her
name--should flutter in pretty hesitation here and there and to and
fro a little, before it flies on a straight swift wing to its destined
and desired home. And if you be not the prince for your princess, why,
sir, your case is a sad one.

CHAPTERS FROM A LIFE.

BY ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS,

Author of "The Gates Ajar," "The Madonna of the Tubs," etc

EMERSON IN ANDOVER.--RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY RELIGIOUS TRAINING.--THE
STUDIES OF A PROFESSOR'S DAUGHTER.--THE BEGINNING OF THE WAR.

Perhaps no one has ever denied, or more definitely, has ever wished
to deny, that Andover society consisted largely of people with obvious
religious convictions; and that her visitors were chiefly of the
Orthodox Congregational turn of mind. I do not remember that we ever
saw any reason for regret in this "feature" of the Hill. It is true,
however, that a dash of the world's people made their way among us.

I remember certain appearances of Ralph Waldo Emerson. If I am correct
about it, he had been persuaded by some emancipated and daring mind to
give us several lectures.

He was my father's guest on one of these occasions, and I met him for
the first time then. Emerson was--not to speak disrespectfully--in
a much muddled state of his distinguished mind, on Andover Hill. His
blazing seer's gaze took us all in, politely; it burned straight on,
with its own philosophic fire; but it wore, at moments, a puzzled
softness.

His clear-cut, sarcastic lips sought to assume the well-bred curves of
conformity to the environment of entertainers who valued him so far
as to demand a series of his own lectures; but the cynic of his
temperamental revolt from us, or, to be exact, from the thing which he
supposed us to be, lurked in every line of his memorable face.

By the way, what a look of the eagle it had!

[Illustration: RALPH WALDO EMERSON.]

The poet--I was about to say the pagan poet--quickly recognized, to
a degree, that he was not among a group of barbarians; and I remember
the marked respect with which he observed my father's noble head and
countenance, and the attention with which he listened to the low,
perfectly modulated voice of his host. But Mr. Emerson was accustomed
to do the talking himself; this occasion proved no exception; and
here his social divination or experience failed him a little. Quite
promptly, I remember, he set adrift upon the sea of Alcott.

Now, we had heard of Mr. Alcott in Andover, it is true, but