has done. There was a strange charm in Emerson's eyes, which I felt then
and always, something like that I saw in Lincoln's, but shyer, but
sweeter and less sad. His smile was the very sweetest I have ever
beheld, and the contour of the mask and the line of the profile were in
keeping with this incomparable sweetness of the mouth, at once grave and
quaint, though quaint is not quite the word for it either, but subtly,
not unkindly arch, which again is not the word.

It was his great fortune to have been mostly misunderstood, and to have
reached the dense intelligence of his fellow-men after a whole lifetime
of perfectly simple and lucid appeal, and his countenance expressed the
patience and forbearance of a wise man content to bide his time. It
would be hard to persuade people now that Emerson once represented to the
popular mind all that was most hopelessly impossible, and that in a
certain sort he was a national joke, the type of the incomprehensible,
the byword of the poor paragrapher. He had perhaps disabused the
community somewhat by presenting himself here and there as a 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 certain
persons, here and there; but we are still so far behind him in the reach
of his far-thinking that it need not be matter of wonder that twenty
years before his death he was the most misunderstood man in America. Yet
in that twilight where he dwelt he loomed large upon the imagination; the
minds that could not conceive him were still aware of his greatness. I
myself had not read much of him, but I knew the essays he was printing in
the Atlantic, and I knew certain of his poems, though by no means many;
yet I had this sense of him, that he was somehow, beyond and above my
ken, a presence of force and beauty and wisdom, uncompanioned in our
literature. He had lately stooped from his ethereal heights to take part
in the battle of humanity, and I suppose that if the truth were told he