her “Authors and Friends,” Mrs. Fields described accurately the use she
made of her records and remembrances of that serene Olympian who glided
in and out of Boston to the awe and delight of those with whom he came
into personal contact. “Olympian” must be the word, since “Augustan”
connotes something quite too mundane to suggest the effect produced by
Emerson upon his sympathetic contemporaries. Did they realize, I wonder,
how fitting it was that this prophet of the harmonies of life should
live in a place the name of which is spoken by all but New Englanders
as if it signified not a despairing _Væ victis_, but the very bond of
peace? All the adjectives of benignity have been bestowed upon Emerson.
Mrs. Fields’s “Glimpses” of him suggest that atmosphere, as of mountain
solitudes, in which he moved; that air of the heights which those who
moved beside him were fain to breathe. His “Conversations” in public
and private places, a form of intellectual refreshment suggested by
Mrs. Fields and conducted, to Emerson’s large material advantage, by
her husband, appear to-day as highly characteristic of their time,—the
sixties and seventies,—and the light thrown upon them by her journal
illuminates not only him and her, but the whole society of “superior
persons” in which Emerson was so dominating a figure. By no means all of
that light escaped from her manuscript journals to the printed page of
“Authors and Friends.” In the hitherto unprinted passages now given there
are further shafts of it, sometimes slender in themselves, but joining to
show the very Emerson that came and went in Charles Street.
[Illustration: EMERSON
_From the marble statue by Daniel Chester French in the Concord Public
Library_]
There was a furtive humor in Emerson, which expressed itself more
accurately in his own words than in anything written about him. A
pleasant trace of it is found in a note to Fields addressed, “My dear
Editor,” dated “Concord, October 5, 1866,” and containing these words: “I
have the more delight in your marked overestimate of my poem, that I had
been vexed with a belief that what skill I had in whistling was nearly
or quite gone, and that I must henceforth content myself with guttural
consonants or dissonants, and not attempt warbling.”
There is a clear application of the Emersonian philosophy to domestic
matters in a letter written by Mrs. Emerson to Mrs. Fields, a week after
the fire which drove the poet’s family from his house at Concord, in
the summer of 1872. Mrs. Fields—as if in fulfillment of Emerson’s words
on the proffer of some previous hospitality: “Indeed we think that your
house should have that name inscribed upon it—‘Hospitality’”—had invited
the dislodged Emersons to take refuge under her roof. Mrs. Emerson,
replying, wrote:—
We are most happily settled in the “Old Manse,” where our
cousin, Miss Ripley, assures us we can be accommodated—to her
satisfaction as well as our own—until our house is rebuilt.
Only the upper half is destroyed and we shall, I trust, so
well restore it that you will not know—when we shall have
the pleasure of welcoming you there—except for its fresh
appearance, that anything has happened. I should not use
such a word as “calamity,” for truly the whole event is a
blessing rather than a misfortune. We have received such warm
expressions of kindness from our friends, and have witnessed
such disinterested action and brave daring in our town’s
people, that we feel—in addition to our happiness in the
sympathy of friends in other places—as if Concord was a large
family of personal friends and well-wishers. They command not
only our gratitude but our deep respect, for their loving and
personal self-forgetfulness.
Mr. Emerson and Ellen join me in affectionate and grateful
acknowledgments to yourself and to Mr. Fields.
Ever your friend,
LILIAN EMERSON
CONCORD, _July 31, 1872_.
It is in the atmosphere of the mutual relation revealed in many letters
from Emerson and his household to Mr. and Mrs. Fields that the following
reports of encounters with him—a few out of many similar passages in her
journals—should be read.
_December 3, 1863._—Last Tuesday Mr. Emerson lectured in town.
Mrs. E. and Edith came to tea. She was troubled because she
was a little late. She is a woman of proud integrity and real
sweetness. She has an awe of words. They mean so much to her
that her lips do not unlock save for truth or kindliness or
beauty or wisdom. The lecture was for today—there was much of
Carlyle, chastisement, and soul. After the lecture they came
home with us and about 20 friends. Wendell Phillips was in
his sweetest mood. He spoke of Beecher and Luther and of the
vigorous, healthy hearts of these men who swayed this world.
He said Hallam speaks disparagingly of Luther. I could not but
think of Sydney Smith’s friend who spoke “disparagingly of the
Equator.” Alden too came in wearied after his lecture. Senator
Boutwell spoke in praise of life in Washington, the first man.
Sunshiny Edith passed the night with us.
_January 5, 1864._—Mr. Emerson came today to see J. T. F. He
says Mr. Blake, who holds the letters of Thoreau in his hands,
is a terribly conscientious man, “a man who would even return
a borrowed umbrella.” He became acquainted with Blake when
he was connected with theological matters, “and he believed
wholly in me at that time, but one day he met Thoreau and he
never came to my house afterwards. His conscientiousness is
equalled perhaps by that of George Bradford, who accompanied
us once to hear Mr. Webster speak. There was an immense crowd,
Mr. Bradford became separated from the party, and was swept
into a capital place within the lines. When he found himself
well ensconced in front of the speaker, he turned about and saw
us, and with a look of great concern said: ‘I have no ticket
for this place and I can’t stay.’ We besought him not to be so
foolish as to give up the place, but nothing would tempt him to
keep it.”
He was in fine mood.
_Wednesday, September 6._—Mr. Emerson went to see Mr. Fields.
“There are fine lines in Lowell’s Ode,” he said. “Yes,”
answered J. T. F., “it is a fine poem.” “I have found fine
lines in it,” replied the seer. “I told Lowell once,” he
continued, “that his humorous poems gave me great pleasure;
they were worth all his serious poetry. He did not take it very
well, but muttered, ‘The Washers of the Shroud,’ and walked
away.”
J. T. F. found Emerson sitting by the window in his new office,
highly delighted with it.
_September 30, 1865._—Jamie went to dine with the Saturday
Club. Professor Nichol was his guest. Sam. Ward (Julia’s
brother) was Longfellow’s. Lowell, Holmes, Hoar, Emerson and
a few others only were present. Judge Hoar related an amusing
anecdote of having sent a beautiful basket of pears to the
Concord exhibition this year. He said Mr. Emerson was one of
the judges, and he thought he would be pleased with the pears
because a few years ago he was in the garden one day and,
observing that very tree, which was not then very flourishing,
had told Judge Hoar that more iron and more animal matter were
needed in the soil. “Forthwith,” said the Judge, “I planted
all my old iron kettles and a cat and a dog at the foot of the
tree and these pears were the result. I have kept two favorite
terriers ready to plant if necessary beside, but the fruit for
the present seems well enough without them.”
Judge Hoar said also that he knew a man once with a prodigious
memory; before dinner he could recall General Washington, after
dinner he remembered Christopher Columbus!
_Saturday, October 7, 1865._—Tuesday, 3, Edith Emerson was
married to William Forbes. The old house threw wide its
hospitable doors and the stairway and rooms were covered with
leaves and flowers and the whole place was as beautiful as
earthly radiance and joy can make a home. Poor Mrs. Hawthorne,
laden with her many sorrows, threw off her black robe for that
day that she might rejoice with others. Edith made her own
marriage wreath, and even Mr. Emerson wore white gloves. Old
Mrs. Ripley and many aged and many beautiful persons were there.
In 1866 Emerson, long exiled from the good graces of his Alma Mater,
was restored to them by the bestowal of an honorary degree. In 1867 the
restoration was completed by his election as an Overseer of Harvard
College and his appearance, after an interval of thirty years, as the Phi
Beta Kappa orator. In this capacity he read his address on the “Progress
of Culture” on July 18, 1867. Of the manner in which he did it, and
of the effect he produced on his hearers, Lowell wrote immediately to
Norton, in a letter often quoted, “He boggled, he lost his place, he had
to put on his glasses; but it was as if a creature from some fairer world
had lost his way in our fogs, and it was _our_ fault, not his.” “Phi
Beta Day” was still a local festival of much brilliance, which was thus
reflected in 1867 on the pages of Mrs. Fields’s journal.
_Thursday, July 18, 1867._—Arose at five and worked in my
garden until breakfast. Then it was time to dress for Phi Beta
at Cambridge. We drove out, leaving home at nine o’clock.
We expected Professor Andrew D. White to go with us, but he
called still earlier to say he had been summoned to a business
meeting by President Hill. The day was soft and pleasant with
a clouded sky. We were among the first on the ground, but we
had the pleasure of waiting a few moments to see our friends
arrive before we were admitted to the church. Only ladies went
in. I went with Mrs. Quincy, the poet’s[15] wife (poet for
the day, for he is apt to disclaim this title usually), and
we found good places in the gallery; by and by, however, Mrs.
Dana beckoned to me to come and sit with them, so I changed
my seat to a place on the lower floor. It was an impressive
sight to see those men come in (though they kept us waiting
until twelve o’clock)—Lowell, Emerson, Dana, Hale, and all
the good brave men we have with few exceptions. First came
Quincy’s poem, then Mr. Emerson’s address—both excellent after
the manner of the men. Poor Mr. E.’s MSS. was in inextricable
confusion, and in spite of the chivalry of E. E. Hale, who
hunted up a cushion that he might see better, the whole matter
seemed at first out of joint in the reader’s eyes. However
that may have been, it was far from out of joint in our eyes,
being noble in aim and influence, magnetic, imaginative. I
felt grateful that I had lived till that moment and as if I
might come home to live and work better. Thank Heaven for such
a master! He was evidently put out and angry with himself for
his disorder and, taking Mr. Fields’s arm as he came from the
assembly, had to be somewhat reassured that it was not an utter
failure.
Mrs. Dana tried to carry me to lunch, most kindly. I could not
make up my mind to go anywhere after what I had heard, but
for a moment to see if the good Jameses were well, and thence
homeward. It seemed, if I could ever work, it must be then.
At half-past six Jamie returned from the dinner, where J. R.
Lowell presided in the most elegant and brilliant manner. In
calling out Agassiz he told the story of the sailor who was
swallowed by a whale and finding time rather heavy on his
hands thought he would inscribe his name on the bridge of bone
above his head; but looking for a place, jack-knife in hand,
he found that Jonah was before him—so he said Agassiz, etc.
And of Holmes he said that the Professor and himself were like
two buckets in a well: when one of them presided at a dinner,
the other made it a point to bring a poem; when one bucket came
up full, the other went down empty. And so on through all.
Phillips Brooks, the distinguished preacher of Philadelphia,
was there, and many other men of note.
Out of the many notes relating to Emerson’s lectures, a few passages may
be taken as typical. Perhaps the best unpublished pages are those on
which the philosopher is seen, with his wife and daughter, against the
social background of the time and place.
_October 19, 1868._—The weeks spin away so fast I have no
time for records, and yet last Sunday and Monday we had two
pleasant parties, especially Monday, after Mr. Emerson’s first
lecture. We were 14 at supper. Mrs. Putnam and Miss Oakey
among the guests, but the Emersons, who are always pleased
and always full of kindliness, enjoyment, and Christianity, I
believe give more pleasure than they receive wherever they are
entertained. Edward is full of his grape-culture in Milton,
Ellen full of good works, Mrs. Emerson very hot against her
brother’s opponents, Morton and those who take sides with him
now that Morton himself is in the earth-mould first.[16] Mr.
Emerson, alive and alert on all topics, talked openly of the
untruthfulness of the Peabodys, of the beauty of “Charles
Auchester,” of Mr. Alcott’s school, of Dana’s politics as
superior perhaps to Butler and yet not altogether sound and
worthy, conservatism being so deep in his blood.
Thursday we drove our friends to Milton Blue Hill after the
Emersons had gone, returned to dine and Selwyn’s theatre in the
evening. Herman Merivale was of the party—son of Thackeray’s
friend. The Stephens went on Wednesday. Thursday we dined in
Milton with Mrs. Silsbee; it was a wet nasty day. Friday,
Saturday and Sunday we were quietly enough here, Jamie with a
fearful cold. Surely all this is unimportant enough as regards
ourselves; but I like to remember when Mr. Emerson came and
what he said and how he looked, for it is a pure benediction to
see him and I honor and love him.
_February 20, 1869._—Heard Emerson again, and Laura was with
me; we drank up every word eagerly. He read Donne, Daniel, and
especially Herbert; also _vers de société_; the facility of
these old divines giving them a power akin to what has produced
these familiar rhymes.
He said Herbert was full of holy quips; fond of using a kind of
irony towards God, and quoted appropriately. Beautiful things
of Herrick, too, he read, but treated Vaughan rather unjustly,
we thought.
Lowell sat just behind; I could imagine his running commentary
on many of Mr. Emerson’s remarks, which were often more
Emersonian than universal, or true. The facility of the old
poets seemed to impress him with almost undue reverence. He is
extremely natural and easy in manner and speech during these
readings. He bent his brows and shut his eyes, endeavoring
to recall a passage from Ben Jonson as if we were at his own
dinner-table, and at last when he gave it up said, “It is all
the more provoking as I do not doubt many a friend here might
help me out with it.”
His respect for literature, often in these degenerate
days smiled upon from some imaginary hills by surrounding
multitudes, is absolute and regnant. It is religion and life,
and he reiterating them in every form.
The first and second of the “Conversations” arranged for Emerson by
Fields are duly described in the journal. In the evening that followed
the second, Emerson and his daughter dined at Charles Street, in company
with Longfellow and his daughter Alice, William Morris Hunt and his wife,
Dr. Holmes, and the Fieldses. The scene and talk were recorded by the
hostess.
... Coming home, Ellen’s trunk had not arrived, so she came,
like a good child, most difficult in a woman grown, to dinner
in her travelling dress. Alice Longfellow looked very pretty in
a polonaise of lovely olive brown over black; a little feather
of the same color in her hair. Rooshue [Mrs. Hunt] and her
husband came in their everydays too. I wore a lilac polonaise
with a yellow rose—I speak of the latter because it seemed to
please W. M. Hunt to see the dash of color....
Hunt convulsed us with a story of seeing a man run through by
an iron bolt, when a distinguished physician is called in; the
physician asks if he can sleep well, and a thousand and one
questions of like relevancy, to all of which the patient only
replies by gasps of agony. Hunt acted the whole scene famously.
The sunset too delighted him as it gilded the old sheds back of
the house and made them “like Solomon’s temple.” Longfellow has
written to Miss Rossetti, the author of the “Shadow of Dante,”
to thank her for her pleasant book. He asks her the difficult
question why Dante puts Venus nearest the sun. Also he points
out her fault of saying the spirits of the blest inhabited the
planets, whereas Dante clearly states that they all lived in
one heaven but visited the planets.
The truth of Hawthorne’s tale of the minister with the black
veil was hunted up. His name was Moody and he was one of the
Emerson family. It seems the poor man in his youth shot a boy
by accident, and as he grew older a morbid temper settled upon
him and he did not think himself fit to preach; so he withdrew
from the ministry but taught a small school, always wore a
black veil, literally a handkerchief. Ellen said her aunt was
taught by him and she appeared anxious to set the matter right.
Rose Hawthorne and her husband have been to see Mr. Emerson,
and he likes them both well; thinks Rose looks happy and the
young man promising, which is much. There is hope of Una’s
recovery and return.
After dinner, we ladies looked over manuscripts for a time
until Longfellow went—when Mrs. Hunt went to the piano and
played and sang. Finally he came, and they sang their little
duets together and afterward she sang a song with words by
Channing about a pine tree, set to a scrap of a sonata by
Helen Bell, and after that a touching German song with English
words—then she read Celia’s [Mrs. Thaxter’s] new poem to Mr.
Emerson, called “The Tryst.” She read it only pretty well,
which disgusted her; and she said it reminded her of William’s
reading, which was the worst she ever knew; he could literally
stop in the middle of a sentence because it happened to be
the bottom of a page, and ask her what it meant. At that he
took Celia’s poem and read it through word for word like a
school-boy, looking up at her to see if he was right and should
go on. She laughed immoderately, and as for Mr. Emerson, J.
said his eyes left their wonted sockets and went to laugh far
back in his brain.
Putting down his book, Hunt launched off into his own life as
a painter. His lonely position here without anyone to look up
to in his art—his idea of art being entirely misunderstood,
his determination _not_ to _paint_ cloth and cheeks, but to
paint the glory of age and the light of truth. He became almost
too excited to find words, but when he did grasp a phrase, it
was such a fine one that it went a great way. His wife sat by
making running comments, but when he said, “If any man who was
talking could not be heard, he would naturally try to talk so
that he could be heard,” we tried to urge him to stand firm
and to assure him that his efforts were neither lost nor in
vain. “If the books you wrote were left all dusty and untouched
upon the shelves, don’t you think you would try to write so
that people should want them? I am sure you would.” His wife
tried to say he must stand in the way he knew was right—as did
we all—but he seemed to think it too hard, too Sisyphus-like
a labor. The portrait of little Paul is still unsold. After
keeping the carriage waiting one hour and a half, they went—a
most interesting pair.
[Illustration: A CORNER OF THE CHARLES STREET LIBRARY]
_Tuesday, April 23._—Shakespeare’s birthday. Emerson and his
daughter passed the night with us and Edith Davidson, Ellen’s
“daughter,” came to breakfast. We talked over again the
pleasure of the night before. Emerson had never heard Hunt talk
before and had seldom found Longfellow so expansive. Holmes
met J. in the course of the day, and told him he had a real
good time, though he did have a thumping headache—he was much
pleased with Alice Longfellow.
[Illustration: _From a note of Emerson’s to Mrs. Fields_]
_Tuesday, May 21._—Call from Mr. Emerson, Mrs. E. and Ellen.
They came in a body to thank me, which Mrs. Emerson did in
a little set speech after her own fashion, at which we all
laughed heartily—especially at the “profit” clause. Indeed we
had a very merry time altogether. Mr. Emerson gave “Queenie”
permission to look all about the room, “for indeed there was
not such another in all Boston—no indeed [half soliloquizing],
not such another.” Then he looked about and told them the wrong
names of the painters, and would have been entirely satisfied
if he had not referred to me, when I was obliged to tell the
truth and so from that time he made me speaker. He said he
should do his very best for the university class for women
for next December to make up for having served them so badly
this winter. He said I had _very gently_ reminded him of his
entire forgetfulness to fulfil an engagement or half-engagement
to come to speak to them this winter. “Queenie” told me she
was one of the few persons who had read Miss Mitford’s poems,
“Blanche” and all the rest, and liked them very much. So the
various portraits of the old lady interested her much.
They came down to Boston, Mrs. E. said, on purpose to make this
call. I had just returned home from a long drive about town on
business, so it was the best possible moment for me.
Our first thought this morning (J’s. and mine) was, how could
Mr. Emerson finish his course of “Conversations,” which had
been so brilliant until the last, in so unsatisfactory a
manner. His matter was for the most part old, and he finished
with reading well-known hymns of Dr. Watts and Mrs. Barbauld. I
fear we were all disappointed. Some of the lectures (especially
the one on “Love”) have been so fine that we were bitterly
disappointed.
A later reference to Emerson shows him in Philadelphia, and through
the eyes of a qualified observer there. The passage was written at
Manchester-by-the-Sea, to which Mr. and Mrs. Fields had begun to pay
summer visits even before 1872, and where they soon acquired that cottage
of their own on “Thunderbolt Hill,” which belied its name in serving as
the most peaceful of retreats for Mrs. Fields and the friends she was
constantly summoning to her side through all the remainder of her life.
_Tuesday, August 25, 1872._—Miss A. Whitney came Saturday and
remained until Monday morning. Sunday evening we passed at
Mrs. Towne’s. Mrs. Annis Wister[17] of Pennsylvania had just
arrived, a dramatic creature, who tells and tells again at
request, with as much amiability as talent, her wonderful story
of Father Donne, the Irish priest, who performed the marriage
ceremony for one of her servants. Mrs. Wister, in spite of a
lisp, has a thoroughly clear enunciation. She never leaves a
sentence unfinished nor suffers the imagination to complete any
corner of her picture. She is exceedingly lively and witty,
and Miss Whitney, whose mind is quite different and altogether
introverted, busied over her artistic conceptions, could not
help a feeling of envy. The gift of narration, so rare in
this country, has been carefully cultivated by Mrs. Wister,
and poor Miss Whitney could only wonder and admire. I could
see her fine large eyes glow with pleasure and desire as she
listened to her. Mrs. Wister told me an odd thing, which shows
her as an individual. She asked me how the testimonial to Mr.
Emerson was progressing, as her father was much interested and
thought nothing he possessed too good to be given at once to
Mr. Emerson, nor indeed worthy of his acceptance, and she would
like to write him. I told her I believed the sum had reached
$10,000, and had already been presented. This led her to say
the friendship of her father for Mr. Emerson, and indeed their
mutual friendship, as she then believed it to be, dated back
to their youth, when Mr. Emerson was first writing his poems
and delighting over the illustrations her father would make for
them. As she grew up, she became dissatisfied at the relation
between them. She thought Mr. Furness, her father, gave much
more to Mr. Emerson in the way of friendship than Mr. Emerson
ever appreciated. This went on until she became about eighteen
years of age, when Mr. Emerson chanced to be visiting them in
Pennsylvania. One day she was standing upon the stairs near the
front door, and Mr. Emerson was ready to go out and waiting
there for her father, who had withdrawn for a moment. Her heart
was full, and suddenly she turned upon Mr. Emerson, and said,
“Mr. Emerson, I think you cannot know what a treasure you have
in this friendship of my father. He loves you dearly and I fear
you cannot appreciate what it is to have the love of such a man
as my father.” She says to this day she grows “pank,” as the
Scotchman said, all over at such presumption, but she could not
help it.
I asked what Mr. Emerson replied. He looked surprised, she
said, and cast his eyes down, and then said earnestly that he
knew and felt deeply how unworthy he was to enjoy the riches of
such a friendship.
This incident presented Mrs. Wister as well as Mr. Emerson
under a keen light. They could never understand each other.
From October, 1872, until the following May, Emerson and his daughter
Ellen were traveling abroad. On their return Mrs. Fields wrote in her
journal:—