Moses ahead, warding the brush. It was very strange-that breathless rush through the woods, where the moonlight lay on the leaves like ghostly hands, out over the meadows and along the lonely Salem road. She weighed hardly anything, and we changed as much as six times from the wood's edge to the Mill Stream; but we were not good for much, when we reached the parsonage door, and felt as if we wanted a pump to get our breaths with. The minister and the doctor jumped from their chairs and stared, and Miss Hettie dropped her knitting; but the White Child seemed to know what she was about, and went straight to the bed and stood beside it; and, if the original St. Agnes looked like that, it is easy to understand all kinds of miracles. Chub just looked up, his big black eyes danced and laughed, then he went to sleep. and Dr. Wye said he was "beat"; "though," he went on, "I've seen such things before. A sick man has strange whims, and sometimes everything depends on them. In such cases, if he wants the moon, why, you must simply bring a ladder and get it. But these are queer boys you have around, Mr. Royce. One of them says, 'I want the White Child,'whereabouts unknown-number of children at times passably white. The How long ago it seems now-and it was not so long. Moses Durfey is herding cattle in the far west. Chub Leroy is working with plaster, clay and marble-St. Agnes smiling through her grave eyes near him - in Rome, where the original St. Agnes lived, and not far from the Piazza Navona, where stands her church. He has moulded a statuette of St. Agnes -meaning both of them-with a lamb beside her, as the elder St. Agnes is painted; and he says that he is the lamb, which is probably a joke. Old Casper Macree is dead and buried somewhere I wonder where; and here am I, writing the true story of it all. I think perhaps Chub knew more than we did about St. Agnes and the goings and comings of Casper in the five years that followed the founding of the Order, and had many thoughts, as the years went on, quite apart from us. Well, well, there are true hearts and gentle and just in all corners of the world,-which is an excellent thing to think about. By F. B. Sanborn. HERE are some men, and many TH women, of whom we never see a satisfactory portrait; no great painter has happened to put their features on his canvas, and no sculptor, such as those unequaled Greek artists whose work survived when their names perished, ever modeled the speaking marble or the breathing bronze (spirantia aera) at the inspiration of their noblest expression. Fortune seems to have scattered her favors in this respect, as in others, in a very careless, shiftless way: a churl or ninny, a shrew or a simpleton will be immortalized Raphael or Titian, Van Dyck or Velasquez; while entrancing beauty, or feminine saintliness, or the enthusiasm of poets will find no artist able to transmit their picture or statue to "foreign nations and the next ages"-those impartial witnesses cited by Bacon for by sympathetic audience (as David Scott The branches drooping From a miniature taken in 1845. Published in Griswold's "Poetry and Poets of hours." Above thy figure, and form thus a glade; The flowers admire thee pass; In much content the grass Awaits the pressure of thy firmest feet; The bird for thee sends out his greeting And sweep across thy path the speeding showers; his own justification. Emerson has This pageantry doth fill thy outward suffered by this lack of an artist of the higher sort, at the period when his expressive presence could best be portrayed; the sun did him little justice, and those painters and sculptors to to whom he sat, though often painstaking and sometimes gifted, had not the art to seize what was most characteristic of the man. Indeed, he needed to be seen in action, and amid the scenes most congenial; either addressing a The old-world painter who drew Sir Philip Sidney sitting under an oak in his sister's park at Wilton, or sketched Lord Herbert lying at ease in a wood, with horse and shield in the background, would have been the man to paint Emerson in his out-door study; but none such adventured it in his lifetime. The best of his portraits is therefore that for which he sat to David Scott in 1848,-since it image of your house and studio, and all your immortal companions therein; and I wish to keep the ways open between us, natural and supernatural. If the Good Power had allowed me the opportunity of seeing you at more leisure, and of comparing notes of past years a little! And it may yet be allowed in time; but From the crayon by Eastman Johnson in 1845. By the kindness of Miss Alice Longfellow. a sincere, great man, grave, silent, contemplative and plain. Soon after, I breakfasted with him, who insists on sittings for a portrait,-and I sat to him for an hour or two. This man is a noble stoic, sitting apart here, amid his rainbow allegories, very much respected by all superior persons." He probably never saw his portrait finished; it was one of the few that Scott ever painted, and is reckoned. the best. On leaving London, some months later, Emerson wrote Scott: "I carry with me a bright to where, and when?" It never was allowed, for David Scott died a few months later, an unsuccessful artist, like Haydon, but of a profounder nature than Haydon's, and much devoted to symbolism and thought, for which his hand never gave adequate expression. The gravity, verging on melancholy, which Emerson noted in him, shows itself in his portrait of our orator-poet; the coloring is too dark for the milder tints of Emerson's complexion, and there is a dark shadow under the eyes that contradicts the genial smile they so often flashed forth. Yet when this abatement is made, it was the opinion of Mrs. Emerson, who first saw it in Boston thirty years. after it was painted, that it was a good likeness; and it certainly has the pose and gesture of the lecturer, which no other portrait seeks to give. Our engraving of it is very inadequate. Silhouette, taken in Concord, 1843-5. From Haskins's "Ralph Waldo Emerson," published by De Wolfe, Fiske and Company. A later half-length picture, by a good but not a great artist, the late William Furness of Philadelphia, was painted about 1865, and remained in the possession of the artist's father, Dr. W. H. Furness, whose death, at the age of 94, took place not many months ago. The early sittings for this portrait were in my house on the Sudbury Road in Concord, then unoccupied by me, and convenient to Mr. Furness, who lived in the vicinity. As I saw it from week to week, while painting, it seemed to me a good likeness of Emerson in his quiet and domestic character, -not strong in effect, and the reverse of Scott's in color, but pleasing, and deserving to be engraved. It was copied and engraved many years after by Miss Sartain of Philadelphia, and then did not please so much,-the copyist having added or subtracted something, I thought, to mar the simplicity of the picture. But it preserves the expression of those few years following the Civil War, when none but Emerson himself noted the approach of old age, and when his step in country lane or forest path was still as firm, his serene soul as unclouded as of yore. Earlier and later portraits there are many; the earliest, as I suppose, a miniature by Miss Goodrich of Boston, painted about 1829, when Emerson was a parish minister at the North End of Boston, and soon after he had served a year as Chaplain of the Massachusetts Senate, in that fine State House of Charles Bulfinch, which has since been so much disfigured by tasteless additions. This miniature is by an artist then celebrated in Boston and Washington, where she painted under the patronage of Daniel Webster and others, who had seen her skill in Boston. lacks strength, as is wont to happen if women paint men, and it has an excess of rosy color. Whether it exaggerates the nose, which is shown of much size, I cannot say; but that feature made its impression on those From the Daguerreotype taken in England in 1847. It From the Grozelier lithograph, 1859. who then saw the Reverend Mr. Emerson at his duties as pastor or school-committee-man in Boston. This I know from the reminiscences of Mrs. Livermore, to whose schoolhouse he came one day in 1832, and left with her a memory of courteous manners, a gentle voice, and a very large nose! Mrs. Livermore, then a child of twelve, was a trusted pupil of Mr. Peter Mackintosh, master of the Hancock School for girls in Hanover Street and was acting as monitor one rainy day when there came a knock at the schoolroom door, which it was her duty to answer. There she found a tall, slender gentleman, who raised his hat to her and inquired if he could see Mr. Mackintosh. "My first thought," says she, "was, "What a nose!' my second was, 'What a beautiful smile!' I took his umbrella, showed him in, and told Mr. Mackintosh; then I saw them in earnest conversation, and noticed the politeness of the visitor's manner. After he had gone, the teacher told me it was Rev. Mr. Emerson, who |