and more
perfect, but I am under the influence of his magical
power. I believe myself to have become greater through
his greatness, stronger through his strength, and
I breathe the air of a higher sphere in his world,
which is indescribably refreshing to me. Emerson has
more ideality than is common among thinkers of the
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