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Updated: June 23, 2025
I have ignored the versified form in these extracts, in order to bring them into more direct contrast with the writer's prose, and show that the poetry is inherent. No other poet, with whom I am acquainted, has caused the very spirit of a land, the mother of men, to express itself so adequately as Emerson has done in these pieces.
"What is wanted is something equally applicable to large or small pieces of iron, and which will answer to ward off the attacks not only of the common atmospheric oxygen, but also remain unaffected by acids or salt waters." The above from a late number of the SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN states not only the writer's ideas but also one of the greatest wants of the age.
There was a pile of neatly kept diaries, with faithful accounts of the weather, and his fishing excursions, and the whist parties; scarcely more than this, except a brief mention of a marriage or a death. Of course there were letters; not very many, but all neatly labeled with the writer's name and the date of their arrival.
It had been lying since October, actually, at the Roman post, though Clive had asked for letters there a hundred times. It was that little letter from Ethel, in reply to his own, whereof we have made mention in a previous chapter. There was not much in the little letter. Nothing, of course, that Virtue or Grandmamma might not read over the young writer's shoulder.
They are not less interesting to the miner than to the geologist, not less important to the statesman than to the antiquarian." At the risk of being considered tedious by some of my boy-readers, I will transcribe the writer's explanation of the existence of these dead rivers.
One may consider that the present age is an age of spiritual eclipse, though that is not the writer's opinion, and question with Matthew Arnold: What girl Now reads in her bosom as clear As Rebekah read, when she sate At eve by the palm-shaded well? Who guards in her breast As deep, as pellucid a spring Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure?
Fruit-growing on these lines is a success in Queensland to-day, and it is capable of considerable extension, so that, in the writer's opinion, it offers a good field for the intending settler.
There have been, it is said, some fifteen or sixteen official Lives issued since the writer's death; but all these are written "from outside" as it were, and it is extraordinary what a different man each presents.
No wonder, therefore, that, while the Romans are being more enlightened every year, a Quebec young man, who is now a theological student in McMaster University, Toronto, declared, while staying in the writer's home, that, as a child he was always taught that Protestants grew horns on their heads, and that he attained the age of 15 before ever he discovered that such was not the case.
May the writer's saint go with you! Addio, mio caro!" There was a hint of real malice in his voice. He cocked his hat and strutted away towards the veils and the piercing voices. Artois stared after him for a moment, then walked across the garden to the sea, and leaned against the low wall looking towards Capri. He was vexed at this little episode unreasonably vexed.
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