in the porch, and his townspeople filled the church, but Emerson made
the simple ceremony one never to be forgotten by those who were
present. Respecting the publication of this address I find the
following entry in a diary of the time: "We have been waiting for Mr.
Emerson to publish his new volume, containing his address upon Henry
Thoreau; but he is careful of words, and finds many to be considered
again and again, until it is almost impossible to extort a manuscript
from his hands."

There is a brief note among the few letters I have found concerning
the poetry of some other writer whose name does not appear, but in the
publication of whose work Emerson was evidently interested. He writes:
"I have made the fewest changes I could. So do not shock the _amour
propre_ of the poet, and yet strike out the bad words. You must,
please, if it comes to question, keep my agency out of sight, and he
will easily persuade himself that your compositor has grown critical,
and struck out the rough syllables."

Emerson stood, as it were, the champion of American letters, and
whatever found notice at all challenged his serious scrutiny. The soul
and purpose must be there; he must find one line to win his sympathy,
and then it was given with a whole heart. He said one day at breakfast
that he had found a young man! A youth in the far West had written
him, and inclosed some verses, asking for his criticism. Among them
was the following line, which Emerson said proved him to be a poet,
and he should watch his career in future with interest:

"Life is a flame whose splendor hides its base."

We can imagine the kindly letter which answered the appeal, and how