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I have had a mind to make this a literary “Needle”
and talk book; for I have lately been reading so many
delightful authors, that, like the busy bee, the wings of
my soul are laden with their sweets, and I must, per
force, make honey. The last work I have laid down, is
“Emerson's Representative Men.” How suggestive is
this book! How it teems with thought, and food for
thought! How deep he goes down into the being of
man, and how he walks among the stars! What a faculty
he has for putting mind into type! He touches nothing
that he does not find a kernel in it, where most other
writers and thinkers see only a husk. He beholds with
the eye of the poet, and the contemplation of the sage,
the “splendor of meaning” that plays over the visible
world, and by its light, he looks down, down into the
human heart, and then tells us with terrible strength of
word, all he discovers there! We tremble before the
man who thus boldly drops his plumb-line into the abyss
of our being, and reports to us its depth.

Mr. Emerson has a great mind. Grave errors of
theory he has, but new and hitherto untold truths so
burn in his pages, that his discrepancies are lost in their
light. His sentences are a “carved thought,” every one
of them. He uses words for the frame work of his precious
thoughts with the economy of a jeweler, his gold

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in setting precious stones. Every page is an intellectual
pabulum on which the intellect of a man may be
nourished. He sets you thinking, and thinking, and
thinking! He has the rare talent of expressing to the
eye the deep and unbroken musings of the spirit of man
about God, about Nature, about the mystery of the past,
the awe of the future, the riddle of life, the infinitude of
the Universe—musings that all indulge, but never impart
the secret of what they think. Mr. Emerson puts such
twilight and star-light thoughts into shape, and startles
us at recognizing them, as much as if we had seen our
own ghosts rising from the misty emptiness of space!
We all love to discover that our own speculations upon
the mysteries that surround us, have been the speculations
of another mind; and if that other mind will lead
us farther than we have gone, we follow with a charmed
awe, confident in his pilotage, though he lead us into the
unfathomable!

Some of Mr. Emerson's propositions and opinions
savour of Swedenborg, of Grecian philosophy, of Jewish
skepticism, of German transcendentalism, neither of
which by itself complete, yet in combination they produce
a synthetic whole, that is the just representative of
the modern mind of philosophy. If Mr. Emerson could
only combine a fifth element in his circle, the humble
faith of the New Testament, his philosophy would be indestructible.
How so great a mind can approach so
near the Cross and not see it, and be dazzled by its
glory, is to me a cause of the profoundest marvel. Aside
from this radical defect in his philosophy, his book is
laden with the richest intellectual ore which the wise
searcher will gather, and know how to free from the

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alloy. Did Mr. Emerson live in the days of Plato, he
would have founded an Academy of Philosophy, to which
the youth of that classic land would have flocked to learn
wisdom! Why do not our learned and wise men now
become teachers like the old philosophers? Such a
man as Emerson might crowd his rural retirement with
intellectual young men, and establish a school of thought,
that would produce a positive effect upon the age.

But rather let our able divines become such teachers
in Christian Philosophy, such men as—but I will not
give the names that come to my pen, lest it should seem
invidious; if these able doctors of divinity would open
their homes, they would be filled with disciples. If eminent
retired physicians would receive young men as
discipuli, how many would avail themselves of the privilege!
If retired lawyers and statesmen would thus become
teachers of legal and political philosophy, how
many talented youths of our land would become rivals
for these inestimable advantages! Suppose it were understood
that Henry Clay (God bless him) or Daniel
Webster (all honor be to his mighty mind) would, the
one at Ashland, the other at Marshfield, receive a limited
number of disciples, to instruct them in “the things of
their wisdom,” what price would be counted by ambitious
young Americans, if they could attain to the honor of
sitting at their feet? Schools of politics are needed in
our country, where statesmen should be graduated!

Dear me! Mr. —, how boldly I am making my pen
write! Only a young woman, perhaps I ought not to
touch upon such weighty matters; but please permit me
to suggest that there ought to be a Diplomatic College
at Washington, where our Foreign Ministers, Chargés,

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&c., should be educated, and take out diplomas, certifying
their qualifications to hold those important positions,
by the incumbents of which our country is judged by all
nations. The requisites should be a thorough knowledge
of international law, of the elementary principles of our
Federal Constitution, and those of the thirty States, of
the history, products, resources, and commerce of the
country, the history of political parties, and the internal
operation of our domestic institutions. Lastly, as a
sine qua non, they should write and speak French
fluently, the ignorance of which in nearly all our foreign
ministers renders them incompetent, and often ridiculous.

There, Mr. —, I've done on this hobby.

Another book I have been reading is Dickens' “Copperfield.”
I do not read novels often, nor do I read
them ever for the story or plot, but for the thoughts
which the writer may string upon it. Dickens' stories
seldom have any but the most indifferent plots. He
never invents surprises, but writes you a story as transparent
as gossamer. Nobody looks for plots in this
charming writer, but for his witty sparklings, his quiet
humor, his inimitable sketches of character, his pictures
of every-day people, whom we afterwards do not
so much seem to have read about as to have known.
This deficiency of plot, which characterizes Dickens'
stories, and their wealth of original ideas, is what renders
young people somewhat indifferent to reading them,
and more mature heads fond of them. Like Emerson,
he is an analyzer, but Emerson builds theories on what
he discovers, while Dickens works his discoveries into
practical life. Like Emerson, in his knowledge of the

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springs of our being, Dickens is a philosopher, but
rather of the heart than of the intellect. Emerson
will unlock the abyss and unveil to us the foundations
of the universe, and even the spirit-world beyond. Dickens
will take us to these beings, and make us know
and love them. Emerson would explain the temple;
Dickens would present to you the worshipers, maid and
and mother, child and patriarch, the poor widow with
her mite, and the haughty Pharisee. Emerson's pen
records discoveries in the world of thoughts; Dickens'
pen records experiences in the world of hearts.

I have heard of the death of Fanny Osgood with
much and deep sorrow. She was a bright spirit, with
a noble nature and taste cultivated in the highest degree.
I once met her, and the remembrance of that
interview, short as it was, will ever be fresh; my only
regret was the feeling that I had not known her intimately.
If she had lived, for she has fled the earth
young, she would have done great deeds with her pen.
But God be thanked, there is a world of reunion, where
death will no more intrude his severing scythe, where
the poet's immortal mind shall have scope measurable
with its immortality.

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