first visit to new england-第13部分

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forces　together　for　retreat。　　I　must　have　made　some　effort；　vain　and
foolish　enough；　to　rematerialize　my　old　demigod；　but　when　I　came　away　it
was　with　the　feeling　that　there　was　very　little　more　left　of　John　Brown
than　there　was　of　me。　　His　body　was　not　mouldering　in　the　grave；　neither
was　his　soul　marching　on；　his　ideal；　his　type；　his　principle　alone
existed；　and　I　did　not　know　what　to　do　with　it。　　I　am　not　blaming
Thoreau；　his　words　were　addressed　to　a　far　other　understanding　than　mine；
and　it　was　my　misfortune　if　I　could　not　profit　by　them。　　I　think；　or　I
venture　to　hope；　that　I　could　profit　better　by　them　now；　but　in　this
record　I　am　trying　honestly　to　report　their　effect　with　the　sort　of　youth
I　was　then。




XVII。

Such　as　I　was；　I　rather　wonder　that　I　had　the　courage；　after　this
experiment　of　Thoreau；　to　present　the　card　Hawthorne　had　given　me　to
Emerson。　　I　must　have　gone　to　him　at　once；　however；　for　I　cannot　make　out
any　interval　of　time　between　my　visit　to　the　disciple　and　my　visit　to　the
master。　　I　think　it　was　Emerson　himself　who　opened　his　door　to　me；　for　I
have　a　vision　of　the　fine　old　man　standing　tall　on　his　threshold；　with
the　card　in　his　hand；　and　looking　from　it　to　me　with　a　vague　serenity；
while　I　waited　a　moment　on　the　door…step　below　him。　　He　must　then　have
been　about　sixty；　but　I　remember　nothing　of　age　in　his　aspect；　though　I
have　called　him　an　old　man。　　His　hair；　I　am　sure；　was　still　entirely
dark；　and　his　face　had　a　kind　of　marble　youthfulness；　chiselled　to　a
delicate　intelligence　by　the　highest　and　noblest　thinking　that　any　man
has　done。　　There　was　a　strange　charm　in　Emerson's　eyes；　which　I　felt　then
and　always；　something　like　that　I　saw　in　Lincoln's；　but　shyer；　but
sweeter　and　less　sad。　　His　smile　was　the　very　sweetest　I　have　ever
beheld；　and　the　contour　of　the　mask　and　the　line　of　the　profile　were　in
keeping　with　this　incomparable　sweetness　of　the　mouth；　at　once　grave　and
quaint；　though　quaint　is　not　quite　the　word　for　it　either；　but　subtly；
not　unkindly　arch；　which　again　is　not　the　word。

It　was　his　great　fortune　to　have　been　mostly　misunderstood；　and　to　have
reached　the　dense　intelligence　of　his　fellow…men　after　a　whole　lifetime
of　perfectly　simple　and　lucid　appeal；　and　his　countenance　expressed　the
patience　and　forbearance　of　a　wise　man　content　to　bide　his　time。　　It
would　be　hard　to　persuade　people　now　that　Emerson　once　represented　to　the
popular　mind　all　that　was　most　hopelessly　impossible；　and　that　in　a
certain　sort　he　was　a　national　joke；　the　type　of　the　incomprehensible；
the　byword　of　the　poor　paragrapher。　　He　had　perhaps　disabused　the
community　somewhat　by　presenting　himself　here　and　there　as　a　lecturer；
and　talking　face　to　face　with　men　in　terms　which　they　could　not　refuse　to
find　as　clear　as　they　were　wise；　he　was　more　and　more　read；　by　certain
persons；　here　and　there；　but　we　are　still　so　far　behind　him　in　the　reach
of　his　far…thinking　that　it　need　not　be　matter　of　wonder　that　twenty
years　before　his　death　he　was　the　most　misunderstood　man　in　America。
Yet　in　that　twilight　where　he　dwelt　he　loomed　large　upon　the　imagination；
the　minds　that　could　not　conceive　him　were　still　aware　of　his　greatness。
I　myself　had　not　read　much　of　him；　but　I　knew　the　essays　he　was　printing
in　the　Atlantic；　and　I　knew　certain　of　his　poems；　though　by　no　means
many；　yet　I　had　this　sense　of　him；　that　he　was　somehow；　beyond　and　above
my　ken；　a　presence　of　force　and　beauty　and　wisdom；　uncompanioned　in　our
literature。　　He　had　lately　stooped　from　his　ethereal　heights　to　take　part
in　the　battle　of　humanity；　and　I　suppose　that　if　the　truth　were　told　he
was　more　to　my　young　fervor　because　he　had　said　that　John　Brown　had　made
the　gallows　glorious　like　the　cross；　than　because　he　had　uttered　all
those　truer　and　wiser　things　which　will　still　a　hundred　years　hence　be
leading　the　thought　of　the　world。

I　do　not　know　in　just　what　sort　he　made　me　welcome；　but　I　am　aware　of
sitting　with　him　in　his　study　or　library；　and　of　his　presently　speaking
of　Hawthorne；　whom　I　probably　celebrated　as　I　best　could；　and　whom　he
praised　for　his　personal　excellence；　and　for　his　fine　qualities　as　a
neighbor。　　〃But　his　last　book；〃　he　added；　reflectively；　〃is　a　mere　mush；〃
and　I　perceived　that　this　great　man　was　no　better　equipped　to　judge　an
artistic　fiction　than　the　groundlings　who　were　then　crying　out　upon　the
indefinite　close　of　the　Marble　Faun。　　Apparently　he　had　read　it；　as　they
had；　for　the　story；　but　it　seems　to　me　now；　if　it　did　not　seem　to　me
then；　that　as　far　as　the　problem　of　evil　was　involved；　the　book　must
leave　it　where　it　found　it。　　That　is　forever　insoluble；　and　it　was　rather
with　that　than　with　his　more　or　less　shadowy　people　that　the　romancer　was
concerned。　　Emerson　had；　in　fact；　a　defective　sense　as　to　specific　pieces
of　literature；　he　praised　extravagantly；　and　in　the　wrong　place；
especially　among　the　new　things；　and　he　failed　to　see　the　worth　of　much
that　was　fine　and　precious　beside　the　line　of　his　fancy。

He　began　to　ask　me　about　the　West；　and　about　some　unknown　man　in
Michigan；　who　had　been　sending　him　poems；　and　whom　he　seemed　to　think
very　promising；　though　he　has　not　apparently　kept　his　word　to　do　great
things。　　I　did　not　find　what　Emerson　had　to　say　of　my　section　very
accurate　or　important；　though　it　was　kindly　enough；　and　just　enough　as　to
what　the　West　ought　to　do　in　literature。　　He　thought　it　a　pity　that　a
literary　periodical　which　had　lately　been　started　in　Cincinnati　should　be
appealing　to　the　East　for　contributions；　instead　of　relying　upon　the
writers　nearer　home；　and　he　listened　with　what　patience　he　could　to　my
modest　opinion　that　we　had　not　the　writers　nearer　home。　　I　never　was　of
those　Westerners　who　believed　that　the　West　was　kept　out　of　literature　by
the　jealousy　of　the　East；　and　I　tried　to　explain　why　we　had　not　the　men
to　write　that　magazine　full　in　Ohio。　　He　alleged　the　man　in　Michigan　as
one　who　alone　could　do　much　to　fill　it　worthily；　and　again　I　had　to　say
that　I　had　never　heard　of　him。

I　felt　rather　guilty　in　my　ignorance；　and　I　had　a　notion　that　it　did　not
commend　me；　but　happily　at　this　moment　Mr。　Emerson　was　called　to　dinner；
and　he　asked　me　to　come　with　him。　　After　dinner　we　walked　about　in　his
〃pleached　garden〃　a　little；　and　then　we　came　again　into　his　library；
where　I　meant　to　linger　only　till　I　could　fitly　get　away。　　He　questioned
me　about　what　I　had　seen　of　Concord；　and　whom　besides　Hawthorne　I　had
met；　and　when　I　told　him　only　Thoreau；　he　asked　me　if　I　knew　the　poems　of
Mr。　William　Ellery　Channing。　　I　have　known　them　since；　and　felt　their
quality；　which　I　have　gladly　owned　a　genuine　and　original　poetry；　but　I
answered　then　truly　that　I　knew　them　only　from　Poe's　criticisms：　cruel
and　spiteful　things　which　I　should　be　ashamed　of　enjoying　as　I　once　did。

〃Whose　criticisms？〃　asked　Emerson。

〃Poe's；〃　I　said　again。

〃Oh；〃　he　cried　out；　after　a　moment；　as　if　he　had　returned　from　a　far
search　for　my　meaning；　〃you　mean　the　jingle…man！〃

I　do　not　know　why　this　should　have　put　me　to　such　confusion；　but　if　I　had
written　the　criticisms　myself　I　do　not　think　I　could　have　been　more
abashed。　　Perhaps　I　felt　an　edge　of　reproof；　of　admonition；　in　a
characterization　of　Poe　which　the　world　will　hardly　agree　with；　though　I
do　not　agree　with　the　world　about　him；　myself；　in　its　admiration。　　At　any
rate；　it　made　an　end　of　me　for　the　time；　and　I　remained　as　if　already
absent；　while　Emerson　questioned　me　as　to　what　I　had　written　in　the
Atlantic　Monthly。　　He　had　evidently　read　none　of　my　contributions；　for　he
looked　at　them；　in　the　bound　volume　of　the　magazine　which　he　got　down；
with　the　effect　of　being　wholly　strange　to　them；　and　then　gravely　affixed
my　initials　to　each。　　He　followed　me　to　the　door；　still　speaking　of
poetry；　and　as　he　took　a　kindly　enough　leave　of　me；　he　said　one　might
very　well　give　a　pleasant　hour　to　it　now　and　then。

A　pleasant　hour　to　poetry！　　I　was　meaning　to　give　all　time　and　all
eternity　to　poetry；　and　I　should　by　no　means　have　wished　to　find　pleasure
in　it；　I　should　have　thought　that　a　proof　of　inferior　quality　in　the
work；　I　should　have　preferred　anxiety；　anguish　even；　to　pleasure。　　But　if
Emerson　thought　from　the　glance　he　gave　my　verses　that　I　had　better　not
lavish　myself　upon　that　kind　of　thing；　unless　there　was　a　great　deal　more
of　me　than　I　could　have　made　apparent　in　our　meeting；　no　doubt　he　was
right。　　I　was　only　too　painfully　aware　of　my　shortcoming；　but　I　felt　that
it　was　shorter…coming　than　it　need　have　been。　　I　had　somehow　not
prospered　in　my　visit　to　Emerson　as　I　had　with　Hawthorne；　and　I　came　away
wondering　in　what　sort　I　had　gone　wrong。　　I　was　not　a　forth…putting
youth；　and　I　could　not　blame　myself　for　anything　in　my　approaches　that
merited　withholding；　indeed；　I　made　no　approaches；　but　as　I　must　needs
blame　myself　for　something；　I　fell　upon　the　fact　that　in　my　confused
retreat　from　Emerson's　presence　I　had　failed　in　a　certain　slight　point　of
ceremony；　and　I　magnified　this　into　an　offence　of　capital　importance。
I　went　home　to　my　hotel；　and　passed　the　afternoon　in　pure　misery。　　I　had
moments　of　wild　question　when　I　debated　whether　it　would　be　bette