Goethe says in his analysis of manners that the man of noble manners may
sometimes give way to his emotions, the man of well-bred manners never.
Emerson's manners were half way between these two; a fortunate union of
natural courtesy and dignified reserve. It was not possible to be
familiar with him. They were better than fine manners, or even well-bred
manners, for they were so natural and simple as scarcely to attract
attention. Yet he was not a man of noble manners, for he never fully
acted out himself. Carlyle had noble manners, but was lacking in
courtesy.
Emerson's house stands about twenty-five yards from the street, and
there is a smooth white-marble walk from his gate to the front-door.
This, together with the pine trees he planted for protection against the
north wind, had a cool refreshing effect in midsummer, but at other
seasons gave the visitor rather a chilly reception. There was something
in Emerson himself that reminded one of this white-marble walk; not that
he was cold-hearted, far from it, nor was he lacking in tenderness; but
warmth of color he had not. He was too purely moral to be altogether
human. He never could have written a tragedy, or made a speech like that
of John Adams on the question of separation. How could it be otherwise?
Can the descendant of five generations of New England clergymen have the
same blood in his veins that warmed the hearts of Marshal Ney and
Mirabeau? Perpetual constraint and self-denial may strengthen character,
but will human nature be better for it in the end?
Constant trimming must finally weaken the tree; and if we consider
history we find that the greatest services to mankind have been those
ardent, self-forgetful natures who lived in a large, grand manner, and
who cared more for the affairs they have in hand than for their
reputations or the salvation of their souls.
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