ter other
skaters appear,--young men and boys,--who principally interest me
as foils to my husband, who, in the presence of nature, loses all
shyness and moves regally like a king. One afternoon Mr. Emerson
and Mr. Thoreau went with him down the river. Henry Thoreau is an
experienced skater, and was figuring dithyrambic dances and
Bacchic leaps on the ice,--very remarkable, but very ugly
methought. Next him followed Mr. Hawthorne, who, wrapped in his
cloak, moved like a self-impelled Greek statue, stately and grave.
Mr. Emerson closed the line, evidently too weary to hold himself
erect, pitching headforemost, half lying on the air. He came in to
rest himself, and said to me that Hawthorne was a tiger, a bear, a
lion,--in short, a satyr, and there was no tiring him out; and he
might be the death of a man like himself. And then, turning upon
me that kindling smile for which he is so memorable, he added,
'Mr. Hawthorne is such an Ajax, who can cope with him!'"

Of all the pages, ay, of all the books, that have been printed
concerning Emerson, Hawthorne, and Thoreau, there is not one which
more vividly and accurately set the men before us and describe
their essential characteristics than the casual lines of this old
letter:--Thoreau, the devotee of nature, "figuring dithyrambic
dances and Bacchic leaps on the ice," joyous in the presence of
his god; the mystic Hawthorne, wrapped in his sombre cloak, "moved
like a self-impelled Greek statue, stately and grave,"--with magic
force these words throw upon the screen of the imagination the
figure of the creator of Hester Prynne and Arthur Dimmesdale;
while Emerson is drawn with the inspiration of a poet, "evidently
too weary to hold himself erect, pitching headforemost, half lying
on the air;" "half lying on the air,"--the phrase rings in the
ear, lingers in the memory, attaches itself to Emerson, and fits
like a garment of soft and yielding texture.

The letter concludes as follows: "After the first snow-storm,
before it was so deep, we walked in the woods, very beautiful in
winter, and found slides in Sleepy Hollow, where we became
children, and enjoyed ourselves as of old,--only more, a great
deal. Sometimes it is before breakfast that Mr. Hawthorne goes to
skate upon the meadow. Yesterday, before he went out, he said it
was very cloudy and gloomy, and he thought it would storm. In half
an hour, oh, wonder! what a scene! Instead of a black sky, the
rising sun, not yet abov