Full resolution (TIFF) - 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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