t could be used.

Leaning on the gate that bright, warm, summer afternoon, it was
not difficult to picture the venerable, white-haired philosopher
seated by the doorstep arguing eloquently with some congenial
visitor, or chatting with his daughter. One could almost see a
small throng of serious men and women wending their way up the
still plainly marked path to the chapel, and catch the measured
tones of the lecturer as he expounded theories too recondite for
this practical age and generation.

Philosophy is the sarcophagus of truth; and most systems of
philosophy are like the pyramids,--impressive piles of useless
intellectual masonry, erected at prodigious cost of time and labor
to secrete from mankind the truth.

A little farther on we came to the fork in the road where Lincoln
Street branches off to the southeast. Emerson's house fronts on
Lincoln and is a few rods from the intersection with Lexington
Street. Here Emerson lived from 1835 until his death in 1882.

It is singular the fascination exercised by localities and things
identified with great men. It is not enough to simply see, but in
so far as possible we wish to place ourselves in their places, to
walk where they walked, sit where they sat, sleep where they
slept, to merge our petty and obscure individualities for the time
being in theirs, to lose our insignificant selves in the
atmosphere they created and left behind. Is it possible that
subtile** distillations of personality penetrate and saturate
inanimate things, so that aromas imperceptible to the sense are
given off for ages and affect all who come in receptive mood
within their influence? It is quite likely that what we feel when
we stand within the shadow of a great soul is all subjective, that
our emotions are but the workings of our imaginations stirred by
suggestive surroundings; but who knows, who knows?

When this house was nearly destroyed by fire in July, 1872,
friends persuaded Emerson to go abroad with his daughter, and
while they were away, the house was completely restored.

His son describes his return: "When the train reached Concord, the
bells were rung and a great company of his neighbors and friends
accompanied him, under a triumphal arch, to his restored house. He
was greatly moved, but with characteristic modesty insisted that
this was a welcome to his daughter, and could not be meant for
him. Although he had felt quite unable to make any speech, yet,
seeing his friendly