Emerson in His Own Time: A Biographical Chronicle of His Life, Drawn from Recollections, Interviews, and Memoirs by Family, F

Kate Douglas Wiggin, From My Garden of Memory: An Autobiography (1923)

Kate Douglas (Smith) Wiggin was an early pioneer of the kindergarten movement in America. The author of travel books for adults and stories for children, her most famous work was Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm (1903). In the summer of 1880, she was brought to Concord by Elizabeth Palmer Peabody—another founder of the kindergarten in America—to attend the meetings of the Concord School of Philosophy, and while there, she also made the circuit of Concord society under Peabody’s direction. In the selection that follows, which was drawn from her “Personal Recollections of Emerson” published just after Emerson’s death, Wiggin—who in 1882 wrote as Kate D. Smith—shows the continued attraction of Emerson as an inspirational figure for philosophers, reformers, and educators, even after his mental capacities had been diminished by age. [] From My Garden of Memory: An Autobiography () Kate Douglas Wiggin After my brief journey from Boston, as I neared the celebrated village of Concord, I roused myself from my preparatory metaphysical studies to look at my traveling companions. Some of them were evidently to be my fellowstudents , for once in a while I caught gentle murmurs of egos and non-egos, participations and self-determination. A fat, loquacious man walked up to me as I stood on the platform and offered to take me up into town for fifteen cents. I told him where I desired to be driven, and, after treating me to a searching stare for a second, he asked, with sincere curiosity: “Be you one of them Phy-loss-er-fers? The woods is chuck full of ’em now. I went in the hall the other day just a-purpose to hear ’em charnt with their eyes shet. I’d jest like to see one of ’em grubbin’ stumps out of an old timber patch.” Nothing daunted, I reached Miss Peabody’s house at seven o’clock, and received a warm greeting. “Now, my child, you shall go to your room and have a good sleep, so that you may be fresh for to-morrow,” said my friend. “I shall not sleep at all while I am here,” I said disdainfully. “Please let me tuck your hand under my arm, and we will walk slowly together toward the chapel to hear about the ‘Psychic and the Material Body of Man.’” Next morning we were early in our places. On one side of the lecture room was the platform occupied by the Faculty. Behind it were four windows , and on this lovely August morning they were wide open, and the willow and elm branches hung into the room. Without, there was a concert of bees and birds and crickets,united in chirps and hum and song.On that day there sat upon the platform the venerable Mr. Alcott, Dean of the Faculty; Dr.William T.Harris,celebrated both in education and speculative philosophy ; the Chinese Professor of Harvard College; Mr. Sanborn, the energetic Secretary; and Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, who was to lecture on Modern Society —for this was Woman’s Day at Concord. By the east window sat a lovely creature with a matchless crown of red-gold hair. I knew her at a glance, for Mrs. Rose Hawthorne Lathrop had the beautiful Hawthorne hair, and a face, too, as perfect as sculptured marble. Emerson frequently came to the School and listened closely to the lectures , with a pensive, quiet expression, and eyes cast down. His face, so well known to all in its kindly simplicity, was full of sweetness, strength, and common sense. He looked a thorough New Englander, and his bearing was full of dignity and reserve. Indeed, he was absolutely a law unto himself, and yet his personality was always kept in the background, so far as self-assertion or egotism was concerned. Yes, I thought, he is just what Mr. Alcott calls him, “a student of the landscape, of mankind, of rugged strength, wherever found. He likes plain people, plain ways, plain clothes, prefers earnest persons, shuns publicity,loves solitude and knows its uses”; and when I came to have the honor of knowing him, though ever so slightly, he was the identical man of his books, the essence of refinement in thought, full of serenity and cheerful faith, united with a simple plainness of speech. As the days passed, I began to grow into Concord. The atmosphere was contagious. Before one knew exactly what transcendentalism was, one “caught” it—and for that matter it was impossible...