soul,' whose inevitable decrees upset our plans, and 'overpower private will.' Cognizant of these palpable contradictions, Emerson boldly avows and defends them, by declaring that 'A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. Speak what you think now in hard words; and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict everything you said to-day. Why should you keep your head over your shoulder? Why drag about this corpse of your memory, lest you contradict somewhat you have stated in this or that public place? Suppose you should contradict yourself?' His writings are, to me, like heaps of broken glass, beautiful in the individual crystal, sparkling and often dazzling, but gather them up and try to fit them into a whole, and the jagged edges refuse to unite. Certainly, Cornelia, you are not an Emersonian." Her deep, quiet eyes looked full into those of the invalid. "Yes, I am. I believe in that fatalism which he shrouds under the gauze of an 'Over-soul,'" replied Cornelia impressively. "Then you are a fair sample of the fallacy of his system, if the disjointed bits of logic deserve the name." "How so?" "He continually exhorts to a happy, contented, and uncomplaining frame of mind; tells you sternly that 'Discontent is the want of self-reliance; it is infirmity of will.'" "You are disposed to be severe," muttered Cornelia, with an angry flash. "What? because I expect his professed disciple to obey his injunctions?" "Do you, then, conform so irreproachably to your own creed? Pray, what is it?" "I have no creed. I am honestly and anxiously hunting one. For a long time I thought that I had found a sound one in Emerson. But a careful study of his writings taught me that of all Pyrrhonists he is the prince. Can a creedless soul aid me in my search? Verily, no. He exclaims, 'To fill the hour--that is happiness; to fill the hour, and leave no crevice for repentance or an approval. We live amid surfaces, and the true art of life is to skate well on them.' Now this sort of oyster existence does not suit me, Cornelia Graham, nor will it suit you." "You do him injustice. He has a creed (true, it is pantheistic), which he steadfastly adheres to under all circumstances." "Oh, has he! indeed? Then he flatly contradicts you when he says, 'But lest I should mislead any, when I have my own head, and obey my whims, let me remind the reader that I am only an experimenter. Do not set the least value on what I do, or the least discredit on what I do not, as if I pretended to settle anything as true or false. I unsettle all things. No facts are to me sacred; none are profane. I simply experiment, an endless seeker, with no past at my back.' To my fancy that savors strongly of nihilism, as regards creeds." "There is no such passage in Emerson!" cried Cornelia, stamping one foot, unconsciously, on her blazing necklace.