ioo LITERARY PILGRIMAGES 



viewed the Minute Man and the bridge, puffing in 

 rows up the hillside and standing, breathless but 

 voluble, before the stone they have sought. Rev- 

 erence in their hearts they have without doubt, 

 yet little of it gets to the surface as they, panting, 

 recite one to another the legend of the stone and 

 pass on. It is a wonderful piece of white quartz 

 that marks Emerson's grave. There is dignity in 

 its roughness, and something of the pure opacity 

 of Emerson's thought seems to dwell in its white 

 crystals, fittingly touched here and there with a 

 color which might be the matrix of all gems. 

 One thinks from what he sees of those who pass 

 that Emerson is best known, Hawthorne most 

 loved, while Thoreau and the Alcotts have each 

 their own special worshipers. Now and then 

 one sees much reverence based upon a rather 

 slender knowledge, as when a young man balanc- 

 ing a year-old baby on his arm said to his wife, 

 " This, my dear, is the grave of Thorough, David 

 Thorough, the man who wrote ' Zounds.' ' One 

 can fancy David, who was Henry to most of 

 us, being willing to be called thorough, yet hesi- 

 tating to acknowledge " Zounds/' except perhaps 



