of
moon and stars,--pictures half real and half unreal, mystic imaginings,
fancies, dreams, and the enchantment of "faerie," and throughout the
unanswered cry, the eternal "Wherefore" of destiny. Dawn ends the song
with a fine clear note, the return of day, night's misty phantoms
rolled away, and the world itself, again green, sparkling and breathing
freshness.

In 1874 she published "Alide," a romance in prose drawn from Goethe's
autobiography. It may be of interest to quote the letter she received
from Tourgeneff on this occasion:--

"Although, generally speaking, I do not think it advisable
to take celebrated men, especially poets and artists, as a
subject for a novel, still I am truly glad to say that I
have read your book with the liveliest interest. It is
very sincere and very poetical at the same time; the life
and spirit of Germany have no secrets for you, and your
characters are drawn with a pencil as delicate as it is
strong. I feel very proud of the approbation you give to
my works, and of the influence you kindly attribute to them
on your own talent; an author who write as you do is not
a pupil in art any more; he is not far from being himself
a master."

Charming and graceful words, of which the young writer was justly proud.

About this time occurred the death of her mother, the first break in the
home and family circle. In August of 1876 she made a visit to Concord,
at the Emersons', memorable enough for her to keep a journal and note
down every incident and detail. Very touching to read now, in its almost
childlike simplicity, is this record of "persons that pass and shadows
that remain." Mr. Emerson himself meets her at the station, and drives
with her in his little one-horse wagon to his home, the gray square
house, with dark green blinds, set amidst noble trees. A glimpse of the
family,--"the stately, white-haired Mrs. Emerson, and the beautiful,
faithful Ellen, whose figure seems always to stand by the side of her
august father." Then the picture of Concord itself, lovely and smiling,
with its quiet meadows, quiet slopes, and quietest of rivers. She meets
the little set of Concord people: Mr. Alcott, for whom she does not
share Mr. Emerson's enthusiasm; and William Ellery Channing, whose
figure stands out like a gnarled and twisted scrub-oak,--a pathetic,
impossible creature, whose cranks and oddities were submitted to on
account of an inna