"A thing must be pretty bad that hasn't some good in it." Then he stopped, and after a moment went on: "My idea is that the fate of Sunday newspapers rests very much with Sunday editors.There is a Sunday newspaper conceivable in which we should all rejoice--all, that is, who do not hold that a Sunday newspaper is always and per se wrong.But some cause has, in many instances, brought it about that the Sunday paper is below, and not above, the standard of its weekday brethren.I mean it is apt to be more gossipy, more personal, more sensational, more frivolous;less serious and thoughtful and suggestive.Taking for granted the fact of special leisure on the part of its readers, it is apt to appeal to the lower and not to the higher part of them, which the Sunday leisure has set free.Let the Sunday newspaper be worthy of the day, and the day will not reject it.So I say its fate is in the hands of its editor.He can give it such a character as will make all good men its champions and friends, or he can preserve for it the suspicion and dislike in which it stands at present."Edward's journalistic instinct here got into full play; and although, as he assured his host, he had had no such thought in coming, he asked whether Doctor Brooks would object if he tried his reportorial wings by experimenting as to whether he could report the talk.
"I do not like the papers to talk about me," was the answer; "but if it will help you, go ahead and practise on me.You haven't stolen my books when you were told to do so, and I don't think you'll steal my name."The boy went back to his hotel, and wrote an article much as this account is here written, which he sent to Doctor Brooks."Let me keep it by me," the doctor wrote, "and I will return it to you presently."And he did, with his comment on the Sunday newspaper, just as it is given here, and with this note:
If I must go into the newspapers at all--which I should always vastly prefer to avoid--no words could have been more kind than those of your article.You were very good to send it to me.I am ever Sincerely, Your friend, Phillips Brooks As he let the boy out of his house, at the end of that first meeting, he said to him:
"And you're going from me now to see Emerson? I don't know," he added reflectively, "whether you will see him at his best.Still, you may.And even if you do not, to have seen him, even as you may see him, is better, in a way, than not to have seen him at all."Edward did not know what Phillips Brooks meant.But he was, sadly, to find out the next day.
A boy of sixteen was pretty sure of a welcome from Louisa Alcott, and his greeting from her was spontaneous and sincere.
"Why, you good boy," she said, "to come all the way to Concord to see us," quite for all the world as if she were the one favored."Now take your coat off, and come right in by the fire.""Do tell me all about your visit," she continued.
Before that cozey fire they chatted.It was pleasant to the boy to sit there with that sweet-faced woman with those kindly eyes! After a while she said: "Now I shall put on my coat and hat, and we shall walk over to Emerson's house.I am almost afraid to promise that you will see him.He sees scarcely any one now.He is feeble, and--" She did not finish the sentence."But we'll walk over there, at any rate."She spoke mostly of her father as the two walked along, and it was easy to see that his condition was now the one thought of her life.Presently they reached Emerson's house, and Miss Emerson welcomed them at the door.After a brief chat Miss Alcott told of the boy's hope.Miss Emerson shook her head.
"Father sees no one now," she said, "and I fear it might not be a pleasure if you did see him."Then Edward told her what Phillips Brooks had said.
"Well," she said, "I'll see."
She had scarcely left the room when Miss Alcott rose and followed her, saying to the boy: "You shall see Mr.Emerson if it is at all possible."In a few minutes Miss Alcott returned, her eyes moistened, and simply said: "Come."The boy followed her through two rooms, and at the threshold of the third Miss Emerson stood, also with moistened eyes.
"Father," she said simply, and there, at his desk, sat Emerson--the man whose words had already won Edward Bok's boyish interest, and who was destined to impress himself upon his life more deeply than any other writer.
Slowly, at the daughter's spoken word, Emerson rose with a wonderful quiet dignity, extended his hand, and as the boy's hand rested in his, looked him full in the eyes.
No light of welcome came from those sad yet tender eyes.The boy closed upon the hand in his with a loving pressure, and for a single moment the eyelids rose, a different look came into those eyes, and Edward felt a slight, perceptible response of the hand.But that was all!
Quietly he motioned the boy to a chair beside the desk.Edward sat down and was about to say something, when, instead of seating himself, Emerson walked away to the window and stood there softly whistling and looking out as if there were no one in the room.Edward's eyes had followed Emerson's every footstep, when the boy was aroused by hearing a suppressed sob, and as he looked around he saw that it came from Miss Emerson.Slowly she walked out of the room.The boy looked at Miss Alcott, and she put her finger to her mouth, indicating silence.He was nonplussed.
Edward looked toward Emerson standing in that window, and wondered what it all meant.Presently Emerson left the window and, crossing the room, came to his desk, bowing to the boy as he passed, and seated himself, not speaking a word and ignoring the presence of the two persons in the room.
