The apprehensions which assailed him before his public addresses or
readings were not of a kind to affect either speech or behavior. He
seemed to be simply detained by his own dissatisfaction with his work,
and was forever looking for something better to come, even when it was
too late. His manuscripts were often disordered, and at the last
moment, after he began to read, appeared to take the form in his mind
of a forgotten labyrinth through which he must wait to find his way in
some more opportune season.
In the summer of 1867 he delivered the address before the Phi Beta at
Harvard. He seemed to have an especial feeling of unreadiness on that
day, and, to increase the trouble, his papers slipped away in
confusion from under his hand as he tried to rest them on a poorly
arranged desk or table. Mr. Hale put a cushion beneath them finally,
after Emerson began to read, which prevented them from falling again,
but the whole matter was evidently out of joint in the reader's eyes.
He could not be content with it, and closed without warming to the
occasion. It was otherwise, however, to those who listened; they did
not miss the old power: but after the reading he openly expressed his
own discontent, and walked away dissatisfied. Miss Emerson writes to
me of this occasion: "You recall the sad Phi Beta day of 1867. The
trouble that day was that for the first time his eyes refused to serve
him; he could not see, and therefore could hardly get along. His work
had been on the whole satisfactory to him, and if he could have read
it straight all would have been happy instead of miserable."
On another and more private occasion, also, he came away much
disappointed himself, because, the light being poor and his manuscript
disarranged, he had not been just, he thought, even to such matter as
lay before him. And who can forget the occasion of the delivery of the
Boston Hymn?--that glad New Year when the people were assembled in our
large Music Hall to hear read the proclamation of Abraham Lincoln.
When it was known that Emerson was to follow with a poem, a stillness
fell on the vast assembly as if one ear were waiting to catch his
voice; but the awful moment, which was never too great for his will
and endeavor, was confusing to his fingers, and the precious leaves of
his manuscript fell as he rose, and scattered themselves among the
audience. They were quickly gathered and restored, but for one instant
it seemed as if the cup so greatly desired was to be dashed from the
lips of the listeners.
His perfect grace in conversation can hardly be reproduced, even if
one could gather the arrows of his wit. But I find one or two slight
hints of the latter which are too characteristic to be omitted.
Speaking of some friends who were contemplating a visit to Europe just
after our civil war, when exchange was still very high, he said that
"the wily American would elude Europe for a year yet, hoping exchange
would go down." On being introduced to an invited guest of the
Saturday Club, Emerson said: "I am glad to meet you, sir. I often see
your name in the papers and elsewhere, and am happy to take you by the
hand for the first time."
"Not for the first time," was the reply. "Thirty-three years ago I was
enjoying my school vacation in the woods, as boys will. One afternoon
I was walking alone, when you saw me and joined me, and talked of the
voices of nature in a way which stirred my boyish pulses, and left me
thinking of your words far into the night."
Emerson looked pleased, but rejoined that it must have been long ago
indeed when he ventured to talk of such fine subjects.
In conversing with Richard H. Dana ("Two Years Before the Mast") the
latter spoke of the cold eyes of one of our public men. "Yes," said
Emerson meditatively, "holes in his head! holes in his head!"
In speaking once of education and of the slight attention given to the
development of personal influence, he said "he had not yet heard of
Rarey" (the famous horse-tamer of that time) "having been made Doctor
of Laws."
After an agreeable conversation with a gentleman who had suffered from
ill health, Emerson remarked, "You formerly bragged of bad health,
sir; I trust you are all right now."
Emerson's reticence with regard to Carlyle's strong expressions
against America was equally wise and admirable. His friends crowded
about him, urging him to denounce Carlyle, as a sacred duty, but he
stood serene and silent as the rocks until the angry sea was calm.
Of his grace of manner, what could be more expressive than the
following notes of compliment and acknowledgment?
"When I came home from my pleasant visit to your house last week (or
was it a day or two before last week?), Mrs. Hawthorne, arriving in
Concord a little later than I, brought me the photograph of
Raffaelle's original sketch of Dante, and from you. It appears to be a
fixed idea in your mind to benefit and delight me, and still in
ingenious and surprising ways. Well, I am glad that my lot is cast in
the time and proximity of excellent persons, even if I do not often
see their faces. I send my thanks for this interesting picture, which
so strangely brings us close to the painter again, and almost hints
that a supermarine and superaerial telegraph may bring us thoughts
from him yet."
And, again, with reference to a small photograph from a very
interesting _rilievo_ done by a young Roman who died early,
leaving nothing in more permanent form to attest his genius:--
"'The Star-led Wizards' arrived safely at my door last night, as the
beauty and splendid fancy of their figures, and not less the generous
instructions of their last entertainer and guide, might well warrant
and secure.
"It was surely a very unlooked-for but to me most friendly inspiration
of yours which gave their feet this direction. But they are and shall
be gratefully and reverently received and enshrined, and in the good
hope that you will so feel engaged at some time or times to stop and
make personal inquiry after the welfare of your guests and wards."