touching. This is also true of the singularly fine inscriptions in the
lot where rest several generations of the Hoar family. A good article
might be written on monumental inscriptions in the Concord
burial-ground. It is a lovely spot where these illustrious sons of
Concord have found their final resting-place, and a pilgrimage to it
cannot but freshen one's sense of indebtedness to these gifted men of
pure lives and elevated thoughts.

The most enjoyable incident of the delightful Decoration Day on which
our trip was made was a visit to Emerson's home. His daughter was in New
York, but we were given the privilege of freely taking possession of the
library and parlor. Everything is as the sage left it. His books are
undisturbed, his portfolio of notes lies upon the table, and his
favorite chair invites the friend who feels he can occupy it. The
atmosphere is quietly simple. The few pictures are good, but not
conspicuous or insistent. The books bear evidence of loving use.
Bindings were evidently of no interest. Nearly all the books are in the
original cloth, now faded and worn. One expects to see the books of his
contemporaries and friends, and the expectation is met. They are mostly
in first editions, and many of them are almost shabby. Taking down the
first volume of _The Dial_, I found it well filled with narrow strips
of paper, marking articles of especial interest. The authors' names not
being given, they were frequently supplied by Mr. Emerson on the margin.
I noticed opposite one article the words "T. Parker" in Mr. Emerson's
writing. The books covered one side of a good-sized room and ran through
the connecting hall into the quaint parlor, or sitting-room, behind it.
A matting covered the floor, candlesticks rested on the chimney-piece,
and there was no meaningless bric-a-brac, nor other objects of suspected
beauty to distract attention. As you enter the house, the library
occupies the large right-hand corner room. It was simple to the verge of
austerity, and the farthest possible removed from a "collection." There
was no effort at arrangement--they were just books, for use and for
their own sake. The portfolio of fugitive notes and possible material
for future use was interesting, suggesting the source of much that went
to make up those fascinating essays where the "thoughts" often made no
pretense at sequence, but rested in peaceful unregulated proximity, like
eggs in a nest. Here is a sentence that evidently d