Ralph Waldo Emerson, philosopher and seer

The gift of the birthday was truly a “surprise.” There lay a more beautiful book than Aldus or Elzevir ever made, slipped into the house as carelessly as a roseleaf or a dandelion-down blown in at the window. Mr. Alcott’s note indicated a “friend,” without naming him or her. And when I came to read the text, that, too, was such a Persian superlative on the poor merits of the subject, that I had to shade my eyes as if to accept only a part of the meaning. I may shake your belief in my good sense, if I say I don’t know but I suffered more than I enjoyed; but I soon came to admire the lyrical tone of all this remarkable writing, inspired by the most generous sentiment, fortified, too, by the wish to convey the good-will of other friends who made him their spokesman. So I made a covenant with myself to join these friends in ignoring the infirm actuality, stoutly holding up the ideal outline of the poor man we were talking of. And now I have learned to look at the book with courage, and at least to thank the friends who jointly completed it, very heartily, for this rare and exquisite work of kindness. I have been twice tempted to send you some verses on this occasion, as they would be really more fit carriers of what I have to say; and perhaps I yet shall, though the rhyming fit seldom comes to me.

Mrs. Mary E. Stearns.