Mr.Emerson has risked the doing him much mischief by putting him in print,--a trial few persons can sustain without losing their unconsciousness.

But, after all, a man gifted with thought and expression, whatever his rank in life and his mode of uttering himself, whether by pen or tongue, cannot be expected to go through the world without finding himself out; and, as all such discoveries are partial and imperfect, they do more harm than good to the character.

Mr.
Hosmer is more natural than ninety-nine men out of a hundred, and is certainly a man of intellectual and moral substance.

It would be amusing to draw a parallel between him and his admirer,--Mr.
Emerson, the mystic, stretching his hand out of cloudland in vain search for something real; and the man of sturdy sense, all whose ideas seem to be dug out of his mind, hard and substantial, as he digs his potatoes, carrots, beets, and turnips out of the earth.
Mr.Emerson is a great searcher for facts, but they seem to melt away and become unsubstantial in his grasp." They took that extraordinary creature, Margaret Fuller, seriously, and they took a vast deal of poor poetry seriously.

Because a few could write, nearly every one in the village seemed to think he or she could write, and write they did to the extent of a small library most religiously shelved and worshipped in its own compartment in the town library.
Genius is egotism; the superb confidence of these men, each in the sanctity of his own mission, in the plenitude of his own powers, in the inspiration of his own message, made them what they were.
The last word was Alcott's because he outlived them all, and his last word was that, great as were those who had taken their departure, the greatest of them all had fallen just short of appreciating him, the survivor.