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Updated: May 29, 2025
Thus does the Law of Compensation never rest. "What is your favorite book?" asked Ralph Waldo Emerson of George Eliot. And the answer was, "Rousseau's 'Confessions." And Emerson's counter-confession was, "So is it mine." Elizabeth Barrett Browning nibbled at the same cheese.
She did not seem pained at his refusal, but swung her foot to and fro, the little old wrinkled forehead more wrinkled up than ever. "Why is it always so, Waldo, always so?" she said; "we long for things, and long for them, and pray for them; we would give all we have to come near to them, but we never reach them.
The officers elected were: J. H. Braly, president; Judge Waldo M. Yorke, first vice-president; Hulett Merritt, second; J. D. Bradford, secretary and treasurer. Enthusiastic speeches were made and Mr. Braly said that they were initiating this movement at the psychological time, for the progressive fever was in the California blood.
That would be the first step in our progress a very little one, but every step to the end would repeat it. We were equals once when we lay new-born babes on our nurses' knees. We will be equals again when they tie up our jaws for the last sleep!" Waldo looked in wonder at the little quivering face; it was a glimpse into a world of passion and feeling wholly new to him.
"Waldo, you are mad," she said, drawing herself from him, instinctively. He loosened his grasp and turned away from her also. In truth, is it not life's way? We fight our little battles alone; you yours, I mine. We must not help or find help. When your life is most real, to me you are mad; when your agony is blackest, I look at you and wonder.
My own great grandfather, John Elderkin Waldo, said at Tolland, Connecticut, more than a century ago: "Times are hard with us in New England. They will never be any better until each farm laborer in Connecticut is willing to work all day for a sheep's head and pluck," just as they used to do before the red schoolhouses on the hills began to preach their doctrines of sedition and equality.
In that same year, having left home on one of his last lecturing trips, he met his son, Dr. Edward Waldo Emerson, at the Brevoort House, in New York. Then, and in that place, he read to his son the poem afterwards published in the "Atlantic Monthly," and in his second volume, under the title "Terminus." This was the first time that Dr.
A wild flounder, then the youngster fairly doubled himself up, acting so strangely that Bruno gave a little cry of alarm; but ere the elder brother could take further action, Waldo swung his right arm upward and outward, sending a goodly sized trout flashing through the air to the shore, crying in boyish enthusiasm: "Glory in great chunks! I want to camp right here for a year to come!
For the rest, I think our cousin Waldo chiselled out the nicest bit of praise that was done on the occasion. To Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D. SHEFFIELD, Feb. 24, 1865.
Not until the trio was fairly within the gulch did the professor speak again, and then but a brief sentence or two. "Give me time to weigh the matter, lads. Possibly I may agree, but don't try to hurry my cooler judgment, please." Waldo gave his brother an eager nudge at this, gestures and grimaces being made to supply the lack of words.
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