t landscape, a low roof, the only one
visible, which was the roof of Thoreau's birthplace. He had been over
there many times, he said, since he lost Mr. Thoreau, but had never gone
in,--he was afraid it might look lonely! But he had often sat on a
rock in front of the house and looked at it." On parting from his young
friend, Mr. Channing gave her a package, which proved to be a copy of
his own book on Thoreau, and the pocket compass which Thoreau carried to
the Maine woods and on all his excursions. Before leaving the Emersons
she received the proof-sheets of her drama of "The Spagnoletto," which
was being printed for private circulation. She showed them to Mr.
Emerson, who had expressed a wish to see them, and, after reading them,
he gave them back to her with the comment that they were "good." She
playfully asked him if he would not give her a bigger word to take home
to the family. He laughed, and said he did not know of any; but he
went on to tell her that he had taken it up, not expecting to read it
through, and had not been able to put it down. Every word and line told
of richness in the poetry, he said, and as far as he could judge
the play had great dramatic opportunities. Early in the autumn "The
Spagnoletto" appeared,--a tragedy in five acts, the scene laid in Italy,
1655.

Without a doubt, every one in these days will take up with misgiving,
and like Mr. Emerson "not expecting to read it through," a five-act
tragedy of the seventeenth century, so far removed apparently from the
age and present actualities,--so opposed to the "Modernite," which has
come to be the last word of art. Moreover, great names at once appear;
great shades arise to rebuke the presumptuous new-comer in this highest
realm of expression. "The Spagnoletto" has grave defects that would
probably preclude its ever being represented on the stage. The denoument
especially is unfortunate, and sins against our moral and aesthetic
instinct. The wretched, tiger-like father stabs himself in the presence
of his crushed and erring daughter, so that she may forever be haunted
by the horror and the retribution of his death. We are left suspended,
as it were, over an abyss, our moral judgment thwarted, our humanity
outraged. But "The Spagnoletto" is, nevertheless, a remarkable
production, and pitched in another key from anything the writer has
yet given us. Heretofore we have only had quiet, reflective, passive
emotion: now we have a storm and sweep of