Print (PDF) - On this page / på denna sida - Tuesday, December 4
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railway carriages are well warmed, and one sits there
in ease and comfort, excepting that one gets well
shaken, for the railroads here are much more uneven
than those I have traveled on in Europe.
Emerson, walking down the little avenue of spruce firs which
leads from his house, came bareheaded in the storm
to meet us. He is a quiet, nobly grave figure, his
complexion pale, with strongly marked features and
dark hair. He seemed to me a younger man, but not
so handsome as I had imagined him; his exterior less
fascinating, but more significant. He occupied himself
with us, however, and in particular with me as a lady
and a foreigner, kindly and agreeably. He is a very
singular character, but too cold and hypercritical
to please me entirely; a strong, clear eye, always
looking out for an ideal, which he never finds
realized on earth; discovering wants, shortcomings,
imperfections; and too strong and healthy himself to
understand other people’s weaknesses and sufferings,
for he even despises suffering as a weakness unworthy
of higher natures. This singularity of character leads
one to suppose that he has never been ill: sorrows,
however, he has had, and has felt them deeply, as some
of his most beautiful poems prove; nevertheless he
has only allowed himself to be bowed for a short time
by these griefs--the deaths of two brothers and of a
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