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insistence upon the supreme value of the Now, the moment of insight.
But after all these limitations are properly set down, the personality of Ralph Waldo Emerson remains a priceless possession to his countrymen.
The austere serenity of his life, and the perfection with which he represents the highest type of his province and his era, will ultimately become blended with the thought of his true Americanism.
A democrat and liberator, like Lincoln, he seems also destined like Lincoln to become increasingly a world's figure, a friend and guide to aspiring spirits everywhere.
Differences of race and creed are negligible in the presence of such superb confidence in God and the soul.
Citizens of Concord in May, 1862, hearing that Henry Thoreau, the eccentric bachelor, had just died of consumption in his mother's house on Main Street, in his forty-fifth year, would have smiled cannily at the notion that after fifty years their townsman's literary works would be published in a sumptuous twenty-volume edition, and that critics in his own country and in Europe would rank him with Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Yet that is precisely what has happened.
Our literature has no more curious story than the evolution of this local crank
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