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 ignorance struck me dumb. The brilliant remark which was to show at once that I appreciated Emerson and that my appreciation was worth having, refused to present itself. What Emerson thought of the intruder I know not, but our conversation fell hopelessly flat; and I was a happy man when Lowell relieved guard. I came away, indeed, with a certain impression of my host's personal simplicity and dignity. If I had not offered homage he had not shown the least wish that I should fall upon my knees, and had received me as at least a human being—a claim upon his courtesy which he admitted like a true democrat. Still, I was left with a problem unsolved. Emerson's ablest countrymen, I found, were never tired of expressing their gratitude to him. He had pronounced their 'literary Declaration of Independence.' His first lectures had made an epoch. He had removed the scales from their eyes, revealed the barrenness of the intellectual wilderness in which they had been wandering, and given them a Pisgah-sight of a new land 'flowing with freedom's honey and milk.' The question remained: What was the secret of his power? Then and since I have tried to answer it, partly by the obvious expedient of