there is still another conclusion to arrive at. In "Epochs" we have,
doubtless, the impress of a calamity brought very near to the writer,
and profoundly working upon her sensibilities; not however by direct,
but reflex action, as it were, and through sympathetic emotion--the
emotion of the deeply-stirred spectator, of the artist, the poet who
lives in the lives of others, and makes their joys and their sorrows
his own.

Before dismissing this volume we may point out another clue as to the
shaping of mind and character. The poem of "Admetus" is dedicated
"to my friend Ralph Waldo Emerson." Emma Lazarus was between
seventeen and eighteen years of age when the writings of Emerson
fell into her hands, and it would be difficult to over-estimate the
impression produced upon her. As she afterwards wrote: "To how many
thousand youthful hearts has not his word been the beacon--nay,
more, the guiding star--that led them safely through periods of
mental storm and struggle!" Of no one is this more true than herself.
Left, to a certain extent, without compass or guide, without any
positive or effective religious training, this was the first great
moral revelation of her life. We can easily realize the chaos and
ferment of an over-stimulated brain, steeped in romantic literature,
and given over to the wayward leadings of the imagination. Who can
tell what is true, what is false, in a world where fantasy is as real
as fact? Emerson's word fell like truth itself, "a shaft of light
shot from the zenith," a golden rule of thought and action. His
books were bread and wine to her, and she absorbed them into her
very being. She felt herself invincibly drawn to the master, "that
fount of wisdom and goodness," and it was her great privilege during
these years to be brought into personal relations with him. From
the first he showed her a marked interest and sympathy, which became