peculiarly interested in a man whose striking face and manner
challenged my attention. I did not hear him speak, but watched
him going about with a silk hat, much too large, pushed back on
his head; his sharp eyes peering into everything, curious about
everything. 'Here,' said I to myself, 'is a countryman who has
got away from home, and intends to see all that is going on'--such
an alert, interested air! That evening a friend came to me and in
a voice full of awe and enthusiasm said, 'Emerson is in town!' Then
I knew who the alert, sharp-eyed stranger was. We went to the
meeting and met our hero, and the next day walked and talked with
him. He seemed glad to get away from those old fogies and talk with
us young men. I carried his valise to the boat-landing--I was in the
seventh heaven of delight."

"I saw him several years later," he continued, "soon after
'Wake-Robin' was published; he mentioned it and said: 'Capital
title, capital!' I don't suppose he had read much besides
the title."

"The last time I saw him," he said with a sigh, "was at Holmes's
seventieth-birthday breakfast, in Boston. But then his mind was
like a splendid bridge with one span missing; he had--what is it you
doctors call it?--/aphasia/, yes, that is it--he had to grope for his
words. But what a serene, godlike air! He was like a plucked eagle
tarrying in the midst of a group of lesser birds. He would sweep
the assembly with that searching glance, as much as to say, 'What
is all this buzzing and chirping about?' Holmes was as brilliant
and scintillating as ever; sparks of wit would greet every newcomer,
flying out as the sparks fly from that log. Whittier was there,
too, looking nervous and uneasy and very much out of his element.