talk, he had yet said more than any one else in substance. But it may be admitted that he was even better in listening than in speech; his look, averted but attentive, with a smile which seemed to postpone full development to the moment when his companion should have uttered the expected apple of gold in the picture of silver, was subtly stimulating to the latter's intellect, and prompted him to outdo himself. His questions were often revelations, discovering truth which the other only then perceived, and thus beguiling him into admiration of his own supposed intelligence. In this, as in other things, he acted upon the precept that it is more blessed to give than to receive gratification; he never seemed to need any other happiness than that of imparting it. And so selflessly and insensibly were the riches of his mind and nature communicated to the community that innocent little Concord could not quite help believing that its wealth and renown were somehow a creation of its own. The loafers in Walcott & Holden's grocery store were, in their own estimation, of heroic stature, because of the unegoistic citizen who dwelt over yonder among the pines. Emerson was a great man, no doubt; but then he was no more than their own confessed equal, or inferior!
This will and power to secularize himself is perhaps Emerson's unique attribute. It is comparatively easy to stand on mountain-tops and to ride Pegasus; but how many of those competent to such feats could at the same time sit cheek by jowl with hucksters and teamsters without a trace of condescension, and while rubbing shoulders with the rabble of the street in town-meeting, speak without arrogance the illuminating and deciding word? This, at last, is the true democracy that levels up instead of down. An Emerson who can make common men feel more like Emerson than he himself did is the kind of man we need to bring America up to her ideals.
Emerson was ungainly in build, with narrow, sloping shoulders, large feet and hands, and a projecting carriage of the head, which enhanced the eagle-like expression of his glance and features. His head was small; it was covered (in 1852) with light brown hair, fine and straight; he was cleanshaven save for a short whisker; the peaked ends of an uncomfortable collar appeared above the folds of a high, black silk stock. His long-skirted black coat was commonly buttoned up; he wore, on different occasions, a soft felt hat or a high silk one, the latter, from use, having become in a manner humanized. On the street he kept his face up as he walked along, and perceived the approach of an acquaintance afar off, and the wise, slow smile gleamed about his mouth as he drew near. "How do you do?" was sometimes his greeting; but more often, "Good-bye!" or "Good-night!"—an original and more sensible greeting. Though ungainly in formation, he was not ungraceful in bearing and action; there was a fitness and harmony in his manifestations even on the physical plan. On the lecture platform he stood erect and unadorned, his hands hanging folded in front, save when he changed the leaf of his manuscript, or emphasized his words with a gesture: his customary one, simple but effective, was to clinch his right fist, knuckles upward, the arm bent at the elbow, then a downward blow of the forearm, full of power bridled. It was accompanied by such a glance of the eyes as no one ever saw except from Emerson: a glance like the reveille of a trumpet. Yet his eyes were not noticeably large, and their color was greenish-gray; but they were well set and outlined in his head, and, more than is the case with most men, they were the windows of his soul. Wendell Phillips had an eloquent and intrepid eye, but it possessed nothing approaching the eloquence and spiritual influence of Emerson's. In every Lyceum course in Concord, Emerson lectured once or twice, and the hall was always filled. One night he had the misfortune to wear a pair of abominably creaking boots; every slightest change of posture would be followed by an outcry from the sole-leather, and the audience soon became nervously preoccupied in expecting them. The sublimest thoughts were mingled with these base material accompaniments. But there was nothing to be done, unless the lecturer would finish his lecture in his stocking-feet, and we were fain to derive a fortuitous inspiration from observing the unfaltering meekness with which our philosopher accepted the predicament. I have forgotten the subject of the lecture on that occasion, but the voice of the boots will always sound in my memory.
In his own house Emerson shone with essential hospitality, and yet he wonderfully effaced himself; any one but he might hold the centre of the stage. You felt him everywhere, but if you would see him, you must search the wings. He sat in his chair, bending forward, one leg crossed over the other, his elbows often supported on his knee; his legs were rather long and slender, and he had a way, after crossing his leg, of hitching the instep of that foot under the calf of the other leg, so that he seemed braided up. He seldom stood in a room, or paced to and fro, as my father was fond of doing. But the two men were almost equally addicted to outdoor walking, and both preferred to walk alone. Emerson formed the habit of betaking himself to Walden woods, which extended to within a mile or so of his door; thence would he return with an exalted look, saying, "The muses are in the woods to-day"; and no one who has read his Woodnotes can doubt that he found them there. Occasionally Channing, Thoreau, or my father would be his companion; Alcott preferred to busy himself about his rustic fences and summer-houses, or to sit the centre of a circle and converse, as he called it; meaning to soliloquize, looking round from face to face with unalterable faith and complacency.
My father read Emerson with enjoyment; though more and more, as he advanced in life, he was disposed to question the expediency of stating truth in a disembodied form; he preferred it incarnate, as it appears in life and in story. But he could not talk to Emerson; his pleasure in his society did not express itself in that form. Emerson, on the other hand, assiduously cultivated my father's company, and, contrary to his general habit, talked to him continuously; but he could not read his romances; he admitted that he had never been able to finish one of them. He loved to observe him; to watch his silence, which was full of a kind of speech which he was able to appreciate; "Hawthorne rides well his horse of the night!" My father was Gothic; Emerson was Roman and Greek. But each was profoundly original and independent. My father was the shyer and more solitary of the two, and yet persons in need of human sympathy were able to reach a more interior region in him than they could in Emerson. For the latter's thought was concerned with types and classes, while the former had the individual touch. He distrusted rules, but had faith in exceptions and idiosyncrasies. Emerson was nobly and magnanimously public; my father, exquisitely and inevitably private; together they met the needs of nearly all that is worthy in human nature.
Emerson rose upon us frequently during our early struggles with our new abode, like a milder sun; the children of the two families became acquainted, the surviving son, Edward, two years my elder, falling to my share. But Emerson himself also became my companion, with a humanity which to-day fills me with grateful wonder. I remember once being taken by him on a long walk through the sacred pine woods, and on another occasion he laid aside the poem or the essay he was writing to entertain Una in his study, whither she had gone alone and of her own initiative to make him a call! It is easy to compliment a friend upon his children, but how many of us will allow themselves to be caught and utilized by them in this fashion? But Emerson's mind was so catholic, so humble, and so deep that I doubt not he derived benefit even from child-prattle. His wife rivalled him in hospitality, though her frail health disabled her from entering into the physical part of social functions with the same fortitude; in these first months we were invited to a party where we were fellow-guests with all the other children of Concord. There they were, their mothers with them, and everything in sight that a child at a party could require. My new friend Edward mounted me on his pony, and his father was at hand to catch me when I fell off. Such things sound incredible, but they are true. A great man is great at all times, and all over.
Thoreau, Channing, and Alcott were also visible to us at this time, but of none of them do I find any trace in my memory; though I know, as a matter of fact, that Channing and my father once permitted me to accompany them on a walk round the country roads, which inadvertently prolonged itself to ten miles, and I knew what it was to feel foot-weary. But another neighbor of ours, hardly less known to fame, though in a widely different line of usefulness, makes a very distinct picture in my mind; this was Ephraim Wales Bull, the inventor of the Concord grape. He was as eccentric as his name; but he was a genuine and substantive man, and my father took a great liking to him, which was reciprocated. He was short and powerful, with long arms, and a big head covered with bushy hair and a jungle beard, from which looked out a pair of eyes singularly brilliant and penetrating. He had brains to think with, as well as strong
