ainly in formation, he was not ungraceful in bearing
and action; there was a fitness and harmony in his manifestations
even on the physical plan. On the lecture platform he stood erect and
unadorned, his hands hanging folded in front, save when he changed the
leaf of his manuscript, or emphasized his words with a gesture: his
customary one, simple but effective, was to clinch his right fist,
knuckles upward, the arm bent at the elbow, then a downward blow of the
forearm, full of power bridled. It was accompanied by such a glance
of the eyes as no one ever saw except from Emerson: a glance like the
reveille of a trumpet. Yet his eyes were not noticeably large, and their
color was greenish-gray; but they were well set and outlined in his
head, and, more than is the case with most men, they were the windows
of his soul. Wendell Phillips had an eloquent and intrepid eye, but it
possessed nothing approaching the eloquence and spiritual influence of
Emerson's. In every Lyceum course in Concord, Emerson lectured once or
twice, and the hall was always filled. One night he had the misfortune
to wear a pair of abominably creaking boots; every slightest change of
posture would be followed by an outcry from the sole-leather, and
the audience soon became nervously preoccupied in expecting them. The
sublimest thoughts were mingled with these base material accompaniments.
But there was nothing to be done, unless the lecturer would finish his
lecture in his stocking-feet, and we were fain to derive a fortuitous
inspiration from observing the unfaltering meekness with which our
philosopher accepted the predicament. I have forgotten the subject of
the lecture on that occasion, but the voice of the boots will always
sound in my memory.

In his own house Emerson shone with essential hospitality, and yet he
wonderfully effaced himself; any one but he might hold the centre of
the stage. You felt him everywhere, but if you would see him, you must
search the wings. He sat in his chair, bending forward, one leg crossed
over the other, his elbows often supported on his knee; his legs were
rather long and slender, and he had a way, after crossing his leg, of
hitching the instep of that foot under the calf of the other leg, so
that he seemed braided up. He seldom stood in a room, or paced to and
fro, as my father was fond of doing. But the two men were almost equally
addicted to outdoor walking, and both preferred to walk alone. Emerson
formed the