PHILLIPS BROOKS'S BOOKS AND EMERSON'S MENTAL MIST
No one who called at Phillips Brooks's house was ever told that the
master of the house was out when he was in. That was a rule laid down
by Doctor Brooks: a maid was not to perjure herself for her master's
comfort or convenience. Therefore, when Edward was told that Doctor
Brooks was out, he knew he was out. The boy waited, and as he waited
he had a chance to look around the library and into the books. The
rector's faithful housekeeper said he might when he repeated what
Wendell Phillips had told him of the interest that was to be found in
her master's books. Edward did not tell her of Mr. Phillips's advice,
to "borrow" a couple of books. He reserved that bit of information for
the rector of Trinity when he came in, an hour later.
"Oh! did he?" laughingly said Doctor Brooks. "That is nice advice for
a man to give a boy. I am surprised at Wendell Phillips. He needs a
little talk: a ministerial visit. And have you followed his shameless
advice?" smilingly asked the huge man as he towered above the boy.
"No? And to think of the opportunity you had, too. Well, I am glad
you had such respect for my dumb friends. For they are my friends,
each one of them," he continued, as he looked fondly at the filled
shelves. "Yes, I know them all, and love each for its own sake. Take
this little volume," and he picked up a little volume of Shakespeare.
"Why, we are the best of friends: we have travelled miles together--all
over the world, as a matter of fact. It knows me in all my moods, and
responds to each, no matter how irritable I am. Yes, it is pretty
badly marked up now, for a fact, isn't it? Black; I never thought of
that before that it doesn't make a book look any better to the eye.
But it means more to me because of all that pencilling.
"Now, some folks dislike my use of my books in this way. They love
their books so much that they think it nothing short of sacrilege to
mark up a book. But to me, that's like having a child so prettily
dressed that you can't romp and play with it. What is the good of a
book, I say, if it is too pretty for use? I like to have my books
speak to me, and then I like to talk back to them.
"Take my Bible, here," he continued, as he took up an old and much-worn
copy of the book. "I have a number of copies of the Great Book: one
copy I preach from; another I minister from; but this is my own
personal copy, and into it I talk and talk. See how I talk," and he
opened the Book and showed interleaved pages full of comments in his
handwriting. "There's where St. Paul and I had an argument one day.
Yes, it was a long argument, and I don't know now who won," he added
smilingly. "But then, no one ever wins in an argument, anyway, do you
think so?
"You see," went on the preacher, "I put into these books what other men
put into articles and essays for magazines and papers. I never write
for publications. I always think of my church when something comes to
me to say. There is always danger of a man spreading himself out thin
if he attempts too much, you know."
Doctor Brooks, must have caught the boy's eye, which, as he said this,
naturally surveyed his great frame, for he regarded him in an amused
way, and putting his hands on his girth, he said laughingly; "You are
thinking I would have to do a great deal to spread myself out thin,
aren't you?"
The boy confessed he was, and the preacher laughed one of those deep
laughs of his that were so infectious.
"But here I am talking about myself. Tell me something about
_yourself_?"
And when the boy told his object in coming to Boston, the rector of
Trinity Church was immensely amused.
"Just to see us fellows! Well, and how do you like us so far?"
And in the most comfortable way this true gentleman went on until the
boy mentioned that he must be keeping him from his work.
"Not at all; not at all," was the quick and hearty response. "Not a
thing to do. I cleaned up all my mail before I had my breakfast this
morning.
"These letters, you mean?" he said, as the boy pointed to some letters
on his desk unopened. "Oh, yes! They must have come in a later mail.
Well, if it will make you feel any better I'll go through them, and you
can go through my books if you like. I'll trust you," he added
laughingly, as Wendell Phillips's advice occurred to him.
"You like books, you say?" he went on, as he opened his letters.
"Well, then, you must come into my library here at any time you are in
Boston, and spend a morning reading anything I have that you like.
Young men do that, you know, and I like to have them. What's the use
of good friends if you don't share them? There's where the pleasure
comes in."
He asked the boy then about his newspaper work, how much it paid him,
and whether he felt it helped him in an educational way. The boy told
him he thought it did; that it furnished good lessons in the study of
human nature. "Yes," he said, "I, can believe that, so long as it is
good journalism."
As he let the boy out of his house, at the end of that first, meeting,
he said to him:
"And you're going from me now to see Emerson? I don't know," he added
reflectively, "whether you will see him at his best. Still, you may.
And even if you do not, to have seen him, even as you may see him, is
better, in a way, than not to have seen him at all."
Edward did not know what Phillips Brooks meant. But he was, sadly, to
find out the next day.
A boy was pretty sure of a welcome from Louisa Alcott, and his greeting
from her was spontaneous and sincere.
"Why, you good boy," she said, "to come all the way to Concord to see
us," quite for all the world as if she were the one favored. "Now take
your coat off, and come right in by the fire. Do tell me all about
your visit."
Before that cozy fire they chatted. It was pleasant to the boy to sit
there with that sweet-faced woman with those kindly eyes! After a
while she said: "Now I shall put on my coat and hat, and we shall walk
over to Emerson's house. I am almost afraid to promise that you will
see him. He sees scarcely any one now. He is feeble, and--" She did
not finish the sentence. "But we'll walk over there, at any rate."
She spoke mostly of her father as the two walked along, and it was easy
to see that his condition was now the one thought of her life.
Presently they reached Emerson's house, and Miss Emerson welcomed them
at the door. After a brief chat Miss Alcott told of the boy's hope.
Miss Emerson shook her head.
"Father sees no one now," she said, "and I fear it might not be a
pleasure if you did see him."
Then Edward told her what Phillips Brooks had said.
"Well," she said, "I'll see."
She had scarcely left the room when Miss Alcott rose and followed her,
saying to the boy: "You shall see Mr. Emerson if it is at all possible."
In a few minutes Miss Alcott returned, her eyes moistened, and simply
said: "Come."
The boy followed her through two rooms, and at the threshold of the
third, Miss Emerson stood, also with moistened eyes.
"Father," she said simply, and there, at his desk, sat Emerson--the man
whose words had already won Edward Bok's boyish interest, and who was
destined to impress himself upon his life more deeply than any other
writer.
Slowly, at the daughter's spoken word, Emerson rose with a wonderful
quiet dignity, extended his hand, and as the boy's hand rested in his,
looked him full in the eyes.
No light of welcome came from those sad yet tender eyes. The boy
closed upon the hand in his with a loving pressure, and for a single
moment the eyelids rose, a different look came into those eyes, and
Edward felt a slight, perceptible response of the hand. But that was
all!
Quietly he motioned the boy to a chair beside the desk. Edward sat
down and was about to say something, when, instead of seating himself,
Emerson walked away to the window and stood there softly whistling and
looking out as if there were no one in the room. Edward's eyes had
followed Emerson's every footstep, when the boy was aroused by hearing
a suppressed sob, and as he looked around he saw that it came from Miss
Emerson. Slowly she walked out of the room. The boy looked at Miss
Alcott, and she put her finger to her mouth, indicating silence. He
was nonplussed.
Edward looked toward Emerson standing in that window, and wondered what
it all meant. Presently Emerson left the window and, crossing the
room, came to his desk, bowing to the boy as he passed, and seated
himself, not speaking a word and ignoring the presence of the two
persons in the room.
Suddenly the boy heard Miss Alcott say: "Have you read this new book by
Ruskin yet?"
Slowly the great master of thought lifted his eyes from his desk,
turned toward the speaker, rose with stately courtesy from his chair,
and, bowing to Miss Alcott, said with great deliberation: "Did you
speak to me, madam?"
The boy was dumfounded! Louisa Alcott, his Louisa! And he did not
know her! Suddenly the whole sad truth flashed upon the boy. Tears
sprang into Miss Alcott's eyes, and she walked to the other side of the
room. The boy did not know what to say or do, so he sat silent. With
a deliberate movement Emerson resumed his seat, and slowly his eyes
roamed over the boy sitting at the side of the desk. He felt he should
say something.
"I thought, perhaps, Mr. Emerson," he said, "that you might be able to
favor me with a letter from Carlyle."
At the mention of the name Carlyle his eyes lifted, and he asked:
"Carlyle, did you say, sir, Carlyle?"
"Yes," said the boy, "Thomas Carlyle."
"Ye-es," Emerson answered slowly. "To be sure, Carlyle. Yes, he was
here this morning. He will be here again to-morrow morning," he added
gleefully, almost like a child.
Then suddenly: "You were saying----"
Edward repeated his request.
"Oh, I think so, I think so," said Emerson, to the boy's astonishment.
"Let me see. Yes, here in this drawer I have many letters from
Carlyle."
At these words Miss Alcott came from the other part of the room, her
wet eyes dancing with pleasure and her face wreathed in smiles.
"I think we can help this young man; do you not think so, Louisa?" said
Emerson, smiling toward Miss Alcott. The whole atmosphere of the room
had changed. How different the expression of his eyes as now Emerson
looked at the boy! "And you have come all the way from New York to ask
me that!" he said smilingly as the boy told him of his trip. "Now, let
us see," he said, as he delved in a drawer full of letters.
For a moment he groped among letters and papers, and then, softly
closing the drawer, he began that ominous low whistle once more, looked
inquiringly at each, and dropped his eyes straightway to the papers
before him on his desk. It was to be only for a few moments, then!
Miss Alcott turned away.
The boy felt the interview could not last much longer. So, anxious to
have some personal souvenir of the meeting, he said: "Mr. Emerson, will
you be so good as to write your name in this book for me?" and he
brought out an album he had in his pocket.
"Name?" he asked vaguely.
"Yes, please," said the boy, "your name: Ralph Waldo Emerson."
But the sound of the name brought no response from the eyes.
"Please write out the name you want," he said finally, "and I will copy
it for you if I can."
It was hard for the boy to believe his own senses. But picking up a
pen he wrote: "Ralph Waldo Emerson, Concord; November 22, 1881."
Emerson looked at it, and said mournfully: "Thank you." Then he picked
up the pen, and writing the single letter "R" stopped, followed his
finger until it reached the "W" of Waldo, and studiously copied letter
by letter! At the word "Concord" he seemed to hesitate, as if the task
were too great, but finally copied again, letter by letter, until the
second "c" was reached. "Another 'o,'" he said, and interpolated an
extra letter in the name of the town which he had done so much to make
famous the world over. When he had finished he handed back the book,
in which there was written:
[Illustration: Ralph Waldo Emerson's signature.]
The boy put the book into his pocket; and as he did so Emerson's eye
caught the slip on his desk, in the boy's handwriting, and, with a
smile of absolute enlightenment, he turned and said;
"You wish me to write my name? With pleasure. Have you a book with
you?"
Overcome with astonishment, Edward mechanically handed him the album
once more from his pocket. Quickly turning over the leaves, Emerson
picked up the pen, and pushing aside the slip, wrote without a moment's
hesitation:
[Illustration: Ralph Waldo Emerson's second signature.]
The boy was almost dazed at the instantaneous transformation in the man!
Miss Alcott now grasped this moment to say: "Well, we must be going!"
"So soon?" said Emerson, rising and smiling. Then turning to Miss
Alcott he said: "It was very kind of you, Louisa, to run over this
morning and bring your young friend."
Then turning to the boy he said: "Thank you so much for coming to see
me. You must come over again while you are with the Alcotts. Good
morning! Isn't it a beautiful day out?" he said, and as he shook the
boy's hand there was a warm grasp in it, the fingers closed around
those of the boy, and as Edward looked into those deep eyes they
twinkled and smiled back.
The going was all so different from the coming. The boy was grateful
that his last impression was of a moment when the eye kindled and the
hand pulsated.
The two walked back to the Alcott home in an almost unbroken silence.
Once Edward ventured to remark:
"You can have no idea, Miss Alcott, how grateful I am to you."
"Well, my boy," she answered, "Phillips Brooks may be right: that it is
something to have seen him even so, than not to have seen him at all.
But to us it is so sad, so very sad. The twilight is gently closing
in."
And so it proved--just five months afterward.
Eventful day after eventful day followed in Edward's Boston visit. The
following morning he spent with Wendell Phillips, who presented him
with letters from William Lloyd Garrison, Lucretia Mott, and other
famous persons; and then, writing a letter of introduction to Charles
Francis Adams, whom he enjoined to give the boy autograph letters from
his two presidential forbears, John Adams and John Quincy Adams, sent
Edward on his way rejoicing. Mr. Adams received the boy with equal
graciousness and liberality. Wonderful letters from the two Adamses
were his when he left.
And then, taking the train for New York, Edward Bok went home, sitting
up all night in a day-coach for the double purpose of saving the cost
of a sleeping-berth and of having a chance to classify and clarify the
events of the most wonderful week in his life!