I cannot write a biography, and my opinion is of no value, but Emerson was one of the supermen I have met. He seemed to glorify everything with which he came into contact. Like all great men, he was surrounded with a lot of worshipers, most of them inferiors, and, as Henry James says, these Concord figures were not so interesting in themselves as that Emerson thought them so. He was the kind of man who “rendered the commonplace sacred.” He was always a teacher or a preacher, whether he remained in the Church or not. He spoke of Shakespeare as “our man” and Homer as the “old man,” showing that by training his mind he stood with one mental foot on Homer and the other, with us, on Shakespeare. He could have been a great lyricist, but, as Henry Adams remarks, there is no rhythm in New England; the climate will not permit it. Emerson was ashamed of his love of beauty, rhythm, and lyricism, as being not quite true to New England. Like Renan, he blossomed the more fully when surrounded by beautiful women. He married two. To me he seems a very shrewd Yankee. Look at the depth of his thought in “Lovers, preserve your strangeness.” It was because he talked to a great number of his own ilk that he penetrated America’s thought so easily. I agree with Matthew Arnold that Emerson was the first essayist of the nineteenth century. [Illustration: MARY EMERSON (RIPLEY) SIMMONS ] The Concord literati are gone, the town has completely changed, but the Old Manse is still there, holding many secrets. Not the least interesting of these was uncovered in about ’81, when the house was torn up to put a bow window in the corner of the southeast parlor. The wall paper, undoubtedly hideous in color when placed there, had mellowed to a lovely Whistlerian tone. This, of course, had to be removed. To the astonishment of everyone, it was discovered that the pattern had been printed upon the back of French newspapers of the period of the Revolution. (This economy in paper will be understood by our experience in the last war.) There were editions with the speeches of Mirabeau and many other of the patriots of the time. Think of Frank Sanborn, my uncle George Bradford, and Mr. Emerson, to say nothing of my grandmother Ripley and John Brown, gathered about the fireplace in this room, discussing the problems of the Civil War, while from the walls cried out to them Mirabeau, Robespierre, and Danton: “_CON-CITOYENS!—CON-CITOYENS!_” Chapter II: Finding My Wings _Harvard College_ When I passed the examination for Harvard I had a French turned-up nose, two spindle legs, and weighed only 114 pounds. Everyone called me a “barrel on straws,” until I cried myself to sleep night after night for fear I was going to be a little runt. I developed very late and very quickly; I did not shave until I was eighteen years old, yet only one year later I measured six feet in height and weighed 165 pounds.