The perfect consistency of a truly great life, where inconsistencies
of speech become at once harmonized by the beauty of the whole nature,
gives even to a slight incident the value of a bit of mosaic which, if
omitted, would leave a gap in the picture. Therefore we never tire of
"Whisperings" and "Talks" and "Walks" and "Letters" relating to the
friends of our imagination, if not of our fireside; and in so far as
such fragments bring men and women of achievement nearer to our daily
lives, without degrading them, they warm and cheer us with something
of their own beloved and human presence.
From this point of view the publication of so many of these side
lights on the lives of what Emerson himself calls "superior people,"
is easily accounted for, and the following glimpses will only confirm
what he expresses of such natures when he says, "In all the superior
people I have met I notice directness, truth spoken more truly, as if
everything of obstruction, of malformation, had been trained away."
In reading the correspondence between Carlyle and Emerson, few readers
could fail to be impressed with the generosity shown by Emerson in
giving his time and thought without stint to the publication of
Carlyle's books in this country. Nor was this the single instance of
his devotion to the advancement of his friends. In a brief memoir,
lately printed, of Jones Very, as an introduction to a collection of
his poems, we find a like record there.
After the death of Thoreau, Emerson spared no trouble to himself that
his friend's papers might be properly presented to the reading world.
He wrote to his publisher, Mr. Fields: "I send all the poems of
Thoreau which I think ought to go with the letters. These are the best
verses, and no other whole piece quite contents me. I think you must
be content with a little book, since it is so good. I do not like to
print either the prison piece or the John Brown with these clear sky-
born letters and poems." After all his labor and his care, however, it
was necessary to hold consultation with Thoreau's sister, and she
could not find it in her heart to leave out some of the tender
personalities which had grown more dear to her since her brother's
death, and which had been omitted in the selection. She said that she
was sure Mr. Emerson was not pleased at the restorations she made
after his careful work of elimination was finished, but he was too
courteous and kind to say much, or to insist on his own way; he only
remarked, "You have spoiled my Greek statue." Neither was he himself
altogether contented with his work, and shortly afterward said he
would like to include "The Maiden in the East," partly because it was
written of Mrs. W----n, and partly because other persons liked it so
well.
"I looked over the poems again and again," he said, "and at last
reserved but ten, finding some blemish in all the others which
prevented them from seeming perfect to me. How grand is his poem about
the mountains! As it is said of Goethe that he never spoke of the
stars but with respect, so we may say of Thoreau and the mountains."
It could hardly be expected of Thoreau's sister to sympathize with
such a tribunal, especially when the same clear judgment was brought
to bear upon the letters. Even touching the contract for publication
he was equally painstaking--far more so than for his own affairs. He
wrote, "I inclose the first form of contract, as you requested, with
the alterations suggested by Miss Thoreau." After this follows a
careful reiteration in his own handwriting of such alterations as were
desired.
The early loss of Thoreau and his love for him were, I had believed,
the root and flower which brought forth fruit in his noble discourse
on "Immortality;" but Miss Emerson generously informs me that I am
mistaken in this idea. "Most of its framework," she says, "was written
seven or eight years earlier and delivered in September, 1855. Some
parts of it he may have used at Mr. Thoreau's funeral and some
sentences of it may have been written then, but the main work was done
long before, and it was enlarged twice afterwards."
Happy were they who heard him speak at the funeral of Henry Thoreau.
At whatever period he first framed his intuitions upon the future in
prose, on that day a light was flashed upon him which he reflected
again upon the soul of his listeners, and to them it seemed that a
new-born glory had descended. Whatever words are preserved upon the
printed page, the spirit of what was given on that day cannot be
reproduced. He wrote, the day after Thoreau's death, to Mr. Fields:
"Come tomorrow and bring ---- to my house. We will give you a very
early dinner. Mr. Channing is to write a hymn or dirge for the
funeral, which is to be from the church at three o'clock. I am to make
an address, and probably Mr. Alcott may say something." This was the
only announcement, the only time for preparation. Thoreau's body lay
in the porch, and his townspeople filled the church, but Emerson made
the simple ceremony one never to be forgotten by those who were
present. Respecting the publication of this address I find the
following entry in a diary of the time: "We have been waiting for Mr.
Emerson to publish his new volume, containing his address upon Henry
Thoreau; but he is careful of words, and finds many to be considered
again and again, until it is almost impossible to extort a manuscript
from his hands."
There is a brief note among the few letters I have found concerning
the poetry of some other writer whose name does not appear, but in the
publication of whose work Emerson was evidently interested. He writes:
"I have made the fewest changes I could. So do not shock the _amour
propre_ of the poet, and yet strike out the bad words. You must,
please, if it comes to question, keep my agency out of sight, and he
will easily persuade himself that your compositor has grown critical,
and struck out the rough syllables."
Emerson stood, as it were, the champion of American letters, and
whatever found notice at all challenged his serious scrutiny. The soul
and purpose must be there; he must find one line to win his sympathy,
and then it was given with a whole heart. He said one day at breakfast
that he had found a young man! A youth in the far West had written
him, and inclosed some verses, asking for his criticism. Among them
was the following line, which Emerson said proved him to be a poet,
and he should watch his career in future with interest:
"Life is a flame whose splendor hides its base."
We can imagine the kindly letter which answered the appeal, and how
the future of that youth was brightened by it. "Emerson's young man"
was a constant joke among his friends, because he was constantly
filled with a large hope; and his friend of the one line was not by
any means his only discovery.
His feeling respecting the literary work of men nearer to him was not
always one of satisfaction. When Hawthorne's volume of "English
Sketches" was printed, he said, "It is pellucid, but not deep;" and he
cut out the dedication and letter to Franklin Pierce, which offended
him. The two men were so unlike that it seemed a strange fate which
brought them together in one small town. An understanding of each
other's methods or points of view was an impossibility. Emerson spoke
once with an intimate friend of the distance which separated Hawthorne
and himself. They were utterly at variance upon politics and every
theory of life.
Mr. Fields was suggesting to Emerson one day that he should give a
series of lectures, when, as they were discussing the topics to be
chosen, Emerson said: "One shall be on the Doctrine of Leasts, and one
on the Doctrine of Mosts; one shall be about Brook Farm, for ever
since Hawthorne's ghastly and untrue account of that community, in his
'Blithedale Romance,' I have desired to give what I think the true
account of it."
The sons of Henry James, Senior, being at school in Concord for a
period, Emerson invited Mr. James, who had gone to visit his boys, to
stay over and be present at one of Mr. Alcott's conversations, which
were already "an institution" of the time. Mr. Alcott began to speak
upon subjects which interested Mr. James; and the latter, not
understanding, naturally enough, that these so-called "Conversations"
were in truth monologues, replied to Mr. Alcott in his own striking
style. Finding the audience alive to what he wished to say, he
continued, and "did the talking himself." Miss Mary Emerson, Emerson's
well-beloved aunt, the extraordinary original of one of his most
delightful papers, was present. She had never met Mr. James before,
and became greatly excited by some of the opinions he advanced. She
thought he often used the word "religion," when, to her mind, he
appeared to mean, sometimes "dogmatism" and sometimes,
"ecclesiasticism."
She bided her time, though a storm had gathered within her. At last,
when a momentary silence fell and no one appeared ready to refute
certain opinions advanced by Mr. James, "Amita" rose, took a chair,
and, placing it in front of him, exclaimed, "Let me confront the
monster!" The discussion was then renewed, excited by this sally of
"Amita's" wit, and the company parted with a larger understanding of
the subject and greater appreciation of each other. "It was a glorious
occasion for those who love a battle of words," said one who was
present. Mr. James delighted his host by his remarks upon the
character of the beloved "Amita."
He had many reservations with regard to Dickens. He could not easily
forgive any one who made him laugh immoderately. The first reading of
"Dr. Marigold" in Boston was an exciting occasion, and Emerson was
invited to "assist." After the reading he sat talking until a very
late hour, for he was taken by surprise at the novelty and artistic
perfection of the performance. His usual calm had quite broken down
under it; he had laughed as if he might crumble to pieces, his face
wearing an expression of absolute pain; indeed, the scene was so
strange that it was mirth-provoking to those who were near. But when
we returned home he questioned and pondered much upon Dickens himself.
Finally he said: "I am afraid he has too much talent for his genius;
it is a fearful locomotive to which he is bound, and he can never be
freed from it nor set at rest. You see him quite wrong evidently, and
would persuade me that he is a genial creature, full of sweetness and
amenities, and superior to his talents; but I fear he is harnessed to
them. He is too consummate an artist to have a thread of nature left.
He daunts me. I have not the key." When Mr. Fields came in he
repeated: "---- would persuade me that Dickens is a man easy to
communicate with, sympathetic and accessible to his friends; but her
eyes do not see clearly in this matter, I am sure!"
The tenor of his way was largely stayed by admiration and appreciation
of others, often far beyond their worth. He gilded his friends with
his own sunshine. He wrote to his publisher: "Give me leave to make
you acquainted with ----" (still unknown to fame), "who has written a
poem which he now thinks of publishing. It is, in my judgment, a
serious and original work of great and various merit, with high
intellectual power in accosting the questions of modern thought, full
of noble sentiment, and especially rich in fancy, and in sensibility
to natural beauty. I remember that while reading it I thought it a
welcome proof, and still more a prediction, of American culture. I
need not trouble you with any cavils I made on the manuscript I read,
as ---- assures me that he has lately revised and improved the
original draft. I hope you will like the poem as heartily as I did."
I find a record of one very warm day in Boston in July when, in spite
of the heat, Mr. Emerson came to dine with us:--
"He talked much of Forceythe Willson, whose genius he thought akin to
Dante's, and says E---- H---- agrees with him in this, or possibly
suggested it, she having been one of the best readers and lovers of
Dante outside the reputed scholars. 'But he is not fertile. A man at
his time should be doing new things.' 'Yes,' said ----, 'I fear he
never will do much more.' 'Why, how old is he?' asked Emerson; and
hearing he was about thirty-five, he replied, with a smile, 'There is
hope till forty-five.' He spoke also of Tennyson and Carlyle as the
two men connected with literature in England who were most
satisfactory to meet, and better than their books. His respect for
literature in these degenerate days is absolute. It is religion and
life, and he reiterates this in every possible form. Speaking of Jones
Very, he said he seemed to have no right to his rhymes; they did not
sing to him, but he was divinely led to them, and they always
surprised you."
We were much pleased and amused at his quaint expressions of
admiration for a mutual friend in New York at whose hospitable house
we had all received cordial entertainment. He said: "The great Hindoo,
Hatim Tayi, was nothing by the side of such hospitality as hers. Hatim
Tayi would soon lose his reputation." His appreciation of the poems of
H. H. was often expressed. He made her the keynote of a talk one day
upon the poetry of women. The poems entitled "Joy," "Thought,"
"Ariadne," he liked especially. Of Mrs. Hemans he found many poems
which still survive, and he believed must always live.
Matthew Arnold was one of the minds and men to whom he constantly
reverted with pleasure. Every traveler was asked for the last news of
him; and when an English professor connected with the same university
as Arnold, whom Emerson had been invited to meet, was asked the
inevitable question, and found to know nothing, Emerson turned away
from him, and lost all interest in his conversation. A few days
afterward some one was heard to say, "Mr. Emerson, how did you like
Professor ----?"
"Let me see," he replied; "is not he the man who was at the same
university with Matthew Arnold, and who could tell us nothing of him?"
"How about Matthew Arnold?" he said to B---- on his return from
England.
"I did not see him," was the somewhat cool reply.
"Yes! but he is one of the men one wishes not to lose sight of," said
Emerson.
"Arnold has written a few good essays," rejoined the other, "but his
talk about Homer is all nonsense."
"No, no, no!" said Emerson; "it is good, every word of it!"
When the lecture on Brook Farm really came, it was full of wit and
charm, as well as of the truth he so seriously desired to convey. The
audience was like a firm, elastic wall, against which he threw the
balls of his wit, while they bounded steadily back into his hand.
Almost the first thing he said was quoted from Horatio Greenough, whom
he esteemed one of the greatest men of our country. But there is
nothing more elusive and difficult to retain than Emerson's wit. It
pierces and is gone. Some of the broader touches, such as the clothes-
pins dropping out of the pockets of the Brook Farm gentlemen as they
danced in the evening, were apparent to all, and irresistible. Nothing
could be more amusing than the boyish pettishness with which, in
speaking of the rareness of best company, he said, "We often found
ourselves left to the society of cats and fools."
I find the following note in a brief diary: "October 20, 1868. Last
night Mr. Emerson gave his second lecture. It was full of touches of
light which dropped from him, to us, his listeners, and made us burn
as with a kind of sudden inspiration of truth. He was beautiful both
to hear and see. He spoke of poetry and criticism....
"He discovered two reporters present and spoke to them, saying, 'It is
not allowed.' Whereat they both replied: 'They were only at work for
their own gratification. Of course I could say nothing more; but
afterward the Lord smote one of them and he came and confessed.' When
he returned after speaking he brought one of the two bouquets which he
found upon his desk. 'I bring you back your flowers,' he said gently.
There was no loud applause last evening; but there were little shivers
of delight or approbation running over the audience from time to time,
like breezes over a cornfield."
Emerson was always faithful to his appreciation of Channing's poems.
When "Monadnock" was written, he made a special visit to Boston to
talk it over, and the fine lines of Channing were always ready in his
memory, to come to the front when called for. His love and loyalty to
Elizabeth Hoar should never be forgotten, in however imperfect a
rehearsal of his valued companionships. One morning at breakfast I
heard him describing her attributes and personality in the most tender
and engaging way to Mrs. Stowe, who had never known her, which I would
give much to be able to reproduce.
Emerson's truthfulness was often the cause of mirth even to himself. I
remember that he thought he did not care for the work of Bayard
Taylor, but he confessed one day with sly ruefulness that he had taken
up the last "Atlantic" by chance, and found there some noble
hexameters upon "November;" and "I said to myself, 'Ah! who is this?
this is as good as Clough.' When to my astonishment, and not a little
to my discomfiture, I discovered they were Bayard Taylor's! But how
about this 'Faust'? We have had Dante done over and over, and even now
done, I see, again by a new hand, and Homer forever being done, and
now 'Faust'! I quarrel somewhat with the overmuch labor spent upon
these translations, but first of all I quarrel with Goethe. 'Faust' is
unpleasant to me. The very flavor of the poem repels me, and makes me
wish to turn away." The "Divina Commedia," too, he continued, was a
poem too terrible to him to read. He had never been able to finish it.
It is probable that poor translations of both "Faust" and Dante read
in early youth were at the bottom of these opinions.
Emerson was a true appreciator of Walter Scott. At one of the Saturday
Club dinners it was suggested that Walter Scott be made the subject of
conversation, and the occasion be considered as his birthday. Emerson
spoke with brilliant effect two or three times. He was first called
out by his friend Judge Hoar, who said he was chopping wood that
morning in his woodshed, when Emerson came in and said so many
delightful things about Sir Walter that if he would now repeat to the
table only a portion of the excellent sayings heard in the woodshed he
would delight them all. Emerson rose, and, referring pleasantly to the
brilliancy of the judge's imagination, began by expressing his sense
of gratitude to Walter Scott, and concluded a fine analysis of his
work by saying that the root and gist of his genius was to be found,
in his opinion, in the Border Minstrelsy.
His loyalty to the Saturday Club was quite as sincere as Dr. Holmes's,
but the difficulties in the way of his constant attendance were
somewhat greater. Emerson kept a friendly lookout over absent members,
and greeted with approval any one who arrived at the monthly tryst in
spite of hindrances. Seeing Mr. Fields appear one day, bag in hand, at
a time when he was living in the country, Emerson glanced at him
affectionately, saying half aloud, "Good boy! good boy!" At this
meeting it appeared that Lowell and Emerson had chanced to go
together, while in Paris, to hear Renan. They spoke of the beauty and
perfection of his Hebrew script upon the blackboard; it was faultless,
they said. Emerson added that he could not understand Renan's French,
so he looked at Lowell, who wore a very wise expression, instead.
Emerson was no lover of the sentimental school. The sharp arrow of his
wit found a legitimate target there. Of one person in especial, whom
we all knew and valued for extraordinary gifts, he said: "---- is
irreclaimable. The sentimentalists are the most dangerous of the
insane, for they cannot be shut up in asylums."
The labor bestowed upon his own work before committing himself to
print was limitless. I have referred to this already in speaking of
the publication of his address after the death of Thoreau. Sometimes
in joke a household committee would be formed to sit in judgment on
his essays, and get them out of his hands. The "May-day" poem was long
in reaching its home in print. There were references to it from year
to year, but he could never be satisfied to yield it up. In April,
1865, after the fall of Richmond, he dined with us, full of what he
said was "a great joy to the world, not alone to our little America."
That day he brought what he then called some verses on Spring to read
aloud; but when the reading was ended, he said they were far "too
fragmentary to satisfy him," and quietly folded them up and carried
them away again.
This feeling of unreadiness to print sprang as much from the wonderful
modesty as from the sincerity of his character. He wrote shortly after
to his publisher:--
"I have the more delight in your marked overestimate of my poem that I
have been vexed with a belief that what skill I had in whistling was
nearly or quite gone, and that I might henceforth content myself with
guttural consonants or dissonants, and not attempt warbling. On the
strength of your note, I am working away at my last pages of rhyme.
But this has been and is a week of company. Yet I shall do the best I
can with the quarters of hours."