Читать книгу From Seven to Seventy: Memories of a Painter and a Yankee - Edward Simmons - Страница 3

Table of Contents

There may have been much distinction in living in Concord, Massachusetts, in the ’fifties, but to me, as a boy, the whole town was only a delightful playground and the people who lived there merely “home folks.” To be sure, I invested some of the great ones with halos of romance. This was not because I knew anything about their literary or artistic attainments, but rather because of the lack of heroic characters in the town. Had there been a Jesse James or a Charlie Chaplin anywhere round, I should probably have woven my dreams of adventure about them. But the jail was always singularly empty, and the movies had not been invented. I was forced, therefore, to pin my youthful imaginings upon a Hawthorne, an Emerson, or a Thoreau! I have always felt I was greatly cheated.

I lived in the Old Manse, from which Hawthorne plucked his mosses. It was built in 1760 by the Rev. William Emerson, the grandfather of Ralph Waldo, and was a delightful house for a boy to grow up in. There was a long hallway running from east to west, and from the stairway a line of grisly divines, framed in black, looked down. They were mostly ancestors, and they gave a terrible air of austerity to the interior; but below and above were many redeeming features.

One was the swing shelf in the basement, always covered with fascinating goodies. Here on Saturday night one might cut with one’s jackknife a hunk of juicy meat roasted ready for Sunday’s dinner, and wash it down with cream from the shining pan of milk next to it. Here were preserves, jellies, cakes, and pies just cooling from the oven; while over in the corner barrels of apples were stored away for winter consumption. I shall never forget the delights of the swing shelf.

The Old Manse was built in the manner of the eighteenth century—entirely of wood, the oaken timbers being held together with oaken plugs. We boys found it quite easy to draw these from place, and we used them for tholepins in our dory. Fortunately, the grown-ups got on to us or I believe the house would have eventually collapsed.

There was a gabled roof with chimneys at both ends, and, of course, all sorts of wonderful nooks and crannies to hide away in. It was up in this attic that my grandmother Ripley was found by a caller rocking a cradle with her foot and holding a book in her hand which she was intently reading. It was written in Sanskrit! She apologized because she needed a dictionary to read this language. This was not so of Latin and Greek, as she read them fluently; but she used to say, “I cannot think in Sanskrit.”

She whom the name, “Peasant Princess,” fits better than any other, was the wife of Emerson’s father’s half-brother, and therefore older than Emerson. He used to spend a great deal of his time with her at the Old Manse, and she had much to do with influencing his life. One can see this from his letters as a boy.

THE OLD MANSE AT CONCORD

At the window—Edward Simmons’s mother; Under the umbrella—his sister Elizabeth; Standing—his first cousin, Sarah Alden (Thayer) Ames; Seated—one of his cousins of the Bradford branch.

My grandmother’s sitting room was the delight of my life. There was a broad chimney shelf, and low down on the left-hand side a framed bit of handwriting, an invitation to Lieutenant Bradford to dine with General Washington. Over that was a big hornet’s nest, a stuffed owl, and, strangest of all, a copy of the “Beatrice Cenci” and Titian’s “Tribute Money,” brought back from Italy by my father. I always thought, as a child, that the head of Christ was a family portrait and that the Jew with the tribute money was a tradesman. Why the tradesman was giving one of us money instead of vice versa, I did not know.

Here in this room I used to dream until most likely interrupted by some caller upon grandmother. Then I would retire to the corner and listen to their conversation about antislavery, human freedom, states’ rights, etc.—understanding not a word, but fascinated by the fervor of the speakers. I have seen gathered together in this parlor Emerson, Frank Sanborn, Charles Sumner, and John Brown, the last short and squat, his great beard upon his breast, and spreading his coat tails before the fire like a pouter pigeon.

Something that occurred years later, when I was a student at Harvard, made me appreciate my grandmother more than ever. Prof. Asa Gray, a man of seventy, and the first botanist of the world at that time, met me in the Yard one day and stopping me said:

“I understand that your name is Simmons and that you are the grandson of Mary Bradford Ripley?”

I replied that I was.

He took off his skull cap and bowed low to the ground, saying, “Allow me to do honor to the offspring of one of the ablest botanists I have ever known.”

I remember her looks well. Her features were very marked and her nose big and straight. Her hair was then white and she had blue-gray eyes. There is a photograph of her sitting under a grape arbor, looking very absent-minded, with the little finger of her left hand hooked in the corner of her mouth—a habit of my sister and both of my boys!

Grandfather’s salary as a Unitarian clergyman was the munificent sum of six hundred dollars a year, and on this my grandmother managed to bring up a large family of children—doing all the cooking and sewing herself—marry off three of the girls, and send the two boys through college. “As big as Sam Ripley” was the saying throughout the countryside, and, although he was lusty and hail, my grandfather died when he was in his prime—in fact, before I was born. The circumstances of his death, which I heard when a youngster, made a deep impression upon me.

It was the day before Thanksgiving. The Old Manse was full of guests and relatives when he took his daughter Elizabeth and, filling his buggy with goodies, drove out to distribute them to his poor parishioners. The last gift delivered, they turned upon the road home, he remarking that the Widow Hall would certainly enjoy the two chickens he had left her. It was a rainy, bleak November night and Lizzie, snuggling into the robes, almost went to sleep, when, looking down, she noticed the reins were slipping. She spoke to him, but he did not answer. Even then she could not realize what the matter was, until, reaching to gather in the lines, she felt his hand cold beneath hers. He was already dead.

I often used to think of that drive—the tragedy of the young girl guiding the horse over miles of muddy road in a blinding rain, and the arrival at the brightly lighted house, full of laughter and merriment, with the sad burden by her side. How did she tell them? Did she call from the road, or did she leave him there and go into the house? How could one tell what to do under such circumstances? Perhaps the joyous crowd ran out to meet her and there was a great hush—they never told me that part. But I liked to believe that it was my grandmother Ripley, who, all alone, was watching from the doorway, and knowing intuitively that something was wrong, took the whole situation into her strong, capable hands.

Like all boys, I was intensely interested in birds and animals. One day I was playing in the grass in front of the Old Manse, when I suddenly looked up to see a short man with a blond beard leaning over me.

“What have you there, Eddie?”

“A great crested flycatcher’s egg,” I replied.

This was a very rare find.

He wanted me to give it to him, but I would not. Then he proposed a swap.

“If you will give it to me, I will show you a live fox,” he said. This was too much to resist. We made a rendezvous for the next Sunday.

Although descended from a line of parsons, I had already learned that Sunday was, for me, merely a holiday, and it was evidently the same for him. This man was Henry D. Thoreau.

Accordingly, the following Sabbath I trudged down to his place at Walden Pond, and he, who had “no walks to throw away on company,” proceeded to devote his entire afternoon to a boy of ten. After going a long way through the woods, we both got down on our bellies and crawled for miles, it seemed to me, through sand and shrubbery. But Mr. Fox refused to show himself—and worse luck than all, I never got my egg back! I have always had a grudge against Thoreau for this.

Concord was a town utterly without crime. There was no gazing into the jail windows to catch a glimpse of the hideous offenders against the law. I never really heard of but one prisoner in my life, and he was so mild that he hardly made an impression. During my time this man was the only inhabitant of the jail and, technically, he did not belong there. A number of years before he had been imprisoned for some offense, and, after being released, returned and begged to be taken in again, as he was lonely and had gotten used to the place. So, one could see him ’most any summer evening sitting out on the steps of the jail. He was a great pet of the Emerson family, and was hired to play the violin for all the dances.

One of my memories of the Old Manse is that of the Thursday-afternoon visits of Ellery Channing, the poet. I never saw anything written by him until I left the town. He was always asked to supper and always stayed, becoming thereby a part of the mental furniture of the place. He was old, fattish, disorderly, absent-minded, and to me so unæsthetic, that I knew he could not be a good poet. I don’t believe he was. A humbler than Thoreau, who practically occupied the same position in the estimation of the Emersons. I remember with what was then for me horror, but now extreme sympathy, that years before, his wife had left him because she had insisted upon his having a carpet in his study. This he kept patiently removing until, returning from a camping trip, he found it firmly nailed to the floor; so he pulled it up, tore it in strips, and hurled it out of the window, thereby ruining the carpet and both their tempers.

Another frequent caller upon our family was Charles Sumner. I remember him most vividly upon one occasion. He had come in for luncheon. Mother, who left the intellectual part of the life to others and always said, “I find philosophers have just as hearty an appetite as other people—especially for pie,” was in the kitchen, making this delectable dish. I was playing upon the sitting-room floor. Suddenly I felt a hand upon my head.

“My boy,” he said, “when you grow up you’ll find out two things. One is that all men have mothers, but I don’t think you will ever meet any other man who has ever had a mother like yours.”

My father died when I was three years old and I had always taken mother more or less for granted, and I thought him very silly at the time.

I once asked mother how she came to be married. My father, who had almost been tarred and feathered in the South for his antislavery sermons, had fled North and finally became the fashionable young preacher of Boston. Mother was one of five sisters, and said she was astounded when he asked her to marry him, as she always supposed it was Lizzie he wanted—Lizzie being the intellectual one. It was that way with mother. Brought up in an intellectual atmosphere where learning was considered the only thing of account, she was always surprised when anyone showed a preference for her—a woman who would rather scrub a kitchen floor than write an essay!

Mother’s democratic tendencies spread in every direction. There was a pew in church that was supposed to be reserved for the poor. “No one in the poorhouse is any poorer than we are,” said mother, and marched us into it every Sunday. The Old Manse pew was farther up the aisle, and, besides, one had to pay for that.

Although she was such a housewife, she had a great independence of thought. A woman had come to Concord, with no husband, and given birth to a child. This, for New England at that time, was a terrible scandal. The boy was my age and went to school. All the other boys whispered behind his back as if he had been in jail, although by this time his mother was properly married to a young farmer up on Barret’s Hill. No one ever spoke to her in church or bowed. My mother, very quietly, every summer, put on her best clothes and walked the mile or more up the hill to call.

To me Hawthorne always typified the haughty Southerner. I did not know what haughty Southerners were like, but I had heard them talked about and supposed they were very superior creatures—an idea my worthy relatives would have promptly squelched had they known it. Hawthorne was a hero to me, and whenever I read a romance, such as Ivanhoe or the “Iliad,” I pictured the conqueror as tall, broad, dark, and spare, with a dark mustache. This was the way Hawthorne looked to me.

I would never have dared speak to him, and do not remember having seen him at the house; but, of course, the Old Manse was filled with memories of his presence.

I remember staring for hours at a time at the words he wrote on the window of the dining room, and wondering how he did it. It read:

“On this day my daughter Una was born, while the trees are all glass chandeliers.”

What a sentence for a boy to dream about! It is still there, and there are many other windows with his name only.

I had never seen any diamond rings; none of my womenfolk wore rings, and it seemed strange to me how anyone could write on a pane of glass!

Hawthorne, contrary to public opinion, did not own the Old Manse, but only rented it from the Ripleys. In fact, he lived there only a year or more. It was a great disillusion to find later that the grown-ups of my family did not consider him a great hero, and in fact thought his writing on the windows a horrible defacement of the house—especially as they had had some difficulty in collecting the rent.

My most vivid memory of Hawthorne is during the time I was attending the intermediate school. In front of the building was the town square, separated from the school by an iron fence. Here we boys used to play baseball, and upon going home, I, forgetful as always, would invariably leave behind my dinner pail or my jacket. I was invariably sent back to fetch it.

By this time the shadows had begun to fall, and very often I saw Hawthorne and his wife pass by, arm in arm, she in white and he dark—dark as the coming night. They spoke in low tones and seemed to be oblivious of any passers-by. I was told that he went out only at night, and this made him all the more romantic to me. The truth was that he was very shy, and so, in the daytime, went only into the woods in back of his house. He was a great lover of children, but so fearful of meeting them that he concealed himself in a hollow tree in order to see the festival that the school gave once a year.

Mr. Channing told me that once he was rowing with Hawthorne on the Assabet River, the north branch of the Concord. He remarked that the reflection of the hemlocks in the water was unusual.

“Which is the reflection?” said Hawthorne, pointing first to the hemlocks and then to the picture in the water. This seems to me to be very characteristic of Hawthorne’s method of thought.

Concord was an historical spot, and in the summer was overrun with tourists, who, not content with viewing the scene of the “shot heard round the world,” etc., would invade the Old Manse. These gangs were allowed to go all over the house in which Hawthorne once lived, much to the discomfort and derision of the occupants. One day, when I was still quite a young man, there was a party of people upstairs nosing around, and my uncle Gore (Judge Ripley) and I were in the sitting room. My sister had brought in, not long before, a long, draggly bit of Spanish moss and put it on the chimney shelf. While the tourists were upstairs, my uncle rose and, taking the moss, went to the front door, where, climbing upon a chair, he hung it. It trailed down three or four feet. When the party came down and started to go out, the moss was evidently in the way. Lifting it up so that the door would open without catching it, my uncle bowed and with his best manner as chief justice of the Minnesota Supreme Court, remarked:

“The moss—of which he wrote!”

SARAH ALDEN (BRADFORD) RIPLEY

Grandmother of Edward Simmons

(From a pencil drawing by Edward Simmons)

Every jaw fell; their eyes rolled upward and in dead silence they marched to their carryall.

A little old woman with mitts and poke bonnet appeared at the Emerson house one day and begged for a piece of “your dear father’s clothing.”

“I am making a rag carpet of poets’ garments,” she said.

She was refused.

“Is that field yours?” she asked, pointing across the way. She was told it was.

“Do you mind if I trespass? You see, I am also making a collection of crickets from poets’ homes.”

I should like to have seen the crickets stuck up in a row on their pins, but I fancy the rag carpet would have been more amusing. Imagine walking on Mr. Longfellow’s red flannel shirt!

Every remembrance of my boyhood seems permeated with the Civil War. It is hard for me to remember when it began or when it ended. We were always having holidays at school, either for a victory or for a defeat. The flag was constantly up or at half mast at the town pump, giving us the idea of “goin’ fishin’ or somethin’.”

There comes before my mind a ghastly figure (bearded) in a box in the church. A dead man! The first I had ever seen! He had been shot in the South.

One day under the red dogwood bush in the Southeast corner of our place, I found the cap and jacket of a conscript. After escaping, he had evidently changed there. I pictured him “shot at dawn” if caught, so I never told.

I have heard that the Old Manse was an underground station for slaves, but I never saw any evidence of it myself. I remember that Frank Sanborn stayed at our house for awhile when he escaped from the Southern people, who tried to carry him away out of the jurisdiction of Massachusetts. If there were negroes there, I should have known as much about it as I did about childbirth—always being sent away on the latter occasions. In fact, I had never seen but one negro in my life. He was an escaped slave, very old, who took care of our garden, cow, etc. He limped badly from rheumatism, and my uncle Charles had given him some liniment. One day I heard my uncle ask:

“John, did you really try that liniment?”

“Oh, yes sah!” said John.

“Did it do you any good?”

John assured him that it did, but uncle Charles was not quite convinced that he was telling the truth, so he persisted:

“Did it turn your knee black, John?”

“No blackah dan it was befo’, sah.”

Suddenly, I realized that John’s legs were the same color as his face!

It seemed to me that every day after school I was nailed by my grandmother and a bunch of old women and made to sing war songs. I can see them now, sitting round in a circle, pulling lint and crying (for invariably some one they cared for had just died) and listening to me bellow:

Say, darkies, hab you seen de massa wif de muschaf on his face

Go long de road sometime dis mornin’ like he gwine to leab de place?

He seen de smoke way up de ribber whar de Lincum gunboats lay

An’ he took his hat an’ lef’ very sudden, like he gwine t’ run away.

“Oh, de massa run, ha! ha! De darkies stay, ho! ho!

For it mus’ be now de Kingdom’s comin’;

It’s de year ob jubilo!”

I tried to enlist at the age of ten as a drummer boy. I was told I would be taken when I had learned to beat a tattoo on a drum. Delighted, I ran home to tell the news, only to find that the orderly had been sent up the back street to tell my mother, and instead of being received as a hero I was severely reprimanded. This only increased my disgust with the war.

One of the most picturesque figures of Concord in those days was A. Bronson Alcott. I knew him well as a friend of the family, but on looking back I visualize him in two places. He was very long, slab sided and lean, and what you would call pasty faced, with hair that fell to his shoulders. I can see him sitting in his abominable rustic chairs—with a disease that happens to trees making lumps all over them. He made this furniture himself and used to be very proud of it, but I used to run by like mad for fear of being asked to go in and sit on one of those benches, which I felt might make lumps all over me.

The other picture is Mr. Alcott sitting beside our teacher, a woman, at school. It was one of those first afternoons of spring when all outdoors is calling to boyhood and you can think of a thousand interesting things to do. But this strange creature took up a whole afternoon in reading Bunyan to us! Needless to say, I have sidestepped Bunyan ever since.

They tell a story of Mr. Alcott being accosted, in his youth, by a farmer in Bellows Falls, who asked:

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Alcott?”

“I write.”

“Hell! What?”

“Thoughts.”

“What for?”

“For posterity.”

Exit farmer.

I have always thought that if the good Bronson had lived in the twentieth century he would almost certainly have belonged to that colony which inhabits the district west of Washington Square.

Louisa looked very much like her father—pasty and lean, with a very large nose. To me, as a child, she seemed a very unattractive and a most unkissable person, probably because she was quite a masculine type. Her sister May was very different. She was tall and good-looking, with lots of beautiful blond hair. She painted, and later went to Paris to study. It seemed to me she was always lying in a hammock, being rocked and read to by my brother or Julian Hawthorne. Louisa may have been impressed with this picture, as May is the Amy of Little Women, and these two boys are supposed to be a composite hero. I have been told I was the little boy who rolled downstairs in his nightgown, in the story of the Pickwick Club entertainment, but do not remember the actual occurrence.

Louisa was evidently quite awkward, and in many ways not house broke; also absent-minded and careless, as is the traditional author. It seems that her manners at table were commented upon once too often by other members of her family. She decided not to stand it. So one morning she managed to be the first at breakfast, and when the remainder of the family turned up in the dining room they were greeted with a strange sight. Louisa had pinned the New York Tribune around her head and was wearing it like a great helmet. The pages reached the table and completely covered her plate. Only her hands were visible. At intervals they would come out, take something, and retire behind the paper again. For weeks she kept this up and no amount of pleading would stop her, until there was a general abject apology from the whole family.

None of the second generation appreciated the Concord atmosphere. Louisa tells of her astonishment, when grown, to learn that no society was so fine or intellectual as that of her childhood.

The saddest results of this strangely intellectual atmosphere was the number of spinsters it produced. The Misses Blood were always a curious sight to me. Their house, way up in the woods, was chair to chair and bureau to bureau, completely around the rooms, with priceless old Colonial furniture, but their economies were a revelation. Every Sunday they would stop in front of the Old Manse at the foot of the avenue and, retiring into a niche in the trees, put on their shoes and stockings, which they had carried during the three-mile walk. They always stayed for second service, and one of my amusements, when the sermon was dull, was to watch them begin their lunch, which generally consisted of Bent’s water crackers. In and out, in and out went the hard, round objects, in their attempts to bite with their one or two remaining back teeth. The sight almost hypnotized me.

Their death, which occurred after I was grown up, was one of the unspoken tragedies of life. One day a farmer passed and noticed there was no smoke coming from their chimney. He went in and found one of the sisters dead at the bottom of the cellar stairs, having fallen down and broken her leg. The other sister, who had become paralyzed and deaf, was sitting in a chair upstairs, also dead. The one had not been able to move after her fall, and the other could not hear her cries. Both had died from starvation.

I was brought up as a young duke—without the estates!—and I was never allowed to earn money. I recall being severely reprimanded by my mother and made to walk back three miles to return a nickel a man had given me for running an errand. I was told I should have been glad to do it for nothing. I remember my surprise, years later, when I was in Europe, to hear that Americans were “commercial.” The desire for great material gain was either astonishingly developed in one generation, or did it, as I suspect, creep in a little as the emigration from the Old World increased? Certainly there was none of it in that truly American town of Concord, Massachusetts.

EDWARD SIMMONS

At the age of seven

In Concord it was no disgrace to be poor—nearly everyone was—and until I was nearly grown I never had a new suit of clothes. My brother’s and my breeches were made from the old army uniforms, the cloth having a wearing quality that was almost like iron and would pull a nail out of anything rather than tear. We were called “Blue Legs” until we were quite grown up.

My cousins, the Emersons, represented affluence, in my childish mind. Their house was a square wooden one, set among trees, mostly pines and chestnuts. There was a solemn, gravelike quality to it. I remember going down alone on errands, and always had a feeling of awe upon approaching it. I think this was because the trees were so close to the house that the grass would not grow and everything was damp around it. The door was always open, and Mr. Emerson generally came into the hall when anyone approached. This was a wonderful relief to me, as I was terrified by the women and servants. The inside gave me the impression of wealth and spaciousness. It may have been the reflection of the talk I heard at home, but it seemed very impressive and august.

No amount of grown-up talk could make me fear Mr. Emerson, however, or feel the slightest embarrassment in his presence. He seemed, like my grandmother, to be a perfect example of serenity. He received me as an equal and entertained me as if I were a young prince. He had reached that extreme height of simplicity where he could be interesting to a boy, and, while I preferred him to any of the others, I was quite sure he did not count for as much.

Mr. Emerson’s study was to the right of the hall. There was a large fireplace, and what were to me magnificent red-velvet chairs on either side. There must have been hangings of the same material, as I got the feeling of crimson everywhere. From the floor to the ceiling, the walls were lined with books—books that had been read and reread until the bindings were very much worn.

Of my early memories of Mr. Emerson, two are most vivid. The first in his garden, where he often took me, walking slowly about and telling me of each flower and plant as if it were a particular friend. I never read his Days that I do not visualize him in his “pleached garden,” showing me his pear trees.

The second memory is of Thanksgiving time. Every year on this day there was a gathering of the clan at the Emersons. There were the Thayers, Jacksons, Emersons, Simmonses, Bradfords, and Ripleys, but no others. The dinner was the traditional New England affair, the table heaped with food; and the conversation consisted of the usual family gossip. I remember there was always a discussion among the women as to whether one said Mr. Emerson or Cousin Waldo.

As soon as dessert was served and the nuts and fruit brought on, there was a little ceremony that was invariably performed. Mr. Emerson would look down from the head of the table and, pretending not to see me, say:

“Where is that little boy who likes figs?”

This was my cue to march up to him, and, taking me on his knee, he would pop into my mouth, one by one, these delightful and expensive fruits, until I could not contain another one. Of course, my mother protested all the time, but he paid not the slightest attention.

After dinner, in the evening, we played all sorts of games such as dumb crambo, and then everyone had to perform. It was a pet theory of Mr. Emerson’s that everyone should learn self-expression, and he demanded a recitation from the children of four and five up to those of the marriageable age. There was absolutely no way to get out of this.

Despite the protests of the women, Mr. Emerson would have his after-dinner cigar. In fact, he almost always got his way, although he was never dictatorial. Sometimes it was with a gentle remark. When his wife asked him if she could have a spiritualistic meeting in the front parlor, he answered her with Hotspur’s words:

“Certainly, for well I know thou willst not utter what thou dost not know and so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate!”

On another occasion, when Aunt Mary was visiting the family, he happened to be in Boston. Aunt Mary slept in her coffin. She was very small, so purchased it before her death to be sure she had the right size and would not rattle! Mr. Emerson wrote to his wife in Concord, telling her he was going to bring some notables home for a visit, and begged her to persuade Aunt Mary not to wear her shroud at breakfast.

Emerson’s sense of honor and justice were two of his most important qualities. The farmers used to come to him to settle their legal quarrels. Whatever difference of religious opinion the community held, they refused to allow him to be criticized in any way. When the Rev. Grindell Reynolds—an excellent but limited divine—got up in the Unitarian church and referred to the street upon which Emerson lived as “Atheist Lane,” the congregation rose in a body and filed out.

Another instance of his very highly developed sense of justice is the case of General Loring, who was supposed to be a traitor to the antislavery movement. The lesser minds raved and swore they would never speak to him again. Whittier wrote a poem about him. Emerson gave no tongue, but one evening after a Lyceum lecture in Salem he saw the general in line with those who wished to congratulate and shake hands with him. Speaking very distinctly so that everyone about could hear, he said, taking the proffered hand:

“General Loring, if what I hear of you be true—I shake hands with you under protest.”

The last time I saw Mr. Emerson was in 1879. I was in my twenty-seventh year, had just returned from California, and was spending some time in Concord before going abroad. Charles H. Davis, the painter, was visiting me at the Old Manse, and we both went over and supped with him. He seemed much older, but was still that example of perfect serenity I had known as a boy. His memory was beginning to fail him, which made him a bit querulous, but his daughter Ellen supplied it whenever she could. For example, he forgot that he had ever seen Tom Taylor’s tribute, or apology, to Lincoln, in Punch—in spite of the fact that it is included in the Parnassus—and read it to us, at my request, with astonishment and delight. He read beautifully, and his voice retained all of its old hypnotic quality.

While his memory failed in the detail of names and places, he still retained, in most cases, his fascinating mode of expression, and the process of thought was still there. He said the night Davis and I were there—

“Last week, it was the day... the day that... who was it was here? Ellen, can you remember? Oh! It was our religious friend.” He referred to Whittier.

He asked, upon going out for a walk, “Where is that thing everybody borrows and no one ever returns.” He meant an umbrella and had forgotten the name.

This story was told me by my mother. They knew (the women) that Emerson’s opinion of Longfellow was the same as theirs—the Bromides—and that the two men, of course, loved and admired each other—which they did not. Of course, Mr. Emerson must go to the funeral of the poet. Accordingly, the poor man was pulled up, himself more dead than alive, and brought down to Cambridge. He sat at the church, seemingly unconscious of the raison d’être of it all. Then he rose (holding on to his coat tails was not effective) and joined the procession about the body.

On crossing the Cambridge Common later, he suddenly stopped, faced around toward the church, and then looking at them, said:

“I do not remember the name of our friend we have just buried, but he had a beautiful soul.”

In some people the loss of memory can be a blessed thing.

I cannot write a biography, and my opinion is of no value, but Emerson was one of the supermen I have met. He seemed to glorify everything with which he came into contact. Like all great men, he was surrounded with a lot of worshipers, most of them inferiors, and, as Henry James says, these Concord figures were not so interesting in themselves as that Emerson thought them so. He was the kind of man who “rendered the commonplace sacred.”

He was always a teacher or a preacher, whether he remained in the Church or not. He spoke of Shakespeare as “our man” and Homer as the “old man,” showing that by training his mind he stood with one mental foot on Homer and the other, with us, on Shakespeare. He could have been a great lyricist, but, as Henry Adams remarks, there is no rhythm in New England; the climate will not permit it. Emerson was ashamed of his love of beauty, rhythm, and lyricism, as being not quite true to New England. Like Renan, he blossomed the more fully when surrounded by beautiful women. He married two. To me he seems a very shrewd Yankee. Look at the depth of his thought in “Lovers, preserve your strangeness.”

It was because he talked to a great number of his own ilk that he penetrated America’s thought so easily. I agree with Matthew Arnold that Emerson was the first essayist of the nineteenth century.

MARY EMERSON (RIPLEY) SIMMONS

The Concord literati are gone, the town has completely changed, but the Old Manse is still there, holding many secrets. Not the least interesting of these was uncovered in about ’81, when the house was torn up to put a bow window in the corner of the southeast parlor. The wall paper, undoubtedly hideous in color when placed there, had mellowed to a lovely Whistlerian tone. This, of course, had to be removed. To the astonishment of everyone, it was discovered that the pattern had been printed upon the back of French newspapers of the period of the Revolution. (This economy in paper will be understood by our experience in the last war.) There were editions with the speeches of Mirabeau and many other of the patriots of the time. Think of Frank Sanborn, my uncle George Bradford, and Mr. Emerson, to say nothing of my grandmother Ripley and John Brown, gathered about the fireplace in this room, discussing the problems of the Civil War, while from the walls cried out to them Mirabeau, Robespierre, and Danton:

“CON-CITOYENS!—CON-CITOYENS!”