the cycles of time reproduce all things; at others, this theory is denied.  Again, in ‘Self-Reliance,’ he says,’ Trust thyself; insist on yourself; obey thy heart, and thou shalt reproduce the foreworld again.’  All this was very comforting to me, Cornelia; self-reliance was the great secret of success and happiness; but I chanced to read the ‘Over-soul’ soon after, and lo! these words:  ’I am constrained every moment to acknowledge a higher origin for events than the will I call mine.’  This was directly antagonistic to the entire spirit of ‘self-reliance’; but I read on, and soon found the last sentence utterly nullified by one which declared positively ’that the Highest dwells with man; the sources of nature are in his own mind.’  Sometimes we are informed that our souls are self-existing and all-powerful; an incarnation of the divine and universal, and, before we fairly digest this tremendous statement, he coolly asserts that there is, above all, an ’over-soul,’ whose inevitable decrees upset our plans, and ’overpower private will.’  Cognizant of these palpable contradictions, Emerson boldly avows and defends them, by declaring that ’A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.  With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do.  Speak what you think now in hard words; and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict everything you said to-day.  Why should you keep your head over your shoulder?  Why drag about this corpse of your memory, lest you contradict somewhat you have stated in this or that public place?  Suppose you should contradict yourself?’ His writings are, to me, like heaps of broken glass, beautiful in the individual crystal, sparkling and often dazzling, but gather them up and try to fit them into a whole, and the jagged edges refuse to unite.  Certainly, Cornelia, you are not an Emersonian.”  Her deep, quiet eyes looked full into those of the invalid.

“Yes, I am.  I believe in that fatalism which he shrouds under the gauze of an ‘Over-soul,’” replied Cornelia impressively.

“Then you are a fair sample of the fallacy of his system, if the disjointed bits of logic deserve the name.”

“How so?”

“He continually exhorts to a happy, contented, and uncomplaining frame of mind; tells you sternly that ’Discontent is the want of self-reliance; it is infirmity of will.’”

“You are disposed to be severe,” muttered Cornelia, with an angry flash.

“What? because I expect his professed disciple to obey his injunctions?”

“Do you, then, conform so irreproachably to your own creed?  Pray, what is it?”

“I have no creed.  I am honestly and anxiously hunting one.  For a long time I thought that I had found a sound one in Emerson.  But a careful study of his writings taught me that of all Pyrrhonists he is the prince.  Can a creedless soul aid me in my search?  Verily, no.  He exclaims, ’To fill the hour—­that is happiness; to fill the hour, and leave no crevice for repentance or an approval.  We live amid surfaces, and the true art of life is to skate well on them.’  Now this sort of oyster existence does not suit me, Cornelia Graham, nor will it suit you.”