I not only did
so, but felt better than before. It then became one of my happiest
experiences to pass Emerson upon the street. A distinct exaltation
followed my glance into his splendid face. Yet I caviled at his
self-consciousness, his perpetual smile. I complained that he ought to
wait for something to smile at. I could not be sure that he was
privately enjoying some joke from Greek fun-makers, remembered under a
Concord elm. After a time, I realized that he always had something to
smile for, if not to smile at; and that a cheerful countenance is
heroic. By and by I learned that he always could find something to
smile at, also; for he tells us, "The best of all jokes is the
sympathetic contemplation of things by the understanding, from the
philosopher's point of view." But, in my unenlightened state, when I
saw him begin to answer some question, however trivial, with this
smile, slowly, very slowly growing, until it lit up his whole
countenance with a refulgent beam before he answered (the whole
performance dominated by a deliberation as great and brilliant as the
dawn), I argued that this good cheer was out of proportion; that
Emerson should keep back a smile so striking and circumstantial for
rare occasions, such as enormous surprise; or, he should make it the
precursor to a tremendous roar of laughter. I have yet to learn that
any one heard him laugh aloud,--which pastime he has called, with
certainly a familiar precision that indicates personal experience, a
"pleasant spasm," a "muscular irritation.
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