"
Concord was large enough for Thoreau, but not for Louisa Alcott. She had
no proclivity for paddling up and down Concord River in search of ideas.
She had a broad cosmopolitan mind, and the slow routine of a
country-town was irksome to her. She did not care for nature; and the
great world was not too large a field of observation for her. Even in
Rome she preferred the living image of a healthy bambino to the statue
of the gladiator who has been dying in marble for so many centuries. She
loved the society of people who were abreast of the times, who could
give her fresh thought and valuable information. The books she read were
of the most vigorous description. When some one asked her if she had
read Mallock's "New Republic" she replied, "I do not read cotemporary
writers; only Emerson and the classics." "Louisa," said I, "you speak to
my soul." "Do I?" said she, with a tenderness of feeling such as I had
never noticed before. Her attachments were strong; but her resentments
were of long duration.
EMERSON HIMSELF.
Emerson might be seen on his way to the post-office at precisely
half-past five every afternoon, after the crowd there had dispersed. His
step was deliberate and dignified, and though his tall lean figure was
not a symmetrical one, nor were his movements graceful, yet there was
something very pleasant in the aspect of him even at a distance.
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