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Updated: April 30, 2025
Emerson could go anywhere and find willing listeners among those farthest in their belief from the views he held. Such was his simplicity of speech and manner, such his transparent sincerity, that it was next to impossible to quarrel with the gentle image-breaker. The subject of Mr. Emerson's Address is Literary Ethics.
"But why," he asked "do you want to write a novel? Why not write a real book?" "What do you call a real book, old David?" demanded Reay, looking down upon him with a sudden piercing glance. Helmsley was for a moment confused. He was thinking of such books as Carlyle's "Past and Present" Emerson's "Essays" and the works of Ruskin.
She said no more, but looked down and sat thinking for the space of more than a minute. "I will go back to Ivy Cliff." She looked up, with something strange in the expression of her face. It was a blank, unfeeling, almost unmeaning expression. "Well." It was Emerson's only response. "Well; and that is all?"
There was formerly a portrait of Goethe in her parlor with Emerson's lines about him underneath it, copied in her own picturesque hand-writing. It seems strange that she never tried her hand at a novel, for of all resorts on the coast the Isles of Shoals is the best ground to study human nature on.
With a smile he permitted the fancy for he was in a mood for all sorts of fancies on this evening that if this girl could teach him to interpret Emerson's words, he would make no crabbed resistance.
One tried to read "Emerson's Essays," and fell asleep in the attempt; the other was turning over a parcel of new songs, in order to select what she liked. Amy, the youngest, was copying some manuscript music. The air was heavy with the fragrance of strongly-scented flowers, which sent out their night odours from an adjoining conservatory. The clock on the chimney-piece chimed eight.
The other remark is that each one of Emerson's American fellow-poets from whom he has quoted would gladly have spared almost any of the extracts from the poems of his brother-bards, if the editor would only have favored us with some specimens of his own poetry, with a single line of which he has not seen fit to indulge us.
Wendell Phillips had an eloquent and intrepid eye, but it possessed nothing approaching the eloquence and spiritual influence of Emerson's. In every Lyceum course in Concord, Emerson lectured once or twice, and the hall was always filled.
On the rare occasions when he had time for recreation, he either made a few friends in the world of books Emerson's "Essays" influenced him most or tried his own hand at literature. Once he even went so far as to write a poem and send it to a Belfast newspaper, signing it "C'est Moi."
Coolidge had placed a miserable old barn irregularly upon the edge of that gentleman's lot, which, for the sake of comeliness, he was forced to buy and set straight and smooth into a decent dependence of the mansion house. The estate, upon passing into Mr. Emerson's hands, comprised the house, barn, and two acres of land. He has enlarged house and barn, and the two acres have grown to nine.
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