'I believe you will be thus just, thus true, for we are 'both servants of Truth.'

'August, 1842. Cambridge. - Few have eyes for the 'pretty little features of a scene. In this, men are not 'so good as boys. Artists are always thus young; poets 'are; but the pilgrim does not lay aside his belt of steel, 'nor the merchant his pack, to worship the flowers on 'the fountain's brink. I feel, like Herbert, the weight 'of "business to be done," but the bird-like particle 'would skim and sing at these sweet places. It seems 'strange to leave them; and that we do so, while so 'fitted to live deeply in them, shows that beauty is the 'end but not the means.

'I have just been reading the new poems of Tenny'son. Much has he thought, much suffered, since the 'first ecstasy of so fine an organization clothed all the 'world with rosy light. He has not suffered himself to 'become a mere intellectual voluptuary, nor the songster 'of fancy and passion, but has earnestly revolved the 'problems of life, and his conclusions are calmly noble. 'In these later verses is a still, deep sweetness; how 'different from the intoxicating, sensuous melody of his 'earlier cadence! I have loved him much this time, and 'taken him to heart as a brother. One of his themes has 'long been my favorite, -- the last expedition of Ulysses,

and his, like mine, is the Ulysses of the Odyssey, 'with his deep romance of wisdom, and not the world'ling of the Iliad. How finely marked his slight descrip'tion of himself and of Telemachus. In Dora, Locksley 'Hall, the Two Voices, Morte D'Arthur, I find my own 'life, much of it, written truly out.'

'Concord, August 25, 1842.- Beneath this roof of 'peace, beneficence, and intellectual activity, I find just 'the alternation of repose and satisfying pleasure that I 'need. ***

'Do not find fault with the hermits and scholars. 'The true text is:

"Mine own Telemachus

He does his work—I mine."

'All do the work, whether they will or no; but he is ""mine own Telemachus" who does it in the spirit of 'religion, never believing that the last results can be 'arrested in any one measure or set of measures, listen'ing always to the voice of the Spirit, and who does 'this more than

'After the first excitement of intimacy with him,'when I was made so happy by his high tendency, 'absolute purity, the freedom and infinite graces of an 'intellect cultivated much beyond any I had known,'came with me the questioning season. I was greatly 'disappointed in my relation to him. I was, indeed, 'always called on to be worthy, — this benefit was sure 'in our friendship. But I found no intelligence of my 'best self; far less was it revealed to me in new modes; 'for not only did he seem to want the living faith which 'enables one to discharge this holiest office of a friend, 'but he absolutely distrusted me in every region of my 'life with which he was unacquainted. The same trait 'I detected in his relations with others. He had faith 'in the Universal, but not in the Individual Man; he 'met men, not as a brother, but as a critic. Philosophy 'appeared to chill instead of exalting the poet.

'But now I am better acquainted with him. His

""accept" is true; the "I shall learn," with which he 6 answers every accusation, is no less true. No one can 'feel his limitations, in fact, more than he, though he 'always speaks confidently from his present knowledge 'as all he has yet, and never qualifies or explains. 'He feels himself "shut up in a crystal cell," from 'which only "a great love or a great task could release ""me," and hardly expects either from what remains in 'this life. But I already see so well how these limita'tions have fitted him for his peculiar work, that I can 'no longer quarrel with them; while from his eyes looks 'out the angel that must sooner or later break every 'chain. Leave him in his cell affirming absolute truth; 'protesting against humanity, if so he appears to do; the calm observer of the courses of things. Surely, he keeps true to his thought, which is the great ""matter." He has already paid his debt to his time; 'how much more he will give we cannot know; hut 'already I feel how invaluable is a cool mind, like his, 'amid the warring elements around us. As I look at 'him more by his own law, I understand him better; 'and as I understand him better, differences melt away. 'My inmost heart blesses the fate that gave me birth in 'the same clime and time, and that has drawn me into 'such a close bond with him as, it is my hopeful faith, 'will never be broken, but from sphere to sphere ever 'more hallowed. * * *

'What did you mean by saying I had imbibed much 'of his way of thought? I do indeed feel his life steal'ing gradually into mine; and I sometimes think that 'my work would have been more simple, and my 'unfolding to a temporal activity more rapid and easy, 'if we had never met. But when I look forward to

'eternal growth, I am always aware that I am far 'larger and deeper for him. His influence has been to 'me that of lofty assurance and sweet serenity. He 'says, I come to him as the European to the Hindoo, 'or the gay Trouvére to the Puritan in his steeple hat. 'Of course this implies that our meeting is partial. I 'present to him the many forms of nature and solicit 'with music; he melts them all into spirit and reproves 'performance with prayer. When I am with God alone, 'I adore in silence. With nature I am filled and grow 'only. With most men I bring words of now past life, 'and do actions suggested by the wants of their natures 'rather than my own. But he stops me from doing 'anything, and makes me think.'

'October, 1842. ** To me, individually, Dr. Chan'ning's kindness was great; his trust and esteem were 'steady, though limited, and I owe him a large debt of ' gratitude.

'His private character was gentle, simple, and perfectly 'harmonious, though somewhat rigid and restricted in 'its operations. It was easy to love, and a happiness to 'know him, though never, I think, a source of the highest 'social pleasure to be with him. His department was 'ethics; and as a literary companion, he did not throw 'himself heartily into the works of creative genius, but 'looked, wherever he read, for a moral. In criticism he 6 was deficient in "individuality," if by that the phrenol'ogists mean the power of seizing on the peculiar mean'ings of special forms. I have heard it said, that, under 'changed conditions, he might have been a poet. He 'had, indeed, the poetic sense of a creative spirit work'ing everywhere. Man and nature were living to him;

7

' and though he did not yield to sentiment in particulars, 'he did in universals. But his mind was not recreative, 'or even representative.

'He was deeply interesting to me as having so true a 'respect for woman. This feeling in him was not chiv'alrous; it was not the sentiment of an artist; it was 'not the affectionateness of the common son of Adam, 'who knows that only her presence can mitigate his 'loneliness; but it was a religious reverence. To him 'she was a soul with an immortal destiny. Nor was 'there at the bottom of his heart one grain of masculine 'assumption. He did not wish that Man should protect her, but that God should protect her and teach her the 'meaning of her lot.

'In his public relations he is to be regarded not only 'as a check upon the evil tendencies of his era, but yet 'more as a prophet of a better age already dawning as 'he leaves us. In his later days he filled yet another 'office of taking the middle ground between parties. 'Here he was a fairer figure than ever before. His 'morning prayer was, "Give me more light; keep my ""soul open to the light;" and it was answered. He 'steered his middle course with sails spotless and untorn. 'He was preserved in a wonderful degree from the 'prejudices of his own past, the passions of the present, 'and the exaggerations of those who look forward to 'the future. In the writings where, after long and 'patient survey, he sums up the evidence on both sides, 'and stands umpire, with the judicial authority of a 'pure intent, a steadfast patience, and a long experience, 'the mild wisdom of age is beautifully tempered by the 'ingenuous sweetness of youth. These pieces resemble 'charges to a jury; they have always been heard with