After turning over the leaves a long while, he selected and read aloud a passage from Carlyle, one of his very worst; abrupt, nervous, jerking, and at the same time windy, long-drawn-out, and parenthetical; a period filling a whole page. 'There,' said he, stopping to take breath, 'if that is not enough to disgust one with transcendentalism, then I know nothing of the matter.' A very sensible conclusion. Bless your soul, that is _Carlyle-ism_, not transcendentalism. You said but now that you were not to be misled by the sound of a word; and yet you are condemning a principle on account of the bad style of a writer who is supposed to be governed by it. Is that right? Would you condemn Christianity because of the weaknesses and sins of one of its professors? 'Of course not,' replied he; 'I wish to be fair. I cannot express my idea of the meaning of transcendentalism without tedious circumlocution, and I begin to despair of proving my position by quotations. It is not on any particular passage that I rest my case. You have read this work, and will understand me when I say that it is to its general intent and spirit that I object, and not merely to the author's style.' I think I comprehend you. You disregard the mere form in which the author expresses his thoughts; you go beyond and behind that, and judge him by the thoughts themselves; not by one or by two, but by the sum and _substance_ of the whole. You strip off the husk to arrive at the kernel, and judge of the goodness of the crop by the latter, not the former. 'Just so,' said he; 'that's my meaning precisely. I always strive to follow that rule in every thing. 'Appearances,' you know, 'are deceitful.'' That is to say, you go beyond or transcend appearances and circumstances, and divine the true meaning, the substance, the spirit of that on which you are about to decide. That is practical transcendentalism, and you are a transcendentalist. 'I wish you would suggest another name for it,' said my friend, as he went out of the door; 'I detest the sound of that word.' I wish we could, said I, but he was out of hearing; I wish we could, for it is an abominably long word to write. 'I wish we could,' mutters the printer, 'for it is an awfully long word to print.' 'I wish we could,' is the sober second thought of all; for people will always condemn transcendentalism until it is called by another name. Such is the force of prejudice. 'I have been thinking over our conversation of yesterday,' said my friend next morning, on entering my room. 'Oh, you have been writing it down, have you? Let me see it.' After looking over the sketch, he remarked: