I was brought up as a young duke—without the estates!—and I was never allowed to earn money. I recall being severely reprimanded by my mother and made to walk back three miles to return a nickel a man had given me for running an errand. I was told I should have been glad to do it for nothing. I remember my surprise, years later, when I was in Europe, to hear that Americans were “commercial.” The desire for great material gain was either astonishingly developed in one generation, or did it, as I suspect, creep in a little as the emigration from the Old World increased? Certainly there was none of it in that truly American town of Concord, Massachusetts. [Illustration: EDWARD SIMMONS At the age of seven ] In Concord it was no disgrace to be poor—nearly everyone was—and until I was nearly grown I never had a new suit of clothes. My brother’s and my breeches were made from the old army uniforms, the cloth having a wearing quality that was almost like iron and would pull a nail out of anything rather than tear. We were called “Blue Legs” until we were quite grown up. My cousins, the Emersons, represented affluence, in my childish mind. Their house was a square wooden one, set among trees, mostly pines and chestnuts. There was a solemn, gravelike quality to it. I remember going down alone on errands, and always had a feeling of awe upon approaching it. I think this was because the trees were so close to the house that the grass would not grow and everything was damp around it. The door was always open, and Mr. Emerson generally came into the hall when anyone approached. This was a wonderful relief to me, as I was terrified by the women and servants. The inside gave me the impression of wealth and spaciousness. It may have been the reflection of the talk I heard at home, but it seemed very impressive and august. No amount of grown-up talk could make me fear Mr. Emerson, however, or feel the slightest embarrassment in his presence. He seemed, like my grandmother, to be a perfect example of serenity. He received me as an equal and entertained me as if I were a young prince. He had reached that extreme height of simplicity where he could be interesting to a boy, and, while I preferred him to any of the others, I was quite sure he did not count for as much. Mr. Emerson’s study was to the right of the hall. There was a large fireplace, and what were to me magnificent red-velvet chairs on either side. There must have been hangings of the same material, as I got the feeling of crimson everywhere. From the floor to the ceiling, the walls were lined with books—books that had been read and reread until the bindings were very much worn. Of my early memories of Mr. Emerson, two are most vivid. The first in his garden, where he often took me, walking slowly about and telling me of each flower and plant as if it were a particular friend. I never read his _Days_ that I do not visualize him in his “pleached garden,” showing me his pear trees.