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CRITICAL
MISCELLANIES
BY
JOHN MORLEY
VOL. I.
Essay 5: Emerson
London
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1904
Introductory 293
I.
Early days 296
Takes charge of an Unitarian Church in Boston (1829) 297
Resigns the charge in 1832 298
Goes to Europe (1833) 299
Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Carlyle 300
Settles in Concord (1834) 301
Description of Concord by Clough 301
Death of his first wife 302
Income 303
Hawthorne 305
Thoreau 305
Views on Solitude 306
Effect of his address in the Divinity School of Harvard
(1838) 307
Contributes to the _Dial_ (1840) 309
First series of his Essays published in 1841 310
Second series three years later 310
Second visit to England (1847), and delivers lectures on
'Representative Men,' collected and published in 1850 310
Poems first collected in 1847; final version made in 1876 310
Essays and Lectures published in 1860, under general title
of _The Conduct of Life_ 310
And the Civil War 310
General retrospect of his life 312
Died April 27, 1882 312
II.
Style of his writings 313
Manner as a lecturer 314
Dr. Holmes 314
His use of words 314
Sincerity 316
And Landor 316
Mr. Lowell 316
Description of his library 317
A word or two about his verses 319
III.
Hawthorne 322
And Carlyle 323
The friends of Universal Progress in 1840 323
Bossuet 324
Remarks on New England 325
One of the few moral reformers 327
Essays on 'Domestic Life,' on 'Behaviour,' and on
'Manners' 329
Compared to Franklin and Chesterfield 330
Is for faith before works 333
A systematic reasoner 335
The Emersonian faith abundantly justified 337
Carlyle's letter to (June 4, 1871) 337
One remarkable result of his idealism 341
On Death and Sin 342, 344
Conclusion 346
EMERSON.
A great interpreter of life ought not himself to need interpretation,
least of all can he need it for contemporaries. When time has wrought
changes of fashion, mental and social, the critic serves a useful turn
in giving to a poet or a teacher his true place, and in recovering ideas
and points of view that are worth preserving. Interpretation of this
kind Emerson cannot require. His books are no palimpsest, 'the prophet's
holograph, defiled, erased, and covered by a monk's.' What he has
written is fresh, legible, and in full conformity with the manners and
the diction of the day, and those who are unable to understand him
without gloss and comment are in fact not prepared to understand what it
is that the original has to say. Scarcely any literature is so entirely
unprofitable as the so-called criticism that overlays a pithy text with
a windy sermon. For our time at least Emerson may best be left to be his
own expositor.
Nor is Emerson, either, in the case of those whom the world has failed
to recognise, and whom therefore it is the business of the critic to
make known and to define. It is too soon to say in what particular
niche among the teachers of the race posterity will place him; enough
that in our own generation he has already been accepted as one of the
wise masters, who, being called to high thinking for generous ends, did
not fall below his vocation, but, steadfastly pursuing the pure search
for truth, without propounding a system or founding a school or
cumbering himself overmuch about applications, lived the life of the
spirit, and breathed into other men a strong desire after the right
governance of the soul. All this is generally realised and understood,
and men may now be left to find their way to the Emersonian doctrine
without the critic's prompting. Though it is only the other day that
Emerson walked the earth and was alive and among us, he is already one
of the privileged few whom the reader approaches in the mood of settled
respect, and whose names have surrounded themselves with an atmosphere
of religion.
It is not particularly profitable, again, to seek for Emerson one of the
labels out of the philosophic handbooks. Was he the prince of
Transcendentalists, or the prince of Idealists? Are we to look for the
sources of his thought in Kant or Jacobi, in Fichte or Schelling? How
does he stand towards Parmenides and Zeno, the Egotheism of the Sufis,
or the position of the Megareans? Shall we put him on the shelf with the
Stoics or the Mystics, with Quietist, Pantheist, Determinist? If life
were long, it might be worth while to trace Emerson's affinities with
the philosophic schools; to collect and infer his answers to the
everlasting problems of psychology and metaphysics; to extract a set of
coherent and reasoned opinions about knowledge and faculty, experience
and consciousness, truth and necessity, the absolute and the relative.
But such inquiries would only take us the further away from the essence
and vitality of Emerson's mind and teaching. In philosophy proper
Emerson made no contribution of his own, but accepted, apparently
without much examination of the other side, from Coleridge after Kant,
the intuitive, _a priori_ and realist theory respecting the sources of
human knowledge, and the objects that are within the cognisance of the
human faculties. This was his starting-point, and within its own sphere
of thought he cannot be said to have carried it any further. What he did
was to light up these doctrines with the rays of ethical and poetic
imagination. As it has been justly put, though Emersonian
transcendentalism is usually spoken of as a philosophy, it is more
justly regarded as a gospel.[1] But before dwelling more on this, let us
look into the record of his life, of which we may say in all truth that
no purer, simpler, and more harmonious story can be found in the annals
of far-shining men.
[Footnote 1: Frothingham's _Transcendentalism in New England: a
History_--a judicious, acute, and highly interesting piece of criticism.]
I.
Ralph Waldo Emerson was born at Boston, May 25, 1803. He was of an
ancient and honourable English stock, who had transplanted themselves,
on one side from Cheshire and Bedfordshire, and on the other from Durham
and York, a hundred and seventy years before. For seven or eight
generations in a direct and unbroken line his forefathers had been
preachers and divines, not without eminence in the Puritan tradition of
New England. His second name came into the family with Rebecca Waldo,
with whom at the end of the seventeenth century one Edward Emerson had
intermarried, and whose family had fled from the Waldensian valleys and
that slaughter of the saints which Milton called on Heaven to avenge.
Every tributary, then, that made Emerson what he was, flowed not only
from Protestantism, but from 'the Protestantism of the Protestant
religion.' When we are told that Puritanism inexorably locked up the
intelligence of its votaries in a dark and straitened chamber, it is
worthy to be remembered that the genial, open, lucid, and most
comprehensive mind of Emerson was the ripened product of a genealogical
tree that at every stage of its growth had been vivified by Puritan sap.
Not many years after his birth, Emerson's mother was left a widow with
narrow means, and he underwent the wholesome training of frugality in
youth. When the time came, he was sent to Harvard. When Clough visited
America a generation later, the collegiate training does not appear to
have struck him very favourably. 'They learn French and history and
German, and a great many more things than in England, but only
imperfectly.' This was said from the standard of Rugby and Balliol, and
the method that Clough calls imperfect had merits of its own. The pupil
lost much in a curriculum that had a certain rawness about it, compared
with the traditional culture that was at that moment (1820) just
beginning to acquire a fresh hold within the old gray quadrangles of
Oxford. On the other hand, the training at Harvard struck fewer of those
superfluous roots in the mind, which are only planted that they may be
presently cast out again with infinite distraction and waste.
When his schooling was over, Emerson began to prepare himself for the
ministrations of the pulpit, and in 1826 and 1827 he preached in divers
places. Two years later he was ordained, and undertook the charge of an
important Unitarian Church in Boston. It was not very long before the
strain of forms, comparatively moderate as it was in the Unitarian body,
became too heavy to be borne. Emerson found that he could no longer
accept the usual view of the Communion Service, even in its least
sacramental interpretation. To him the rite was purely spiritual in
origin and intent, and at the best only to be retained as a
commemoration. The whole world, he said, had been full of idols and
ordinances and forms, when 'the Almighty God was pleased to qualify and
send forth a man to teach men that they must serve him with the heart;
that only that life was religious which was thoroughly good; that
sacrifice was smoke and forms were shadows. This man lived and died true
to that purpose; and now with his blessed word and life before us,
Christians must contend that it is a matter of vital importance, really
a duty, to commemorate him by a certain form, whether that form be
agreeable to their understandings or not. Is not this to make vain the
gift of God? Is not this to make men forget that not forms but
duties--not names but righteousness and love--are enjoined?'
He was willing to continue the service with that explanation, and on
condition that he should not himself partake of the bread and wine. The
congregation would fain have kept one whose transparent purity of soul
had attached more than his heresy had alienated. But the innovation was
too great, and Emerson resigned his charge (1832). For some five or six
years longer he continued occasionally to preach, and more than one
congregation would have accepted him. But doubts on the subject of
public prayer began to weigh upon his mind. He suspected the practice by
which one man offered up prayer vicariously and collectively for the
assembled congregation. Was not that too, like the Communion Service, a
form that tended to deaden the spirit? Under the influence of this and
other scruples he finally ceased to preach (1838), and told his friends
that henceforth he must find his pulpit in the platform of the
lecturer. 'I see not,' he said, 'why this is not the most flexible of
all organs of opinion, from its popularity and from its newness,
permitting you to say what you think, without any shackles of
proscription. The pulpit in our age certainly gives forth an obstructed
and uncertain sound; and the faith of those in it, if men of genius, may
differ so much from that of those under it as to embarrass the
conscience of the speaker, because so much is attributed to him from the
fact of standing there.' The lecture was an important discovery, and it
has had many consequences in American culture. Among the more
undesirable of them has been (certainly not in Emerson's own case) the
importation of the pulpit accent into subjects where one would be
happier with out it.
Earlier in the same year in which he retired from his church at Boston,
Emerson had lost his young wife. Though we may well believe that he bore
these agitations with self-control, his health suffered, and in the
spring of 1833 he started for Europe. He came to be accused of saying
captious things about travelling. There are three wants, he said, that
can never be satisfied: that of the rich who want something more; that
of the sick who want something different; and that of the traveller who
says, Anywhere but here. Their restlessness, he told his countrymen,
argued want of character. They were infatuated with 'the rococo toy of
Italy.' As if what was true anywhere were not true everywhere; and as
if a man, go where he will, can find more beauty or worth than he
carries. All this was said, as we shall see that much else was said by
Emerson, by way of reaction and protest against instability of soul in
the people around him. 'Here or nowhere,' said Goethe inversely to
unstable Europeans yearning vaguely westwards, 'here or nowhere is thine
America.' To the use of travel for its own ends, Emerson was of course
as much alive as other people. 'There is in every constitution a certain
solstice when the stars stand still in our inward firmament, and when
there is required some foreign force, some diversion or alteration, to
prevent stagnation. And as a medical remedy, travel seems one of the
best.' He found it so in 1833. But this and his two other voyages to
Europe make no Odyssey. When Voltaire was pressed to visit Rome, he
declared that he would be better pleased with some new and free English
book than with all the glories of amphitheatre and of arch. Emerson in
like manner seems to have thought more of the great writers whom he saw
in Europe than of buildings or of landscapes. 'Am I,' he said, 'who have
hung over their works in my chamber at home, not to see these men in the
flesh, and thank them, and interchange some thoughts with them?' The two
Englishmen to whom he owed most were Coleridge and Wordsworth; and the
younger writer, some eight years older than himself, in whom his
liveliest interest had been kindled, was Carlyle. He was fortunate
enough to have converse with all three, and he has told the world how
these illustrious men in their several fashions and degrees impressed
him.[2] It was Carlyle who struck him most. 'Many a time upon the sea,
in my homeward voyage, I remembered with joy the favoured condition of
my lonely philosopher,' cherishing visions more than divine 'in his
stern and blessed solitude.' So Carlyle, with no less cordiality,
declares that among the figures that he could recollect as visiting his
Nithsdale hermitage--'all like Apparitions now, bringing with them airs
from Heaven, or the blasts from the other region, there is not one of a
more undoubtedly supernal character than yourself; so pure and still,
with intents so charitable; and then vanishing too so soon into the
azure Inane, as an Apparition should.'
[Footnote 2: _English Traits_, 7-18. _Ireland_, 143-152. Froude's
_Carlyle_, ii. 355-359.]
* * * * *
In external incident Emerson's life was uneventful. Nothing could be
simpler, of more perfect unity, or more free from disturbing episodes
that leaves scars on men. In 1834 he settled in old Concord, the home of
his ancestors, then in its third century. 'Concord is very bare,' wrote
Clough, who made some sojourn there in 1852, 'and so is the country in
general; it is a small sort of village, almost entirely of wood houses,
painted white, with Venetian blinds, green outside, with two white
wooden churches. There are some American elms of a weeping kind, and
sycamores, i.e. planes; but the wood is mostly pine--white pine and
yellow pine--somewhat scrubby, occupying the tops of the low banks, and
marshy hay-land between, very brown now. A little brook runs through to
the Concord River.'[3] The brook flowed across the few acres that were
Emerson's first modest homestead. 'The whole external appearance of the
place,' says one who visited him, 'suggests old-fashioned comfort and
hospitality. Within the house the flavour of antiquity is still more
noticeable. Old pictures look down from the walls; quaint blue-and-white
china holds the simple dinner; old furniture brings to mind the
generations of the past. At the right as you enter is Mr. Emerson's
library, a large square room, plainly furnished, but made pleasant by
pictures and sunshine. The homely shelves that line the walls are well
filled with books. There is a lack of showy covers or rich bindings, and
each volume seems to have soberly grown old in constant service. Mr.
Emerson's study is a quiet room upstairs.'
[Footnote 3: Clough's _Life and Letters_, i. 185.]
Fate did not spare him the strokes of the common lot. His first wife
died after three short years of wedded happiness. He lost a little son,
who was the light of his eyes. But others were born to him, and in all
the relations and circumstances of domestic life he was one of the best
and most beloved of men. He long carried in his mind the picture of
Carlyle's life at Craigenputtock as the ideal for the sage, but his own
choice was far wiser and happier, 'not wholly in the busy world, nor
quite beyond it.'
'Besides my house,' he told Carlyle in 1838, 'I have, I believe, 22,000
dollars, whose income in ordinary years is six per cent. I have no other
tithe or glebe except the income of my winter lectures, which was last
winter 800 dollars. Well, with this income, here at home, I am a rich
man. I stay at home and go abroad at my own instance, I have food,
warmth, leisure, books, friends. Go away from home, I am rich no longer.
I never have a dollar to spend on a fancy. As no wise man, I suppose,
ever was rich in the sense of _freedom to spend_, because of the
inundation of claims, so neither am I, who am not wise. But at home I am
rich--rich enough for ten brothers. My wife Lidian is an incarnation of
Christianity,--I call her Asia,--and keeps my philosophy from
Antinomianism; my mother, whitest, mildest, most conservative of ladies,
whose only exception to her universal preference for old things is her
son; my boy, a piece of love and sunshine, well worth my watching from
morning to night;--these, and three domestic women, who cook and sew and
run for us, make all my household. Here I sit and read and write, with
very little system, and, as far as regards composition, with the most
fragmentary result: paragraphs incompressible, each sentence an
infinitely repellent particle.
'In summer, with the aid of a neighbour, I manage my garden; and a week
ago I set out on the west side of my house forty young pine trees to
protect me or my son from the wind of January. The ornament of the place
is the occasional presence of some ten or twelve persons, good and wise,
who visit us in the course of the year.'
As time went on he was able to buy himself 'a new plaything'--a piece of
woodland, of more than forty acres, on the border of a little lake half
a mile wide or more, called Walden Pond. 'In these May days,' he told
Carlyle, then passionately struggling with his _Cromwell_, with the
slums of Chelsea at his back, 'when maples, poplars, oaks, birches,
walnut, and pine, are in their spring glory, I go thither every
afternoon, and cut with my hatchet an Indian path through the thicket,
all along the bold shore, and open the finest pictures' (1845).
He loved to write at 'large leisure in noble mornings, opened by prayer
or by readings of Plato, or whatsoever else is dearest to the Morning
Muse.' Yet he could not wholly escape the recluse's malady. He confesses
that he sometimes craves 'that stimulation which every capricious,
languid, and languescent study needs.' Carlyle's potent concentration
stirs his envy. The work of the garden and the orchard he found very
fascinating, eating up days and weeks; 'nay, a brave scholar should shun
it like gambling, and take refuge in cities and hotels from these
pernicious enchantments.'
In the doings of his neighbourhood he bore his part; he took a manly
interest in civil affairs, and was sensible, shrewd, and helpful in
matters of practical judgment. Pilgrims, sane and insane, the beardless
and the gray-headed, flocked to his door, far beyond the dozen persons
good and wise whom he had mentioned to Carlyle. 'Uncertain, troubled,
earnest wanderers through the midnight of the moral world beheld his
intellectual fire as a beacon burning on a hill-top, and climbing the
difficult ascent, looked forth into the surrounding obscurity more
hopefully than hitherto' (_Hawthorne_). To the most intractable of
Transcendental bores, worst species of the genus, he was never
impatient, nor denied himself; nor did he ever refuse counsel where the
case was not yet beyond hope. Hawthorne was for a time his neighbour
(1842-45). 'It was good,' says Hawthorne, 'to meet him in the
wood-paths, or sometimes in our avenue, with that pure intellectual
gleam diffused about his presence like the garment of a shining one; and
he so quiet, so simple, so without pretension, encountering each man
alive as if expecting to receive more than he could impart.'
The most remarkable of all his neighbours was Thoreau, who for a couple
of years lived in a hut which he had built for himself on the shore of
Walden Pond. If he had not written some things with a considerable charm
of style, Thoreau might have been wisely neglected as one of the crazy.
But Emerson was struck by the originality of his life, and thought it
well in time to edit the writings of one 'who was bred to no profession;
never married; lived alone; never went to Church; never voted; refused
to pay a tax to the State; ate no flesh, drank no wine, never knew the
use of tobacco; had no temptations to fight against, no appetites, no
passions, refused all invitations, preferred a good Indian to highly
cultivated people, and said he would rather go to Oregon than to
London.' The world has room for every type, so that it be not actively
noxious, and this whimsical egotist may well have his place in the
catalogue. He was, after all, in his life only a compendium, on a scale
large enough to show their absurdity, of all those unsocial notions
which Emerson in other manifestations found it needful to rebuke. Yet we
may agree that many of his paradoxes strike home with Socratic force to
the heart of a civilisation that wise men know to be too purely
material, too artificial, and too capriciously diffused.
Emerson himself was too sane ever to fall into the hermit's trap of
banishment to the rocks and echoes. 'Solitude,' he said, 'is
impracticable, and society fatal.' He steered his way as best he could
between these two irreconcilable necessities. He had, as we have seen,
the good sense to make for himself a calling which brought him into
healthy contact with bodies of men, and made it essential that he should
have his listeners in some degree in his mind, even when they were not
actually present to the eye. As a preacher Emerson has been described as
making a deep impression on susceptible hearers of a quiet mind, by 'the
calm dignity of his bearing, the absence of all oratorical effort, and
the singular simplicity and directness of a manner free from the least
trace of dogmatic assumption.' 'Not long before,' says this witness, 'I
had listened to a wonderful sermon by Chalmers, whose force and energy,
and vehement but rather turgid eloquence, carried for the moment all
before him--his audience becoming like clay in the hands of the potter.
But I must confess that the pregnant thoughts and serene self-possession
of the young Boston minister had a greater charm for me than all the
rhetorical splendours of Chalmers' (_Ireland_, 141).
At the lecturer's desk the same attraction made itself still more
effectually felt. 'I have heard some great speakers and some
accomplished orators,' Mr. Lowell says, 'but never any that so moved and
persuaded men as he. There is a kind of undertone in that rich barytone
of his that sweeps our minds from their foothold into deep waters with a
drift that we cannot and would not resist. Search for his eloquence in
his books and you will perchance miss it, but meanwhile you will find
that it has kindled all your thoughts.' The same effect was felt in its
degree wherever he went, and he took pains not to miss it. He had made a
study of his art, and was so skilful in his mastery of it that it seemed
as if anybody might do all that he did and do it as well--if only a
hundred failures had not proved the mistake.