he
glory of the Concord Fight. He had thought it likely the
Acton people would ask him to speak. But they did not. As
he was riding back in the chaise, he said if they had asked
him to speak, he had it in mind to give as a toast, "The blessed
Memory of the Pilgrim Fathers, who first landed at Acton."

He was especially fond of boys, and they of him. When he
died, every schoolboy thought he had lost a friend. One
had a knife and another a book or a picture which he prized,
and another a pair of skates which Charles Emerson had given
him. It may be a fond exaggeration, but I think he was the
most brilliant intellect ever born in Massachusetts.

Mr. Webster, who was consulted as to where Emerson should
settle, said, "Settle! Let him settle anywhere. Let him
settle in the midst of the back woods of Maine, the clients
will throng after him." Mr. Everett delivered an eloquent
eulogy after his death, at the Phi Beta Kappa dinner at Harvard.

Dr. Holmes' exquisite tribute in his Phi Beta poems is well
known:

Thou calm, chaste scholar! I can see thee now,
The first young laurels on they pallid brow,
O'er thy slight figure floating lightly down
In graceful folds the academic gown,
On thy curled lip the classic lines that taught
How nice the mind that sculptured them with thought,
And triumph glistening in the clear blue eye,
Too bright to live,--but Oh! too fair to die.

Dr. Holmes also says in his last tribute to Waldo:

"Of Charles Chauncey, the youngest brother, I knew something
in my college days. A beautiful, high-souled, pure, exquisitely
delicate nature in a slight but finely wrought mortal frame,
he was for me the very ideal of an embodied celestial intelligence.
I may venture to mention a trivial circumstance, because it
points to the character of his favorite reading, which was
likely to be guided by the same tastes as his brother's, and
may have been specially directed by him. Coming into my room
one day, he took up a copy of Hazlitt's British Poets. He
opened it to the poem of Andrew Marvell's, entitled, 'The
Nymph Complaining for the Death of her Fawn,' which he read
to me with delight irradiating his expressive features. The
lines remained with me, or many of them, from that hour,--

Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.

"I felt as many have felt after being with his brother, Ralph
Waldo, that I had entertained an angel visitant. The f