The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1894-08-14
Howen's Visit to Emerson.
From my "First Visit To New England" In
Harpel's Magazine.

Harpei's Magazine.
l think it was Em erson himself who
opened his door TO me, for have vision
OF the fine old man standing on his
threshold, with the card in his hand,
and looking from it to me with vague
serenity, while waited moment on the
doorstep below him. He would then
have been about 60, but | remem Der
nothing of age in his aspect, thought I
have called him an old man. His hair,
] am sure, was still entirely dark, and
his T. ce had a kind of marble youth
fullness, chiseled to delicate intelli-
gence by the biahest and noblest think
ing that any man has done There was
a strange charm in Emerson's eyes,
which | felt then and always, someth ing
like that saw in Lineoln's but shyer,
but sweeter and less sad. His smile
was the very sweetest | have beheld, and
the contour of the mask and the line of
the profile were in Keeping with incon-
parable sweetness of the mouth, at once
grave and quaint, though quaint is not
quite the word for it either, but sub billy,
lot nnkindly arch, which again is not
the word
1t was his great fortune to have been
mostly misunderstood and to have
reached the dense intelligence of his fell
low-men after whole lifetime of per-
fectly simple and lucid appeal, and his
countenance expressed the patience and
forbearance of wise man content to
bide his time. 1t would be hard to per-
suade people now that Emerson, once
represented to the popular mind all that
was most hopelessly impossible, and that
in certain sort he was national joke,
the type of the ineomprehepsible the
byword of the poor Photographer. He had
perhaps disabused the community some
what by presenting himself here and
there as 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 GEL
tain persons, here and there; but we are
still SO far behind him in the reach of
his far-th1nking that it need not be mat
ter of wonder that 30 years before his
death he was the most misunderstood
man in America.
do not know in just what sort he
made me welcome. but am aware of
sitting with him in his study or library,
and of his presently speaking of Haw-
thorne, whom | probably celebrated as
| best could, and whom he praised for
his personal excellence, and for his fine
qualities rs a neighbor. But his last
book he added, refiectivelv, lis a mere
mush," and | perceived that it's great
man was no better equipped to Judge
an artistic fiction than the groundlings
~ Woio eAoH Efyfug Out upon the IN
definite close of the Marble Faun. Ap-
parently he had read 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 lnsoluble, and it was rather with
that than with his more or less shadowy
people that the romancer was concerned.
Emerson had, in fact, defective sense
DC tn e1la0 -
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 besides the
line of his fancy
After dinner we walked about in his
"pleached garden" little and then we
came again into his library. where
mean to linger only till could fifty get
away. He questioned me about what
had seen of Concord, and whom besides
Hawthorne l had met, and when I told
him only Thoreau, he asked me if l
knew the poems of William Henry Chan
ming. l have known them since, and felt
their quality. which have gladly owned
as genuine and original poetry; but |
answered then truly that 1 knew them
only from Poe's criticism; cruel and
spiteful things which ! should be
ashamed of enjoying as | once did.
"Poe's," l said again.
""Oh,'" he cried out, after moment, as
1T he had returned from far search for
my meaning" you mean the iingleman!u
do not know why this should have
put me to such confusion, but it I had
written the criticism myself | do not
think ! could have been more abashed.
Perhaps. felt an edge of reproof, of
admonition, in a Characterization of Poe
which the world will hardly agree with;
though 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 remained as if already
absent, while Emerson questioned me
as to what 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
folloWe me TO the door, still speaking
of poetry, aud as he took a kindly enough
leave of me, ne said one might very well
give pleasant hour to it now and then.