AUTHORS AND FRIENDS by ANNIE FIELDS

'"The Company of the Leaf" wore laurel chaplets "whose lusty green maynot appaired be. " They represent the brave and steadfast of all ages, the great knights and champions, the constant lovers and pure women ofpast and present times. '

 Keping beautie fresh and greene For there nis storme that ne may hem deface. 

GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 

CONTENTS

LONGFELLOW: 1807-1882

GLIMPSES OF EMERSON

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES: PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS AND UNPUBLISHED LETTERS

DAYS WITH MRS. STOWE

CELIA THAXTER

WHITTIER: NOTES OF HIS LIFE AND OF HIS FRIENDSHIPS

TENNYSON

LADY TENNYSON

LONGFELLOW: 1807-1882

Every year when the lilac buds begin to burst their sheaths and untilthe full-blown clusters have spent themselves in the early summer air, the remembrance of Longfellow--something of his presence--wakes withus in the morning and recurs with every fragrant breeze. "Now is thetime to come to Cambridge, " he would say; "the lilacs are gettingready to receive you. "

It was the most natural thing in the world that he should care forthis common flower, because in spite of a fine separateness from dustylevels which everyone felt who approached him, he was first of all aseer of beauty in common things and a singer to the universal heart. 

Perhaps no one of the masters who have touched the spirits of humanityto finer issues has been more affectionately followed through his waysand haunts than Longfellow. But the lives of men and women "who ruleus from their urns" have always been more or less cloistral. Publiccuriosity appeared to be stimulated rather than lessened in Longfellow'scase by the general acquaintance with his familiar figureand by hisunceasing hospitality. He was a tender father, a devoted friend, and afaithful citizen, and yet something apart and different from all these. 

From his early youth Longfellow was a scholar. Especially was hispower of acquiring language most unusual. 

As his reputation widened, he was led to observe this to be a gift aswell as an acquirement. It gave him the convenient and agreeable powerof entertaining foreigners who sought his society. He said oneevening, late in life, that he could not help being struck with thelittle trouble it was to him to recall any language he had everstudied, even though he had not spoken it for years. He had foundhimself talking Spanish, for instance, with considerable ease a fewdays before. He said he could not recall having even read anything inSpanish for many years, and it was certainly thirty since he had givenit any study. Also, it was the same with German. "I cannot imagine, "he continued, "what it would be to take up a language and try tomaster it at this period of my life, I cannot remember how or when Ilearned any of them;--to-night I have been speaking German, withoutfinding the least difficulty. "

A scholar himself, he did not write for scholars, nor study for thesole purpose of becoming a light to any university. It was the energyof a soul looking for larger expansion; a spirit true to itself andits own prompting, finding its way by labor and love to the free useand development of the power within him. Of his early years someanecdotes have been preserved in a private note-book which have notappeared elsewhere; among them this bit of reminiscence fromHawthorne, who said, in speaking of his own early life and the days atBowdoin College, where he and Longfellow were in the same class, thatno two young men could have been more unlike. Longfellow, heexplained, was a tremendous student, and always carefully dressed, while he himself was extremely careless of his appearance, no studentat all, and entirely incapable at that period of appreciatingLongfellow. 

The friendship between these two men ripened with the years. Throughout Longfellow's published correspondence, delightful lettersare found to have been exchanged. The very contrast between the twonatures attracted them more and more to each other as time went on;and among the later unpublished letters I find a little note fromLongfellow in which he says he has had a sad letter from Hawthorne, and adds: "I wish we could have a little dinner for him, of two sadauthors and two jolly publishers, nobody else!"

As early as 1849, letters and visits were familiarly exchanged betweenFields and himself, and their friendship must have begun even earlier. He writes:--

"My dear Fields, --I am extremely glad you like the new poems so well. What think you of the enclosed instead of the sad ending of 'TheShip'? Is it better?. . . I send you also 'The Lighthouse, ' once more: Ithink it is improved by your suggestions. See if you can find anythingmore to retouch. And finally, here is a letter from Hirst. You seewhat he wants, but I do not feel like giving my 'Dedication' to the'Courier. ' Therefore I hereby give it to you so that I can say it isdisposed of. Am I right or wrong?"

Of Longfellow's student days, Mr. Fields once wrote: "I hope they keepbright the little room numbered twenty-seven in Maine Hall in BowdoinCollege, for it was in that pleasant apartment, looking out on thepine groves, that the young poet of nineteen wrote many of thosebeautiful earlier pieces, now collected in his works. These earlypoems were all composed in 1824 and 1825, during his last years incollege, and were printed first in a periodical called 'The UnitedStates Literary Gazette, ' the sapient editor of which magazine oncekindly advised the ardent young scholar to give up poetry and buckledown to the study of law! 'No good can come of it, ' he said; 'don'tlet him do such things; make him stick to prose!' But the pine-treeswaving outside his window kept up a perpetual melody in his heart, andhe could not choose but sing back to them. "

One of the earliest pictures I find of the every-day life ofLongfellow when a youth is a little anecdote told by him, in humorousillustration of the woes of young authors. I quote from a brief diary. "Longfellow amused us to-day by talking of his youth, and especiallywith a description of the first poem he ever wrote, called 'The Battleof Lovell's Pond. ' It was printed in a Portland newspaper one morning, and the same evening he was invited to the house of the Chief Justiceto meet his son, a rising poet just returned from Harvard. The judgerose in a stately manner during the evening and said to his son: 'Didyou see a poem in to-day's paper upon the Battle of Lovell's Pond?''No, sir, ' said the boy, 'I did not. ' 'Well, sir, ' responded hisfather, 'it was a very stiff production. G----, get your own poem onthe same subject, and I will read it to the company. ' The poem wasread aloud, while the perpetrator of the 'stiff production' sat, as hesaid, very still in a corner. "

The great sensitiveness of his nature, one of the poetic qualities, was observed very early, and the description of him as a little boywas the description of the heart and nature of the man. "Active, eager, impressionable; quick-tempered, but as quickly appeased; kind-hearted and affectionate, --the sunlight of the house. " One day when achild of ten he came home with his eyes full of tears. His elderbrother was fond of a gun, and had allowed Henry to borrow his. To thelittle boy's great distress, he had aimed at and shot a robin. Henever tried to use a gun again. 

Longfellow was said to be very like his mother. His brother wrote ofhim: "From her must have come to Henry the imaginative and romanticside of his nature. She was fond of poetry and music, and in heryouth, of dancing and social gayety. She was a lover of nature in allits aspects. She would sit by a window during a thunderstorm enjoyingthe excitement of its splendors. Her disposition, through all trialsand sorrows, was always cheerful, with a gentle and tranquilfortitude. "

No words could describe her son's nature more nearly. When he was onlysixteen years old we find him writing to his father: "I wish I couldbe in Washington during the winter, though I suppose it is rather vainto wish when it is almost impossible for our wishes to becomerealities. It would be more pleasant to get a peep at Southern peopleand draw a breath of Southern air, than to be always freezing in theNorth; but I have very resolutely concluded to enjoy myself heartilywherever I am. I find it most profitable to form such plans as areleast liable to failure. "

His mother's sympathy with his literary tastes was certainly unusual. He writes to her from college when he was sixteen years old. "I havethis evening been reading a few pages in Gray's odes. I am very muchpleased with them. " . . . To which she replies: "I wish you would bringGray home with you. I have a strong inclination to read the poems, since you commend them so highly. I think I should be pleased withthem, though Dr. Johnson was not. I do not think the Doctor possessedmuch sensibility to the charms of poetry, and he was sometimes mostunmerciful in his criticism. "

The single aim of Longfellow's life, the manner in which from hisearliest days he dedicated himself to Letters, would prove alone, ifother signs were lacking, the strength of his character. When he wasonly eighteen he wrote to his mother: "With all my usual delinquency, however, I should have answered your letter before this, had I notreceived, on Monday, Chatterton's Works, for which I had some timesince sent to Boston. It is an elegant work in three large octavovolumes; and since Monday noon I have read the greater part of two ofthem, besides attending two lectures a day, of an hour each, and threerecitations of the same length, together with my study-hours forpreparation. "

This is said to have been the first handsome book the young studentowned, and it was earned by the work of his pen. In this same year, too, we find him hurrying with his lessons (not slighting them), thathe might get leisure to read and think. "Leisure, " he wrote hisfather, "which is to me one of the sweetest things in the world. " . . . "I wish I could read and write at the same time. "

The eager activity of his mind was already asserting itself, anactivity which hardly slackened to the very end. 

The severe criticism of his poem on the Battle of Lovell's Pond mayhave cost him a few tears one night, but it did not alter hisdetermination. He continued to send contributions to the newspapers, and when his father somewhat later suggested that he should considerthe question of "studying for a profession, " he replied: "If so, whatprofession? I have a particular and strong prejudice for one course oflife to which you, I fear, will not agree. " He was not unwilling topay the price for what he intended to attain. He knew himself, and hisonly suffering was at the thought of being obliged to turn aside fromthe aims which Nature held before him. 

He was seventeen years old when he wrote to a friend: "Somehow, andyet I hardly know why, I am unwilling to study a profession. I cannotmake a lawyer of any eminence, because I have not a talent forargument; I am not good enough for a minister, --and as to Physic, Iutterly and absolutely detest it. "

To his father the same year he wrote: "I have already hinted to youwhat would best please me. I want to spend one year at Cambridge forthe purpose of reading history, and of becoming familiar with the bestauthors in polite literature; whilst at the same time I can beacquiring the Italian language, without an acquaintance with which Ishall be shut out from one of the most beautiful departments ofletters. . . . The fact is--and I will not disguise it in the least, forI think I ought not--the fact is, I most eagerly aspire after futureeminence in literature; my whole soul burns most ardently for it, andevery earthly thought centres in it. . . . Whether Nature has given meany capacity for knowledge or not, she has at any rate given me a verystrong predilection for literary pursuits, and I am almost confidentin believing that, if I can ever rise in the world, it must be by theexercise of my talent in the wide field of literature. With such abelief I must say that I am unwilling to engage in the study of thelaw. . . . Whatever I do study ought to be engaged in with all my soul, --for I WILL BE EMINENT in something. . . . Let me reside one year atCambridge; let me study belles-lettres; and after that time it willnot require a spirit of prophecy to predict with some degree ofcertainty what kind of a figure I could make in the literary world. IfI fail here, there is still time left for the study of a profession. ". . . His father could not make up his mind to trust his son to theuncertain reed of literature. "As you have not had the fortune (I willnot say whether good or ill) to be born rich, you must adopt aprofession which will afford you subsistence as well as reputation. "

There was, however, a friendly compromise between father and son, andthe young student was allowed to pass a year in Cambridge. He repliedto his father: "I am very much rejoiced that you accede so readily tomy proposition of studying general literature for one year atCambridge. My grand object in doing this will be to gain as perfectknowledge of the French and Italian languages as can be gained withouttravelling in France and Italy, --though to tell the truth I intend tovisit both before I die. . . . The fact is, I have a most voraciousappetite for knowledge. To its acquisition I will sacrificeeverything. . . . Nothing could induce me to relinquish the pleasures ofliterature;. . . But I can be a lawyer. This will support my realexistence, literature an IDEAL one. 

"I purchased last evening a beautiful pocket edition of Sir WilliamJones's Letters, and have just finished reading them. Eight languageshe was critically versed in; eight more he read with a dictionary: andthere were twelve more not wholly unknown to him. I have somewhereseen or heard the observation that as many languages as a personacquires, so many times is he a man. "

Happily--how happily we can hardly say--Madam Bowdoin had left the sumof one thousand dollars towards establishing a professorship of modernlanguages at the college which was then only a few years older thanLongfellow. No steps had yet been taken; but one of the Board, Mr. Orr, having been struck, it appears, by the translation of an ode fromHorace made by Longfellow for the senior examination, warmly presentedhis name for the new chair. 

It is impossible to overestimate the value of these benefactions tomen of talent and genius. Where would Wordsworth have been, what couldhe have done, without the gift bestowed upon him by Raisley Calvert!In America such assistance is oftener given in the more impersonal wayof endowment of chairs or creating of scholarships. No method lesspersonal or more elevating for the development of the scholar and manof genius could easily be adopted. 

The informal proposal of the Board that Longfellow should go to Europeto fit himself for his position was precisely in a line with his mostcherished wishes. It was nearly a year from that time, however, beforehe was actually on his way, "winter and rough weather" and theinfrequency of good ships causing many delays. Possibly also thethought of the mother's heart that he was not yet twenty--still youngto cut himself off from home and friends--weighed something in thebalance. He read law in his father's office, and wrote and read withceaseless activity on his own account; publishing his poems and prosepapers in the newspapers and annuals of the day. He sailed from NewYork at last, visiting Boston on his way. There he heard Dr. Channingpreach and passed part of an evening with him afterward. AlsoProfessor Ticknor was kind to him, giving him letters to WashingtonIrving, Professor Eichhorn, and Robert Southey. Dr. Charles Lowell, the father of the future poet, gave him a letter to Mrs. Grant, ofLaggan, and President Kirkland was interested in his welfare. Thus hestarted away with such help and advice as the world could give him. 

From that moment his career was simply a question of development. Howhe could turn the wondrous joys, the strange and solitary experiencesof life into light and knowledge and wisdom which he could give toothers; this was the never-ending problem of his mind; to this end heturned the labor of his days. 

His temperament did not allow him the effervescent expression commonto the young. On the contrary, when writing to his sisters from Italyduring these student days, he says: "But with me all deep impressionsare silent ones. " And thus the sorrows of life, of which he early boreso heavy a burden, found little expression. He wore them in his heart, whence they came again in his poems to soothe the spirit of humanity. The delightful story of his three years of study and absence can betraced step by step in the journals and letters edited by his brother;but however interesting it is to follow him in every detail, it isnevertheless true that the singleness of aim and strength of characterwhich distinguished Longfellow, combined with extreme delicacy andsensitiveness of perception, were his qualities from the beginning andremained singularly unchanged to the end. 

His history is not without its tragedies, but they were cooerdinated inhis spirit to a sense of the unity of life. He was the psalmist, theinterpreter. How could he render again the knowledge of divinegoodness and divine love which were revealed to him? First came theduty of acquiring learning; of getting the use of many languages andthus of many forms of thought, in order to master the vehicles ofexpression. To this end he labored without ceasing, laughing athimself for calling that labor which gave him in the acquisition greatpleasure. "If you call it labor!" he wrote in one of his letters homeafter speaking of his incessant studies. 

His journals and letters, except the few early ones to his father, seldom speak either of the heat of composition or of the toils ofstudy. He kept any mention of these, like all his deeper experiences, to himself, but writes chiefly of more external matters; of hisrelaxations and pleasures, --such as are surely indispensable to anauthor and student after extreme tension of the brain and hours ofemotion. 

Longfellow was twenty-two years old when he took up his residence asprofessor at Bowdoin College, where he translated and prepared theFrench grammar and the French and Spanish text-books which he desiredfor his classes. He was also made college librarian--a duty whichrequired only one hour a day in those early times, but, added to hisother duties, gave him all the occupation he needed. "The intervals ofcollege duty I fill up with my own studies, " he wrote to his friend, George W. Greene, with whom he had already formed a friendship whichwas to continue unbroken during their lives. 

At the age of twenty-four Longfellow married a lovely young lady, thedaughter of Judge Potter, of Portland. She was entirely sympatheticwith his tastes, having herself received a very unusual education forthose days in Greek and Latin among her other studies. In the"Footsteps of Angels" she is commemorated as

 "the Being Beauteous Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me. "

His brother writes of this period: "They were tenderly devoted to eachother: and never was a home more happy than theirs, when, soon aftertheir marriage, they began housekeeping in Brunswick. . . . In thispleasant home, and with this blessed companionship, Mr. Longfellowdevoted himself with fresh interest to his literary pursuits. "

The monetary returns for all his labors at this period in America wereinconceivably small. He amused his friends one day in later years byconfessing that Mr. Buckingham paid him by one year's subscription tothe "New England Magazine" for his translation of the "Coplas deManrique" and several prose articles. After this he sent his poems toMessrs. Allen and Ticknor, who presented him the volume in which theyappeared and sundry other books as compensation. 

What a singular contrast was this beginning to his future literaryhistory! Late in life his publisher wrote: "I remember howinstantaneously in the year 1839 'The Voices of the Night' spedtriumphantly on its way. At present his currency in Europe is almostunparalleled. Twenty-four publishing houses in England have issued thewhole or a part of his works. Many of his poems have been translatedinto Russian and Hebrew. 'Evangeline' has been translated three timesinto German, and 'Hiawatha' has not only gone into nearly all themodern languages, but can now be read in Latin. I have seentranslations of all Longfellow's principal works, in prose and poetry, in French, Italian, German, Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch, Swedish, andDanish. The Emperor of Brazil has himself translated and published'Robert of Sicily, ' one of the poems in 'Tales of a Wayside Inn, ' intohis native tongue, and in China they use a fan which has becomeimmensely popular on account of the 'Psalm of Life' being printed onit in the language of the Celestial Empire. Professor Kneeland, whowent to the national millennial celebration in Iceland, told me thatwhen he was leaving that faraway land, on the verge almost of theArctic Circle, the people said to him: 'Tell Longfellow that we lovehim; tell him we read and rejoice in his poems; tell him that Icelandknows him by heart. ' To-day there is no disputing the fact thatLongfellow is more popular than any other living poet; that his booksare more widely circulated, command greater attention, and bring morecopyright money than those of any other author, not exceptingTennyson, now writing English verse. "

Meanwhile the young professor, after four years of retirement and workat Bowdoin, began to look about him and to contemplate another flight. Before his plans were laid, however, Professor Ticknor relinquishedhis position at Harvard, which was immediately offered to Mr. Longfellow under what were for that period the most delightfulconditions possible. President Quincy wrote to him, "The salary willbe fifteen hundred dollars a year. Residence in Cambridge will berequired. . . . Should it be your wish, previously to entering upon theduties of the office, to reside in Europe, at your own expense, a yearor eighteen months for the purpose of a more perfect attainment of theGerman, Mr. Ticknor will retain his office till your return. "

During his second visit to Europe in the year 1835, this timeaccompanied by his wife, she became ill and died at Rotterdam, "closing her peaceful life by a still more peaceful death. " Longfellowcontinued his journey and his studies. Into his lonely hours, which nosociety and no occupation could fill, came, his brother tells us, "thesense and assurance of the spiritual presence of her who had loved himand who loved him still, and whose dying lips had said, 'I will bewith you and watch over you. '" At Christmas of the same year a newgrief fell upon him in the death of his brother-in-law and dearestfriend. He received it as an added admonition "to set about the thingshe had to do in greater earnestness. "

"Henceforth, " he wrote, "let me bear upon my shield the holy cross. "

No history of Longfellow can hope to trace the springs which fed hispoetic mind without recording the deep sorrows, the pain, theloneliness of his days. Born with especial love of home and alldomesticities, the solitary years moved on, bringing him a largerpower for soothing the grief of others because he had himself knownthe darkest paths of earthly experience. 

He continued his lonely studies at Heidelberg during the winter, butwith the spring, when the almond-trees were blossoming, the spirit ofyouth revived and he again took up his pilgrimage and began thesketches published some years later as the consecutive story of"Hyperion. " In the opening chapter of that book he says: "The settingof a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of ourlife is gone. Shadows of evening fall around us, and the world seemsbut a dim reflection, --itself a broader shadow. We look forward intothe coming lonely night. The soul withdraws into itself. Then starsarise and the night is holy. Paul Flemming had experienced this, though still young. "

Seven long, weary years elapsed between the death of his young wifeand the second and perfect marriage of his maturity. In spite of thesorrow and depression which had overwhelmed him, he knew that his workwas the basis upon which his life must stand, and in those few yearshe planted himself firmly in his professorship, published "Outre Mer, "and the early poems which won for him an undying reputation as a poet. During this period, too, he made the great friendships of his life, ofwhich he allowed no thread to break during the long years to come. Hischaracteristic steadiness of aim never failed even in this tryingperiod. He enjoyed the singular advantage of travel in a Europe whichis now chiefly a demesne of the past and of the imagination. Havingknown all the picturesqueness and beauty of England, he settledhimself in the old Vassall (or Craigie) House, in Cambridge, withserene enjoyment and appreciation. This house was then in a retiredspot, and overwrought as he frequently found himself, the repose ofthe place was helpful to him. In 1842 he again visited Europe, for thethird time. His health suffered from solitude and the continuedactivities of his mind. "I sometimes think, " he said, "that no onewith a head and a heart can be perfectly well. " Therefore in thespring he obtained leave of absence for six months, and went abroad totry the water cure at Marienberg. One of the chief events of thisjourney was the beginning of his friendship with Freiligrath. The twomen never met again face to face, but they began a correspondencewhich only ended with their lives. It is in one of his letters toFreiligrath that he writes: "Be true to yourself and burn like awatch-fire afar off there in your Germany. " His mind was full ofpoems; much of his future work was projected although little wascompleted. He wrote one sonnet called "Mezzo Cammin, " never printeduntil after his death; perhaps he thought it too expressive ofpersonal sadness. 

Upon the return voyage, which was a stormy one, he accomplished a featthat many a storm-tossed traveler would consider marvelous indeed. "Not out of my berth, " he wrote, "more than twelve hours the firsttwelve days. There cabined, cribbed, confined, I passed fifteen days. During this time I wrote seven poems on slavery. I meditated upon themin the stormy, sleepless nights, and wrote them down with a pencil inthe morning. A small window in the side of the vessel admitted lightinto my berth, and there I lay on my back and soothed my soul withsongs. " These poems, with one added as a dedication to Dr. Channing, "threw the author's influence on the side against slavery; and at thattime it was a good deal simply to take that unpopular side publicly. "

He took up his correspondence at this period with renewed fervor, andwhat other life can show such devotion to friendship or such a circleof friends? Through good report and evil report his friends were dearto him, and the disparagements of others failed to reach the ear ofhis heart. In one of his letters to G. W. Greene he says: "It is ofgreat importance to a man to know how he stands with his friends; atleast, I think so. The voice of a friend has a wonder-working power;and from the very hour we hear it, 'the fever leaves us. '"

Upon his return home in December, 1836, he began his life in Cambridgeamong the group of men who became inseparable friends, --Felton, Sumner, Hillard, and Cleveland. They called themselves the "Five ofClubs, " and saw each other continually. Later came Agassiz and a fewothers. How delightful the little suppers were of those days! He usedto write: "We had a gaudiolem last night. " When, several years after, he married Frances Appleton and began, as it were, "the new life, " hiswife wrote to Mr. Greene: "Felton and the rest of the club flourish inimmortal youth, and are often with us to dine or sup. I have neverseen such a beautiful friendship between men of such distinctpersonalities, though closely linked together by mutual tastes andaffections. They criticise and praise each other's performances, witha frankness not to be surpassed, and seem to have attained that happyheight of faith where no misunderstanding, no jealousy, no reserve, exists. " It appears, however, that even these delightful friendshipshad left something to be desired. In his journal he wrote: "Came backto Cambridge and went to Mr. Norton's. There I beheld what perfecthappiness may exist on this earth, and felt how I stood alone in life, cut off for a while from those dearest sympathies for which I long. "His brother said of him that having known the happiness of domesticlife for which his nature was especially formed, "he felt the need ofmore intimate affection. " Thus, after many years of lonely wandering, another period of Longfellow's life opened with his marriage in 1843. Had he himself been writing of another, he might have divided hisstory into cantos, each one with a separate theme. One of aspiration, one of endeavor, one with the despair of young sorrow, and one oftriumphant love. Advancing thus through the gamut of human experiencehe might have closed the scene with the immortal line loved of allpoets:--

"In sua voluntade e nostra pace. "

Thus indeed, reviewing Longfellow's life as a whole, we discern hisdays to be crowded with incident and experience. Every condition ofhuman life presented itself at his door, and every human being found awelcome there, --incidents and experience coming as frequently to himthrough the lives of others as through the gate of his own being. Thenote of love and unity with the Divine will was the dominant one whichcontrolled his spirit and gave him calm. 

He early chose Craigie House as the most desirable place for his abodein all the world. The poems and journals are full of his enjoyment ofnature as seen from its windows. In the beginning of his residencethere he persuaded Mrs. Craigie to allow him to have two rooms; but hesoon controlled the second floor, and at the time of his marriage toMiss Appleton her father presented them with the whole of thebeautiful estate. 

Here his life took shape and his happiness found increase with thedays. It was like him to say little in direct speech of all this; butwe find a few words describing his wife, of whom his brother wrotethat "her calm and quiet face wore habitually a look of seriousness. "And then evidently quoting from Henry, he adds, "at times it seemed tomake the very air bright with its smiles. " She was a beautiful womanof deep but reserved feeling and cultivated tastes and manners. Sheunderstood and sympathized in his work, and, even more, she becameoften its inspiration. During their wedding journey they passedthrough Springfield, whence she wrote: "In the Arsenal at Springfieldwe grew quite warlike against war, and I urged H. To write a peacepoem. "

Finally established in Craigie House, as the children grew and hislibrary enlarged, and guests, attracted by personal love and by hisfame, became more numerous, he found the days almost overburdened withresponsibilities. He wrote one day to Charles Sumner: "What you quoteabout the _pere de famille_ is pretty true. It is a difficultrole to play; particularly when, as in my case, it is united with thatof _oncle d'Amerique_ and general superintendent of all thedilapidated and tumble-down foreigners who pass this way!" Theregulation of such a house in New England was far more difficult thanit is at present, and Cambridge farther away from Boston, with itsconveniences and privileges, than appeared. What anxieties if thehourly omnibus should be crowded! and what a pleasant slow ride intothe far green land it seemed!

Nevertheless, this was his chosen home, his house beautiful, and suchhe made it, not only to his own eyes, but to the eyes of all whofrequented it. The atmosphere of the man pervaded his surroundings andthrew a glamour over everything. Even those who were most intimate atCraigie House felt the indescribable influence of tenderness, sweetness, and calm which filled the place. Neither Longfellow nor hiswife was a brilliant talker; indeed, there were often periods ofspeechlessness; but in spite of mental absences, a habit of which hegot the better in later years, one was always sure of being taken atone's best and of coming away with a sense of having "breathed anobler air. "

"Society and hospitality meant something real to him, " his eldestdaughter writes. "I cannot remember that there were ever any formal orobligatory occasion of entertainment. All who came were made welcomewithout any special preparation, and without any thought of personalinconvenience. "

The decorations and splendors of the great world neither existed norwere needed there. His orange-tree, "that busie plant, " always stoodin his study window, and remains, still cherished, to-day. Thestatuette of Goethe, to which he refers in "Hyperion, " stands yet onthe high desk at which he stood to write, and books are everywhere. Even closets supposed to be devoted to pails and dust-cloths "havethree shelves for books and one for pails. " In his own bedroom, wherethe exquisite portrait of his wife by Rowse hangs over the fireplace, there is a small bookcase near his bed which contains a choicecollection of the English poets. Vaughan, Henry King, and others ofthat lovely company of the past. These were his most intimate friends. In the copy of Henry King, I found the following lines marked by himin "The Exequy:"--

 "Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed, Never to be disquieted!

 My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake, Till I thy fate shall overtake; Till age, or grief, or sickness, must Marry my body to the dust It so much loves. "

His daughter says, "This library was carefully arranged by subjects;and although no catalogue was ever made, he was never at a loss whereto look for any needed volume. His books were deeply beloved andtenderly handled. "

Such was Craigie House and such was the poet's life within it from thebeginning to the end. "His poetry was not worked out from his brain, "his daughter again writes, and who should know better than herself!"it was the blossoming of his inward life. "

In a brief paper upon Longfellow written by Mr. William Winter I findthe universal sentiment towards him more fully and tenderly expressed, perhaps, than elsewhere. Mr. Winter writes: "I had read every line hehad then published; and such was the affection he inspired, even in aboyish mind, that on many a summer night I have walked several milesto his house, only to put my hand upon the latch of his gate, which hehimself had touched. More than any one else among the many famouspersons whom, since then, it has been my fortune to know, he arousedthis feeling of mingled tenderness and reverence. "

The description of his person, too, as given by Mr. Winter, seems tome clearer and closer to the truth than any other I have chanced tosee. 

"His dignity and grace, and the beautiful refinement of hiscountenance, together with his perfect taste in dress and theexquisite simplicity of his manners, made him the absolute ideal ofwhat a poet should be. His voice, too, was soft, sweet, and musical, and, like his face, it had the innate charm of tranquillity. His eyeswere blue-gray, very bright and brave, changeable under the influenceof emotion (as afterward I often saw), but mostly calm, grave, attentive, and gentle. The habitual expression of his face was notthat of sadness; and yet it was pensive. Perhaps it may be bestdescribed as that of serious and tender thoughtfulness. He hadconquered his own sorrows thus far; but the sorrows of others threwtheir shadow over him. . . . There was a strange touch of sorrowfulmajesty and prophetic fortitude commingled with the composure andkindness of his features. . . . His spontaneous desire, the naturalinstinct of his great heart, was to be helpful, --to lift up the lowly, to strengthen the weak, to bring out the best in every person, to dryevery tear, and make every pathway smooth. "

Although naturally of a buoyant disposition and fond of pleasure, Longfellow lived as far as possible from the public eye, especiallyduring the last twenty years of his life. The following note gives ahint of his natural gayety, and details one of the many excuses bywhich he always declined to speak in public; the one memorableexception being that beautiful occasion at Bowdoin, when he returnedin age to the scenes of his youth and read to the crowd assembledthere to do him reverence his poem entitled "Morituri Salutamus. "After speaking of the reasons which must keep him from the Burnsfestival, he adds:--

"I am very sorry not to be there. You will have a delightful supper, or dinner, whichever it is; and human breath enough expended to fillall the trumpets of Iskander for a month or more. 

"I behold as in a vision a friend of ours, with his left hand underthe tails of his coat, blowing away like mad; and alas! I shall not bethere to applaud. All this you must do for me; and also eat my part ofthe haggis, which I hear is to grace the feast. This shall be yourduty and your reward. "

The reference in this note to the trumpets of Iskander is the only onein his letters regarding a poem which was a great favorite of his, byLeigh Hunt, called "The Trumpets of Doolkarnein. " It is a poem worthyto make the reputation of a poet, and is almost a surprise even amongthe varied riches of Leigh Hunt. Many years after this note waswritten, Longfellow used to recall it to those lovers of poetry whohad chanced to escape a knowledge of its beauty. 

In spite of his dislike of grand occasions where he was a prominentfigure, he was a keen lover of the opera and theatre. He was alwaysthe first to know when the opera season was to begin and to plan thatour two houses might take a box together. He was always ready to hear"Lucia" or "Don Giovanni" and to make a festival time at the coming ofSalvini or Neilson. There is a tiny notelet among his letters, with anewspaper paragraph neatly cut out and pasted across the top, detailing the names of his party at a previous appearance at atheatre, a kind of notoriety which he particularly shuddered at; butin order to prove his determination in spite of everything, he writesbelow:--

"Now for 'Pinafore, ' and another paragraph! Saturday afternoon wouldbe a good time. "

He easily caught the gayety of such occasions, and in the shadow ofthe curtains in the box would join in the singing or the recitative ofthe lovely Italian words with a true poet's delight. 

The strange incidents of a life subject to the taskmaster Popularityare endless. One day he wrote:--"A stranger called here and asked if Shakespeare lived in thisneighborhood. I told him I knew no such person. Do you?"

Day by day he was besieged by every possible form of interruptionwhich the ingenuity of the human brain could devise; but his patienceand kindness, his determination to accept the homage offered him inthe spirit of the giver, whatever discomfort it might bring himself, was continually surprising to those who observed him year by year. Mr. Fields wrote: "In his modesty and benevolence I am reminded of whatPope said of his friend Garth: 'He is the best of Christians withoutknowing it. '"

In one of Longfellow's notes he alludes humorously to the autographnuisance:--"Do you know how to apply properly for autographs? Here isa formula I have just received, on a postal card:

"'DEAR SIR: As I am getting a collection of the autographs of allhonorable and worthy men, and think yours such, I hope you willforfeit by next mail. Yours, etc. '"

And of that other nuisance, sitting for a portrait, he laughinglywrote one day: "'Two or three sittings'--that is the illusory phrase. Two or three sittings have become a standing joke. " And yet how seldomhe declined when it was in his power to serve an artist! Hisgenerosity knew no bounds. 

When a refusal of any kind was necessary, it was wonderful to see howgently it was expressed. A young person having written from a westerncity to request him to write a poem for her class, he said: "I couldnot write it, but tried to say 'No' so softly that she would think itbetter than 'Yes. '"

He was distinguished by one grace which was almost peculiar to himselfin the time in which he lived--his tenderness toward the undevelopedartist, the man or woman, youth or maid, whose heart was set upon someform of ideal expression, and who was living for that. Whether theypossessed the power to distinguish themselves or not, to such personshe addressed himself with a sense of personal regard and kinship. Whenfame crowned the aspirant, no one recognized more keenly theperfection of the work, but he seldom turned aside to attract thesuccessful to himself. To the unsuccessful he lent the sunshine andoverflow of his own life, as if he tried to show every day afresh thathe believed noble pursuit and not attainment to be the purpose of ourexistence. 

In a letter written in 1860 Longfellow says:--

"I have no end of poems sent me for candid judgment and opinion. Fourcases on hand at this moment. A large folio came last night from alady. It has been chasing me round the country; has been in EastCambridge and in West Cambridge, and finally came by the hands ofPoliceman S---- to my house. I wish he had waived examination, andcommitted it (to memory). What shall I do? These poems weaken me verymuch. It is like so much water added to the Spirit of Poetry. "

And again he writes:--

"I received this morning a poem with the usual request to give 'myreal opinion' of it. I give you one stanza. "

After quoting the verse and giving the subject of the poem, hecontinues:--

"In his letter the author says, 'I did so much better on poetry than Ithought I could as a beginner, that I really have felt a little proudof my poems. ' He also sends me his photograph 'at sixty-five years ofage, ' and asks for mine 'and a poem' in return. I had much rather sendhim these than my 'real opinion, ' which I shall never make known toany man, except on compulsion and under the seal of secrecy. "

His kindness and love of humor carried him through many a tediousinterruption. He generously overlooked the fact of the subterfuges towhich men and women resorted in order to get an interview, and to helpthem out made as much of their excuses as possible. Speaking one dayof the persons who came to see him at Nahant, he said: "One man, aperfect stranger, came with an omnibus full of ladies. He descended, introduced himself, then returning to the omnibus took out all theladies, one, two, three, four, and five, with a little girl, andbrought them in. I entertained them to the best of my ability, andthey stayed an hour. They had scarcely gone when a forlorn woman inblack came up to me on the piazza, and asked for a dipper of water. 'Certainly, ' I replied, and went to fetch her a glass. When I broughtit she said, 'There is another woman just by the fence who is tiredand thirsty; I will carry this to her. ' But she struck her head as shepassed through the window and spilled the water on the piazza. 'Oh, what have I done!' she said. 'If I had a floor-cloth, I would wipe itup. ' 'Oh, no matter about the water, ' I said, 'if you have not hurtyourself. ' Then I went and brought more water for them both, and sentthem on their way, at last, refreshed and rejoicing. " Once Longfellowdrew out of his pocket a queer request for an autograph, saying "thatthe writer loved poetry in most any style, and would he please copyhis 'Break, break, break' for the writer?" He also described in a notea little encounter in the street, on a windy day, with an elderlyFrench gentleman in company with a young lady, who introduced them toeach other. The Frenchman said:--

"'Monsieur, vous avez un fils qui fait de la peinture. '

"'Oui, monsieur. '

"'Il a du merite. Il a beaucoup d'avenir. '

"'Ah, ' said I, 'c'est une belle chose que l'avenir. '

"The elderly French gentleman rolled up the whites of his eyes andanswered:--

"'Oui, c'est une belle chose; mais vous et moi, nous n'en avons pasbeaucoup!'

"Superfluous information!--H. W. L. "

It would be both an endless and unprofitable task to recall more ofthe curious experiences which popularity brought down upon him. Thereis a passage among Mr. Fields's notes, however, in which he describesan incident during Longfellow's last visit to England, which shouldnot be overlooked. Upon his arrival, the Queen sent a gracefulmessage, and invited him to Windsor Castle, where she received himwith all the honors; but he told me no foreign tribute touched himdeeper than the words of an English hod-carrier, who came up to thecarriage door at Harrow, and asked permission to take the hand of theman who had written the "Voices of the Night. "

There was no break nor any change in the friendship with his publisherduring the passing of the years; but in 1861 there is a notecontaining only a few words, which shows that a change had fallen uponLongfellow himself, a shadow which never could be lifted from hislife. He writes:--

"MY DEAR FIELDS, --I am sorry to say No instead of Yes; but so it mustbe. I can neither write nor think; and I have nothing fit to send youbut my love, which you cannot put into the magazine. "

For ever after the death of his wife he was a different man. Hisfriends suffered for him and with him, but he walked alone through thevalley of the shadow of death. "The blow fell entirely withoutwarning, and the burial took place upon the anniversary of hermarriage day. Some hand placed on her beautiful head, lovely andunmarred in death, a wreath of orange blossoms. "

There was a break in his journal at this time. After many days heinscribed in it the following lines from Tennyson's poem addressed toJames Spedding:--

 "Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace. Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul! While the stars burn, the moons increase, And the great ages onward roll. "

His friends were glad when he turned to his work again, and still moreglad when he showed a desire for their interest in what he was doing. 

It was not long before he began to busy himself continuously with histranslation of the "Divina Commedia, " and in my diary of 1863, twoyears later, I find:--

"_August. _--A delightful day with Longfellow at Nahant. He readaloud the last part of his new volume of poems, in which each one of aparty of friends tells a story. Ole Bull, Parsons, Monti, and severalother characters are introduced. "

"_September_ 1st. --A cold storm by the seashore, but there wasgreat pleasure in town in the afternoon. Longfellow, Paine, Dwight, and Fields went to hear Walcker play the new organ in the Music Hallfor the first time since its erection. Afterwards they all dinedtogether. Longfellow comes in from Cambridge every day, and sometimestwice a day, to see George Sumner, who is dying at the MassachusettsGeneral Hospital. "

"_September_ 19th. --Longfellow and his friend George W. Greene, Charles Sumner, and Dempster the singer, came in for an early dinner. A very cosy, pleasant little party. The afternoon was cool, andeverybody was in kindly humor. Sumner shook his head sadly when thesubject of the English iron-clads was mentioned. The talk prolongeditself upon the condition of the country. Longfellow's patriotismflamed. His feeling against England runs more deeply and strongly thanhe can find words to express. There is no prejudice nor childishpartisanship, but it is hatred of the course she has pursued at thiscritical time. Later, in speaking of poetry and some of the less knownand younger poets, Longfellow recalled some good passages in the poemsof Bessie Parkes and Jean Ingelow. As evening approached we left thetable and came to the library. There in the twilight Dempster sat atthe piano and sang to us, beginning with Longfellow's poem called'Children, ' which he gave with a delicacy and feeling that touchedevery one. Afterwards he sang the 'Bugle Song' and 'Turn, Fortune, 'which he had shortly before leaving England sung to Tennyson; and thenafter a pause he turned once more to the instrument and sang 'Break, break, break. ' It was very solemn, and no one spoke when he hadfinished, only a deep sob was heard from the corner where Longfellowsat. Again and again, each time more uncontrolled, we heard theheartrending sounds. Presently the singer gave us another and lesstouching song, and before he ceased Longfellow rose and vanished fromthe room in the dim light without a word. "

"_September_ 27th. --Longfellow and Greene came in town in theevening for a walk and to see the moonlight in the streets, andafterwards to have supper. . . . He was very sad, and seemed to havegrown an old man since a week ago. He was silent and absent-minded. Onhis previous visit he had borrowed Sidney's 'Arcadia' and ChristinaRossetti's poems, but he had read neither of the books. He wasoverwhelmed with his grief, as if it were sometimes more than he couldendure. "

"_Sunday, October_. --Took five little children to drive in theafternoon, and stopped at Longfellow's. It was delightful to see theirenjoyment and his. He took them out of the carriage in his arms andwas touchingly kind to them. His love for children is not confined tohis poetic expressions or to his own family; he is uncommonly tenderand beautiful with them always. "

I remember there was one little boy of whom he was very fond, and whocame often to see him. One day the child looked earnestly at the longrows of books in the library, and at length said:--"Have you got 'Jack the Giant-Killer'?"

Longfellow was obliged to confess that his library did not containthat venerated volume. The little boy looked very sorry, and presentlyslipped down from his knee and went away; but early the next morningLongfellow saw him coming up the walk with something tightly claspedin his little fists. The child had brought him two cents with which hewas to buy a "Jack the Giant-Killer" to be his own. 

He did not escape the sad experiences of the war. His eldest son wasseverely wounded, and he also went, as did Dr. Holmes and other lessfamous but equally anxious parents, in search of his boy. 

The diary continues:--

"_December_ 14th. --Went to pass the afternoon with Longfellow, and found his son able to walk about a little. He described his ownarrival at a railway station south of Washington. He found no onethere but a rough-looking officer, who was walking up and down theplatform. At each turn he regarded Longfellow, and at length came up, and taking his hand said:

"'Is this Professor Longfellow? It was I who translated "Hiawatha"into Russian. I have come to this country to fight for the Union. '"

In the year 1865 began those Wednesday evenings devoted to reading thenew translation of Dante. They were delightful occasions. Lowell, Norton, Greene, Howells, and such other Dante scholars or intimatefriends as were accessible, made up the circle of kindly critics. Those evenings increased in interest as the work progressed, and whenit was ended and the notes written and read, it was proposed tore-read the whole rather than to give up the weekly visit to Longfellow'shouse. In 1866 he wrote to Mr. Fields:--

"Greene is coming expressly to hear the last canto of 'Paradiso' to-morrow night, and will stay the rest of the week. I really hoped youwould be here, but as you say nothing about it I begin to tremble. Perhaps, however, you are only making believe and will take us bysurprise. So I shall keep your place for you. 

"This is not to be the end of all things. I mean to begin again inSeptember with the dubious and difficult passages; and if you are notin too much of a hurry to publish, there is still a long vista ofpleasant evenings stretching out before us. We can pull them out likea spyglass. I am shutting up now to recommence the operation. "

In December of the same year he wrote:--

"The first meeting of the Dante Club Redivivus is on Wednesday next. Come and be bored. Please not to mention the subject to any one yetawhile, as we are going to be very quiet about it. "

"_January_, 1867. --Dante Club at Longfellow's again. They arerevising the whole book with the minutest care. Lowell's accuracy issurprising and of great value to the work; also Norton's criticisms. Longfellow stands apart at his desk taking notes and makingcorrections, though of course no one can know yet what he accepts. "

Longfellow's true life was that of a scholar and a dreamer; everythingelse was a duty, however pleasurable or bountiful the experience mightbecome in his gentle acceptation. He was seldom stimulated to externalexpression by others. Such excitement as he could express again wasalways self-excitement; anything external rendered him at once alistener and an observer. For this reason, it is peculiarly difficultto give any idea of his lovely presence and character to those whohave not known him. He did not speak in epigrams. It could not be saidof him, --

 "His mouth he could not ope, But out there flew a trope. "

Yet there was an exquisite tenderness and effluence from his presencewhich was more humanizing and elevating than the eloquence of manyothers. 

One quotation from a letter to Charles Sumner is too characteristic tobe omitted even in the slightest sketch of Longfellow. He writes: "Youare hard at work; and God bless you in it. In every country the'dangerous classes' are those who do no work; for instance, thenobility in Europe and the slaveholders here. It is evident that theworld needs a new nobility, --not of the gold medal and _sangreazul_ order; not of the blood that is blue because it stagnates, but of the red arterial blood that circulates, and has heart in it andlife and labor. "

Speaking one day of his own reminiscences, Longfellow said, that"however interesting such things were in conversation, he thought theyseldom contained legitimate matter for book-making; and ----'s life ofa poet, just then printed, was, he thought, peculiarly disagreeablechiefly because of the unjustifiable things related of him by others. This strain of thought brought to his mind a call he once made with aletter of introduction, when a youth in Paris, upon Jules Janin. Theservant said her master was at home, and he was ushered immediatelyinto a small parlor, in one corner of which was a winding stairwayleading into the room above. Here he waited a moment while the maidcarried in his card, and then returned immediately to say he could goup. In the upper room sat Janin under the hands of a barber, hisabundant locks shaken up in wild confusion, in spite of which hereceived his guest, quite undisturbed, as if it were a matter ofcourse. There was no fire in the room; but the fireplace was heapedwith letters and envelopes, and a trail of the same reached from hisdesk to the grate. After a brief visit Longfellow was about towithdraw, when Janin detained him, saying: 'What can I do for you inParis? Whom would you like to see?'

"'I should like to know Madame George Sand. '

"'Unfortunately that is impossible! I have just quarreled with MadameSand!'

"'Ah! then, Alexandra Dumas, --I should like to take him by the hand!'

"'I have quarreled with him also, but no matter! _Vous perdriez vosillusions. '_

"However, he invited me to dine the next day, and I had a singularexperience; but I shall not soon forget the way in which he said, 'vous perdriez vos illusions. '

"When I arrived on the following day I found the company consisted ofhis wife and himself, a little red-haired man who was rather quiet andcynical, and myself. Janin was amusing and noisy, and carried the talkon swimmingly with much laughter. Presently he began to say hardthings about women, when his wife looked up reproachfully and said, 'Deja, Jules!' During dinner a dramatic author arrived with his play, and Janin ordered him to be shown in. He treated the poor fellowbrutally, who in turn bowed low to the great power. He did not evenask him to take a chair. Madame Janin did so, however, and kindly, too. The author supplicated the critic to attend the first appearanceof his play. Janin would not promise to go, but put him offindefinitely, and presently the poor man went away. He tingled allover with indignation at the treatment the man received, but Janinlooked over to his wife, saying, 'Well, my dear, I treated this onepretty well, didn't I?'

"'Better than sometimes, Jules, ' she answered. "

Altogether it was a strange scene to the young American observer. 

"_July_, 1867. --Passed the day at Nahant. As Longfellow sat onthe piazza wrapped in his blue cloth cloak, he struck me for the firsttime as wearing a venerable aspect. Before dinner he gathered wildroses to adorn the table, and even gave a careful touch himself to thearrangement of the wines and fruits. He was in excellent spirits, fullof wit and lively talk. Speaking of the use and misuse of words, hequoted Chateaubriand's mistake (afterwards corrected) in histranslation of 'Paradise Lost, ' when he rendered

 "'Siloa's brook that flowed Fast by the oracle of God, '

as

 "'Le ruisseau de Siloa qui coulait rapidement. '"

In talking about natural differences in character and temperament, hesaid of his own children that he agreed with one of the old Englishdivines who said, "Happy is that household wherein Martha stillreproves Mary!"

In February, 1868, it was decided that Longfellow should go to Europewith his family. He said that the first time he went abroad it was tosee places alone and not persons; the second time he saw a fewpersons, and so pleasantly combined the two; he thought once that on athird visit he should prefer to see persons only; but all that waschanged now. He had returned to the feeling of his youth. He was eagerto seek out quiet places and wayside nooks, where he might rest inretirement and enjoy the consecrated memorials of Europe undisturbed. 

The following year found him again in Cambridge, refreshed by hisabsence. The diary continues: "He has been trying to further the ideaof buying some of the lowlands in Cambridge for the colleges. If thiscan be done, it will save much future annoyance to the inhabitantsfrom wretched hovels and bad odors, beside holding the land for abeautiful possession forever. He has given a good deal of moneyhimself. This might be called 'his latest work. '"

"_January_, 1870. --Longfellow and Bayard Taylor came to dine. Longfellow talked of translators and translating. He advanced the ideathat the English, from the insularity of their character, wereincapable of making a perfect translation. Americans, French, andGermans, he said, have much larger adaptability to and sympathy in thethought of others. He would not hear Chapman's Homer or anything elsequoted on the other side, but was zealous in enforcing this argument. He anticipates much from Taylor's version of 'Faust. ' All this wasstrikingly interesting, as showing how his imagination wrought withhim, because he was arguing from his own theory of the capacity of theraces and in the face of his knowledge of the best actual translationsexisting to-day, the result of the scholarship of England. 

"Longfellow speaks of difficulty in sleeping. In his college days andlater he had the habit of studying until midnight and rising at six inthe morning, finding his way as soon as possible to his books. Possibly this habit still prevents him from getting sufficient rest. However light may be the literature in which he indulges before goingto bed, some chance thought may strike him as he goes up the stairswith the bedroom candle in his hand which will preclude allpossibility of sleep until long after midnight. 

"His account of Sainte-Beuve during his last visit to Europe was anodd little drama. He had grown excessively fat, and could scarcelymove. He did not attempt to rise from his chair as Longfellow entered, but motioned him to a seat by his side. Talking of Victor Hugo andLamartine, 'Take them for all in all, which do you prefer?' askedLongfellow. 

"'Charlatan pour charlatan, je crois que je prefere Monsieur deLamartine, ' was the reply. 

"Longfellow amused me by making two epigrams:--

 "'What is autobiography? It is what a biography ought to be. '

"And again:--

 "'When you ask one friend to dine, Give him your best wine! When you ask two, The second best will do!'

"He brought in with him two poems translated from Platen's 'NightSongs. ' They are very beautiful. 

"'What dusky splendors of song there are in King Alfred's new volume, 'he said. 'It is always a delight to get anything new from him. His"Holy Grail" and Lowell's "Cathedral" are enough for a holiday, andmake this one notable. '"

When Longfellow talked freely as at this dinner, it was difficult toremember that he was not really a talker. The natural reserve of hisnature made it sometimes impossible for him to express himself inordinary intercourse. He never truly made a confidant of anybodyexcept his Muse. 

"I never thought, " he wrote about this time, "that I should come backto this kind of work. " He was busying himself with collecting andediting "The Poems of Places. " "It transports me to my happiest years, and the contrast is too painful to think of. " And again in calmermood: "The 'ruler of the inverted year' (whatever that may mean) has, you perceive, returned again, like a Bourbon from banishment, and ishaving it all his own way, and it is not a pleasant way. Very well, one can sit by the fire and read, and hear the wind roar in thechimney, and write to one's friends, and sign one's self 'yoursfaithfully, ' or as in the present instance, 'yours always. '"

His sympathetic nature was ever ready to share and further the gayetyof others. He wrote one evening:--

"I have been kept at home by a little dancing-party to-night. . . . Iwrite this arrayed in my dress-coat with a rose in my buttonhole, acircumstance, I think, worth mentioning. It reminds me of Buffon, whoused to array himself in his full dress for writing 'Natural History. 'Why should we not always do it when we write letters? We should, nodoubt, be more courtly and polite, and perhaps say handsome things toeach other. It was said of Villemain that when he spoke to a lady heseemed to be presenting her a bouquet. Allow me to present you thispostscript in the same polite manner, to make good my theory of therose in the buttonhole. "

How delightful it is to catch the intoxication of the little festivalin this way. In his endeavor to further the gayeties of his childrenhe had received a reflected light and life which his love for them hadhelped to create. 

"_December_ 14, 1870. --Taylor's 'Faust' is finished, andLongfellow is coming with other friends to dinner to celebrate theending of the work. . . . 

"A statuette of Goethe was on the table. Longfellow said Goethe neverliked the statue of himself by Rauch, from which this copy was made. He preferred above all others a bust of himself by a Swiss sculptor, acopy of which Taylor owns. He could never understand, he continued, the story of that unpleasant interview between Napoleon and Goethe. Eckermann says Goethe liked it, but Longfellow thought the emperor'smanner of address had a touch of insolence in it. The haunts of Goethein Weimar were pleasantly recalled by both Longfellow and Taylor, towhom they were familiar; also that strange portrait of him takenstanding at a window, and looking out over Rome, in which nothing buthis back can be seen. 

"I find it impossible to recall what Longfellow said, but hescintillated all the evening. It was an occasion such as he lovedbest. His _jeux d'esprit_ flew rapidly right and left, oftensetting the table in a roar of laughter, a most unusual thing withhim. "

There was evidently no such pleasure to Longfellow as that of doingkindnesses. One of many notes bearing on such subjects belongs to thisyear, and begins:--

"A thousand thanks for your note and its inclosure. There goes a gleamof sunshine into a dark house, which is always pleasant to think of. Ihave not yet got the senator's sunbeam to add to it; but as soon as Ido, both shall go shining on their way. "

"_January_, 1871. --Dined at Longfellow's, and afterwards wentupstairs to see an interesting collection of East Indian curiosities. Passing through his dressing-room, I was struck with the likeness ofhis private rooms to those of a German student or professor; aGoethean aspect of simplicity and space everywhere, with books put inthe nooks and corners and all over the walls. It is surely a mostattractive house!"

Again I find a record of a dinner at Cambridge: "The day wasspringlike, and the air full of the odors of fresh blossoms. As wecame down over the picturesque old staircase, he was standing with agroup of gentlemen near by, and I heard him say aloud unconsciously, in a way peculiar to himself, 'Ah, now we shall see the ladies comedownstairs!' Nothing escapes his keen observation--as delicate as itis keen. "

And in the same vein the journal rambles on:--

"_Friday. _--Longfellow came into luncheon at one o'clock. He waslooking very well;. . . His beautiful eyes fairly shone. He had been atManchester-by-the-Sea the day before to dine with the Curtises. Theirtruly romantic and lovely place had left a pleasant picture in hismind. Coming away by the train, he passed in Chelsea a new soldiers'monument which suggested an epigram to him that he said, laughingly, would suit any of the thousand of such monuments to be seen about thecountry. He began somewhat in this style:--

 "'The soldier asked for bread, But they waited till he was dead, And gave him a stone instead, Sixty and one feet high!'

"We all returned to Cambridge together, and, being early for our ownappointment elsewhere, he carried us into his library and read aloud

'The Marriage of Lady Wentworth. ' E----, with pretty girlish ways andeyes like his own, had let us into the old mansion by the side door, and then lingered to ask if she might be allowed to stay and hear thereading too. He, consenting, laughingly, lighted a cigar and soonbegan. His voice in reading was sweet and melodious, and it wastouched with tremulousness, although this was an easier poem to readaloud than many others, being strictly narrative. It is full of NewEngland life and is a beautiful addition to his works. He has a fancyfor making a volume, or getting some one else to do it, of hisfavorite ghost stories, 'The Flying Dutchman, ' 'Peter Rugg, ' and a fewothers. "

On another occasion the record says:--

"Passed the evening at Longfellow's. As we lifted the latch andentered the hall door, we saw him reading an old book by his studylamp. It was the 'Chansons d'Espagne, ' which he had just purchased atwhat he called the massacre of the poets; in other words, at the salethat day of the library of William H. Prescott. He was rathermelancholy, he said: first, on account of the sacrifice and separationof that fine library; also because he is doubtful about his new poem, the one on the life of our Saviour. He says he has never before feltso cast down. 

"What an orderly man he is! Well-ordered, I should have written. Diary, accounts, scraps, books, --everything where he can put his handupon it in a moment. "

"_December_, 1871. --Saturday Mr. Longfellow came in town and wentwith us to hear twelve hundred school children sing a welcome to theRussian Grand Duke in the Music Hall. It was a fine sight, and Dr. Holmes's hymn, written for the occasion, was noble and inspiring. Justbefore the Grand Duke came in I saw a smile creep over Longfellow'sface. 'I can never get over the ludicrousness of it, ' he said. 'Allthis array and fuss over one man!' He came home with us afterwards, and lingered awhile by the fire. He talked of Russian literature, --its modernness, and said he had sent us a delightful novel byTourgueneff, 'Liza, ' in which we should find charming and vividglimpses of landscape and life like those seen from a carriage window. We left him alone in the library for a while, and returning found himamusing himself over the 'Ingoldsby Legends. ' He was reading the'Coronation of Victoria, ' and laughing over Count Froganoff, who couldnot get 'prog enough, ' and was 'found eating underneath the stairs. 'He wants to have a dinner for Bayard Taylor, whose coming is alwaysthe signal for a series of small festivities. His own 'Divine Tragedy'is just out, and everybody speaks of its simplicity and beauty. "

"_April. _--In the evening Longfellow came in town for the purposeof hearing a German gentleman read an original poem, and he persuadedme to go with him. The reader twisted his face up into frightfulknots, and delivered his poem with vast apparent satisfaction tohimself if not to his audience. It was fortunate on the whole that theproduction was in a foreign tongue, because it gave us the occupation, at least, of trying to understand the words, --the poem itselfpossessing not the remotest interest for either of us. It was in theold sentimental German style familiar to the readers of thatliterature. Longfellow amused me as we walked home by imitating thesing-song voice we had been following all the evening. He also recitedin the original that beautiful little poem by Platen, 'In der Nacht, in der Nacht, ' in a most delightful manner. 'Ah, ' he said, 'totranslate a poem properly it must be done into the metre of theoriginal, and Bryant's "Homer, " fine as it is, has this great fault, that it does not give the music of the poem itself. ' He came in andtook a cigar before walking home over the bridge alone. . . . 

"Emerson asked Longfellow at dinner about his last visit to England, of Ruskin and other celebrities. Longfellow is always reticent uponsuch subjects, but he was eager to tell us how very much he hadenjoyed Mr. Ruskin. He said it was one of the most surprising thingsin the world to see the quiet, gentlemanly way in which Ruskin gavevent to his extreme opinions. It seems to be no effort to him, but asif it were a matter of course that every one should give expression tothe faith that is in him in the same unvarnished way as he doeshimself, not looking for agreement, but for conversation anddiscussion. 'It is strange, ' Ruskin said, 'being considered so muchout of harmony with America as I am, that the two Americans I haveknown and loved best, you and Norton, should give me such a feeling offriendship and repose. ' Longfellow then spoke of Mrs. Matthew Arnold, whom he liked very much, --thought her, as he said, 'a most lovelyperson. ' Also of the 'beautiful Lady Herbert, ' as one of the mostdelightful of women. . . . 

"Longfellow came in to an early dinner to meet Mr. Joseph Jefferson, Mr. William Warren, and Dr. Holmes. He said he felt like one on ajourney. He had left home early in the morning, had been sight-seeingin Boston all day, was to dine and go to the theatre with usafterwards. The talk naturally turned upon the stage. Longfellow saidhe thought Mr. Charles Mathews was entirely unjust in his criticismsupon Mr. Forrest's King Lear. He considered Mr. Forrest's rendering ofthe part as very fine and close to nature. He could not understand whyMr. Mathews should underrate it as he did. Longfellow showed us a bookgiven him by Charles Sumner. In it was an old engraving (from apainting by Giulio Clovio) of the moon, in which Dante is walking withhis companion. He said it was a most impressive picture to him. Heknew it in the original; also there is a very good copy in theCambridge Library among the copies of illuminated manuscripts. "

There is a little note belonging to this period full of poetic feelingand giving more than a hint at the wearifulness of interruptingvisitors:--

"I send you the pleasant volume I promised you yesterday. It is a bookfor summer moods by the seaside, but will not be out of place on awinter night by the fireside. . . . You will find an allusion to the'blue borage flowers' that flavor the claret-cup. I know where growsanother kind of bore-age that embitters the goblet of life. I canspare you some of this herb, if you have room for it in your garden oryour garret. It is warranted to destroy all peace of mind, and finallyto produce softening of the brain and insanity. 

 "'Better juice of vine Than berry wine! Fire! fire! steel, oh, steel! Fire! fire! steel and fire!'"

The following, written in the spring of the same year, gives a hint ofwhat a festival season it was to him while the lilacs which surroundhis house were in bloom:--

"Here is the poem, copied for you by your humble scribe. I found itimpossible to crowd it into a page of note paper. Come any pleasantmorning, as soon after breakfast or before as you like, and we will goon with the 'Michael Angelical' manuscript. I shall not be likely togo to town while the lilacs are in bloom. "

The rambling diary continues: "To-day Longfellow sent us half a dozenbottles of wine, and after them came a note saying he had sent themoff without finding time to label them. 'They are wine of Avignon, ' headded, 'and should bear this inscription from Redi:--

 "'Benedetto Quel claretto Che si spilla in Avignone. '"

About this period Longfellow invited an old friend, who had falleninto extreme helplessness from ill health, to come and make him avisit. It was a great comfort to his friend, a scholar like himself, "to nurse the dwindling faculty of joy" in such companionship, and helingered many weeks in the sunshine of the old house. Longfellow'spatience and devoted care for this friend of his youth was a signalexample of what a true and constant heart may do unconsciously, ingiving expression and recognition to the bond of a sincere friendship. Long after his friend was unable to rise from his chair withoutassistance or go unaccompanied to his bedroom, Longfellow followed thelightest unexpressed wish with his sympathetic vision and performedthe smallest offices unbidden. "Longfellow, will you turn down my coatcollar?" I have heard him say in a plaintive way, and it was abeautiful lesson to see the quick and cheerful response which wouldfollow many a like suggestion. 

In referring to this trait of his character, I find among the notesmade by Mr. Fields on Longfellow: "One of the most occupied of all ourliterary men and scholars, he yet finds time for the small courtesiesof existence, those minor attentions that are so often neglected. Oneday, seeing him employed in cutting something from a newspaper, Iasked him what he was about. 'Oh, ' said he, 'here is a littleparagraph speaking kindly of our poor old friend Blank; you know heseldom gets a word of praise, poor fellow, nowadays; and thinking hemight not chance to see this paper, I am snipping out the paragraph tomail to him this afternoon. I know that even these few lines ofrecognition will make him happy for hours, and I could not bear tothink he might perhaps miss seeing these pleasant words so kindlyexpressed. '"

"_May Day_, 1876. --Longfellow dined with us. He said during thedinner, when we heard a blast of wintry wind howling outside, 'This isMay day enough; it does not matter to us how cold it is outside. ' Hewas inclined to be silent, for there were other and brilliant talkersat the table, one of whom said to him in a pause of the conversation, 'Longfellow, tell us about yourself; you never talk about yourself. ''No, ' said Longfellow gently, 'I believe I never do. ' 'And yet, 'continued the first speaker eagerly, 'you confessed to me once'--'No, 'said Longfellow, laughing, 'I think I never did. '"

And here is a tiny note of compliment, graceful as a poet's noteshould be:--

"I have just received your charming gift, your note and the statelylilies; but fear you may have gone from home before my thanks canreach you. 

"How beautiful they are, these lilies of the field; and how likeAmerican women! Not because 'they neither toil nor spin, ' but becausethey are elegant and 'born in the purple. '"

There is a brief record in 1879 of a visit to us in Manchester-by-the-Sea. Just before he left he said, "After I am gone to-day, I want youto read Schiller's poem of the 'Ring of Polycrates, ' if you do notrecall it too distinctly. You will know then how I feel about myvisit. " He repeated also some English hexameters he had essayed fromthe first book of the Iliad. He believes the work may be still moreperfectly done than has ever yet been achieved. We drove to Gloucesterwrapped in a warm sea fog. His enjoyment of the green woods and thesea breeze was delightful to watch. "Ay me! ay me! woods may decay, "but who can dare believe such life shall cease from the fair world!

Seeing the Portland steamer pass one night, a speck on the horizon, bearing as he knew his daughter and her husband, he watched it long, then said, "Think of a part of yourself being on that moving speck. "

The Sunday following that visit he wrote from Portland:--"Church bells are ringing; clatter of church-going feet on thepavement; boys crying 'Boston Herald;' voices of passing men andwomen: these are the sounds that come to me at this upper window, looking down into the street. 

"I contrast it all with last Sunday's silence at Manchester-by-the-Sea, and remember my delightful visit there. Then comes the thought ofthe moonlight and the music and Shelley's verses, --

 "'As the moon's soft splendor O'er the faint, cold starlight of heaven Is thrown;'

and so on

 "'Of some world far from ours, Where moonlight and music and feeling Are one. '

"How beautiful this song would sound if set to music by Mrs. Bell andchanted by her in the twilight. "

Later he enclosed the song, which is as follows, and I venture toreprint it because it is seldom found among Shelley's poems:--

AN ARIETTE FOR MUSIC. 

_To a lady singing to her accompaniment on the guitar. _

 As the moon's soft splendor O'er the faint, cold starlight of heaven Is thrown, So thy voice most tender To the strings without soul has given. Its own. 

 The stars will awaken, Though the moon sleep a full hour later To-night; No leaf will be shaken, Whilst the dews of thy melody scatter Delight. 

 Though the sound overpowers, Sing again, with thy sweet voice revealing A tone Of some world far from ours, Where music and moonlight and feeling Are one. 

He added:--

"I find the song in my scrapbook, and send it to save you the troubleof hunting for it. 

"H. W. L. "

It was first reprinted in "The Waif, " a thin volume of selectionspublished by Longfellow many years ago. "The Waif" and "The Estray"preserved many a lovely poem from oblivion, till it should find itsplace at length among its fellows. 

Already in 1875 we find Longfellow at work upon his latest collectionof poems, which he called "Poems of Places. " It was a much morelaborious and unrewarding occupation than he had intended, and he wassometimes weary of his self-imposed task. He wrote at this period:--No politician ever sought for Places with half the zeal that I do. Friend and Foe alike have to give Place to

Yours truly, H. W. L. 

Again he says:--

"What evil demon moved me to make this collection of 'Poems ofPlaces'? Could I have foreseen the time it would take, and the worryand annoyance it would bring with it, I never would have undertakenit. The worst of it is, I have to write pieces now and then to fill upgaps. "

More and more his old friends grew dear to him as the years passed and"the goddess Neuralgia, " as he called his malady, kept him chiefly athome. He wrote in 1877:--

"When are you coming back from your Cottageon the Cliffs? The trees on the Common and the fountains are callingfor you. 

 "'Thee, Tityrus, even the pine-trees, The very fountains, the very Copses are calling. '

Perhaps also your creditors. At all events I am, who am your debtor. "

The days were fast approaching when the old things must pass away. Hewrote tenderly:--

"I am sorry to hear that you are not quite yourself. I sympathize withyou, for I am somebody else. It is the two W's, Work and Weather, thatare playing the mischief with us. . . . You must not open a book; youmust not even look at an inkstand. These are both contraband articles, upon which we have to pay heavy duties. We cannot smuggle them in. Nature's custom-house officers are too much on the alert. "

In 1880 he again wrote, describing the wedding of the daughter of anold friend:--

"A beautiful wedding it was; an ideal village wedding, in a prettychurch, and the Windmill Cottage of our friend resplendent withautumnal flowers. In one of the rooms there was a tea-kettle hangingon a crane in the fireplace. 

"So begins a new household. But Miss Neilson's death has saddened me, and yesterday Mrs. Horsford came with letters from Norway, givingparticulars of Ole Bull's last days, his death and burial. The accountwas very touching. All Bergen's flags at half-mast; telegrams from theKing; funeral oration by Bjoernson. The dear old musician was carriedfrom his island to the mainland in a steamer, followed by a long lineof other steamers. No Viking ever had such a funeral. "

And here the extracts from letters and journals must cease. It was agolden sunset, in spite of the increasing infirmities which beset him;for he could never lose his pleasure in making others happy, and onlyduring the few last days did he lose his own happiness among his booksand at his desk. The influence his presence gave out to others, ofcalm good cheer and tenderness, made those who knew him feel that hepossessed, in larger measure than others, what Jean Paul Richter calls"a heavenly unfathomableness which makes man godlike, and love towardhim infinite. " Indeed, this "heavenly unfathomableness" was a strongcharacteristic of his nature, and the gracious silence in which heoften dwelt gave a rare sense of song without words. Therefore, perhaps on that day when we gathered around the form through which hisvoice was never again to utter itself, and heard his own wordsrepeated upon the air saying, "Weep not, my friends! rather rejoicewith me. I shall not feel the pain, but shall be gone, and you shallhave another friend in heaven, " it was impossible not to believe thathe was with us still, the central spirit, comforting and uplifting thecircle of those who were most dear to him. 

GLIMPSES OF EMERSON

The perfect consistency of a truly great life, where inconsistenciesof speech become at once harmonized by the beauty of the whole nature, gives even to a slight incident the value of a bit of mosaic which, ifomitted, would leave a gap in the picture. Therefore we never tire of"Whisperings" and "Talks" and "Walks" and "Letters" relating to thefriends of our imagination, if not of our fireside; and in so far assuch fragments bring men and women of achievement nearer to our dailylives, without degrading them, they warm and cheer us with somethingof their own beloved and human presence. 

From this point of view the publication of so many of these sidelights on the lives of what Emerson himself calls "superior people, "is easily accounted for, and the following glimpses will only confirmwhat he expresses of such natures when he says, "In all the superiorpeople I have met I notice directness, truth spoken more truly, as ifeverything of obstruction, of malformation, had been trained away. "

In reading the correspondence between Carlyle and Emerson, few readerscould fail to be impressed with the generosity shown by Emerson ingiving his time and thought without stint to the publication ofCarlyle's books in this country. Nor was this the single instance ofhis devotion to the advancement of his friends. In a brief memoir, lately printed, of Jones Very, as an introduction to a collection ofhis poems, we find a like record there. 

After the death of Thoreau, Emerson spared no trouble to himself thathis friend's papers might be properly presented to the reading world. He wrote to his publisher, Mr. Fields: "I send all the poems ofThoreau which I think ought to go with the letters. These are the bestverses, and no other whole piece quite contents me. I think you mustbe content with a little book, since it is so good. I do not like toprint either the prison piece or the John Brown with these clear sky-born letters and poems. " After all his labor and his care, however, itwas necessary to hold consultation with Thoreau's sister, and shecould not find it in her heart to leave out some of the tenderpersonalities which had grown more dear to her since her brother'sdeath, and which had been omitted in the selection. She said that shewas sure Mr. Emerson was not pleased at the restorations she madeafter his careful work of elimination was finished, but he was toocourteous and kind to say much, or to insist on his own way; he onlyremarked, "You have spoiled my Greek statue. " Neither was he himselfaltogether contented with his work, and shortly afterward said hewould like to include "The Maiden in the East, " partly because it waswritten of Mrs. W----n, and partly because other persons liked it sowell. 

"I looked over the poems again and again, " he said, "and at lastreserved but ten, finding some blemish in all the others whichprevented them from seeming perfect to me. How grand is his poem aboutthe mountains! As it is said of Goethe that he never spoke of thestars but with respect, so we may say of Thoreau and the mountains. "It could hardly be expected of Thoreau's sister to sympathize withsuch a tribunal, especially when the same clear judgment was broughtto bear upon the letters. Even touching the contract for publicationhe was equally painstaking--far more so than for his own affairs. Hewrote, "I inclose the first form of contract, as you requested, withthe alterations suggested by Miss Thoreau. " After this follows acareful reiteration in his own handwriting of such alterations as weredesired. 

The early loss of Thoreau and his love for him were, I had believed, the root and flower which brought forth fruit in his noble discourseon "Immortality;" but Miss Emerson generously informs me that I ammistaken in this idea. "Most of its framework, " she says, "was writtenseven or eight years earlier and delivered in September, 1855. Someparts of it he may have used at Mr. Thoreau's funeral and somesentences of it may have been written then, but the main work was donelong before, and it was enlarged twice afterwards. "

Happy were they who heard him speak at the funeral of Henry Thoreau. At whatever period he first framed his intuitions upon the future inprose, on that day a light was flashed upon him which he reflectedagain upon the soul of his listeners, and to them it seemed that anew-born glory had descended. Whatever words are preserved upon theprinted page, the spirit of what was given on that day cannot bereproduced. He wrote, the day after Thoreau's death, to Mr. Fields:"Come tomorrow and bring ---- to my house. We will give you a veryearly dinner. Mr. Channing is to write a hymn or dirge for thefuneral, which is to be from the church at three o'clock. I am to makean address, and probably Mr. Alcott may say something. " This was theonly announcement, the only time for preparation. Thoreau's body layin the porch, and his townspeople filled the church, but Emerson madethe simple ceremony one never to be forgotten by those who werepresent. Respecting the publication of this address I find thefollowing entry in a diary of the time: "We have been waiting for Mr. Emerson to publish his new volume, containing his address upon HenryThoreau; but he is careful of words, and finds many to be consideredagain and again, until it is almost impossible to extort a manuscriptfrom his hands. "

There is a brief note among the few letters I have found concerningthe poetry of some other writer whose name does not appear, but in thepublication of whose work Emerson was evidently interested. He writes:"I have made the fewest changes I could. So do not shock the _amourpropre_ of the poet, and yet strike out the bad words. You must, please, if it comes to question, keep my agency out of sight, and hewill easily persuade himself that your compositor has grown critical, and struck out the rough syllables. "

Emerson stood, as it were, the champion of American letters, andwhatever found notice at all challenged his serious scrutiny. The souland purpose must be there; he must find one line to win his sympathy, and then it was given with a whole heart. He said one day at breakfastthat he had found a young man! A youth in the far West had writtenhim, and inclosed some verses, asking for his criticism. Among themwas the following line, which Emerson said proved him to be a poet, and he should watch his career in future with interest:

 "Life is a flame whose splendor hides its base. "

We can imagine the kindly letter which answered the appeal, and howthe future of that youth was brightened by it. "Emerson's young man"was a constant joke among his friends, because he was constantlyfilled with a large hope; and his friend of the one line was not byany means his only discovery. 

His feeling respecting the literary work of men nearer to him was notalways one of satisfaction. When Hawthorne's volume of "EnglishSketches" was printed, he said, "It is pellucid, but not deep;" and hecut out the dedication and letter to Franklin Pierce, which offendedhim. The two men were so unlike that it seemed a strange fate whichbrought them together in one small town. An understanding of eachother's methods or points of view was an impossibility. Emerson spokeonce with an intimate friend of the distance which separated Hawthorneand himself. They were utterly at variance upon politics and everytheory of life. 

Mr. Fields was suggesting to Emerson one day that he should give aseries of lectures, when, as they were discussing the topics to bechosen, Emerson said: "One shall be on the Doctrine of Leasts, and oneon the Doctrine of Mosts; one shall be about Brook Farm, for eversince Hawthorne's ghastly and untrue account of that community, in his'Blithedale Romance, ' I have desired to give what I think the trueaccount of it. "

The sons of Henry James, Senior, being at school in Concord for aperiod, Emerson invited Mr. James, who had gone to visit his boys, tostay over and be present at one of Mr. Alcott's conversations, whichwere already "an institution" of the time. Mr. Alcott began to speakupon subjects which interested Mr. James; and the latter, notunderstanding, naturally enough, that these so-called "Conversations"were in truth monologues, replied to Mr. Alcott in his own strikingstyle. Finding the audience alive to what he wished to say, hecontinued, and "did the talking himself. " Miss Mary Emerson, Emerson'swell-beloved aunt, the extraordinary original of one of his mostdelightful papers, was present. She had never met Mr. James before, and became greatly excited by some of the opinions he advanced. Shethought he often used the word "religion, " when, to her mind, heappeared to mean, sometimes "dogmatism" and sometimes, "ecclesiasticism. "

She bided her time, though a storm had gathered within her. At last, when a momentary silence fell and no one appeared ready to refutecertain opinions advanced by Mr. James, "Amita" rose, took a chair, and, placing it in front of him, exclaimed, "Let me confront themonster!" The discussion was then renewed, excited by this sally of"Amita's" wit, and the company parted with a larger understanding ofthe subject and greater appreciation of each other. "It was a gloriousoccasion for those who love a battle of words, " said one who waspresent. Mr. James delighted his host by his remarks upon thecharacter of the beloved "Amita. "

He had many reservations with regard to Dickens. He could not easilyforgive any one who made him laugh immoderately. The first reading of"Dr. Marigold" in Boston was an exciting occasion, and Emerson wasinvited to "assist. " After the reading he sat talking until a verylate hour, for he was taken by surprise at the novelty and artisticperfection of the performance. His usual calm had quite broken downunder it; he had laughed as if he might crumble to pieces, his facewearing an expression of absolute pain; indeed, the scene was sostrange that it was mirth-provoking to those who were near. But whenwe returned home he questioned and pondered much upon Dickens himself. Finally he said: "I am afraid he has too much talent for his genius;it is a fearful locomotive to which he is bound, and he can never befreed from it nor set at rest. You see him quite wrong evidently, andwould persuade me that he is a genial creature, full of sweetness andamenities, and superior to his talents; but I fear he is harnessed tothem. He is too consummate an artist to have a thread of nature left. He daunts me. I have not the key. " When Mr. Fields came in herepeated: "---- would persuade me that Dickens is a man easy tocommunicate with, sympathetic and accessible to his friends; but hereyes do not see clearly in this matter, I am sure!"

The tenor of his way was largely stayed by admiration and appreciationof others, often far beyond their worth. He gilded his friends withhis own sunshine. He wrote to his publisher: "Give me leave to makeyou acquainted with ----" (still unknown to fame), "who has written apoem which he now thinks of publishing. It is, in my judgment, aserious and original work of great and various merit, with highintellectual power in accosting the questions of modern thought, fullof noble sentiment, and especially rich in fancy, and in sensibilityto natural beauty. I remember that while reading it I thought it awelcome proof, and still more a prediction, of American culture. Ineed not trouble you with any cavils I made on the manuscript I read, as ---- assures me that he has lately revised and improved theoriginal draft. I hope you will like the poem as heartily as I did. "

I find a record of one very warm day in Boston in July when, in spiteof the heat, Mr. Emerson came to dine with us:--

"He talked much of Forceythe Willson, whose genius he thought akin toDante's, and says E---- H---- agrees with him in this, or possiblysuggested it, she having been one of the best readers and lovers ofDante outside the reputed scholars. 'But he is not fertile. A man athis time should be doing new things. ' 'Yes, ' said ----, 'I fear henever will do much more. ' 'Why, how old is he?' asked Emerson; andhearing he was about thirty-five, he replied, with a smile, 'There ishope till forty-five. ' He spoke also of Tennyson and Carlyle as thetwo men connected with literature in England who were mostsatisfactory to meet, and better than their books. His respect forliterature in these degenerate days is absolute. It is religion andlife, and he reiterates this in every possible form. Speaking of JonesVery, he said he seemed to have no right to his rhymes; they did notsing to him, but he was divinely led to them, and they alwayssurprised you. "

We were much pleased and amused at his quaint expressions ofadmiration for a mutual friend in New York at whose hospitable housewe had all received cordial entertainment. He said: "The great Hindoo, Hatim Tayi, was nothing by the side of such hospitality as hers. HatimTayi would soon lose his reputation. " His appreciation of the poems ofH. H. Was often expressed. He made her the keynote of a talk one dayupon the poetry of women. The poems entitled "Joy, " "Thought, ""Ariadne, " he liked especially. Of Mrs. Hemans he found many poemswhich still survive, and he believed must always live. 

Matthew Arnold was one of the minds and men to whom he constantlyreverted with pleasure. Every traveler was asked for the last news ofhim; and when an English professor connected with the same universityas Arnold, whom Emerson had been invited to meet, was asked theinevitable question, and found to know nothing, Emerson turned awayfrom him, and lost all interest in his conversation. A few daysafterward some one was heard to say, "Mr. Emerson, how did you likeProfessor ----?"

"Let me see, " he replied; "is not he the man who was at the sameuniversity with Matthew Arnold, and who could tell us nothing of him?"

"How about Matthew Arnold?" he said to B---- on his return fromEngland. 

"I did not see him, " was the somewhat cool reply. 

"Yes! but he is one of the men one wishes not to lose sight of, " saidEmerson. 

"Arnold has written a few good essays, " rejoined the other, "but histalk about Homer is all nonsense. "

"No, no, no!" said Emerson; "it is good, every word of it!"

When the lecture on Brook Farm really came, it was full of wit andcharm, as well as of the truth he so seriously desired to convey. Theaudience was like a firm, elastic wall, against which he threw theballs of his wit, while they bounded steadily back into his hand. Almost the first thing he said was quoted from Horatio Greenough, whomhe esteemed one of the greatest men of our country. But there isnothing more elusive and difficult to retain than Emerson's wit. Itpierces and is gone. Some of the broader touches, such as the clothes-pins dropping out of the pockets of the Brook Farm gentlemen as theydanced in the evening, were apparent to all, and irresistible. Nothingcould be more amusing than the boyish pettishness with which, inspeaking of the rareness of best company, he said, "We often foundourselves left to the society of cats and fools. "

I find the following note in a brief diary: "October 20, 1868. Lastnight Mr. Emerson gave his second lecture. It was full of touches oflight which dropped from him, to us, his listeners, and made us burnas with a kind of sudden inspiration of truth. He was beautiful bothto hear and see. He spoke of poetry and criticism. . . . 

"He discovered two reporters present and spoke to them, saying, 'It isnot allowed. ' Whereat they both replied: 'They were only at work fortheir own gratification. Of course I could say nothing more; butafterward the Lord smote one of them and he came and confessed. ' Whenhe returned after speaking he brought one of the two bouquets which hefound upon his desk. 'I bring you back your flowers, ' he said gently. There was no loud applause last evening; but there were little shiversof delight or approbation running over the audience from time to time, like breezes over a cornfield. "

Emerson was always faithful to his appreciation of Channing's poems. When "Monadnock" was written, he made a special visit to Boston totalk it over, and the fine lines of Channing were always ready in hismemory, to come to the front when called for. His love and loyalty toElizabeth Hoar should never be forgotten, in however imperfect arehearsal of his valued companionships. One morning at breakfast Iheard him describing her attributes and personality in the most tenderand engaging way to Mrs. Stowe, who had never known her, which I wouldgive much to be able to reproduce. 

Emerson's truthfulness was often the cause of mirth even to himself. Iremember that he thought he did not care for the work of BayardTaylor, but he confessed one day with sly ruefulness that he had takenup the last "Atlantic" by chance, and found there some noblehexameters upon "November;" and "I said to myself, 'Ah! who is this?this is as good as Clough. ' When to my astonishment, and not a littleto my discomfiture, I discovered they were Bayard Taylor's! But howabout this 'Faust'? We have had Dante done over and over, and even nowdone, I see, again by a new hand, and Homer forever being done, andnow 'Faust'! I quarrel somewhat with the overmuch labor spent uponthese translations, but first of all I quarrel with Goethe. 'Faust' isunpleasant to me. The very flavor of the poem repels me, and makes mewish to turn away. " The "Divina Commedia, " too, he continued, was apoem too terrible to him to read. He had never been able to finish it. It is probable that poor translations of both "Faust" and Dante readin early youth were at the bottom of these opinions. 

Emerson was a true appreciator of Walter Scott. At one of the SaturdayClub dinners it was suggested that Walter Scott be made the subject ofconversation, and the occasion be considered as his birthday. Emersonspoke with brilliant effect two or three times. He was first calledout by his friend Judge Hoar, who said he was chopping wood thatmorning in his woodshed, when Emerson came in and said so manydelightful things about Sir Walter that if he would now repeat to thetable only a portion of the excellent sayings heard in the woodshed hewould delight them all. Emerson rose, and, referring pleasantly to thebrilliancy of the judge's imagination, began by expressing his senseof gratitude to Walter Scott, and concluded a fine analysis of hiswork by saying that the root and gist of his genius was to be found, in his opinion, in the Border Minstrelsy. 

His loyalty to the Saturday Club was quite as sincere as Dr. Holmes's, but the difficulties in the way of his constant attendance weresomewhat greater. Emerson kept a friendly lookout over absent members, and greeted with approval any one who arrived at the monthly tryst inspite of hindrances. Seeing Mr. Fields appear one day, bag in hand, ata time when he was living in the country, Emerson glanced at himaffectionately, saying half aloud, "Good boy! good boy!" At thismeeting it appeared that Lowell and Emerson had chanced to gotogether, while in Paris, to hear Renan. They spoke of the beauty andperfection of his Hebrew script upon the blackboard; it was faultless, they said. Emerson added that he could not understand Renan's French, so he looked at Lowell, who wore a very wise expression, instead. 

Emerson was no lover of the sentimental school. The sharp arrow of hiswit found a legitimate target there. Of one person in especial, whomwe all knew and valued for extraordinary gifts, he said: "---- isirreclaimable. The sentimentalists are the most dangerous of theinsane, for they cannot be shut up in asylums. "

The labor bestowed upon his own work before committing himself toprint was limitless. I have referred to this already in speaking ofthe publication of his address after the death of Thoreau. Sometimesin joke a household committee would be formed to sit in judgment onhis essays, and get them out of his hands. The "May-day" poem was longin reaching its home in print. There were references to it from yearto year, but he could never be satisfied to yield it up. In April, 1865, after the fall of Richmond, he dined with us, full of what hesaid was "a great joy to the world, not alone to our little America. "That day he brought what he then called some verses on Spring to readaloud; but when the reading was ended, he said they were far "toofragmentary to satisfy him, " and quietly folded them up and carriedthem away again. 

This feeling of unreadiness to print sprang as much from the wonderfulmodesty as from the sincerity of his character. He wrote shortly afterto his publisher:--

"I have the more delight in your marked overestimate of my poem that Ihave been vexed with a belief that what skill I had in whistling wasnearly or quite gone, and that I might henceforth content myself withguttural consonants or dissonants, and not attempt warbling. On thestrength of your note, I am working away at my last pages of rhyme. But this has been and is a week of company. Yet I shall do the best Ican with the quarters of hours. "

Again, with his mind upon the "May-day" poem, he wrote:--

"I have long seen with some terror the necessity closing round me, inspite of all my resistance, that shall hold me from home. It now seemsfixed to the 20th or 21st March. I had only consented to 1st March. But in the negotiations of my agent it would still turn out that theprimary engagements made a year ago, and to which the others were onlyappendages--the primaries, St. Louis, Cincinnati, and Pittsburgh--mustneeds thrust themselves into March, and without remedy. But I cannotallow the 'May-day' to come till I come. There were a fewindispensable corrections made and sent to the printer, which hereserved to be corrected on the plates, but of which no revise wasever sent to me; and as good publish no book as leave these_errata_ unexpunged. Then there is one quatrain, to which hisnotice was not called, for which I wish to substitute another. So Ientreat you not to finish the book except for the fire until I come. As the public did not die for the book on the 1st January, I presumethey can sustain its absence on the 1st April. . . . Though I do not knowthat your courage will really hold out to publish it on the 1st Aprilif I were quite ready. "

Again in the same spirit he writes to his editor and publisher:--

You ask in your last note for "Leasts and Mosts" for the "Atlantic. "You have made me so popular by your brilliant advertising andarrangements (I will say, not knowing how to qualify your socialskill) that I am daily receiving invitations to read lectures far andnear, and some of these I accept, and must therefore keep the readablelectures by me for a time, though I doubt not that this mite, like themountain, will fall into the "Atlantic" at last. 

Ever your debtor, R. W. EMERSON. 

At another time he wrote:--

"I received the account rendered of the Blue and Gold Edition of the'Essays' and 'Poems. ' I keep the paper before me and study it now andthen to see if you have lost money by the transaction, and myprevailing impression is that you have. "

It was seldom he showed a sincere willingness or desire to print. Oneday, however (it was in 1863), he came in bringing a poem he hadwritten concerning his younger brother, who, he said, was a rare man, and whose memory richly deserved some tribute. He did not know if hecould finish it, but he would like to print _that_. It was aboutthe same period that he came to town and took a room at the ParkerHouse, bringing with him the unfinished sketch of a few verses whichhe wished Mr. Fields to hear. He drew a small table into the centre ofthe room, which was still in disorder (a former occupant having sleptthere the previous night), and then read aloud the lines he proposedto give to the press. They were written on separate slips of paper, which were flying loosely about the room and under the bed. A questionarose of the title, when Mr. Fields suggested "Voluntaries, " which wascordially accepted and finally adopted. 

He was ever seeking suggestions, and ready to accept corrections. Hewrote to his publisher:

"I thank you for both the corrections, and accept them both, though inreading, one would always say, 'You pet, ' so please write, though Igrudge it [Thou pet], and [mass], and [minster]. Please also to write[arctic], in the second line with small [a] if, as I think, it is nowwritten large [A]. And I forgot, I believe, to strike out a needlessseries of quotation commas with which the printing was encumbered. "

His painstaking never relaxed, even when he was to read a familiarlecture to an uncritical audience. He had been invited by the membersof the Young Ladies' Saturday Morning Club to read one of his essaysin their parlor. This he kindly consented to do, as well as to passthe previous night with his friends in Charles Street, and read tothem an unpublished paper, which he called "Amita. " Some questionhaving arisen as to the possibility of his keeping both theengagements, he wrote as follows:--

"DEAR MRS. F. , --I mean surely to obey your first command, namely, forthe visit to you on Friday evening next, and I fully trust that Iwrote you that I would. . . . And now I will untie the papers of 'Amita, 'and see if I dare read them on Friday, or must find somewhat lessnervous. "

I find the following brief record of the occasion:--

"Mr. Emerson arrived from Concord. He said he took it for granted weshould be occupied at that hour, but he would seize the moment to lookover his papers. So I begged him to go into the small study and findquiet there as long as he chose. . . . Presently Emerson came down totea; the curtains were drawn, and a few guests arrived. We sat roundthe tea table in the library, while he told us of ----'s life inBerlin, where Mr. And Mrs. Hermann Grimm and Mr. And Mrs. Bancroft hadopened a pleasant social circle for him. He also talked much of theGrimms. His friendship for Hermann Grimm had extended over many years, and an interesting correspondence has grown up between them. Moreguests arrived, and the talk became general until the time came tolisten to 'Amita. '"

The charm of that reading can never be forgotten by those who heardit. The paper itself can now be found upon the printed page; butEmerson's enjoyment of his own wit, as reflected back from the facesof his listeners, cannot be reproduced, nor a kind of squirrel-likeshyness and swiftness which pervaded it. 

The diary continues:--

"C---- and ---- were first at breakfast, but Mr. Emerson soonfollowed. The latter had been some time at work, and his hands werecold. I had heard him stirring before seven o'clock. He came downbright and fresh, however, with the very spirit of youth in his face. At table they fell upon that unfailing resource in conversation, anecdotes of animals and birds. Speaking of parrots, Mr. Emerson saidhe had never heard a parrot say any of these wonderful things himself, but the Storer family of Cambridge, who were very truthful people, hadtold him astonishing anecdotes of a bird belonging to them, which hecould not disbelieve because they told him. 

"At ten o'clock we went to Miss L----'s, where the young ladies' clubwas convened to hear Mr. Emerson on 'Manners. ' He told us we should dobetter to stay at home, as we had heard this paper many times. Happilywe did not take his advice. There were many good things added, besidethe pleasure of hearing the old ones revived. One of the things new tome was the saying of a wise woman, who remarked that she 'did notthink so much of what people said as of what made them say it. ' It waspretty to see the enthusiasm of the girls, and to hear what CeliaThaxter called their 'virile applause. '"

During the same season Emerson consented to give a series of readingsin Boston. He was not easily persuaded to the undertaking until hefelt assured of the very hearty cooeperation which the proposed titleof "Conversations" made evident to him. The following note will givesome idea of his feeling with regard to the plan. 

CONCORD, 24th February, 1872. 

DEAR ----: You are always offering me kindness and eminent privileges, and for this courageous proposition of "Conversations on Literaturewith Friends, at Mechanics' Hall, " I pause and poise between pleasureand fear. The name and the undertaking are most attractive; butwhether it can be adequately attempted by me, who have a couple oftasks which Osgood and Company know of, now on my slow hands, Ihesitate to affirm. Well, the very proposal will perhaps arm my headand hands to drive these tasks to a completion. And you shall give mea few days' grace, and I will endeavor to send you a considerateanswer. 

Later, in March, he wrote:--

"For the proposed 'Conversations, ' which is a very good name, Ibelieve I must accept your proposition frankly, though the second weekof April looks almost too near. "

As the appointed time approached, a fresh subject for nervousnesssuggested itself, which the following note will explain:--

CONCORD, 12th April, 1872. 

MY DEAR ----: I entreat you to find the correspondent of the New York"Tribune, " who reports Miss Vaughan's and Henry James's lectures inBoston, and adjure her or him, as he or she values honesty and honor, not to report any word of what Mr. Emerson may say or do at his coming"Conversations. " Tell the dangerous person that Mr. E. Accepted thistask, proffered to him by private friends, on the assurance that theaudience would be composed of his usual circle of private friends, andthat he should be protected from any report; that a report is sodistasteful to him that it would seriously embarrass and perhapscripple or silence much that he proposes to communicate; and if theindividual has bought tickets, these shall gladly be refunded, andwith thanks and great honor of your friend, R. W. EMERSON. 

In spite of all these terrors, the "Conversations" were an entiresuccess, financially as well as otherwise. 

I find in the diary:--

"This afternoon Mr. Emerson gave his first 'Conversation' in thiscourse, which ---- has arranged for him. He will make over fourteenhundred dollars by these readings. There was much new and excellentmatter in the discourse to-day, and it was sown, as usual, withfelicitous quotations. His introduction was gracefully done. He saidhe regarded the company around him as a society of friends whom it wasa great pleasure to him to meet. He spoke of the value of literature, but also of the superior value of thought if it can be evolved inother ways, quoting that old saying of Catherine de Medicis, whoremarked, when she was told of some one who could speak twentylanguages: 'That means he has twenty words for one idea. I wouldrather have twenty ideas to one word. '"

And again:--"_April_ 22. --To-day is the second of Mr. Emerson's 'Readings, 'or 'Conversations, ' and he is coming with Longfellow and the Hunts tohave dinner afterward. . . . We had a gay, lovely time at the dinner;but, first about the lecture. Emerson talked of poetry, and the unitywhich exists between science and poetry, the latter being the fineinsight which solves all problems. The _un_written poetry of to-day, the virgin soil, was strongly, inspiringly revealed to us. He wasnot talking, he said, when he spoke of poetry, of the smooth verses ofmagazines, but of poetry itself wherever it was found. He readfavorite single lines from Byron's 'Island, ' giving Byron greatpraise, as if in view of the injustice which has been done him in ourtime. After Byron's poem he read a lyric written by a traveler to theTonga Islands, which is in Martin's 'Travels;' also a noble poemcalled 'The Soul, ' and a sonnet, by Wordsworth. We were all entrancedas the magic of his sympathetic voice passed from one poetic vision toanother. Indeed, we could not bear to see the hour fade away. "

I find the following fragment of a note written during May of thatyear:--

I received on my return home last night, with pleasure which is quiteceasing to surprise, the final installment of one hundred and sevendollars from the singular soliloquies called "Conversations, "inaugurated by the best of directors. 

Evermore thanks. R. W. EMERSON. 

Again, in the journal I find:--

"Another lecture from Emerson--'Poetry, Religion, Love'--'supernarespicit amor. ' His whole discourse was a storehouse of delights andinspirations. There was a fine contribution from Goethe; a passagewhere he bravely recounts his indebtedness to the great of all ages. Varnhagen von Ense, Jacob Boehmen, Swedenborg, and the poets broughttheir share. 

"There was an interlude upon domestic life, 'where alone the true mancould be revealed, ' which was full of beauty. 

"He came in to-day to see ----. He flouts the idea of 'that preacher, Horace Greeley, ' being put up as candidate for president. 'If it hadbeen Charles Francis Adams, now, we should all have voted for him. Tobe sure, it would be his father and his grandfather for whom we werevoting, but we should all believe in him. '

"We think this present course of lectures more satisfactory than thelast. One thing is certain, he flings his whole spirit into them. Hereads the poems he loves best in literature, and infuses into theirrendering the pure essence of his own poetic life. We can never forgethis reading of 'The Wind, ' a Welsh poem by Taliesin--the very rush ofthe elements was in it. "

Emerson was perfectly natural and at ease in manner and speech duringthese readings. He would sometimes bend his brows and shut his eyes, endeavoring to recall a favorite passage, as if he were at his ownlibrary table. One day, after searching thus in vain for a passagefrom Ben Jonson, he said: "It is all the more provoking as I do notdoubt many a friend here might help me out with it. "

When away from home on his lecture tours, Emerson did not fail to havehis share of disasters. He wrote from Albany, in 1865, to Mr. Fields:--An unlucky accident drives me here to make a draft on you for fiftydollars, which I hope will not annoy you. The truth is that I lost mywallet--I fear to some pickpocket--in Fairhaven, Vermont, night beforelast (some $70 or $80 in it), and had to borrow money of a Samaritanlady to come here. I pray you do not whisper it to the swallows forfear it should go to ----, and he should print it in "Fraser. " I amgoing instantly to the best book-shop to find some correspondent ofyours to make me good. I was to have read a lecture here last night, but the train _walked_ all the way through the ice, sixty miles, from six in the morning, and arrived here at _ten_ at night. Ihope still that Albany will entreat me on its knees to read to-night. One other piece of bad news if you have not already learned it. Canyou not burn down the Boston Athenaeum to-night? for I learned bychance that they have a duplicate of the "Liber Amoris. " I hope forgreat prosperity on my journey as the necessary recoil of suchadversities, and specially to pay my debts in twenty days. Yours, withconstant regard, R. W. EMERSON. 

The apprehensions which assailed him before his public addresses orreadings were not of a kind to affect either speech or behavior. Heseemed to be simply detained by his own dissatisfaction with his work, and was forever looking for something better to come, even when it wastoo late. His manuscripts were often disordered, and at the lastmoment, after he began to read, appeared to take the form in his mindof a forgotten labyrinth through which he must wait to find his way insome more opportune season. 

In the summer of 1867 he delivered the address before the Phi Beta atHarvard. He seemed to have an especial feeling of unreadiness on thatday, and, to increase the trouble, his papers slipped away inconfusion from under his hand as he tried to rest them on a poorlyarranged desk or table. Mr. Hale put a cushion beneath them finally, after Emerson began to read, which prevented them from falling again, but the whole matter was evidently out of joint in the reader's eyes. He could not be content with it, and closed without warming to theoccasion. It was otherwise, however, to those who listened; they didnot miss the old power: but after the reading he openly expressed hisown discontent, and walked away dissatisfied. Miss Emerson writes tome of this occasion: "You recall the sad Phi Beta day of 1867. Thetrouble that day was that for the first time his eyes refused to servehim; he could not see, and therefore could hardly get along. His workhad been on the whole satisfactory to him, and if he could have readit straight all would have been happy instead of miserable. "

On another and more private occasion, also, he came away muchdisappointed himself, because, the light being poor and his manuscriptdisarranged, he had not been just, he thought, even to such matter aslay before him. And who can forget the occasion of the delivery of theBoston Hymn?--that glad New Year when the people were assembled in ourlarge Music Hall to hear read the proclamation of Abraham Lincoln. When it was known that Emerson was to follow with a poem, a stillnessfell on the vast assembly as if one ear were waiting to catch hisvoice; but the awful moment, which was never too great for his willand endeavor, was confusing to his fingers, and the precious leaves ofhis manuscript fell as he rose, and scattered themselves among theaudience. They were quickly gathered and restored, but for one instantit seemed as if the cup so greatly desired was to be dashed from thelips of the listeners. 

His perfect grace in conversation can hardly be reproduced, even ifone could gather the arrows of his wit. But I find one or two slighthints of the latter which are too characteristic to be omitted. Speaking of some friends who were contemplating a visit to Europe justafter our civil war, when exchange was still very high, he said that"the wily American would elude Europe for a year yet, hoping exchangewould go down. " On being introduced to an invited guest of theSaturday Club, Emerson said: "I am glad to meet you, sir. I often seeyour name in the papers and elsewhere, and am happy to take you by thehand for the first time. "

"Not for the first time, " was the reply. "Thirty-three years ago I wasenjoying my school vacation in the woods, as boys will. One afternoonI was walking alone, when you saw me and joined me, and talked of thevoices of nature in a way which stirred my boyish pulses, and left methinking of your words far into the night. "

Emerson looked pleased, but rejoined that it must have been long agoindeed when he ventured to talk of such fine subjects. 

In conversing with Richard H. Dana ("Two Years Before the Mast") thelatter spoke of the cold eyes of one of our public men. "Yes, " saidEmerson meditatively, "holes in his head! holes in his head!"

In speaking once of education and of the slight attention given to thedevelopment of personal influence, he said "he had not yet heard ofRarey" (the famous horse-tamer of that time) "having been made Doctorof Laws. "

After an agreeable conversation with a gentleman who had suffered fromill health, Emerson remarked, "You formerly bragged of bad health, sir; I trust you are all right now. "

Emerson's reticence with regard to Carlyle's strong expressionsagainst America was equally wise and admirable. His friends crowdedabout him, urging him to denounce Carlyle, as a sacred duty, but hestood serene and silent as the rocks until the angry sea was calm. 

Of his grace of manner, what could be more expressive than thefollowing notes of compliment and acknowledgment?

"When I came home from my pleasant visit to your house last week (orwas it a day or two before last week?), Mrs. Hawthorne, arriving inConcord a little later than I, brought me the photograph ofRaffaelle's original sketch of Dante, and from you. It appears to be afixed idea in your mind to benefit and delight me, and still iningenious and surprising ways. Well, I am glad that my lot is cast inthe time and proximity of excellent persons, even if I do not oftensee their faces. I send my thanks for this interesting picture, whichso strangely brings us close to the painter again, and almost hintsthat a supermarine and superaerial telegraph may bring us thoughtsfrom him yet. "

And, again, with reference to a small photograph from a veryinteresting _rilievo_ done by a young Roman who died early, leaving nothing in more permanent form to attest his genius:--"'The Star-led Wizards' arrived safely at my door last night, as thebeauty and splendid fancy of their figures, and not less the generousinstructions of their last entertainer and guide, might well warrantand secure. 

"It was surely a very unlooked-for but to me most friendly inspirationof yours which gave their feet this direction. But they are and shallbe gratefully and reverently received and enshrined, and in the goodhope that you will so feel engaged at some time or times to stop andmake personal inquiry after the welfare of your guests and wards. "

And again:--

How do you suppose that unskillful scholars are to live, if Fieldsshould one day die? _Serus in coelum redeat_!

Affectionately yours and his, R. W. EMERSON. 

Surely the grace and friendly charm of these conversational noteswarrant their preservation even to those who are not held by thepersonal attraction which lay behind them. 

Again he writes:--

"I have been absent from home since the noble Saturday evening, orshould have sent you this book of Mr. Stirling's, which you expresseda wish to see. The papers on Macaulay, Tennyson, and Coleridgeinterest me, and the critic is master of his weapons. 

"Meantime, in these days, my thoughts are all benedictions on thedwellers in the happy home of number 148 Charles Street. "

His appreciation of the hospitality of others was only a reflectionfrom his own. I find a few words in the journal as follows: "Mr. Emerson was like a benediction in the house, as usual. He was up earlyin the morning looking over books and pictures in the library. "

I find also the mention of one evening when he brought his own journalto town and read us passages describing a visit in Edinburgh, where hewas the guest of Mrs. Crowe. She was one of those ladies of Edinburgh, he said, "who could turn to me, as she did, and say, 'Whom would youlike to meet?' Of course I said, Lord Jeffrey, De Quincey, SamuelBrown, called the alchemist by chemists, and a few others. She wasable, with her large hospitality, to give me what I most desired. Shedrove with Samuel Brown and myself to call on De Quincey, who was thenliving most uncomfortably in lodgings with a landlady who persecutedhim continually. While I was staying at Mrs. Crowe's, De Quinceyarrived there one evening, after being exposed to various vicissitudesof weather, and latterly to a heavy rain. Unhappily Mrs. Crowe'sapparently unlimited hospitality was limited at pantaloons, and poorDe Quincey was obliged to dry his water-soaked garments at thefireside. "

Emerson read much also that was interesting of Tennyson and ofCarlyle. Of the latter he said that the last time he was in England hedrove directly to his house. "Jane Carlyle opened the door for me, andthe man himself stood behind and bore the candle. 'Well, here we are, shoveled together again, ' was his greeting. Carlyle's talk is like ariver, full and never ceasing; we talked until after midnight, andagain the next morning at breakfast we went on. Then we started towalk to London; and London bridge, the Tower, and Westminster were allmelted down into the river of his speech. "

After the reading that evening there was singing, and Emerson listenedattentively. Presently he said, when the first song ended, "I shouldlike to know what the words mean. " The music evidently signifiedlittle to his ears. Before midnight, when we were alone, he againreverted to Tennyson. He loves to gather and rehearse what is known ofthat wonderful man. 

Early in the morning he was once more in the library. I found himthere laughing over a little book he had discovered. It was LeighHunt's copy of "English Traits, " and was full of marginal notes, whichamused Emerson greatly. 

Not Mrs. Crowe's hospitality nor any other could ever compare in hiseyes with that of the New York friend to whom I have already alluded. We all agreed that her genius was preeminent. Here are two brief notesof graceful acknowledgment to his Boston friends which, however, mayhardly be omitted. In one of these he says:--

"My wife is very sensible of your brave hospitality, offered in yournote a fortnight since, and resists all my attempts to defend yourhearth from such a crowd. Of course I am too glad to be persuaded tocome to you, and so it is our desire to spend the Sunday of my lastlecture at your house. "

In the other he says:--

"I ought to have acknowledged and thanked you for the plus-Arabianhospitality which warms your note. It might tempt any one but agalley-slave, or a scholar who is tied to his book-crib as the otherto his oar, to quit instantly all his dull surroundings, and fly tothis lighted, genial asylum with doors wide open and nailed back. "

There is a brief glimpse of Emerson upon his return from Californiawhich it is a pleasure to recall. He came at once, even before goingto Concord, to see Mr. Fields. "We must not visit San Francisco tooyoung, " he said, "or we shall never wish to come away. It is calledthe 'Golden Gate, ' not because of its gold, but because of the lovelygolden flowers which at this season cover the whole face of thecountry down to the edge of the great sea. " He smiled at the namby-pamby travelers who turned back because of the discomforts of thetrip into the valley of the Yosemite. It was a place full of marveland glory to him. The only regret attending the trip seems to havebeen that he was obliged to miss the meetings of the Saturday Club, which were always dear to him. 

The following extract gives a picture of him about this time:--"Acall from Mr. Emerson, who talked of Lowell's 'joyous genius. ' Hesaid: 'I have read what he has done of late with great interest, andam sorry to have been so slow as not to have written him yet, especially as I am to meet him at the club dinner to-day. How isPope?' he continued, crossing the room to look at an authenticportrait by Richardson of that great master of verse. 'Such a face asthis should send us all to re-reading his works again. ' Then turningto the bust of Tennyson, by Woolner, which stood near, he said, 'Themore I think of this bust and the grand self-assertion in it, the moreI like it. . . . ' Emerson came in after the club dinner; Longfellow also. Mrs. G---- was present, and bragged grandly, and was very smart intalk. Afterward Emerson said he was reminded of Carlyle's expressionwith regard to Lady Duff Gordon, whom he considered a female St. Peterwalking fearlessly over the waves of the sea of humbug. "

Opportunities for social communication were sacred in his eyes, andnever to be lightly thrown aside. He wore an expectant look upon hisface in company, as if waiting for some new word from the last comer. He was himself the stimulus, even when disguised as a listener, andhis additions to the evenings called Mr. Alcott's Conversations weremarked and eagerly expected. Upon the occasion of Longfellow's lastdeparture for Europe in 1869, a private farewell dinner took place, where Emerson, Agassiz, Holmes, Lowell, Greene, Norton, Whipple, andDana all assembled in token of their regard. Emerson tried to persuadeLongfellow to go to Greece to look after the Klephs, the supposedauthors of Romaic poetry, so beautiful in both their poetic eyes. Finding this idea unsuccessful, he next turned to the Nile, to thosevast statues which still stand awful and speechless witnesses of thepast. He was interesting and eloquent, but Longfellow was not to bepersuaded. It was an excellent picture of the two contrastingcharacters, --Longfellow, serene, considerate, with his plans arrangedand his thought resting in his home and his children's requirements;Emerson, with eager, unresting thought, excited by the very idea oftravel to plunge farther into the strange world where the thought ofmankind was born. 

This lover of hospitalities was also king in his own domain. In thewinter of 1872 Mr. Fields was invited to read a lecture in Concord, and an early invitation came bidding us to pass the time under hisroof-tree. A few days before, a note was received, saying that Emersonhimself was detained in Washington, and could not reach home for theoccasion. His absence, however, was to make no difference about ourvisit. He should return at the earliest possible moment. The weatherturned bitterly cold before we left Boston. It was certainly no lessbleak when we reached Concord. Even the horse that carried us from thestation to the house had on his winter coat. Roaring fires wereblazing when we reached the house, which were only less warm than ourwelcome. 

After supper, just as the lecture hour was approaching, I suddenlyheard the front door open. In another moment there was the dear sagehimself ready with his welcome. He had lectured the previous eveningin Washington, and left in the earliest possible train, coming throughwithout pause to Concord. In spite of the snow and cold, he said heshould walk to the lecture-room as soon as he had taken a cup of tea, and before the speaker had finished his opening sentence Mr. Emerson'swelcome face appeared at the door. 

After the lecture the old house presented a cheerful countenance. Again the fire blazed, friends sent flowers, and Mr. Alcott joined inconversation. "Quite swayed out of his habit, " said Emerson, "by thegood cheer. " The spirit of hospitality led the master of the house tobe swayed also, for it was midnight before the talk was ended. It waswonderful to see how strong and cheerful and unwearied he appearedafter his long journey. "I would not discourage this young acolyte, "he said, turning to the lecturer of the evening and laughing, "byshowing any sense of discomfort. "

When we arose the next morning the sun was just dawning over the levelfields of snow. The air was fresh, the sky cloudless, the glory of thescene indescribable. The weight of weariness I had brought from thecity was lifted by the scene before me, and by the influence of thegreat nature who was befriending us within the four walls. It was goodto look upon the same landscape which was the source of his owninspirations. 

Emerson was already in the breakfast-room at eight o'clock. There wasmuch talk about the lack of education in English literature among ouryoung people. Emerson said a Boston man who usually appearedsufficiently well informed asked him if he had ever known Spinoza. Hetalked also of Walt Whitman and Coventry Patmore, and asked the lastnews of Allingham: when suddenly, as it seemed, the little horse cameagain, in his winter coat, and carried us to the station, and that daywas done. 

There is a bit of description of Emerson as he appeared at a politicalmeeting in his earlier years which I love to remember. The meeting wascalled in opposition to Daniel Webster, and Emerson was to address thepeople. It was in Cambridgeport. When he rose to speak he was greetedby hisses, long and full of hate; but a friend said, who saw himthere, that he could think of nothing but dogs baying at the moon. Hewas serene as moonlight itself. 

The days came, alas! when desire must fail, and the end draw near. Onemorning he wrote from Concord: "I am grown so old that, though I canread from a paper, I am no longer fit for conversation, and dare notmake visits. So we send you our thanks, and you shall not expect us. "

It has been a pleasure to rehearse in my memory these glimpses ofEmerson, and, covered with imperfections as they are, I have foundcourage for welding them together in the thought that many minds mustknow him through his work who long to ask what he was like in hishabit as he lived, and whose joy in their teacher can only be enhancedby such pictures as they can obtain of the righteousness and beauty ofhis personal behavior. 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS AND UNPUBLISHED LETTERS

Dr. Holmes's social nature, as expressed in conversation and in hisbooks, drew him into communication with a very large number ofpersons. It cannot be said, however, in this age marked by altruisms, that he was altruistic; on the contrary, he loved himself, and madehimself his prime study--but as a member of the human race, he had hisown purposes to fulfill, his own self-appointed tasks, and hepreferred to take men only on his own terms. He was filled withrighteous indignation, in reading Carlyle, to find a passage where, hearing the door-bell ring one morning when he was very busy, heexclaimed that he was afraid it was "the man Emerson!" Yet Dr. Holmeswas himself one of the most carefully guarded men, through his yearsof actual production, who ever lived and wrote. His wife absorbed herlife in his, and mounted guard to make sure that interruption wasimpossible. Nevertheless, he was eminently a lover of men, or he couldnot have drawn them perpetually to his side. 

His writings were never aimed too high; his sole wish was to hit theheart, if possible; but if a shot hit the head also, he showed achildlike pride in the achievement. 

When the moment came to meet men face to face, what unrivaled gayetyand good cheer possessed him! He was king of the dinner-table during alarge part of the century. He loved to talk, but he was excited andquickened by the conversation of others, for reverence was neverabsent from his nature. How incomparable his gift of conversation was, it will be difficult, probably impossible, for any one to understandwho had never known him. It was not that he was wiser, or wittier, ormore profound, or more radiant with humor, than some otherdistinguished men; the shades of Macaulay, Sydney Smith, De Quincey, and Coleridge rise up before us from the past, and among hiscontemporaries we recall the sallies of Tom Appleton, the charm ofAgassiz, of Cornelius Felton, and others of the Saturday Club; butwith Dr. Holmes sunshine and gayety came into the room. It was not adetermination to be cheerful or witty or profound; but it was anatural expression, like that of a child, sometimes overclouded andsometimes purely gay, but always open to the influences around him, and ready for "a good time. " His power of self-excitement seemedinexhaustible. Given a dinner-table, with light and color, andsomebody occasionally to throw the ball, his spirits would rise andcoruscate astonishingly. He was not unaware if men whom he consideredhis superiors were present; he was sure to make them understand thathe meant to sit at their feet and listen to them, even if his ownexcitement ran away with him. "I've talked too much, " he often said, with a feeling of sincere penitence, as he rose from the table. "Iwanted to hear what our guest had to say. " But the wise guest, seizingthe opportunity, usually led Dr. Holmes on until he forgot that he wasnot listening and replying. It was this sensitiveness, perhaps, whichmade his greatest charm--a power of sympathy which led him tounderstand what his companion would say if he should speak, and madeit possible for him to talk in a measure for others as well as toexpress himself. 

Nothing, surely, could be more unusual and beautiful than such a gift, nor any more purely his own. His conversation reminded one of thosebeautiful _danseuses_ of the South upon whom every eye isfastened, by whom every sense is fascinated, but who dance up to theircompanions, and lead them out, and make them feel all the exhilarationof the occasion, while the leader alone possesses all the enchantmentand all the inspiration. Of course conversation of this kind is anoutgrowth of character. His reverence was one source of itsinspiration, and a desire to do everything well which he undertook. Hewas a faithful friend and a keen appreciator; he disliked profoundlyto hear the depreciation of others. His character was clear-cut anddefined, like his small, erect figure; perfect of its kind, andpossessed of great innate dignity, veiled only by delightful, incomparable gifts and charms. 

Our acquaintance and friendship with him lasted through many years, beginning with my husband's early association. I think theiracquaintance began about the time when the doctor threatened to hangout a sign, "The smallest fevers gratefully received, " and when theyoung publisher's literary enthusiasm led him to make some excuse forasking medical advice. 

The very first letter I find in Dr. Holmes's handwriting is thefollowing amusing note accompanying the manuscript copy of "Astraea:The Balance of Illusions. " The note possibly alludes to "Astraea" asthe poem to be written. 

$100. 00. 

MY DEAR SIR, --The above is an argument of great weight to all thosewho, like the late John Rogers, are surrounded by a numerous family. 

I will incubate this golden egg two days, and present you with theresulting chicken upon the third. Yours very truly, O. W. HOLMES. 

P. S. You will perceive that the last sentence is figurative, andimplies that I shall watch and fast over your proposition for forty-eight hours. But I couldn't on any account be so sneaky as to get upand recite poor old "Hanover" over again. Oh, no! If anything, it mustbe of the "paullo majora. "

"Silvae sint consule dignae. " Let us have a brand-new poem or none. 

Yours as on the preceding page. 

The next letters which I find as having passed between the two friendsare dated in the year 1851, and it must have been about this periodthat their relations began to grow closer. In every succeeding yearthey became more and more intimate; and when death interrupted theircommunication, Dr. Holmes's untiring kindness to me continued to theend. Unfortunately for this record, the friendship was not maintainedby correspondence. Common interests brought the two men togetheralmost daily, long before Dr. Holmes bought a house in Charles Streetwithin a few doors of our own, and such contiguity made correspondenceto any great extent unnecessary. 

The removal from Montgomery Place, where he had lived some years, toCharles Street was a matter of great concern. He says in the"Autocrat" that "he had no idea until he pulled up his domesticestablishment what an enormous quantity of roots he had been makingduring the years he had been planted there. " Before announcing hisintention, he came early one morning, with his friend Lothrop Motley, to inspect our house, which was similar to the one he thought ofbuying. I did not know his intention at the time, but I was delightedwith his enthusiasm for the view over Charles River Bay, which inthose days was wider and more beautiful than it can ever be again. Nothing would satisfy him but to go to the attic, which he declared, if it were his, he should make his study. 

Shortly after, the doctor took possession of his new house, butcharacteristically made no picturesque study in which to live. Hepassed many long days and evenings, even in summer, in a lower roomopening on the street, which wore the air of a physician's office, andsolaced his love for the picturesque by an occasional afternoon at hisearly home in Cambridge. Of a visit to this latter house I find thefollowing description in my note-book: "Drove out in the afternoon andovertook Professor Holmes" (he liked to be called "Professor" then), "with his wife and son, who were all on their way to his old homesteadin Cambridge. They asked us to go there with them, as it was only afew steps from where we were. The professor went to the small sidedoor, and knocked with a fine brass knocker which had just beenpresented to him from the old Hancock House. It was delightful to seehis pleasure in everything about the old house. There hung a portraitof his father, Abiel Holmes, at the age of thirty-one, --a beautifulface it was; there also a picture of the reverend doctor's first wife, fair, and perhaps a trifle coquettish, or what the professor called 'alittle romantic;' the old chairs from France were still there; but nomodern knickknacks interfered with the old-fashioned, quiet effect ofthe whole. He has taken for his writing-room the former parlor lookinginto the garden. He loves to work there, and he and his wife evidentlyspend a good deal of time at the old place. There is a legend thatWashington spent three nights there, and that Dr. Bradshaw steppedfrom the door to make a prayer upon the departure of the troops fromthat point. Behind the house are some fine trees where we sat in theshade talking until the shadows grew long upon the grass. "

During the very last years of Dr. Holmes's life he used to talk oftenof the old Cambridge home and the days of his childhood there. "I canremember, when I shut my eyes, " he said one day, "just as if it wereyesterday, how beautiful it was looking out of the windows of myfather's house, how bright and sunshiny the Common was in front, andthe figures which came and went of persons familiar to me. One daysome one said, 'There go Russell Sturgis and his bride;' and I looked, and saw what appeared to me then two radiant beings! All this cameback to me as I read a volume of his reminiscences lately privatelyprinted, not published, by his children. "

Dr. Holmes's out-of-door life was not limited, however, to hisexcursions to Cambridge. Early in the morning, sometimes beforesunrise, standing at my bedroom window overlooking the bay, I haveseen his tiny skiff moving quickly over the face of the quiet water;or, later, drifting down idly with the tide, as if his hour ofexercise was over, and he was now dreamily floating homeward while hedrank in the loveliness of the morning. Sometimes the waves were highand rough, and adventures were to be had; then every muscle was givena chance, and he would return to breakfast tired but refreshed. Therewas little to be learned about a skiff and its management which he didnot acquire. He knew how many pounds a boat ought to weigh, and everydetail respecting it. In the "Autocrat" he says, --"My present fleet onthe Charles River consists of three rowboats: 1. A small flat-bottomedskiff of the shape of a flat-iron, kept mainly to lend to boys. 2. Afancy 'dory' for two pairs of sculls, in which I sometimes go out withmy young folks. 3. My own particular water-sulky, a 'skeleton' or'shell' race-boat, twenty-two feet long, with huge outriggers, whichboat I pull with ten-foot sculls, alone, of course, as it holds butone, and tips him out if he does not mind what he is about. " Thedescription is all delightful, and a little later on there is areference to such a morning as I have already attempted to recall. "Idare not publicly name the rare joys, " he says, "the infinitedelights, that intoxicate me on some sweet June morning when the riverand bay are smooth as a sheet of beryl-green silk, and I run alongripping it up with my knife-edged shell of a boat, the rent closingafter me, like those wounds of angels which Milton tells of, but theseam still shining for many a long rood behind me. . . . To take shelterfrom the sunbeams under one of the thousand-footed bridges, and lookdown its interminable colonnades, crusted with green and oozy growths, studded with minute barnacles, and belted with rings of dark muscles, while overhead streams and thunders that other river whose every waveis a human soul flowing to eternity as the river below flows to theocean, --lying there, moored unseen, in loneliness so profound that thecolumns of Tadmor in the desert could not seem more remote from life, --the cool breeze on one's forehead, --. . . Why should I tell of thesethings!"

Since the Autocrat has himself told the story of this episode sobeautifully, no one else need attempt it. He drank in the very wine oflife with the air of those summer mornings. 

Returning to some of Dr. Holmes's early letters, written before hemoved to Charles Street, I find him addressing his correspondent fromPittsfield, where for seven years he enjoyed a country house insummer. "But, " he said one day many years later, "a country house, youwill remember, has been justly styled by Balzac '_une plaieouverte_. ' There is no end to the expenses it entails. I was veryanxious to have a country retreat, and when my wife had a small legacyof about two thousand dollars a good many years ago, we thought wewould put up a perfectly plain shelter with that money on a beautifulpiece of ground we owned in Pittsfield. Well, the architect promisedto put the house up for that. But it cost just twice as much, to beginwith; that wasn't much! Then we had to build a barn; then we wanted ahorse and carryall and wagon; so one thing led to another, and it wastoo far away for me to look after it, and at length, after sevenyears, we sold it. I couldn't bear to think of it or to speak of itfor a long time. I loved the trees, and while our children were littleit was a good place for them; but we had to sell it; and it was betterin the end, although I felt lost without it for a great while. " Hereis a letter from Pittsfield which describes him there upon his arrivalone year in spring:--

PITTSFIELD, June 13, 1852. 

MY DEAR MR. FIELDS, --I have just received your very interesting note, and the proof which accompanied it. I don't know when I ever readanything about myself that struck me so piquantly as that story aboutthe old gentleman. It is almost too good to be true, but you are notin the habit of quizzing. The trait is so naturelike and Dickens-like, no American--no living soul but a peppery, crotchety, good-hearted, mellow old John Bull--could have done such a thing. God bless him!Perhaps the verses are not much, and perhaps he is no great judgewhether they are or not: but what a pleasant thing it is to win thehearty liking of any honest creature who is neither your relation norcompatriot, and who must fancy what pleases him for itself and nothingelse!

I will not say what pleasure I have received from Miss Mitford's kindwords. I am going to sit down, and write her a letter with a good dealof myself in it, which I am quite sure she will read with indulgence, if not with gratification. If you see her, or write to her, be sure tolet her know that she must make up her mind to such a letter as shewill have to sit down to. 

I am afraid I have not much of interest for you. It is a fine thing tosee one's trees and things growing, but not so much to tell of. I havebeen a week in the country now, and am writing at this moment amidstsuch a scintillation of fireflies and chorus of frogs as a cockneywould cross the Atlantic to enjoy. During the past winter I have donenothing but lecture, having delivered between seventy and eighty allround the country from Maine to western New York, and even confrontedthe critical terrors of the great city that holds half a million andP---- M----. All this spring I have been working on microscopes, sothat it is only within a few days I have really got hold of anythingto read--to say nothing of writing, except for my lyceum audiences. Ihad a literary rencontre just before I came away, however, in theshape of a dinner at the Revere House with Griswold and Epes Sargent. What a curious creature Griswold is! He seems to me a kind ofnaturalist whose subjects are authors, whose memory is a perfect faunaof all flying, running, and creeping things that feed on ink. Epes hasdone mighty well with his red-edged school-book, which is a verycreditable-looking volume, to say the least. 

It would be hard to tell how much you are missed among us. I really donot know who would make a greater blank if he were abstracted. As formyself, I have been all lost since you have been away in all thatrelates to literary matters, to say nothing of the almost daily aid, comfort, and refreshment I imbibed from your luminous presence. Docome among us as soon as you can; and having come, stay among yourdevoted friends, of whom count

O. W. HOLMES. 

From this letter also we get a glimpse of the literary world of NewEngland at that time, and an idea of his own occupations. 

By degrees, as the intimacy between the two friends and neighbors grewcloser, we find the publisher asking his opinion of certainmanuscripts. I have no means of knowing who was the author of thepoems frankly described in the following note, [Footnote: The name ofthe writer has been sent to me kindly. He was George H. Miles, Professor of English Literature at St. Mary's (Catholic) College, Baltimore, Maryland. ] but one can only wish that writers, especiallyyoung writers, could sometimes see themselves in such a glass--notdarkly!

8 MONTGOMERY PLACE, July 24, 1857. 

MY DEAR MR. FIELDS, --I return the three poems you sent me, having readthem with much gratification. Each of them has its peculiar merits anddefects, as it seems to me, but all show poetical feeling and artisticskill. 

"Sleep On!" is the freshest and most individual in its character. Youwill see my pencil comment at the end of it. "Inkerman" iscomparatively slipshod and careless, though not without lyric fire andvivid force of description. 

"Raphael Sanzio" would deserve higher praise if it were not so closelyimitative. 

In truth, all these poems have a genuine sound; they are full ofpoetical thought, and breathed out in softly modulated words. Themusic of "Sleep On!" is very sweet, and I have never seen heroic versein which the rhyme was less obtrusive or the rhythm more diffluent. Still it would not be fair to speak in these terms of praise withoutpointing out the transparent imitativeness which is common to allthese poems. 

"Inkerman" is a poetical Macaulay stewed. The whole flow of its verseand resonant passion of its narrative are borrowed from the "Lays ofAncient Rome. " There are many crashing lines in it, and the story israther dashingly told; but it is very inferior in polish, and evencorrectness, to both the other poems. I have marked some of itserrata. 

"Raphael, " good as it is, is nothing more than Browning browned over. Every turn of expression, and the whole animus, so to speak, is takenfrom those poetical monologues of his. _Call it_ an imitation, and it is excellent. 

The best of the three poems, then, is "Sleep On!" I see Keats in it, and one or both of the Brownings; but though the form is borrowed, thepassion is genuine--the fire has passed along there, and the verse hasfollowed before the ashes were quite cool. 

Talent, certainly; taste very fine for the melodies of language; deep, quiet sentiment. Genius? If beardless, yea; if in sable silvered, --andI think this cannot be a very young hand, --why, then . . . We willsuspend our opinion. 

Faithfully yours, O. W. HOLMES. 

I find several amusing personal letters of this period which arecharacteristic enough to be preserved. Among them is the following:

21 CHARLES STREET, July 6, 8:33 A. M. Barometer at 30-1/10. 

MY DEAR FRIEND AND NEIGHBOR, --Your most unexpected gift, which is nota mere token of remembrance, but a permanently valuable present, ismaking me happier every moment I look at it. It is so pleasant to bethought of by our friends when they have so much to draw theirthoughts away from us; it is so pleasant, too, to find that they havecared enough about us to study our special tastes, --that you can seewhy your beautiful gift has a growing charm for me. Only Mrs. Holmesthinks it ought to be in the parlor among the things for show, and Ithink it ought to be in the study, where I can look at it at leastonce an hour every day of my life. 

I have observed some extraordinary movements of the index of thebarometer during the discussions that ensued, which you may beinterested enough to see my notes of. 

 BAROMETER. 

_Mrs. H. _

My dear, we shall of course keep this beautiful barometer in theparlor. _Fair. _

_Dr. H. _

Why, no, my clear; the study is the place. _Dry. _

_Mrs. H. _

I'm sure it ought to go in the parlor. It's too handsome for your oldden. _Change. _

_Dr. H. _

I shall keep it in the study. _Very dry. _

_Mrs. H. _

I don't think that's fair. _Rain. _

_Dr. H. _

I'm sorry. Can't help it. _Very dry. _

_Mrs. H. _

It's--too--too--ba-a-ad. _Much rain. _

_Dr. H. _

(Music omitted. ) 'Mid pleas-ures and paaal-a-a-c-es. _Set Fair. _

_Mrs. H. _

I _will_ have it! You horrid-- _Stormy. _

You see what a wonderful instrument this is that you have given me. But, my dear Mr. Fields, while I watch its changes it will be aconstant memorial of unchanging friendship; and while the dark hand offate is traversing the whole range of mortal vicissitudes, the goldenindex of the kind affections shall stand always at SET FAIR. Yoursever, O. W. HOLMES. 

There are many notes also showing how the two friends played into eachother's hands. This one is a sample:--

21 CHARLES STREET, July 17, 1864. 

MY DEAR MR. FIELDS, --_Can_ you tell me anything that will getthis horrible old woman of the C---- California off from my shoulders?Do you know anything about this pestilent manuscript she raves about?This continent is not big enough for me and her together, and if shedoesn't jump into the Pacific I shall have to leap into the Atlantic--I mean the original damp spot so called. Yours always, O. W. HOLMES. 

P. S. To avoid the necessity of the latter, I have written to her, cordially recommending suicide as adapted to her case. 

Surely there must have been something peculiarly exasperating aboutthis applicant for literary honors, because Dr. Holmes erred, if atall, in the opposite direction. He was far more apt to write and tobehave as the following note recommends: "Will you read this younglady's story, and let me know what you propose to do with it? A youngwoman of tender feelings, I think, and to be treated very kindly. "Again: "Will it be too late for a few paragraphs about Forcey theWillson? If not, in what paper? And can you tell me anything? Willyou do it yourself?"

The number of these notes is legion, bringing every variety of formand subject and problem to his friend as editor or publisher, or forprivate advice. In one of them he says, "Please give me yourgrandpaternal council. " But I have quoted enough upon this head togive an idea of the kind and busy brain not too deeply immersed in itsown projects to have a tender regard for those of others. Meanwhilehis own work was continually progressing. Lowell had already made himfeel that he was the mainspring of the "Atlantic, " which at the timeof the war attained the height of its popularity, and achieved aposition where it found no peer. The care which Dr. Holmes bestowedupon the finish of his work, the endless labor over its details, arealmost inconceivable when we remember that "this power of takingpains, " which Carlyle calls one of the attributes of genius, wascombined with a gay, mercurial temperament ready to take fire at everychance spark. 

One Sunday afternoon in the sad spring of 1864, during the terribledays of the war, he came in to correct a poem. "I am ashamed, " hesaid, "to be troubled by so slight a thing when battles are ragingabout us; but I have written:--

 Where Genoa's deckless caravels were blown. 

Now Columbus sailed from Palos, and I must change the verse before itis too late. "

This habit of always doing his best is surely one of the fine lessonsof his life. It has given his prose a perfection which will carry itfar down the shores of time. The letter sent during the last summer ofhis life to be read at the celebration of Bryant's birthday was amodel of simplicity in the expression of feeling. It was brief, and atanother time would have been written and revised in half a day; but inhis enfeebled condition it was with the utmost difficulty that hecould satisfy himself. He worked at it patiently day after day, untilhis labor became a pain; nevertheless, he continued, and won what hedeserved--the applause of men practiced in his art who were there tolisten and appreciate. 

Any record of Dr. Holmes's life would be imperfect which contained nomention of the pride and pleasure he felt in the Saturday Club. Throughout the forty years of its prime he was not only the mostbrilliant talker of that distinguished company, but he was also themost faithful attendant. He was seldom absent from the monthly dinnerseither in summer or in winter, and he lived to find himself at thehead of the table where Agassiz, Longfellow, Emerson, and Lowell hadin turn preceded him. Could a shorthand writer have been secretlypresent at those dinners, what a delightful book of wise talk andwitty sayings would now lie open before us! Fragments of the goodthings were sometimes brought away, as loving parents bring sugar-plums from a feast to the children at home; but they are onlyfragments, and bear out but inefficiently the reputation which has runbefore them. The following pathetic incident, related on one of thoseoccasions by Dr. Holmes, need not, however, be omitted:--

"Just forty years ago, " he said one day, "I was whipped at school fora slight offense--whipped with a ferule right across my hands, so thatI went home with a blue mark where the blood had settled, and for afortnight my hands were stiff and swollen from the blows. The otherday an old man called at my house and inquired for me. He was bent, and could just creep along. When he came in he said: 'How do you do, sir; do you recollect your old teacher Mr. ----?' I did, perfectly! Hesat and talked awhile about indifferent subjects, but I saw somethingrising in his throat, and I knew it was that whipping. After a whilehe said, 'I came to ask your forgiveness for whipping you once when Iwas in anger; perhaps you have forgotten it, but I have not. ' It hadweighed upon his mind all these years! He must be rid of it beforelying down to sleep peacefully. "

Speaking of dining at Taft's, an excellent eating-house at PointShirley for fish and game, Dr. Holmes said: "The host himself is worthseeing. He is the one good _un_cooked thing at his table. "

He had been to Philadelphia with one of his lectures, but he did nothave a free chance at any conversation afterward. "I did go toPhiladelphia, " he said, "with _one_ remark, but I brought it backunspoken. It struck in. "

Soon after Dr. Holmes's removal to Charles Street began a long seriesof early morning breakfasts at his publisher's house--feasts of thesimplest kind. Many strangers came to Boston in those days, onliterary or historical errands--men of tastes which brought themsooner or later to the "Old Corner" where the "Atlantic Monthly" wasalready a power. Of course one of the first pleasures sought for wasan interview with Dr. Holmes, the fame of whose wit ripened early--even before the days of the "Autocrat. " It came about quite naturally, therefore, that they should gladly respond to any call which gave themthe opportunity to listen to his conversation; and the eight-o'clockbreakfast hour was chosen as being the only time the busy guests andhost could readily call their own. Occasionally these breakfasts wouldtake place as frequently as two or three times a week. The light ofmemory has a wondrous gift of heightening most of the pleasures ofthis life, but the conversation of those early hours was far morestimulating and inspiring than any memory of it can ever be. Therewere few men, except Poe, famous in American or English literature ofthat era who did not appear once at least. The unexpectedness of thecompany was a great charm; for a brief period Boston enjoyed a senseof cosmopolitanism, and found it possible, as it is really possibleonly in London, to bring together busy guests with full and eagerbrains who are not too familiar with one another's thought to makeconversation an excitement and a source of development. 

Of Dr. Holmes's talk on these occasions it is impossible to give anysatisfactory record. The simple conditions of his surroundings gavehim a sense of perfect ease, and he spoke with the freedom whichmarked his nature. It was one of the charms by which he drew men tohimself that he not only wore a holiday air of finding life full andinteresting, but that he believed in freedom of speech for himself, and therefore wished to find it in others. This emancipation inexpression did not extend altogether into the practical working of hislife. Conventionalities had a strong hold upon him. He loved to avoidthe great world when it was inconvenient, and to get a certain freedomoutside of it; but once in the current, the manners of the Romans werehis own. He reminded one sometimes of Hawthorne's saying that "inthese days men are born in their clothes, " although Dr. Holmes'sconventions were more easily shuffled off than a casual observer wouldbelieve. Nothing could be farther from the ordinary idea of theromantic "man of genius" than was his well-trimmed little figure, andnothing more surprising and delightful than the way in which hischildlikeness of nature would break out and assert itself. He declaredone morning that he had discovered the happiest animal in creation--"next to a poet, of course, if we may call him an animal; it is theacheron, the parasite of the honey-bee. And why? Because he attacheshimself to the wing of the bee, is carried without exertion to thesweetest flowers, where the bee gathers the honey while the acheroneats it; and all the while the music of the bee attends him as he isborne through the air. "

He met Hawthorne for the first time, I think, in this informal way. Holmes had been speaking of Renan, whose books interested him. 

"A long while ago, " he began, "I said Rome or Reason; now I am halfinclined to put it, Rome or Renan. " Then suddenly turning toHawthorne, he said, "By the way, I would write a new novel if you werenot in the field, Mr. Hawthorne. " "I am not, " said Hawthorne; "and Iwish you would do it. " There was a moment's silence. Holmes saidquickly, "I wish you would come to the club oftener. " "I should liketo, " said Hawthorne, "but I can't drink. " "Neither can I. " "Well, butI can't eat. " "Nevertheless, we should like to see you. " "But I can'ttalk, either. " After which there was a shout of laughter. Then saidHolmes, "You can listen, though; and I wish you would come. "

On another occasion, when Lowell was present, he was talking ofchanges in physical conditions. Dr. Holmes said, now, at the age offifty-four, he could eat almost anything set before him, which hecould by no means do formerly. Lowell found opportunity somehow atthis point to laugh at Holmes for having lately said in print that"Beecher was a man whose thinking marrow was not corrugated by drinkor embrowned by meerschaum. " Lowell said _he_ had no "thinkingmarrow, " and objected to such anatomical terms applied to the bestpart of a man. 

By and by Lowell came out of his critical mood, and said pleasantly, after some talk upon lyric poetry in general, "I like your lyrics, youknow, Holmes. " "Well, " said Holmes, pleased, but speaking earnestlyand with a childlike honesty, "but there is something too hoppingabout them. To tell the truth, nothing has injured my reputation somuch as the too great praise which has been bestowed upon my'windfalls. ' After all, the value of a poet to the world is not somuch his reputation as a writer of this or that poem, as the fact thatthe poet is known to be one who is rapt out of himself at times, andcarried away into the region of the divine; it is known that thespirit has descended upon him, and taught him what he should speak. "

Holmes's admiration of Dickens's genius was very sincere. "He is thegreatest of all of them, " he loved to say. "Such fertility, suchShakespearean breadth, --there is enough of him; you feel as you dowhen you see the ocean. "

Speaking of the difficulty of being a good listener, he said that itwas a terrible responsibility for him to listen to a story. He couldnever be rid of the feeling that he must remember accurately, or allwould be lost. There was one story in particular, told by a friendremarkable as a raconteur, which tried him more than anything he knewin the world, --of the kind. He felt like one of the old Greek choruswith strophe and antistrophe, and it was a weight upon his mind lesthe should not laugh properly at the end. I recall one day, when thesubject of Walt Whitman's poetry was introduced, Dr. Holmes said heabhorred playing the critic, partly because he was not a good reader, --had read too cursorily and carelessly; but he thought the rightthing had not been said about Walt Whitman. "His books sell largely, and there is a large audience of friends in Washington who praise andlisten. Emerson believes in him; Lowell not at all; Longfellow findssome good in his 'yaup;' but the truth is, he is in an amorphouscondition. "

Longfellow was once speaking of an address he had heard which heconsidered quite a perfect performance. "Yes--yes, " said Dr. Holmes;"I don't doubt it was very good; but the speaker is such an unpleasantperson! He is just one of those fungi that always grow uponuniversities. "

The following extract is from a brief diary:

"Charles Sumner, Longfellow, Greene, Dr. Holmes, came to dine. Thelatter sparkled and coruscated as I have seldom heard him before. Weare more than ever convinced that no one since Sydney Smith was everso brilliant, so witty, spontaneous, naif, and unfailing as he. "

In speaking of his own class in college he said: "There never was suchvigor in any class before, it seems to me. Almost every member turnsout sooner or later distinguished for something. We have had everygrade of moral status from a criminal to a chief justice, and we neverlet any one of them drop. We keep hold of their hands year after year, and lift up the weak and failing ones till they are at last redeemed. Ah, there was one exception! Years ago we voted to cast a man out whohad been a defaulter or who had committed some offense of that nature. The poor fellow sank down, and before the next year, when we repentedof this decision, he had gone too far down and presently died. But wehave kept all the rest!

"Every fourth man in our class is a poet. Sam. Smith belongs to ourclass, who wrote 'My Country 't is of Thee. ' Sam. Smith will live whenLongfellow, Whittier, and all the rest of us have gone intooblivion. . . . 

"Queer man, ----. Looked ten years older than he was, like Caliban. Calibans look always ten years older than they are. A perfect potatoof a man. If five hundred pieces of a man had been flung together fromdifferent points and stuck, they could not have been more awkwardlyconcocted than he was. 

"James Freeman Clarke was in our class. Ever read his history of the'Ten Great Religions?' Very good book. Nobody knows how much Clarke isuntil he reads that book. How he surprises us from time to time. Cameout well about 'bolting, ' with regard to Butler the other day. Writesgood verses, too, --not as good as mine, but good verses. " . . . Holmeswas abstemious and never ceased talking. "Most men write too much. Iwould rather risk my future fame upon one lyric than upon ten volumes. But I have said 'Boston is the hub of the Universe;' I will rest uponthat. "

He spoke also with great feeling of the women who came to him forliterary advice and assistance. ----, he says, is his daughter inletters. He has only seen her once, but he has been a faithfulcorrespondent and assistant to her. 

Sumner said some one had called ---- "an impediment in the path ofscience. " What did he mean? "It means just this, " said Holmes: "----is no longer young, and I was reading the other day in a book on theSandwich Islands of an old Fejee man who had been carried away amongstrangers, but who prayed that he might be carried home and his brainsbeaten out in peace by his son, according to the custom of thoselands. It flashed over me then that our sons beat out our brains inthe same way. They do not walk in our ruts of thought or begin exactlywhere we leave off, but they have a new standpoint of their own. "

The talk went on for about four hours, when the company broke up. 

One evening the doctor came in after the Phi Beta Kappa dinner atCambridge. "I can't stop, " he said. "I only came to read you my verseswhich I gave at the dinner to-day: they made such a queer impression!I didn't mean to go, but James Lowell was to preside, and sent me wordthat I really must be there, so I just wrote these off, and here theyare. I don't know that I should have brought them in to read to you, but Hoar declares they are the best I have ever done. " After somedelay, and in the fading light of sunset reflected from the river, heread the well-known verses "Bill and Joe. " He must have been stillwarm with the excitement of the first reading, for I can never forgetthe tenderness with which he recited the lines. They are stillpleasant on the printed page, but to those who heard him they aredivested of the passion of affection with which they were written andread. 

Late in life he said to a friend who was speaking of the warmfriendships embalmed in his poetry, and which would help to make itendure: "I don't know how that may be; but the writing of these poemshas been a passionate joy. "

The following amusing note gives a picture of Dr. Holmes in his mostnatural and social mood:--

296 BEACON STREET, February 11, 1872. 

My dear Mr. Fields, --On Friday evening last I white-cravated myself, took a carriage, and found myself at your door at 8 of the clock P. M. 

A cautious female responded to my ring, and opened the chained portalabout as far as a clam opens his shell to see what is going on inCambridge Street, where he is waiting for a customer. 

Her first glance impressed her with the conviction that I was aburglar. The mild address with which I accosted her removed thatimpression, and I rose in the moral scale to the comparativelyelevated position of what the unfeeling world calls a "sneak-thief. "

By dint, however, of soft words, and that look of ingenuous simplicityby which I am so well known to you and all my friends, I coaxed herinto the belief that I was nothing worse than a rejected contributor, an autograph collector, an author with a volume of poems to disposeof, or other disagreeable but not dangerous character. 

She unfastened the chain, and I stood before her. 

 "I calmed her fears, and she was calm And told"

me how you and Mrs. F. Had gone to New York, and how she knew nothingof any literary debauch that was to come off under your roof, butwould go and call another unprotected female who knew the past, present, and future, and could tell me why this was thus, that I hadbeen lured from my fireside by the ignis fatuus of a deceptiveinvitation. 

It was my turn to be afraid, alone in the house with two of thestronger sex; and I retired. 

On reaching home, I read my note and found it was Friday the 16th, notthe 9th, I was invited for. . . . 

Dear Mr. Fields, I shall be very happy to come to your home on Fridayevening, the 16th February, at 8 o'clock, to meet yourself and Mrs. Fields and hear Mr. James read his paper on Emerson. Always trulyyours, O. W. HOLMES. On occasions of social dignity few men have ever surpassed Dr. Holmesin grace of compliment and perfection of easy ceremony. It was anacquired gift; perhaps it always must be. But as soon as human naturewas given a chance to show itself, he was always eager, bringing anunsated store of intellectual curiosity to bear upon every new personor condition. He was generous to a fault in showing his own hand, moving with "infinite jest" over the current of his experiences untilhe could tempt his interlocutor out upon the same dangerous waters. Ifothers were slow to embark, he nevertheless interested them in thehistory of his own voyage of life. 

Dr. Holmes had never known any very difficult hand to hand strugglewith life, but he was quite satisfied with its lesser difficulties. Hecould laugh at his own want of courage, as he called a certain lack oflove for adventure, and he could admire the daring of others. He washappy in the circle of his home affections, and never cared to strayfaraway. He had a golden sense of comfort in his home life, an entiresatisfaction, which made his rare absences a penance. Added to thiswas his tendency to asthma, from which he suffered often veryseverely. In a letter written in 1867 from Montreal, whither he hadgone to obtain a copyright of one of his books, we can see how hisdomestic habits, as well as his asthma, made any long absenceintolerable to him. 

MONTREAL, October 23, 1867. 

Dear Mr. Fields:. . . I am as comfortable here as I can be, but I haveearned my money, for I have had a full share of my old trouble. 

Last night was better, and to-day I am going about the town. MissFrothingham sent me a basket of black Hamburg grapes to-day, whichwere very grateful after the hotel tea and coffee and other'pothecary's stuff. 

Don't talk to me about taverns! There is just one genuine, clean, decent, palatable thing occasionally to be had in them, --namely, aboiled egg. The soups _taste_ pretty good sometimes, but theirsources are involved in a darker mystery than that of the Nile. Omelettes taste as if they had been carried in the waiter's hat, orfried in an old boot. I ordered scrambled eggs one day. It must bethat they had been scrambled for by _somebody_, but who--who inthe possession of a sound reason _could_ have scrambled for whatI had set before me under that name? Butter! I am thinking just now ofthose exquisite little pellets I have so often seen at your table, andwondering why the taverns _always_ keep it until it is old. Foolthat I am! As if the taverns did not know that if it was good it wouldbe eaten, which is not what they want. Then the waiters, with theirnapkins, --what don't they do with those napkins! Mention any one thingof which you think you can say with truth, "_That_ they do notdo. ". . . 

I have a really fine parlor, but every time I enter it I perceive that

 "Still, sad 'odor' of humanity"

which clings to it from my predecessor. Mr. Hogan got home yesterday, I believe. I saw him for the first time to-day. He was civil--they allare civil. I have no fault to find except with taverns here and prettymuch everywhere. 

Every six months a tavern should burn to the ground, with all itstraps, its "properties, " its beds and pots and kettles, and startafresh from its ashes like John Phoenix-Squibob. 

No; give me home, or a home like mine, where all is clean and sweet, where coffee has preexisted in the berry, and tea has still faintrecollections of the pigtails that dangled about the plant from whichit was picked, where butter has not the prevailing character whichPope assigned to Denham, where soup could look you in the face if ithad "eyes" (which it has not), and where the comely Anne or thegracious Margaret takes the place of these napkin-bearing animals. 

Enough! But I have been forlorn and ailing and fastidious--but I amfeeling a little better, and can talk about it. I had some ugly nightstell you; but I am writing in good spirits, as you see. I have writtenonce before to Low, as I think I told you, and on the 25th mean to goto a notary with Mr. Dawson, as he tells me it is the right thing todo. 

Yours always, O. W. H. 

P. S. Made a pretty good dinner, after all; but better a hash at homethan a roast with strangers. 

With much the same experience of asthma as a result, he visitedPrinceton three or four years later, and wrote after his return:--

296 BEACON STREET, August 24, 1871. 

My dear Fields:. . . I only sat up one whole night, it is true, whichwas a great improvement on Montreal; but I do not feel right yet, andit is quite uncertain whether I shall be in a condition to enjoy theclub by Saturday. So if I come, all the better for me; and if I don'tcome, you can say that you have in your realm at Parker's not "fivehundred as good as he, " but a score or so that will serve your turn. 

I cut the first leaves I wanted to meddle with in the last "Atlantic"for No. IX. Of the "Whispering Gallery, " and took it all down like anoyster in the height of the season. It is captivating, like all therest. Why don't you make a book as big as Allibone's out of your storeof unparalleled personal recollections? It seems too bad to keep themfor posterity. When I think of your bequeathing them for the solebenefit of people that are unborn, I want to cry out with Horace:--

 "Eheu--_Postume, Postume!_"

Always yours, O. W. HOLMES. 

Again, three years later, he writes: "I hope you are reasonablycareful of yourself during this cold weather. Look out! A hot lecture-room, a cold ride, the best-chamber sheets like slices of cucumber, and one gives one's friends the trouble of writing an obituary, whenhe might just as well have lived and written theirs. We had a grandclub last Saturday. Longfellow, Emerson, Lowell, Adams, Tom Appleton(just home a few weeks ago), and Norton (who has been sick a goodwhile) were there, and lots of others, and Lord Hought on as a guest. You ought to have been there; it was the best club for a long time. "

The following note, written in 1873, shows how closely Dr. Holmes keptthe growth of the club in mind, and his eagerness to bring into it thedistinguished intellectual life of Boston. 

296 BEACON STREET, February 21, 1873. 

My dear Mr. Fields, --I doubt whether I shall feel well enough to go tothe club to-morrow, as I am somewhat feverish and sore-throaty to-day, though I must crawl out to my lecture. Mr. Parkman and ProfessorWolcott Gibbs are to be voted for, you know. 

President Eliot, who nominated Professor Gibbs, will, I suppose, urgehis claims if he thinks it necessary, or see that some one does it. 

As for Mr. Francis Parkman, proposed by myself, I suppose hisreputation is too solidly fixed as a scholar and a writer to need anywords from me or others of his friends who may be present. 

He has been a great sufferer from infirmities which do not prevent himfrom being very good company, and which I have thought the goodcompany he would find at the Saturday Club would perhaps enable him toforget for a while more readily. It has seemed to me so clear that heought to belong to the club, if he were inclined to join it, that Ishould have nominated him long ago had I not labored under theimpression that he must have been previously proposed. . . . 

Yours very truly, O. W. HOLMES. 

For many years it seemed that time stood still with the Autocrat. Hishappy home and his cheerful temper appeared to stay the hand of thedestroyer. At last a long illness fell upon his wife; and after herdeath, when his only daughter, who had gone to keep her father'shouse, was suddenly taken from his side, the shadows of age gatheredabout him; then we learned that he was indeed an old man. 

For the few years that remained to him before his summons came heaccepted the lot of age with extraordinary good cheer. His hearingbecame very imperfect. "I remind myself sometimes, " he said, "of thoseverses I wrote some years ago. I wonder if you would remember them! Icalled the poem 'The Archbishop and Gil Bias: A Modernized Version. '"He then repeated with great humor and pathos a few of the lines:--

 "_Can you read as once you used to?_ Well, the printing is sobad, No young folks' eyes can read it like the books that once we had. _Are you quite as quick of hearing?_ Please to say that onceagain. _Don't I use plain words, your Reverence?_ Yes, I often use acane. "

"As to my sight, " he continued, "I have known for some years that Ihave cataracts slowly coming over my eyes; but they increase so veryslowly that I often wonder which will win the race first--thecataracts or death. "

He was most carefully watched over during the succeeding years ofdisability by his distinguished son and his daughter-in-law, of whosetalent he was sincerely proud. Nevertheless, he suffered of necessitymany lonely hours, in spite of all that devotion could do for him. 

Such a wife and such a loving daughter could not pass from his sideand find their places filled. But he did not "mope, " as he wrote meone day, "I am too busy for that;" or, he might have said truthfully, too well sustained. His habit of carrying himself with an air ofkindliness toward all, and of enjoyment in the opportunities stillleft him, was very beautiful and unusual. "If the Lord thinks it bestfor me to stay until I tumble to pieces, I'm willing--I'm willing, " hesaid. He was always capable of amusing his friends on the subject, asin the former days when Old Age came and offered him "a cane, aneyeglass, a tippet, and a pair of overshoes. 'No; much obliged toyou, ' said I. . . . So I dressed myself up in a jaunty way, and walkedout alone; got a fall, caught a cold, was laid up with lumbago, andhad time to think over the whole matter. "

Who that heard him can ever forget the exquisite reading of "The LastLeaf" at the Longfellow memorial meeting. The pathos of it was thenunderstood for the first time. The poem had become an expression ofhis later self, and it was given with a personal significance whichtouched the hearts of all his hearers. 

His wit has left the world sparkling with the shafts it has let fly onevery side. They are taken up continually and sent out again both bythose who heard him utter them and by those who repeat them, unmindfulof their origin. 

His attention was turned on some occasion to a young aspirant forartistic fame. He referred to the youthful person later as "one whoperformed a little on the lead pencil. " He said to me one day, "I'vesometimes made new words. In 'Elsie Venner' I made the word'chrysocracy, ' thinking it would take its place; but it didn't:'plutocracy, ' meaning the same thing, was adopted instead. Oddlyenough, I had a letter from a man to-day, asking if I did not make theword 'anaesthesia, ' which I certainly did. "

In the sick-room he was always a welcome guest. A careful maid onceasked if he minded climbing two flights of stairs to see his friend. "I laughed when she asked me, " he said; "for I shall have to climb agood many more than that before I see the angels. "

"I gave two dinners to two parties of old gentlemen just before I lefttown, " he said, the year before his death; and then added, "our babywas seventy-three!"

His letters in the later years were full of feeling. He says in one ofthem, written on a Christmas day, speaking of an old friend: "How manydelightful hours the photographs bring back to me!. . . Under his roof Ihave met more visitors to be remembered than under any other. But forhis hospitality I should never have had the privilege of personalacquaintance with famous writers and artists whom I can now recall asI saw them, talked with them, heard them, in that pleasant library, that most lively and agreeable dining-room. How could it be otherwise, with such guests as he entertained, and with his own unflaggingvivacity and his admirable social gifts? Let me live in happyrecollections to-day. "

Only two years before Dr. Holmes's death he said in a letter receivedby me in Italy: "But for this troublesome cold, which has so muchbetter come out than I feared, I have been doing well enough--keptbusy with letters and dictation of my uneventful history. It isstrange how forgotten events and persons start out of the blankoblivion in which they seem to have been engulfed, as I fix my memorysteadily on the past. I find it very easy, even fascinating, to callup the incidents, trivial oftentimes, but having for me a significanceof their own, which lie in my past track like the broken toys ofchildhood. It seems as if the past was for each of us a greatcollection of negatives laid away, from which we can take positivepictures when we will--from many of them, that is; for only theRecording Angel can reproduce the pictures of every instant of ourlives from these same negatives, of which he must have an infinitecollection, with which sooner or later we are liable to beconfronted. "

In another letter from Beverly Farms, when he was eighty-three, hesays:--

Where this will find you, in a geographical point of view, I do notknow; but I know your heart will be in its right place, and acceptkindly the few barren words this sheet holds for you. Yes; barren ofincident, of news of all sorts, but yet having a certain flavor ofBoston, of Cape Ann, and, above all, of dear old remembrances, thesuggestion of any one of which is as good as a page of any commonletter. So, whatever I write will carry the fragrance of home with it, and pay you for the three minutes it costs you to read it. . . . I findgreat delight in talking over cathedrals and pictures and Englishscenery, and all the sights my traveling friends have been looking at, with Mrs. Bell. It seems to me that she knew them all beforehand, sothat she was journeying all the time among reminiscences which werehardly distinguishable from realities. 

My recollections are to those of other people around me who callthemselves old, --the sexagenarians, for instance, --something like whata cellar is to the ground-floor of a house. The young people in theupper stories (American spelling, _story_) go down to thebasement in their inquiries, and think they have got to the bottom;but I go down another flight of steps, and find myself below thesurface of the earth, as are the bodies of most of my contemporaries. As to health, I am doing tolerably well. I have just come in from amoderate walk in which I acquitted myself creditably. I take two-hourdrives in the afternoon, in the open or close carriage, according tothe weather; but I do not pretend to do much visiting, and I avoid allexcursions when people go to have what they call a "good time. "

I am reading right and left--whatever turns up, but especially re-reading old books. Two new volumes of Dr. Johnson's letters havefurnished me part of my reading. As for writing, when my secretary--Miss Gaudelet--comes back, I shall resume my dictation. No literarywork ever seemed to me easier or more agreeable than living over mypast life, and putting it on record as well as I could. If anybodyshould ever care to write a sketch or memoir of my life, these noteswould help him mightily. My friends too might enjoy them--if I do nothave the misfortune to outlive them all. With affectionate regards andall sweet messages to Miss Jewett. 

Always your friend, O. W. HOLMES. 

This letter gives a very good picture of his life to the end. Fewincidents occurred to break the even current of the order hedescribes. He still dined out occasionally, and I find a fewreminiscences of his delightful talk which linger with me. 

"I've several things bothering me, " he confessed one day. "First, I amanxious to find a suitable inscription for a child's porringer. Inever wrote a poem to a child, I believe. I love children dearly; Ialways want to stop them on the street: but I have never written aboutthem; nor have I ever written much about women. I don't know why, butI _care_ too much to do the Tom Moore style of thing. "

He was eager to frame a letter to President Eliot, and also one toPresident Cleveland, in order to advance some one in need of help; butthe grasshopper had become a burden. "I feel such things now when Ihave to do them, " he said; "nevertheless, when young men and maidenscome skipping in with an air of saying, 'Please give me yourautograph, and be quick about it; there may not be much time left, ' Iwant to say, 'Take care, young folks; I may be dancing over yourgraves yet!'"

There was a clock which stood upon his table, the bequest of Dr. HenryJ. Bigelow. This remembrance from his dying friend was one of his mostvalued possessions. He loved to talk of Dr. Bigelow, and in apublished discourse he has said of him: "He read men and women asgreat scholars read books. He took life at first hand, and notfiltered through alphabets. . . . He would get what he wanted out of abook as dexterously as a rodent will get the meat of a nut out of itsshell. . . . He handled his rapidly acquired knowledge so like an adeptin book-lore that one might have thought he was born in an alcove andcradled on a book-shelf. " Dr. Bigelow was so frequently in Dr. Holmes's thought in the latter days that one can hardly give a pictureof his later life without rehearsing something of his expression withregard to him. He says further: "Dr. Bigelow was unquestionably a manof true genius. . . . Inexorable determination to have the truth, ifnature could be forced to yield it, characterized his powerfulintelligence. "

The doctor would often look up when the little clock was strikingmusically on his writing-table, and say, "It always reminds metenderly of my dead friend. "

When the time came that writing was a burden, and indeed, except forlimited periods, impossible, Dr. Holmes lived more and more in hisaffections. Often, as I entered his room on a dull afternoon, he wouldsay, "Ah, now let's sit up by the fire and talk of all our friends. "Then would begin a series of opinions, witty and tender by turns, andinterspersed with tears and smiles. On one such occasion he said:"There are very few modern hymns which have the old ring ofsaintliness in them. Sometimes when I am disinclined to listen to thepreacher at church, I turn to the hymn-book, and when one strikes myeye, I cover the name at the bottom, and guess. It is almostinvariably Watts or Wesley; after those, there are very few which aregood for much. 

 "'Calm on the listening ear of night'

is a fine hymn, but even that lacks the virility of the old saints. "

Our minds that day were full of one thought, --the death of PhillipsBrooks, --and when, a moment later, he said:--

 "'Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood'--

there is nothing like that, " it seemed quite natural that his voiceshould break and the tears come as he added, without mentioning thebishop's name, "How hard it is to think he is gone! I don't like tofeel that I must live without him. "

His days grew gradually shorter, as the days of late October dwindleinto golden noons. During the few hours when he was at his best he waswonderfully active, driving to his publisher's or to make anoccasional visit, besides a daily walk. If to those who saw himcontinually the circle of his subjects of conversation began to appearsomewhat circumscribed, upon those who met him only occasionally theold fascination still exerted itself. He set his door wide open whenhe made up his mind to receive and converse with any human being. 

There is nothing left to say of him which he did not cheerfully andtruthfully say of himself. "I am intensely interested in my ownpersonality, " he began one day; "but we are all interesting toourselves, or ought to be. I _know_ I am, and I see why. We take, as it were, a mold of our own thought. Now let us compare it with themold of another man on the same subject. His mold is either too largeor too small, or the veins and reticulations are altogether different. No one mold fits another man's thought. It is our own, and as such hasespecial interest and value. "

It was really amazing to see his intellectual vigor in society even atthis late period. When the conditions were satisfactory, at a smallluncheon for instance, he would soon grow warm with excitement, hiseyes would glow, and he would talk with his accustomed fire. He waslike an old war-horse hearing the trumpet that called to battle. Hisactivity and versatility of mind could still distance many a cleverman in the prime of life. 

He responded in the most generous way to the expectations of strangersand foreigners who came to visit him as if on pilgrimage. He alwaysfound some entertainment for them. Sometimes he would read them one ofhis poems; sometimes he would have a pretty scientific toy for theiramusement; or again he would write his autograph in a volume of hisworks for them to carry away in remembrance. Such guests could nothelp feeling that they had seen more than the Dr. Holmes of theirimagination. He entered into their curiosity regarding himself withsuch charming sympathy that they came away thinking the half-hour theyhad passed in his study was one always to be remembered. 

As I think of those latest days, I recall what he himself wrote once, long ago, about old age: "One that remains walking, " he says, "whileothers have dropped asleep, and keeps a little night-lamp flame oflife burning year after year, if the lamp is not upset and there isonly a careful hand held round it to prevent the puffs of wind fromblowing the flame out. That's what I call an old man. "

"Now, " said the professor, "you don't mean to tell me that I have gotto that yet? Why, bless you, I am several years short of the time!"

Dr. Holmes left this world, which he had found pleasant and had filledwith pleasantness for others, after an illness that was happily brief. He passed, in the words of that great physician, Sir Thomas Browne, "in drowsy approaches of sleep;. . . Believing with those resolvedChristians who, looking on the death of this world but as a nativityof another, do contentedly submit unto the common necessity, and envynot Enoch or Elias. "

DAYS WITH MRS. STOWE

In recalling Mrs. Stowe's life, with the remembrance of what she hasbeen to her friends, to her country, and to the world, I am overborneby the sense of a soul instinct from its early consciousness withpower working in her beyond her own thought or knowledge or will. Herattitude seemed by nature to be that of contemplation. Her heart waslike a burning coal laid upon the altar of humanity; and when shestole up, as it were, in the night and laid it down for the slave withtears and supplications, it awakened neither alarm nor wonder in herspirit that in the morning she saw a bright fire burning there andlighting the whole earth. 

Mrs. Stowe had already passed through this great experience when I sawher for the first time in Italy. It was only a few weeks before thewar against slavery was openly declared, and she was like one whohaving "done all" must now "stand. " This year indeed was one of thehappiest of her life. She did not yet see the terrible feet of Waralready close upon us, yet she was convinced that the end of slaverywas at hand. She was released at last from the toils which poverty hadlaid upon her overtasked body. Her children were with her, and she wasenjoying, as few persons know how to enjoy, the loveliness of Italy. She delighted, too, in the congenial society of Mr. And Mrs. Browningand the agreeable friends who were that winter grouped around them. After her long trial and her years of suffering she was to have "herday" in the world of beauty and love which lay about her. 

In one of her early letters to Georgiana May, in 1833, she says, speaking of some relaxation which had come to her friend: "How good itwould be for me to be put into a place which so breaks up andprecludes thought. Thought, intense emotional thought, has been mydisease. How much good it might do me to be where I could not but bethoughtless. " This letter was written when she was twenty-two yearsold, and there had never been any respite in her life until thosesweet Italian days of the winter of 1859 and '60. 

It was only about a year later than the date of the above letter whenthe subject of slavery was first brought under her own observationduring a brief visit in Kentucky. Her father had received a call inBoston, where he had been preaching for six years, to go toCincinnati, which at that period was considered the far West andalmost like banishment; but the call was one not to be refused; theneed of such preaching as Dr. Beecher's being greatly felt at thatdistant post. About a year after their arrival an invitation came toHarriet to cross the river and to see something of Kentucky in companywith a young friend. She found herself on the estate which was laterknown as Colonel Shelby's in "Uncle Tom's Cabin. " Her companion saidlater, in recalling their experience: "Harriet did not seem to noticeanything in particular that happened, but sat most of the time asthough abstracted in thought. When the negroes did funny things andcut up capers, she did not seem to pay the slightest attention tothem. Afterwards, however, in reading Uncle Tom, I recognized sceneafter scene of that visit portrayed with the utmost fidelity, and knewat once where the material for that part of the story had beengathered. "

To show how completely her "style" was herself, there is a passagefrom one of her early letters describing her experience at Niagarawhich burns with her own fire. "Let me tell you, " she says, "if I can, what is unutterable. . . . I did not once think if it were high or low;whether it roared or didn't roar. . . . My mind whirled off, it seemed tome, in a new strange world. . . . That rainbow, breaking out, trembling, fading, and again coming like a beautiful spirit walking the waters. Oh, it is lovelier than it is great; it is like the Mind that made it;great, but so veiled in beauty that we gaze without terror. I felt asif I could have gone over with the waters; it would be so beautiful adeath; there would be no fear in it. I felt the rock tremble under mewith a sort of joy. I was so maddened I could have gone, too, if thathad gone. "

The first wife of Mr. Stowe was her most intimate friend, and hissuffering at her death moved her to intense pity, which finallyripened into love. At the last moment of her maidenhood she wroteagain to Georgiana May: "In about half an hour more your old friend, companion, schoolmate, sister, etc. , will cease to be Hatty Beecherand change to nobody knows who. My dear, you are engaged and pledgedin a year or two to encounter a similar fate, and do you wish to knowhow you shall feel? Well, my dear, I have been dreading and dreadingthe time, and lying awake all last week wondering how I should livethrough this overwhelming crisis, and lo! it has come and I feel_nothing at all_. "

Her marriage with Professor Stowe was a congenial one. He discoveredvery early what her career must be and wrote to her once during abrief absence: "God has written it in his book that you must be aliterary woman, and who are we that we should contend against God?"His admiration for her was perfect, a feeling which she reciprocatedin a somewhat different form. "I did not know, " she once wrote to him, "until I came away how much I was dependent upon you for information. There are a thousand favorite subjects on which I could talk with youbetter than with any one else. If you were not already my dearly lovedhusband, I should certainly fall in love with you. "

She can speak to him with an openness which she uses to no one else;she says, and in this sentence she gives the secret of much which hasappeared inexplicable to the world: "One thing more in regard tomyself. The absence and wandering of mind and forgetfulness that sooften vexes you is a physical infirmity with me. It is the failing ofa mind not calculated to endure a great pressure of care, and so muchdo I feel the pressure I am under, so much is my mind darkened andtroubled by care that life seriously holds out few allurements, --onlymy children. " She used to say laughingly sometimes in later years, "Mybrother Henry and I are something like anacondas: we have our winter;when we are tired we curl up and disappear, within ourselves, as itwere; nobody can get anything out of us; we move about and attend toour affairs and appear like other folks perhaps, but we are notthere. "

The trouble was that no one could be prepared for these vanishings, not even herself. Perhaps a dinner company of invited guests wereeagerly listening to her conversation, when at some suggestion of anew train of ideas, she would suddenly become silent and hardly speakagain. Occasionally at a reception she would wander away, only to befound strolling about in the conservatory, if there were one, orquietly observant in some coign of vantage where she was not likely tobe disturbed. 

My first meeting with Mrs. Stowe found her in one of her absent moods. We were in Florence, and she was delighting herself in thefascinations of that lovely city. Not alone every day but every secondas it passed was full of eager interest to her. 

She could say with Thoreau, "I moments live who lived but years. " Wehad both been invited to a large reception, on a certain evening, inone of the old palaces on the Arno. There were music and dancing, andthere were lively groups of ladies and gentlemen strolling from roomto room, contrasting somewhat strangely in their gayety with thesolemn pictures hanging on the walls, and a sense of shadowy presencewhich seems to haunt those dusky interiors. An odd discrepancy betweenthe modern company and the surroundings, a weird mingling of the pastand the present, made any apparition appear possible, and left roomonly for a faint thrill of surprise when a voice by my side said, "There is Mrs. Stowe. "

In a moment she approached and I was presented to her, and after abrief pause she passed on. All this was natural enough, but a wave ofintense disappointment swept over me. Why had I found no words toexpress or even indicate the feeling that had choked me? Was the faultmine? Oh, yes, I said to myself, for I could not conceive it to beotherwise, and I looked upon my opportunity, the gift of the gods, asutterly and forever wasted. I was depressed and sorrowing over thevanishing of a presence I might perhaps never meet again, and noglamour of light, or music or pictures or friendly voices could recallany pleasure to my heart. Meanwhile, the unconscious object of allthis disturbance was strolling quietly along, leaning on the arm of afriend, hardly ever speaking, followed by a group of travelingcompanions, and entirely absorbed in the gay scene around her. She wasa small woman; and her pretty curling hair and far-away dreaming eyes, and her way of becoming occupied in what interested her until sheforgot everything else for the time, all these I first began to seeand understand as I gazed after her retreating figure. 

Mrs. Stowe's personal appearance has received scant justice and nomercy at the hand of the photographer. She says herself, during hertriumphal visit to England after the publication of "Uncle Tom:" "Thegeneral topic of remark on meeting me seems to be that I am not so badlooking as they were afraid I was; and I do assure you, when I haveseen the things that are put up in the shop windows here with my nameunder them, I have been lost in wondering imagination at the boundlessloving-kindness of my English and Scottish friends in keeping up sucha warm heart for such a Gorgon. I should think that the Sphinx in theLondon Museum might have sat for most of them. I am going to make acollection of these portraits to bring home to you. There is a greatvariety of them, and they will be useful, like the Irishman'sguideboard which showed 'where the road did not go. '" I remember onceaccompanying her to a reception at a well-known house in Boston, where, before the evening was over, the hostess drew me aside, saying, "Why did you never tell me that Mrs. Stowe was beautiful?" And indeed, when I observed her in the full ardor of conversation, with herheightened color, her eyes shining and awake, but filled with greatsoftness, her abundant curling hair rippling naturally about her headand falling a little at the sides (as in the portrait by Richmond), Iquite agreed with the lady of the house. Nor was that the first timeher beauty had been revealed to me, but she was seldom seen to bebeautiful by the great world, and the pleasure of this recognition wasvery great to those who loved her. 

She was never afflicted with a personal consciousness of herreputation, nor was she trammeled by it. The sense that a great workhad been accomplished through her only made her more humble, and hershy, absent-minded ways were continually throwing her admirers intoconfusion. Late in life (when her failing powers made it impossiblefor her to speak as one living in a world which she seemed to haveleft far behind) she was accosted, I was told, in the garden of hercountry retreat, in the twilight one evening, by a good old retiredsea captain who was her neighbor for the time. "When I was younger, "said he respectfully, holding his hat in his hand while he spoke, "Iread with a great deal of satisfaction and instruction 'Uncle Tom'sCabin. ' The story impressed me very much, and I am happy to shakehands with you, Mrs. Stowe, who wrote it. " "I did not write it, "answered the white-haired old lady gently, as she shook the captain'shand. "You didn't?" he ejaculated in amazement. "Why, who did, then?""God wrote it, " she replied simply. "I merely did his dictation. ""Amen, " said the captain reverently, as he walked thoughtfully away. 

This was the expression in age of what lay at the foundation of herlife. She always spoke and behaved as if she recognized herself to bean instrument breathed upon by the Divine Spirit. When we consider howthis idea absorbed her to the prejudice of what appeared to others awholesome exercise of human will and judgment, it is not wonderfulthat the world was offended when she once made conclusions contrary tothe opinion of the public, and thought best to publish them. 

Mrs. Stowe was a delightful talker. She loved to gather a small circleof friends around a fireside, when she easily took the lead in fun andstory telling. This was her own ground, and upon it she was not to beoutdone. "Let me put my feet upon the fender, " she would say, "and Ican talk till all is blue. "

It appeared to those who listened most frequently to her conversationthat a large part of the charm of her tales was often lost in thewriting down; yet with all her unusual powers she was an excellentlistener herself. Her natural modesty was such that she took keenpleasure in gathering fresh thought and inspiration from theconversation of others. Nor did the universal homage she received fromhigh and low leave any unworthy impression upon her self-esteem. Shewas grateful and pleased and humble, and the only visible effectproduced upon her was the heightened pleasure she received from theopportunities of knowing men and women who excited her love andadmiration. Her name was a kind of sacred talisman, especially in Newand Old England. It was a banner which had led men to battle againstslavery. Therefore it was often a cause of surprise and socialembarrassment when the bearer of this name proved to be sometimes toomodest, and sometimes too absent-minded, to remember that anything wasexpected of her or anything arranged for her special entertainment. 

She was utterly taken by surprise once in a foreign city by beinginvited out to breakfast, as she supposed privately, and findingherself suddenly in a large hall, upon a raised platform crowded withlocal dignitaries, and greeted before she could get her breath by achorus of children's voices singing an anthem in her honor, especiallycomposed for the occasion. Her love of fun was greatly excited by thisunexpected situation, and she used to relate the anecdote, withdetails about her unprepared condition which were irresistiblyamusing. In a letter home she refers incidentally to the largebreakfast party and says: "I could not help wondering if old motherScotland had put into 'the father of all the tea-kettles' two thousandteaspoonfuls of tea for the company and one for the teapot, as is ourgood Yankee custom. "

The tributes paid to her were ceaseless, and her house in Hartfordtestifies to many of them. "There, " as her friend and neighbor theReverend Joseph Twichell wrote once in a brief sketch of her--a sketchfull of deep feeling--"there, an observant stranger would soondiscover whose house he was in, and be reminded of the world-widedistinction her genius has won and of that great service of humanitywith which her name is forever identified. He would, for instance, remark on its pedestal in the bow-window a beautiful bronze statuetteby Cumberworth called 'The African Woman of the Fountain, ' and on aneasel in the back parlor a lovely engraving of the late Duchess ofSutherland and her daughter--a gift from her son, the present Duke ofthat name, subscribed 'Mrs. Stowe, with the Duke of Sutherland's kindregards, 1869. ' Should he look into a low oaken case standing in thehall, he would find there the twenty-six folio volumes of the'Affectionate and Christian Address of Many Thousands of Women inGreat Britain and Ireland to their Sisters in the United States ofAmerica' pleading the cause of the slave, and signed with over half amillion names, which was delivered to Mrs. Stowe in person at anotable gathering at Stafford House, in England, in 1853; and with itsimilar addresses from the citizens of Leeds, of Glasgow, andEdinburgh, presented at about the same time. The house, indeed, is atreasury of such relics, testimonials of reverence and regard, trophies of renown from many lands, enough to furnish a museum, all ofthe highest historic interest and value. . . . There are relics, too, ofmore private sort; for example, a smooth stone of two or three poundsweight, and a sketch or study of it by Ruskin made at a hotel on LakeNeuchatel, where he and Mrs. Stowe chanced to meet. . . . One of her mostprized possessions is a gold chain of ten links, which, on occasion ofthe gathering at Stafford House that has been referred to, the Duchessof Sutherland took from her own arm and clasped upon Mrs. Stowe's, saying, 'This is the memorial of a chain which we trust will soon bebroken. ' On several of the ten links were engraved the great dates inthe annals of emancipation in England; and the hope was expressed thatshe would live to add to them other dates of like import in theprogress of liberty this side the Atlantic. That was in 1853. Twelveyears later every link had its inscription, and the record wascomplete. "

It was my good fortune to be in Mrs. Stowe's company once in Rome whenshe came unexpectedly face to face with an exhibition of the generalfeeling of reverence and gratitude towards herself. We had gonetogether to the rooms of the brothers Castellani, the world-famousworkers in gold. The collection of antique gems and the beautifulreproductions of them were new to us. Mrs. Stowe was full ofenthusiasm, and we lingered long over the wonderful things which thebrothers brought forward to show. Among them was the head of anEgyptian slave carved in black onyx. It was an admirable work of art, and while we were enjoying it one of them said to Mrs. Stowe, "Madam, we know what you have been to the poor slave. We ourselves are butpoor slaves still in Italy: you feel for us; will you keep this gem asa slight recognition of what you have done?" She took the jewel insilence; but when we looked for some response, her eyes were filledwith tears, and it was impossible for her to speak. 

This feeling often found less refined manifestation. One day when shewas shopping in Boston, after making her purchase she gave her name ina low but distinct voice to the clerk who was to send the goods. "Dearme, " said a lively woman, audibly by my side, "I should be ashamed togive that name; I should as soon think of giving Angel Gabriel!" Ofcourse we were all greatly amused by this sally, but Mrs. Stowe smiledquietly according to her wont and passed on. 

Great human tenderness was one of her chief characteristics. Althoughshe was a reformer by nature there was no sternness in hercomposition. Forgetfulness of others there was certainly sometimes, arising from her hopeless absent-mindedness and the preoccupationconsequent upon her work; but her whole life was swayed and ruled byher affections. 

Her love was a sheet anchor which held in the stormiest seas. Of herhousehold devotion it is impossible to speak fitly; but there are fewnatures that can be said to have been more dependent upon human love. Her tender ways were inexpressibly touching. 

Early in life she had written to her brother while hardly more than agirl: "I wish I could bring myself to feel perfectly indifferent tothe opinions of others. I believe there never was a person moredependent on the good and evil opinions of those around than I am. This desire to be loved forms, I fear, the great motive for all myactions. "

Such a nature was quite unlikely to play the part of a famous woman ofthe world with any success, and she did not attempt it. She was alwaysreaching out to the friends of her adoption and drawing them closer toher side. 

In those days of our early acquaintance in Italy we had ampleopportunity to discover the affectionate qualities of her character. If my first interview was a disappointment, her second greeting a fewdays later had the warmth of old acquaintance. From that moment we (myhusband and I) were continually meeting her, in galleries and out ofthem; at Bellosguardo, which Hawthorne had just quitted, but where IsaBlagden and Frances Power Cobbe still lingered, or in Florence itselfwith Francesca Alexander and her family; at the Trollopes', orelsewhere, while our evenings were commonly spent in each other'sapartments. As the hours of our European play-days drew near the end, she began to lay plans for returning home in the steamer with thosewho had grown dear to her, and in one of her notes of that period shewrote to me:--

"On the strength of having heard that you were going home in theEuropa June 16th, we also have engaged passage therein for that time, and hope that we shall not be disappointed. . . . It must be true, wecan't have it otherwise. . . . Our Southern Italy trip was a glory--itwas a rose--a nightingale--all, in short, that one ever dreams; butalas! it is over. "

It was a delightful voyage homeward in every sense. At that period avoyage was no little matter of six days, but a good fourteen days ofsitting together on deck in pleasant summer weather, and having timeenough and to spare. Hawthorne and his family also concluded to jointhe party. Mrs. Hawthorne, who was always the romancer inconversation, filled the evening hours by weaving magic webs of herfancies, until we looked upon her as a second Scheherazade, and theday the head was to be cut off was the day we should come to shore. "Oh, " said Hawthorne, "I wish we might never get there. " But the goodship moved steadily as fate. Meanwhile, Mrs. Stowe often took her turnat entertaining the little group. She was seldom tired of relatingstories of New England life and her early experiences. 

When the ship came to shore, Mrs. Stowe and her daughters went at onceto Andover, where Professor Stowe had remained at his post duringtheir long absence in Europe. She went also with equal directness toher writing-desk; and though there are seldom any dates upon herletters, the following note must have been written shortly after herreturn:--

MY DEAR MR. FIELDS, --"Agnes of Sorrento" was conceived on the spot, --aspontaneous tribute to the exceeding loveliness and beauty of allthings there. 

One bright evening, as I was entering the old gateway, I saw abeautiful young girl sitting in its shadow selling oranges. She was myAgnes. Walking that same evening through the sombre depths of thegorge, I met "Old Elsie, " walking erect and tall, with her piercingblack eyes, Roman nose, and silver hair, --walking with determinationin every step, and spinning like one of the Fates glittering silverflax from a distaff she carried in her hands. 

A few days after, our party, being weatherbound at Salerno, had resortto all our talents to pass the time, and songs and stories were thefashion of the day. The first chapter was my contribution to thatentertainment. The story was voted into existence by the voices of allthat party, and by none more enthusiastically than by one young voicewhich will never be heard on earth more. It was kept in mind andexpanded and narrated as we went on to Rome over a track that thepilgrim Agnes is to travel. To me, therefore, it is fragrant with loveof Italy and memory of some of the brightest hours of life. 

I wanted to write something of this kind as an author's introductionto the public. Could you contrive to print it on a fly-leaf, if I getit ready, and put a little sort of dedicatory poem at the end of it? Ishall do this at least in the book, if not now. 

A network of difficulties seems to have closed about her at this time, because in spite of her interest in the new story and the hopeful viewwhich she took of its speedy completion, several months passed bybefore anything definite came respecting her literary plans. 

Meanwhile she had been tempted into beginning a story for "TheIndependent, " which proved to be "The Pearl of Orr's Island, " a storygood enough, if she had been left to herself and not overridden bygreedy editors and publishers, to have added a lustre even to hername. It is to this she refers in the following letter when she speaksof her "Maine story. " Unhappily this first number drew off power whichbelonged to "Agnes of Sorrento, " and Agnes served to prevent her fromending "The Pearl of Orr's Island" in a manner worthy of its firstpromise. 

She says, writing in January, 1861, "Authors are apt, I suppose, likeparents, to have their unreasonable partialities. Everybody has, --andI have a pleasure in writing 'Agnes of Sorrento' that gilds this icywinter weather. I write my Maine story with a shiver, and come back tothis as to a flowery home where I love to rest. 

"My manuscripts are always left to the printers for punctuation, --asyou will observe, --I have no time for copying. "

Mrs. Stowe's health was not vigorous at this period. Incessant draftsupon her energy had enfeebled her; but her spirit was indomitable, andwhen she was weary a brief visit to Boston was, she considered, sufficient to restore her nervous force. During these visits shesometimes rehearsed the story of the early days of her married life, when she fought her way through difficulties and under the burden ofsorrows which would have crushed many another woman. 

The tale of the arrival of the family on a wintry day in Brunswick, Me. , where her husband had been appointed to a professorship inBowdoin College, of the dreary season, the bitter cold, the unopeneddoor of an empty house, their future home, left a vivid impressionupon the minds of her listeners; not because of its forlornness, butbecause of the splendid energy and patience which she brought to theoccasion and the light she was able to cast over the grimness ofcircumstance. Of course, at the date in which this is written, it isdifficult to conceive anything like grimness as associated with thecomfortable and social town of Brunswick, but we must not fail toremember how rapid the growth of winter comfort has been throughoutNew England. This house in the village of Brunswick was the birthplaceof "Uncle Tom's Cabin;" but long before her pen could be allowed totouch the paper the door of the house must be unlocked, the fire made, and her little children warmed and fed. The walls too must be freshlypapered and painted with her own unassisted hands, and a long tablespread which could serve as a family dining-table and her own and onlyplace for writing. Here, as Mr. Fields once said in one of hislectures, "A New England woman once wrote a great novel while besetwith difficulties, pinched by poverty, and surrounded by hard workfrom sunrise to midnight, year in and year out. She was a pallid, earnest, tired little body, who sat in her white cottage down inBrunswick in the state of Maine. She had been busy all day, perhapspainting a room, for her means would not allow her to hire it done. Besides that labor she cooked for the family, and had done all herother household duties, without assistance, and without flinching orgroaning. The children were hushed to sleep; all was still about thehouse, and she trimmed the solitary lamp for a long session at herwriting-table. 

"Thus she sat many a night and wrote, and wept, and wrote again, untilshe had poured out her soul before the Lord for humanity's sake. Andthen came, a little slowly at first, but rolling surely with an awfulsound, that great universal response; the voice of the people of thewhole earth speaking as one. "

The labor, the shock, were past, but the fatigue and the strain of thelong struggle for freedom which she carried always on her own heartcould never be over-lived. She was already, as Mrs. Hawthorne used tosay, "tired far into the future. " The woman who had written "UncleTom" was not to continue a series of equally exciting stories, but shewas to bear the burden and heat of much everyday labor with thepatience and the rejoicing of all faithful souls. 

We are reminded, as we study Mrs. Stowe's life, of Swinburne's nobletribute to Sir Walter Scott after reading his Journals which appearedin full only five or six years ago. He says: "Now that we have beforeus in full--in all reasonable or desired completeness--the great man'sown record of his troubles, his emotions, and his toils, we find it, from the opening to the close, a record, not only of dauntlessendurance, but of elastic and joyous heroism. . . . It is no longer pitythat any one may presume to feel for him at the lowest ebb of hisfortunes or his life; it is rapture of sympathy, admiration, andapplause. 'This was a man. '"

The war, the enlistment of her second son, the eldest having alreadydied, filled her heart and mind afresh with new problems andanxieties. She wrote the following hurried note from Hartford in 1862, which gives some idea of her occupations and frame of mind: "I amgoing to Washington to see the heads of departments myself, and tosatisfy myself that I may refer to the Emancipation Proclamation as areality and a substance, not a fizzle out at the little end of thehorn, as I should be sorry to call the attention of my sisters inEurope to any such impotent conclusion. . . . I mean to have a talk with'Father Abraham' himself, among others. "

Mrs. Stowe lost no time, but proceeded to carry out her plan as soonas practicable. Of this visit to Washington she says little in herletters beyond the following meagre words: "It seems to be the opinionhere, not only that the President will stand up to his proclamation, but that the Border States will accede to his proposition foremancipation. I have noted the thing as a glorious expectancy!. . . To-day to the home of the contrabands, seeing about five hundred poorfugitives eating a comfortable Thanksgiving dinner, and singing, 'Oh, let my people go!' It was a strange and moving sight. "

It was left for others to speak of her interview with PresidentLincoln. Her daughter was told that when the President heard her namehe seized her hand, saying, "Is this the little woman who made thisgreat war?" He then led her apart to a seat in the window, where theywere withdrawn from other guests, and undisturbed. No one but thosetwo souls will ever know what waves of thought and feeling swept overthem in that brief hour. 

Afterwards she heard these words pronounced in the Senate Chamber inthe Message of President Lincoln; it was in the darkest hour of thewar, Mrs. Stowe wrote, when defeat and discouragement had followed theUnion armies and all hearts were trembling with fear: "If thisstruggle is to be prolonged till there be not a home in the land wherethere is not one dead, till all the treasure amassed by the unpaidlabor of the slave shall be wasted, till every drop of blood drawn bythe lash shall be atoned by blood drawn by the sword, we can only bowand say, 'Just and true are thy ways, thou King of saints'!"

During her Boston visits Mrs. Stowe was always interested to observethe benevolent work going on about her and to lend a hand if it werepossible. One incident flavored with a strong touch of the ludicrousstill lingers in my memory. We had fallen in somewhere with a poorlittle waif of a boy, one easily to be recognized by the practiced eyeof to-day as a good specimen of the street Arab. This little being wastaken up by us and brought home. His arrival was looked upon withhorror by the servants, who recognized existing facts and foresawfuture miseries veiled from our less educated vision. A visit to thebathroom was at once suggested; but as none of the house maidensoffered to take charge of the business, Mrs. Stowe announced herselfas more than equal to the occasion, and proceeded to administer thefirst bath probably ever known to that specimen of the human family. Hawthorne's clasping the leprous child was but a shadow compared tothat hour, but happily Mrs. Stowe was not Hawthorne and she combed andscrubbed faithfully. 

I cannot recall the precise ending of the tale. I can only rememberthe whole house being aroused at some unearthly hour of that night bythe child's outcries, from his unusual indulgence in a good supper, and Mrs. Stowe's amusement at the situation. She declared thehousehold was far better constituted to look after young cherubim thanyoung male humans. Something of the canary-bird order would be muchmore in its line, she said. I believe he ran away the next day, probably understanding the fitness of things better than ourselves. Atany rate I find a comforting note on the subject from Andover saying:"If we can do no more we must let him go. He certainly stands a betterchance in his life's journey for the little good we have been able toput into him. When we try a little to resist the evil current and topull here and there one out, we learn how dreadful is the downwardgravitation, the sweep and whirl of the maelstrom. Let us hope allthese have a Father, who charges himself with them somewhere furtheron in their eternal pilgrimage when our weak hold fails. "

In the autumn of 1862 a plan for leaving Andover altogether wasfinally matured. She wrote, "You have heard that we are going toHartford to live, and I am now in all the bustle of house planning, tosay nothing of grading, under-draining, and setting out trees aroundour future home. It is four acres and a half of lovely woodland on thebanks of a river and yet within an easy walk of Hartford; in fact, inthe city limits; and when our house is done you and yours must comeand see us. I would rather have made the change in less troubloustimes, but the duties here draw so hardly on Mr. Stowe's strength thatI thought it better to live on less and be in a place of our own, andwith no responsibilities except those of common gentlefolk. "

Mrs. Stowe's love of home, of the fireside, and her faith in familyties were marked characteristics of her nature. For the first time inher life she was now to make the material house at least after her ownidea, and for many months she was entirely absorbed in the enjoymentof forming plans for her Hartford home. 

In November, 1862, she was in Hartford superintending the growingestablishment. She wrote: "My house with _eight_ gables isgrowing wonderfully. I go over every day to see it. I am busy withdrains, sewers, sinks, digging, trenching, and above all with manure!You should see the joy with which I gaze on manure heaps in which theeye of faith sees Delaware grapes and D'Angouleme pears, and all sortsof roses and posies, all which at some future day I hope you will beable to enjoy. 

"Do tell me if our friend Hawthorne praises that arch-traitor Piercein his preface and your loyal firm publishes it. I never read thepreface, and have not yet seen the book, but they say so here, and Ican scarcely believe it of you, if I can of him. I regret that I wentto see him last summer. What! patronize such a traitor to our faces! Ican scarce believe it. "

In the month of May, 1863, came her first letter from the new place. Already we find that the ever-present need has driven her on to printher thoughts about "House and Home. "

HARTFORD, OAKWOLD, May 1st. 

My dear friend, --I came here a month ago to hurry on the preparationsfor our house, in which I am now writing, in the high bow window ofMr. Stowe's study, overlooking the wood and river. We are not moved inyet, only our things, and the house presents a scene of the wildestchaos, the furniture having been tumbled in and lying boxed andpromiscuous. 

I sent the sixth number of "House and Home" papers a week ago, and, not having heard from it, am a little anxious. I always want faiththat a bulky manuscript will go safe, --for all I never lost one. . . . Ishould like to show you the result here when we are fairly in, and thespring leaves are out. It is the brightest, cheerfullest, homeliesthome that you could see, --not even excepting yours. 

The pursuit of literature under such circumstances is neither naturalnor profitable. In Mrs. Stowe's case it proved that she was pursuing, not literature, but the necessities of life. Everything in thehousehold economy now depended upon her; and however strong hertendencies were naturally, she no longer possessed the reservedstrength to forge the work from her brain. In the writing of "UncleTom, " great as were the odds against her, she had been preparing tothat end from the moment of her birth. Her father's fiery powers ofexpression; her mother's nature absorbed in one still dream of loveand duty; her own solitary childhood in spite of the enormoushousehold in which she was brought up; above all her brooding naturequietly absorbing and assimilating the knowledge and thought whichwere finding expression around her; the first years of married life inCincinnati, where the slaves were continually harbored and assisted, notwithstanding the risks to life and property;--everything, in short, within and around her was nourishing the child of her genius which wasto leap into being and gather the armies of America. 

On the whole we may rather wonder at the high average value of theliterary work by which she lived, especially when we follow the hintsgiven in her letters of her interrupted and crowded existence. 

In June, 1863, she says: "I wrote my piece in a sea of troubles. Ihad, as you see, to write by amanuensis, and yet my little senate ofgirls say they like it better than anything I have written yet. " Itwas a touching characteristic to see how the "senate of girls, " or ofsuch household friends as she could muster wherever she might be, werealways called in to keep up her courage and to give her a sympatheticstimulus. During the days when she was writing, it was never safe tobe far away, for she was rapid as light itself, and before a briefhour was ended we were pretty sure to hear her voice calling "Do come, come and hear, and tell me how you like it. "

Her June letter continues: "Can I begin to tell you what it is tobegin to keep house in an unfinished home and place, dependent on acarpenter, a plumber, a mason, a bell-hanger, who come and go at theirown sweet will, breaking in, making all sorts of chips, dust, dirt, going off in the midst leaving all standing, --reappearing at uncertainintervals and making more dust, chips, and dirt. One parlor and mylibrary have thus risen piecemeal by disturbance and convulsions. Theyare now almost done, and the last box of books is almost unpacked, butmy head aches so with the past confusion that I cannot get up anyfeeling of rest. I can't enjoy--can't feel a minute to sit down andsay 'it is done. '

"The fountain plays, the plants flourish, and our front hall minus thestair railing looks beautifully; my pictures are all hung in parlorand library, and yet I feel so unsettled. Well, in a month moreperhaps I shall get my brains right side up. "

The following year was made memorable in Mrs. Stowe's life by themarriage of her youngest daughter. Again I find that no descriptioncan begin to give as clearly as the glimpses in her own letters themultifarious responsibilities which beset her. She says: "I am introuble, --have been in trouble ever since my turtledoves announcedtheir intention of pairing in June instead of August, because itentailed on me an immediate necessity of bringing everything out ofdoors and in to a state of completeness for the wedding exhibition inJune. The garden must be planted, the lawn graded, harrowed, rolled, seeded, and the grass up and growing, stumps got out and trees got in, conservatory made over, belts planted, holes filled, --and all by threevery slippery sort of Irishmen who had rather any time be mindingtheir own business than mine. I have back doorsteps to be made, andtroughs, screens, and what not; papering, painting, and varnishing, hitherto neglected, to be completed; also spring house-cleaning; alsodressmaking for one bride and three ordinary females; also ---- and---- and ----'s wardrobes to be overlooked; also carpets to be madeand put down; also a revolution in the kitchen cabinet, threateningfor a time to blow up the whole establishment altogether. " And so theletter proceeds with two more sheets, adding near the end: "I sendyou to-day a 'Chimney-Corner' on 'Our Martyrs, ' which I have writtenout of the fullness of my heart. . . . It is an account of the martyrdomof a Christian boy of our own town of Andover, who died of starvationand want in a Southern prison on last Christmas Day. "

Just one month before the marriage she writes again: "The wedding isindeed an absorbing whirlpool, but amid it all I have the next'Chimney-Corner' in good train and shall send it on to-morrow or nextday. "

How small a portion of the world outside can understand the lives ofwriters, actors, and those whose professions compel them to dependdirectly upon the public! No private joy, no private sorrow, no rest, no change, is recognized by this taskmaster. It is well: on the wholewe would not have it otherwise; because those who can minister to thegreat Public embrace their profession in a spirit of conscious orunconscious self-denial. In either case the result is the same:development, advancement, and sometimes attainment. 

The wedding is not two days over when another letter arrives full ofher literary work, yet adding that she longs for rest and if we willonly tell her where Campton is, whither we had gone, she would gladlyjoin us. "I was a weary idiot, " she continues, "by the time thewedding was over, and said 'yes ma'am' to the men and 'no sir' to thewomen in sheer imbecility. "

Nevertheless she did not get to Campton, but kept on, with theexception of a few brief visits at Peekskill and elsewhere until theautumn. In one of her notes she says: "I have returned to mytreadmill. A---- is to leave as soon as she can get ready, and I amtrying to see her off--helping her to get her things together, andtrying to induce her to take a new stand in a new place and makeherself a respectable woman. When she is gone a load will be off myback. If it were not for the good that is still left in our fellowsour task would be easier than it is; we could cut them adrift and letthem swim; but while we see much that may be turned to good account inthem we hang on, or let them hang on, and our boat moves slow. Sobehold me fighting my good fight of womanhood against dust anddisorganization and the universal downward tendency of everybody, hoping for easier times by and by. "

With her heroic nature she was always ready to lead the forlorn hope. The child no one else was willing to provide for, the woman the worlddespised, were brought into her home and cared for as her own. Unhappily, her delicate health at this time (though she was naturallystrong), her constant literary labors, her uncertain income, herprivate griefs, all united, caused her to fall short in ability toaccomplish what she undertook; hence there were often crises fromsudden illness and non-fulfillment of engagements which were veryserious in their effects, but the elasticity of her spirits wassomething marvelous and carried her over many a hard place. 

In the autumn of 1864 she wrote: "I feel I need to write in thesedays, to keep from thinking of things that make me dizzy and blind, and fill my eyes with tears so that I cannot see the paper. I meansuch things as are being done where our heroes are dying as Shaw died. It is not wise that all our literature should run in a rut cut throughour hearts and red with our blood. I feel the need of a little gentlehousehold merriment and talk of common things, to indulge which I havedevised the following. "

Notwithstanding her view of the need and her skillfully devised plansto meet it, she soon sent another epistle, showing how impossible itwas to stem the current of her thought. 

November 29, 1864. 

My dear friend, --I have sent my New Year's article, the result of oneof those peculiar experiences which sometimes occur to us writers. Ihad planned an article, gay, sprightly, wholly domestic; but as Ibegan and sketched the pleasant home and quiet fireside, anirresistible impulse _wrote for me_ what followed, --an offeringof sympathy to the suffering and agonized whose homes have foreverbeen darkened. Many causes united at once to force on me this vision, from which generally I shrink, but which sometimes will not bedenied, --will make itself felt. 

Just before I went to New York two of my earliest and most intimatefriends lost their oldest sons, captains and majors, --splendid fellowsphysically and morally, beautiful, brave, religious, uniting thecourage of soldiers to the faith of martyrs, --and when I went toBrooklyn it seemed as if I were hearing some such thing almost everyday; and Henry, in his profession as minister, has so many lettersfull of imploring anguish, the cry of hearts breaking that ask help ofhim. . . . 

It was during one of Mrs. Stowe's visits to Boston in the ensuing yearthat she chanced to talk with greater fullness and openness than shehad done with us before on the subject of Spiritualism. In thesimplest way she affirmed her entire belief in manifestations of thenearness and individual life of the unseen, and gave vividillustrations of the reasons why her faith was thus assured. She neversought after such testimony, so far as I am aware, unless it may havebeen to sit with others who were interested, but her conclusions weredefinite and unvarying. At that period such a declaration of faithrequired a good deal of bravery; now the subject has assumed adifferent phase, and there are few thinking people who do notrecognize a certain truth hidden within the shadows. She spoke withtender seriousness of "spiritual manifestations" as recorded in theNew Testament and in the prophets. From his early youth her husbandhad possessed the peculiar power of seeing persons about him who couldnot be perceived by others; visions so distinct that it was impossiblefor him to distinguish at times between the real and the unreal. Irecall one illustration which had occurred only a few years previousto their departure from Andover. She had been called to Boston one dayon business. Making her preparations hurriedly, she bade the householdfarewell, and rushed to the station, only to see the train go out asshe arrived. There was nothing to do but to return home and waitpatiently for the next train; but wishing not to be disturbed, shequietly opened a side door and crept noiselessly up the staircaseleading to her own room, sitting down by her writing-table in thewindow. She had been seated about half an hour when Professor Stowecame in, looked about him with a preoccupied air, but did not speak toher. She thought his behavior strange, and amused herself by watchinghim; at last the situation became so extraordinary that she began tolaugh. "Why, " he exclaimed, with a most astonished air, "is that you?I thought it was one of my visions!"

It may seem a singular antithesis to say of the writer of one of thegreatest stories the world has yet produced that she was not a studentof literature. Books as a medium of the ideas of the age, and as thepromulgators of morals and religion, were of course like the breath ofher life; but a study of the literature of the past as the only truefoundation for a literature of the present was outside the pale of heroccupations, and for the larger portion of her life outside of herinterest. During the riper season of her activity with the pen, thenecessity of studying style and the thoughts of others gained a largerhold upon her mind; but she always said, with a twinkle of amusementand pride, that she never could have done anything without Mr. Stowe. He knew everything, and all she had to do was to go to him. Of hergreat work she has written, in that noble introduction to theillustrated edition of "Uncle Tom" speaking of herself in the thirdperson: "The story can less be said to have been composed by her thanimposed upon her. . . . The book insisted upon getting itself into being, and would take no denial. "

It is easily seen that it was neither a spirit of depreciation ofknowledge nor lack of power to become a student which made her fail toobtain adjuncts indispensable to great writers, but her feet were ledin other paths and her strength was needed for other ends. MadameGeorge Sand said, writing of "Uncle Tom" soon after its publication:"If its judges, possessed with the love of what they call 'artisticwork, ' find unskillful treatment in the book, look well at them to seeif their eyes are dry when they are reading this or that chapter. . . . Icannot say that Mrs. Stowe has talent, as one understands it in theworld of letters, but she has genius, as humanity feels the need ofgenius, --the genius of goodness, not that of the rules of letters, butof the saint. "

All her life she stimulated the activity of her pen rather by hersympathy with humanity than by studies of literature. In one of herletters she says: "You see whoever can write on home and familymatters, on what people think of and are anxious about and want tohear from, has an immense advantage. The success of the 'House andHome Papers' shows me how much people want this sort of thing, and nowI am bringing the series to a close I find I have ever so much more tosay; in fact, the idea has come in this shape. . . . A set of papers forthe next year to be called 'Christopher's Evenings, ' which will allowgreat freedom and latitude; a capacity of striking anywhere when atopic seems to be in the public mind and that will comprise a littleseries of sketches or rather little groups of sketches out of whichbooks may be made. You understand Christopher writes these for thewinter-evening amusement of his family. One set will be entitled 'AnAccount of the Seven Little Foxes that spoil the Vines. ' This willcover seven sketches of certain domestic troubles. Another set is the'Cathedral; or, the Shrines of Home Saints, ' under which I shall givecertain sketches of home characters contrasting with that of thelegends of the saints: the shirt-making, knitting, whooping-cough-tending saints, the Aunt Esthers and Aunt Marias. . . . Hum (her hummingbird) is well--notwithstanding the dull weather; we keep him in asunny upper chamber and feed him daily on sugar and water, and hecatches his own mutton. "

Thus in swift succession we find, not only charming little idylls hereand there like her story of "Hum the Son of Buzz" in the "Young FolksMagazine, " being the tale of her captured and tamed humming-bird, butalso "Little Foxes, " "The Chimney-Corner, " a volume of collectedPoems, "Oldtown Folks, " "Sam Lawson's Fireside Tales" and others, following with tireless rapidity, bearing the same stamp of livingsympathy with difficulties of the time and breathing a spirit ofhelpfulness and faith. 

At this period, as she had an accessible home in the pleasant city ofHartford, strangers and travelers often sought and found her. In oneof her familiar notes of 1867 she wrote: "The Amberleys have writtenthat they are coming to us to-morrow, and of all times, accordingly, our furnace must spring a leak. We are hoping to make all right beforethey get here, but I am really ashamed to show such weather at thistime of year. Poor America! It's like having your mother exposeherself by a fit of ill temper before strangers. . . . Do, I beg, writeto a poor sinner laboring under a book. " And again, a little later:"_The book_ is almost done--hang it! but done _well_, andwill be a good thing for young men to read, and young women too, andso I'll send you one. You'll find some things in it, I fancy, that Iknow and you don't, about the times before you were born, when I was'Hush, hush, my dear-ing' in Cincinnati. . . . I smell spring afar off--sniff--do you? Any smell of violets in the distance? I think it comesover the water from the Pamfili Doria. "

Among other responsibilities assumed by her at this time was that ofgetting Professor Stowe to consent to publish a book. This was nolaughing matter; at first the book was planned merely as an article onthe "Talmud" for the "Atlantic Magazine. " Afterwards Professor Stoweenlarged the design. Later in speaking of his manuscript she says:"You must not scare him off by grimly declaring that you must have the_whole manuscript complete_ before you set the printer to work;you must take the three quarters he brings you and at least makebelieve begin printing, and he will immediately go to work and finishup the whole; otherwise what with lectures and the original sin oflaziness, it will all be indefinitely postponed. I want to make acrisis that he shall feel that _now_ is the accepted time, andthat this must be finished first and foremost. "

And again she says: "My poor _Rab_ has been sick with a heavycold this week, and if it hadn't been for me you wouldn't have hadthis article which I send in triumph. I plunged into the sea of Rabbisand copied Mr. Stowe's insufferable chaldonic characters so that youmight not have your life taken by wrathful printers. . . . Thus I haveushered into the world a document which I venture to say condensesmore information on an obscure and curious subject than _any_ inthe known world--Hosanna!"

In these busy years she went away upon her Boston trips more and morerarely, but she writes after her return from one of them in 1868: "Idon't think I _ever_ enjoyed Boston so much as in this visit. Whywas it! Every cloud seemed to turn out its silver lining, everybodywas delightful, and the music has really done me good. I feel it allover me now. I think of it with a sober certainty of waking bliss! ourlittle 'hub' is a grand 'hub. ' Three cheers for it!. . . I have had sentme through the War Department a French poem which I think is full ofreal nerve and strength of feeling. I undertook the reading only as aduty, but found myself quite waked up. The indignation and the feelingwith which he denounces modern skepticism, that worst of all unbelief, the denial of all good, all beauty, all generosity, all heroism, issplendid. He is a live man this, and I wish you would read his poemand send it to Longfellow, for it does one's heart good to see theFrench made the vehicle of so much real heroic sentiment. Thedescription of a slave hunt is splendidly and bitterly satirical andindignant and full of fine turns of language. Thank God _that_ isover. No matter what happens to you and me, _that_ great burdenof sin and misery has tumbled off from our backs and rolled into thesepulchre, where it shall never arise more. . . . I have been the mostindustrious of beings since my return, and am steaming away on theobstacle that stands between me and my story, which I long to beat. . . . I want to get one or two special bits of information out ofGarrison, and so instead of sending my letter at random to Boston Iwill trouble you (who have little or nothing to do!) to get thisletter to him. _My own book_, instead of cooling, boils andbubbles daily and nightly, and I am pushing and spurring like fury toget to it. I work like a drag-horse, and I'll _never_ get in sucha scrape again. It isn't my business to make up books, but to makethem. I have lots to say. ". . . 

The story which had so taken possession of her mind and heart was"Oldtown Folks, " the one which she at the time fancied the bestcalculated of all her works to sustain the reputation of the author of"Uncle Tom's Cabin. " The many proofs of her own interest in it seem toshow that she had been moved to a livelier and deeper satisfaction inthis creation than in any of her later productions. She writesrespecting it: "It is more to me than a story; it is my resume of thewhole spirit and body of New England, a country that is now exertingsuch an influence on the civilized world that to know it truly becomesan object. " But there were weary lengths of roads to be traveled by awoman already overladen with responsibilities and in delicate healthbefore such a book could reach its consummation. 

"I must cry you mercy, " she begins one of the notes to her publisher, "and explain my condition to you as well as possible. " The "condition"was frequently to be explained! Proofs were not ready when they werepromised, the press was stopped, and both author and publisherrequired all the tender regard they really had for each other and allthe patience they possessed to keep in tune. She says, "I am sorry totrouble you or derange your affairs, but one can't always tell indriving such horses as we drive where they are going to bring up. "

She started off in this long journey very hopefully, writing that shewould like to begin printing at once, because "to have the first partof my book in type will greatly assist me in the last. " A month latershe writes: "Here goes the first of my nameless story, of which I canonly say it is as unlike everything else as it is like the strangeworld of folks I took it from. There is no fear that there will not beas much matter as 'Uncle Tom's Cabin, '--there will. There could be anendless quantity if I only said all I can see and think that isstrange and curious. I partake in ----'s disappointment that it is notdone, but it is of that class of things that cannot be commanded; asmy friend Sam Lawson (_vide_ MSS. ) says, 'There's things that canbe druv and then agin there's things that can't, ' and this is thatkind--as had to be humored. Instead of rushing on, I have often turnedback and written over with care, that nothing that I wanted to saymight be omitted; it has cost me a good deal of labor to elaboratethis first part, namely, to build my theatre and to introduce myactors. My labor has all, however, been given to the literary part. Myprinters always inform me that I know nothing of punctuation, and Igive thanks that I have no responsibility for any of its absurdities!Further than beginning my sentence with a capital, I go not, --so Ihope my friend Mr. Bigelow, who is a direct and lineal descendant of'my Grandmother, ' will put those things all right. "

Who so well as authors can fully understand and sympathize with theburden of a long story in the head, long bills on the table, temptingoffers to write for this and that in order to bring in two hundreddollars from a variety of pleasant editors who desire the name ontheir list, house and grounds to be looked after, cooks to bepacified, visits to be made;--it is no wonder that Mrs. Stowe wrote:"The thing has been an awful tax and labor, for I have tried to do itwell. I say also to you confidentially, that it has seemed as if everyprivate care that could hinder me as woman and mother has been crowdedinto just this year that I have had this to do. "

Happily more peaceful days were in store for her. Her daughters, nowgrown to womanhood, were beginning to take the reins of home work andgovernment into their own hands; and as the darkest hour foreruns thedawn, so almost imperceptibly to herself her cares began to fade awayfrom her. 

A new era opened in Mrs. Stowe's life when she made her first visit toFlorida, in the winter of 1867. She was tired and benumbed with careand cold. Suddenly the thought came to her that she would go to theSouth, herself, and see what the stories were worth which she wasconstantly hearing about its condition. In the mean time, if shecould, she would enjoy the soft air, and find retirement in which shemight continue her book. She says in one of her letters:--

"Winter weather and cold seem always a kind of nightmare to me. I amgoing to take my writing-desk and go down to Florida to F----'splantation, where we have now a home, and abide there until the heroicagony of betweenity, the freeze and thaw of winter, is over, and thenI doubt not I can write my three hours a day. Meanwhile, I have apretty good pile of manuscript. . . . The letters I have got aboutblossoming roses and loungers in linen coats, while we have beenfrozen and snowed up, have made my very soul long to be away. Coldweather really seems to torpify my brain. I write with a heavynumbness. I have not yet had a _good_ spell of writing, though Ihave had all through the story abundant clairvoyance, and see just howit must be written; but for writing some parts I want _warm_weather, and not to be in the state of a 'froze and thawed apple. '. . . The cold affects me precisely as extreme hot weather used to inCincinnati, --gives me a sort of bilious neuralgia. I hope to get aclear, bright month in Florida, when I can say something to purpose. 

"I did want to read some of my story to you before I went. I have readit to my husband; and though one may think a husband a partial judge, yet mine is so nervous and so afraid of being bored that I feel as ifit were something to hold him; and he likes it--is quite wakeful, soto speak, about it. All I want now, to go on, is a good _frame_, as father used to say about his preaching. I want calm, soft, evendreamy, enjoyable weather, sunshine and flowers. Love to dear A----, whom I so much want to see once more. "

Unhappily, she could not get away so soon as she desired. There werecontracts to be signed and other business to arrange. These delaysmade her visit southward much shorter than she intended, but it provedto be only the introduction, the first brief chapter, as it were, ofher future winter life in Florida. Before leaving she wrote as followsto her publisher:--

"I am so constituted that it is absolutely fatal to me to agree tohave _any_ literary work done at certain dates. I _mean_ tohave this story done by the 1st of September. It would be greatly formy pecuniary interest to get it done before that, because I have theoffer of eight thousand dollars for the newspaper use of the story Iam planning to write after it. But I am bound by the laws of art. Sermons, essays, lives of distinguished people, I can write to orderat times and seasons. A story comes, grows like a flower, sometimeswill and sometimes won't, like a pretty woman. When the spirits willhelp, I can write. When they jeer, flout, make faces, and otherwisemaltreat me, I can only wait humbly at their gates, watch at the postsof their doors. 

"This story grows even when I do not write. I spent a month in themountains in Stockbridge _composing_ before I wrote a word. 

"I only ask now a good physical condition, and I go to warmer climeshoping to save time there. I put everything and everybody off thatinterferes with this, except 'Pussy Willow, ' which will be a prettystory for a child's 'series. '"

At last she sailed away, about the 1st of March, 1867, with thatdelightful power of knowing what she wanted, and being content whenshe attained her end, which is too rare, alas! Her letters glowed andblossomed and shone with the fruit and flowers and sunshine of theSouth. It was hardly to be expected that her literary work couldactually reach the printers' hands under these circumstances asrapidly as if she had been able to write at home: therefore it waswith no sense of surprise that we received from her, during the summerof 1868, what proved to be a chapter of excuses instead of a chapterof her book: "I have a long story to tell you of _what_ hasprevented my going on with my story, which you must see would sooccupy all the nerve and brain force I have that I have not been ableto write a word except to my own children. To them in their needs I_must_ write _chapters_ which would otherwise go into mynovel. "

About this period she found herself able to come again to Boston for afew days' visit. There were often long croonings over the fire farinto the night; her other-worldliness and abstractions brought withthem a dreamy quietude, especially to those whose harried lives keptthem only too much awake. Her coming was always a pleasure, for shemade holidays by her own delightful presence, and she asked nothingmore than what she found in the companionship of her friends. 

After her return to Hartford and in December of the same year, I findsome curious notes showing how easily she was attracted by newsubjects of interest away from the work she had in hand; not that shesaw it in that light, or was aware that her story was in the leastretarded by such digressions, but her keen sympathy with everythingand everybody made it more and more difficult for her to concentrateher power upon the long story which she considered after all of thefirst importance. She writes to the editor of the "Atlantic Monthly:""I see that all the leading magazines have a leading article on'Planchette. '

"There is a lady of my acquaintance who has developed more remarkablefacts in this way than any I have ever seen; I have kept a record ofthese communications for some time past, and everybody is very muchstruck with them. 

"I have material to prepare a very curious article. Shall you want it?And when?"

We can imagine the feeling of a publisher waiting for copy of herpromised story on reading this note! Also the following of a few dayslater:--

"I am beginning a series of articles called 'Learning to Write, 'designed to be helpful to a great many beginners. . . . I shall instanceHawthorne as a model and speak of his 'Note Book' as something whichevery young author aspiring to write should study. . . . My materials forthe 'Planchette' article are really very extraordinary, . . . But I don'twant to write it now when I am driving so hard upon my book. . . . Itcosts some patience to you and certainly to me to have it take solong, yet I have conscientiously done all I could, since I began. Nowthe end of it is in plain sight, but there is a good deal to be doneto bring it out worthily, and I work upon it steadily and daily. Inever put so much work into anything before. "

A week later she says again:--

"I thank you very much for your encouraging words, for I really needthem. I have worked so hard that I am almost tired. I hope that youwill still continue to read, and that you will not find it dull. . . . Ihave received the books. What a wonderful fellow Hawthorne was!"

There is something truly touching to those who knew her in that phrase"almost tired. " Indeed, she was truly tired through and through, andthese later letters from which I have made the foregoing extracts areall written by an amanuensis. 

Happily the time was near for a second flight to Florida, and shewrote with her own rested hand en route from Charleston:--

"Room fragrant with violets, banked up in hyacinths, flowerseverywhere, windows open, birds singing. "

She enclosed some fans, upon which she had been painting flowersbusily during the journey in order to send them back to Boston to besold at a fair in behalf of the Cretans: "Make them do the Cretes allthe good you can, " she said. 

It appears that by this time "Oldtown Folks" was fairly off her hands, and she was free once more. She evidently found Mandarin very much toher mind, and wrote contentedly therefrom, save for a vision of havingto go to Canada in the early spring to obtain the copyright of herstory. 

The visits to Florida had now become necessary to her health. She sawthe next step to take was to surrender her large house in Hartford andpass her winters altogether at the South. She wrote from Florida: "Iam leaving the land of flowers on the 1st of June with tears in myeyes, but having a house in Hartford, it must be lived in. I wish youand ---- would just come to see it. You have no idea what a lovelyplace it has grown to be, and I am trying to sell it as hard as asnake to crawl out of his skin. Thus on, till reason is pushed out oflife. There's no earthly sense in having anything, --lordy massy, no!By the bye, I must delay sending you the ghost in the Captain Brownhouse till I can go to Natick and make a personal inspection of thepremises and give it to you hot. "

Her busy brain was again at work with new plans for future books andarticles for magazines. 

"Gladly would I fly to you on the wings of the wind, " she says, "but Iam a slave, a bound thrall to _work_, and I cannot work and playat the same time. After this year I hope to have a little rest, andabove all things I won't be hampered with a serial to write. . . . Wehave sold out in Hartford. "

All this routine of labor was to have a new form of interruption, which gave her intense joy. "I am doing just what you say, " she wrote, "being first lady-in-waiting on his new majesty. He is very pretty, very gracious and good, and his little mamma and he are a pair. . . . Iam getting to be an old fool of a grandma, and to think there is nobliss under heaven to compare with a baby. " Later she wrote on thesame subject: "You ought to see my baby. I have discovered a way toend the woman controversy. Let the women all say that they won't takecare of the babies till the laws are altered. One week of thisdiscipline would bring all the men on their marrow-bones. Only tell uswhat you want, they would say, and we will do it. Of course you mayimagine me trailing after our little king, --first granny-in-waiting. "

In the summer of 1869 there was a pleasant home at St. John's Wood, inLondon, which possessed peculiar attractions. Other houses were ascomfortable to look at, other hedges were as green, other drawingrooms were gayer, but this was the home of George Eliot, and on Sundayafternoons the resort of those who desired the best that London had togive. Here it was that George Eliot told us of her admiration and deepregard, her affection, for Mrs. Stowe. Her reverence and love wereexpressed with such tremulous sincerity that the speaker won ourhearts by her love for our friend. Many letters had already passedbetween Mrs. Stowe and herself, and she confided to us her amusementat a fancy Mrs. Stowe had taken that Casaubon, in "Middlemarch, " wasdrawn from the character of Mr. Lewes. Mrs. Stowe took it so entirelyfor granted in her letters that it was impossible to dispossess hermind of the illusion. Evidently it was the source of much harmlesshousehold amusement at St. John's Wood. I find in Mrs. Stowe's letterssome pleasant allusions to this correspondence. She writes: "We wereall full of George Eliot when your note came, as I had received abeautiful letter from her in answer to one I wrote from Florida. Sheis a noble, true woman; and if anybody doesn't see it, so much theworse for _them_, and not her. " In a note written about that timeMrs. Stowe says she is "coming to Boston, and will bring GeorgeEliot's letters with her that we may read them together;" but thatpleasant plan was only one of the imagination, and was never carriedout. 

Her own letter to Mrs. Lewes, written from Florida in March, 1876, maybe considered one of the most beautiful and interesting pieces ofwriting she ever achieved. 

Although this letter is accessible in a life of Mrs. Stowe publishedby her son during her life, I am tempted to reproduce a portion of itin these pages for those who have not seen it elsewhere. It is apositive loss to cut such a letter, but it covers too much space toquote in full. She dates in

ORANGE BLOSSOM TIME, MANDARIN, March 18, 1876. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, --I always think of you when the orange-trees are inblossom; just now they are fuller than ever, and so many bees arefilling the branches that the air is full of a sort of still murmur. And now I am beginning to hear from you every month in "Harper's. " Itis as good as a letter. "Daniel Deronda" has succeeded in awaking inmy somewhat worn-out mind an interest. So many stories are trampingover one's mind in every modern magazine nowadays that one ismacadamized, so to speak. It takes something unusual to make asensation. This does excite and interest me, as I wait for each numberwith eagerness. I wish I could endow you with our long winterweather, --not winter, except such as you find in Sicily. We live herefrom November to June, and my husband sits outdoors on the veranda andreads all day. We emigrate in solid family; my two dear daughters, husband, self, and servants come together to spend the winter here, and so together to our Northern home in summer. My twin daughtersrelieve me from all domestic care; they are lively, vivacious, with areal genius for practical life. . . . It was very sweet and kind of youto write what you did last. I suppose it is so long ago you may haveforgotten, but it was a word of tenderness and sympathy about mybrother's trial; it was womanly, tender, and sweet, such as at heartyou are. After all, my love of you is greater than my admiration, forI think it more and better to be really a woman worth loving than tohave read Greek and German and written books. . . . 

It seems now but a little while since my brother Henry and I were twoyoung people together. He was my two years junior, and nearestcompanion out of seven brothers and three sisters. I taught himdrawing and heard his Latin lessons, for you know a girl becomesmature and womanly long before a boy. . . . Then he married and lived amissionary life in the new West, all with a joyousness, an enthusiasm, a chivalry, which made life bright and vigorous to us both. Then intime he was called to Brooklyn. . . . I well remember one snowy night hisriding till midnight to see me, and then our talking, till nearmorning, what we could do to make headway against the horrid crueltiesthat were being practiced against the defenseless blacks. My husbandwas then away lecturing, and my heart was burning itself out inindignation and anguish. Henry told me he meant to fight that battlein New York; that he would have a church that would stand by him toresist the tyrannic dictation of Southern slaveholders. I said: "I, too, have begun to do something; I have begun a story, trying to setforth the sufferings and wrongs of the slaves. " "That's right, Hattie, " he said; "finish it, and I will scatter it thick as theleaves of Vallombrosa, "--and so came "Uncle Tom, " and Plymouth Churchbecame a stronghold. . . . 

And when all was over, it was he and Lloyd Garrison who were sent bygovernment once more to raise our national flag on Fort Sumter. Youmust see that a man does not so energize without making many enemies. Half of our Union has been defeated . . . And there are those who neversaw our faces that to this hour hate him and me. Then he has been aprogressive in theology. He has been a student of Huxley and Spencerand Darwin, --enough to alarm the old school, --and yet remained soardent a supernaturalist as equally to repel the radicaldestructionists in religion. He and I are Christ-worshipers, adoringHim as the Image in the Invisible God and all that comes frombelieving this. Then he has been a reformer, an advocate of universalsuffrage and woman's rights, yet not radical enough to please thatreform party who stand where the socialists of France do, and are fortearing up all creation generally. Lastly, he had had the misfortuneof a popularity which is perfectly phenomenal. I cannot give you anyidea of the love, worship, idolatry, with which he has beenoverwhelmed. He has something magnetic about him, that makes everybodycrave his society, that makes men follow and worship him. . . . 

My brother is hopelessly generous and confiding. His inability tobelieve evil is something incredible, and so has come all thissuffering. . . . But you see why I have not written. This has drawn on mylife, --my heart's blood. He is myself; I know you are the kind ofwoman to understand me when I say I felt a blow at him more than atmyself. I who know his purity, honor, delicacy, know that he has beenfrom childhood of an ideal purity, --who reverenced his conscience ashis king, whose glory was redressing human wrong, who spoke noslander, no, nor listened to it. . . . My brother's power to console issomething peculiar and wonderful. I have seen him at deathbeds andfunerals, where it would seem as if hope herself must be dumb, bringdown the very peace of Heaven and change despair to trust. He has nothad less power in his own adversity. . . . 

Well, dear, pardon me for this outpour. I loved you, --I love you, --andtherefore wanted you to know just what I felt. . . . 

This friendship was one that greatly enlisted Mrs. Stowe's sympathiesand enriched her life. Her interest in any woman who was supportingherself, and especially in any one who found a daily taskmaster in thepen, and above all when, as in this case, the woman was one possessedof great moral aspiration half paralyzed in its action because shefound herself in an anomalous and (to the world in general) utterlyincomprehensible position, made such a woman like a magnet to Mrs. Stowe. She inherited from her father a faith in the divine power ofsympathy, which only waxed greater with years and experience. Wherevershe found a fellow-mortal suffering trouble or dishonor, in spite ofhindrance her feet were turned that way. The genius of George Eliotand the contrasting elements of her life and character drew Mrs. Stoweto her side in sisterly solicitude. Her attitude, her sweetness, hersincerity, could not fail to win the heart of George Eliot. Theybecame loving friends. 

It was the same inborn sense of fraternity which led her, when achild, on hearing of the death of Lord Byron, to go out into thefields and fling herself, weeping, on the mounded hay, where she mightpray alone for his forgiveness and salvation. It is wonderful toobserve the influence of Byron upon that generation. It is on recordthat when Tennyson, a boy of fifteen, heard some one say, "Byron isdead, " he thought the whole world at an end. "I thought, " he said oneday, "everything was over and finished for every one; that nothingelse mattered. I remember that I went out alone and carved 'Byron isdead' into the sandstone. "

From this time forward Mrs. Stowe was chiefly bound up in her life andlabors at the South. In 1870, speaking of some literary work she wasproposing to herself, she said: "I am writing as a pure recreativemovement of mind, to divert myself from the stormy, unrestfulpresent. . . . I am being _chatelaine_ of a Florida farm. I have onmy mind the creation of a town on the banks of the St. John. The threeyears since we came this side of the river have called into life andgrowth a thousand peach-trees, a thousand orange-trees, about fivehundred lemons, and seven or eight hundred grapevines. A peachorchard, a vineyard, a lemon grove, will carry my name to posterity. Iam founding a place which, thirty or forty years hence, will be calledthe old Stowe place. . . . You can have no idea of this queer country, this sort of strange, sandy, half-tropical dreamland, unless you cometo it. Here I sit with open windows, the orange buds just opening andfilling the air with sweetness, the hens drowsily cackling, the menplanting in the field, and callas and wild roses blossoming out ofdoors. We keep a little fire morning and night. We are flooded withbirds; and by the bye, it is St. Valentine's Day. . . . I think a uniformedition of Dr. Holmes's works would be a good thing. Next to Hawthornehe is our most exquisite writer, and in many passages he goes farbeyond him. What is the dear Doctor doing? If you know any book goodto inspire dreams and visions, put it into my box. My husband chewsendlessly a German cud. I must have English. Has the French book onSpiritualism come yet? If it has, put it in. . . . I wish I could giveyou a plateful of our oranges. . . . We had seventy-five thousand ofthese same on our trees this year, and if you will start off quick, they are not all picked yet. Florida wants one thing, --grass. If ithad grass, it would be paradise. But nobody knows what grass is tillhad grass, it would be paradise. But nobody knows what grass is tillthey try to do without it. "

Three months later she wrote: "I hate to leave my calm isle of Patmos, where the world is not, and I have such quiet long hours for writing. Emerson could _insulate_ himself here and keep his electricity. Hawthorne ought to have lived in an orange grove in Florida. . . . Youhave no idea how small you all look, you folks in the world, from thisdistance. All your fusses and your fumings, your red-hot hurryingnewspapers, your clamor of rival magazines, --why, we see it as we seesteamboats fifteen miles off, a mere speck and smoke. "

Again she writes: "You ought to see us riding out in our mule-cart. Poor 'Fly!' the last of pea-time, who looks like an animated hair-trunk and the wagon and harness to match! It is too funny, but weenjoy it hugely. There are now in our solitude five Northern families, and we manage to have quite pleasant society. 

"But think of our church and school-house being burned down just as wewere ready to do something with it. I feel it most for the coloredpeople, who were so anxious to have their school and now have no placeto have it in. We have all been trying to raise what we can for a newbuilding and intend to get one up by March. 

"If I were North now I would try giving some readings for this andperhaps raise something. "

It was a strange contrast and one at variance with her natural taste, which brought her before the public as a reader of her own stories inthe autumn and winter of 1872-73. She was no longer able to venture onthe effort of a long story, and yet it was manifestly unwise for herto forego the income which was extended to her through this channel. She wrote: "I have had a very urgent business letter, saying that thelyceums of different towns were making up their engagements, and thatif I were going into it I must make my engagements now. It seems to methat I cannot do this. The thing will depend so much on my health andability to do. You know I could not go round in cold weather. . . . Ifeel entirely uncertain, and, as the Yankees say, 'didn't know what todo nor to don't. My state in regard to it may be described by thephrase 'Kind o' love to--hate to--wish I didn't--want ter. ' I supposethe result will be I shall not work into their lecture system. "

In April she wrote from Mandarin: "I am painting a _Magnoliagrandiflora, _ which I will show you. . . . I am appalled by findingmyself booked to read. But I am getting well and strong, and trust tobe equal to the emergency. But I shrink from Tremont Temple, and--doesnot think I can fill it. On the whole I should like to begin inBoston. " And in August she said: "I am to begin in Boston inSeptember. . . . It seems to me that is a little too early for Boston, isn't it? Will there be anybody in town then? I don't know as it's mybusiness, which is simply to speak my piece and take my money. "

Her first reading actually took place in Springfield, not Boston, andthe next day she unexpectedly arrived at our cottage at Manchester-by-the-Sea. She had read the previous evening in a large public hall, hadrisen at five o'clock that morning, and found her way to us. Her nextreadings were given in Boston, the first, in the afternoon, at theTremont Temple. She was conscious that her effort at Springfield hadnot been altogether successful, --she had not held her large audience;and she was determined to put the whole force of her nature into thisafternoon reading at the Tremont Temple. She called me into herbedroom, where she stood before the mirror, with her short gray hair, which usually lay in soft curls around her brow, brushed erect andstanding stiffly. "Look here, my dear, " she said; "now I am exactlylike my father, Dr. Lyman Beecher, when he was going to preach, " andshe held up her forefinger warningly. It was easy to see that thespirit of the old preacher was revived in her veins, and the afternoonwould show something of his power. An hour later, when I sat with herin the anteroom waiting for the moment of her appearance to arrive, Icould feel the power surging up within her. I knew she was armed for agood fight. 

That reading was a great success. She was alive in every fibre of herbeing: she was to read portions of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" to men, women, and children many of whom had taken no part in the crisis whichinspired it, and she determined to effect the difficult task of makingthem feel as well as hear. With her presence and inspiration theycould not fail to understand what her words had signified to thegeneration that had passed through the struggle of our war. When hervoice was not sufficient to make the audience hear, the people rosefrom their seats and crowded round her, standing gladly, that no wordmight be lost. It was the last leap of the flame which had burned outa great wrong. From this period, although she continued to write, shelived chiefly for several winters in the retirement of the Floridaorange grove, which she always enjoyed. Her sympathy was strong withthe new impetus benevolent work in cities had received, and she helpedit from her "grotto" in more ways than one. Sometimes she would writesoothing or inspiriting letters, as the case might demand, toindividuals. 

The following note, written at the time of the Boston fire in 1872, will show how alive she was to the need of that period. 

"I send inclosed one hundred dollars to the fund for the Firemen. Icould wish it a hundred times as much, and then it would be inadequateto express how much I honor those brave, devoted men who put their ownlives between Boston and mine. No soldiers that fell in battle for ourcommon country ever deserved of us all greater honor than the noblemen whose charred and blackened remains have been borne from the ruinsof Boston; they are worthy to be inscribed on imperishable monuments. 

"I would that some such honorary memorial might commemorate theirheroism. "

Meanwhile, the comfort she drew in from the beauty of nature and thecalm around her seemed yearly to nourish and renew her power ofexistence. Questions which were difficult to others were often solvedto her mind by practical observation. It amused her to hear personsagitating the question as to where they should look to supply laborfor the South. "Why, " she remarked once, "there was a negro, one ofthose fearfully hot days in the spring, who was digging muck from aswamp just in front of our house, and carrying it in a wheelbarrow upa steep slope, where he dumped it down, and then went back for more. He kept this up when it was so hot that we thought either one of uswould die to be five minutes in the sun. We carried a thermometer tothe spot where he was working, to see how great the heat was, and itrose at once to one hundred and thirty-five degrees. The man, however, kept cheerfully at his work, and when he went to his dinner sat withthe other negroes out in the white sand without a bit of shade. Afterward they all lay down for a nap in the same unshelteredlocality. Toward evening, when the sun was sufficiently low to enableme to go out, I went to speak to this man. 'Martin, ' said I, 'you'vehad a warm day's work. How do you stand it? Why, I couldn't enduresuch heat for five minutes. ' 'Hoh! hoh! No, I s'pose you couldn't. Ladies can't, missus. ' 'But, Martin, aren't you very tired?' 'Bressyour heart, no, missus. ' So Martin goes home to his supper, and aftersupper will be found dancing all the evening on the wharf near by!After this, when people talk of bringing Germans and Swedes to do suchwork, I am much entertained. "

Many were the pleasant descriptions of her home sent forth to tempther friends away from the busy North. "Here is where we read books, "she said in one of her letters, written in the month of March. "UpNorth nobody does, --they don't have time; so if ---- will mail hisbook to Mandarin, I will 'read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest. ' Weare having a carnival of flowers. I hope you read my 'PalmettoLeaves, ' for then you will see all about us. . . . Our home is like amartin-box. . . . I cannot tell you the quaint odd peace we have here inliving under the oak. 'Behold, she dwelleth under the oak at Mamre. 'All that we want is friends, to whom we may say that solitude issweet. We have some neighbors, however, who have made pretty placesnear us. Mr. Stowe keeps up a German class of three young ladies, withwhom he is reading Faust for the nine hundred and ninety-ninth time, and in the evening I read aloud to a small party of the neighbors. Wehave made up our home as we went along, throwing out a chamber hereand there, like twigs out of the old oak. . . . The orange blossoms havecome like showers of pearl, and the yellow jessamine like goldenfleeces, and the violets and the lilies, and azaleas. This isglorious, budding, blossoming spring, and we have days when merely tobreathe and be is to be blessed. I love to have a day of mereexistence. Life itself is a pleasure when the sun shines warm, and thelizards dart from all the shingles of the roof, and the birds sing inso many notes and tones the yard reverberates; and I sit and dream andam happy, and never want to go back North, nor do anything with thetoiling, snarling world again. I do wish I could gather you both in mylittle nest. "

She was like her father, Dr. Lyman Beecher, in many things. Thescorching fire of the brain seemed to devour its essence, and sheendured, as he did before her, some years of existence when the motivepower almost ceased to act. She became "like a little child, "wandering about, pleased with flowers, fresh air, the sound of apiano, or a voice singing hymns, but the busy, inspiring spirit wasasleep. 

Gradually she faded away, shrouded in this strange mystery, hoveredover by the untiring affection of her children, sweet and tender inher decadence, but "absent. "

At the moment when this brief memorial was receiving a final revisionbefore going to the press, the news reached me of the unloosing of thelast threads of consciousness which bound Mrs. Stowe to this world. 

The sweetness and patience of her waiting years can only be perfectlytold by the daughters who hung over her. She knew her condition, butthere was never a word of complaint, and so long as her husband livedshe performed the office of nurse and attendant upon his lightestwishes as if she felt herself strong. Her near friends were sometimesinvited to dine or to have supper with her at that period, but theycould see even then how prostrated she became after the slightestmental effort. It was upon occasion of such a visit that she told me, with a twinkle of the eye, that "Mr. Stowe was sometimes inclined tobe a little fretful during the long period of his illness, and said toher one day that he believed the Lord had forgotten him. " "Oh, no, Hehasn't, " she answered; "cheer up! your turn will come soon. "

She was always fond of music, especially of the one kind she had knownbest; and the singing of hymns never failed to soothe her at the last;therefore when the little group stood round her open grave on a lovelyJuly day and sang quite simply the hymns she loved, it seemed in itssimplicity and broken harmony a fitting farewell to the faded body shehad already left so far behind. 

A great spirit has performed its mission and has been released. Theworld moves on unconscious; but the world's children have been blessedby her coming, and they who know and understand should praise Godreverently in her going. "As a teil tree, and as an oak, whosesubstance is in them, when they cast their leaves: so the holy seedshall be the substance thereof. " In the words of the prophet we canalmost hear her glad cry:--

 "My sword shall be bathed in heaven. "

CELIA THAXTER. BORN JUNE, 1835; DIED AUGUST, 1894. 

If it were ever intended that a desolate island in the deep sea shouldbe inhabited by one solitary family, then indeed Celia Thaxter was thefitting daughter of such a house. 

In her history of the group of islands, which she calls "Among theIsles of Shoals, " she portrays, in a prose which for beauty and wealthof diction has few rivals, the unfolding of her own nature underinfluences of sky and sea and solitude and untrammeled freedom, suchas have been almost unknown to civilized humanity in any age of theworld. She speaks also of the effect produced, as she fancied, uponthe minds of men by the eternal sound of the sea: a tendency to wearaway the edge of human thought and perception. But this was far frombeing the case with regard to herself. Her eyesight was keener, herspeech more distinct, the lines of her thoughts more clearly defined, her verse more strongly marked in its form, and the accuracy of hermemory more to be relied upon than was the case with almost any one ofher contemporaries. Her painting, too, upon porcelain possessed thesame character. 

Her knowledge of the flowers, and especially of the seaweeds, withwhich she decorated it, was so exact that she did not require theoriginals before her vision. They were painted upon her mind's eye, where every filament and every shade seemed to be recorded. Thesegreen "growing things" had been the beloved companions of herchildhood, as they continued to be of her womanhood, and even toreproduce their forms in painting was a delight to her. The writtendescriptions of natural objects give her history a place among thepages which possess a perennial existence. While White's "Selborne, "and the pictures of Bewick, and Thoreau's "Walden, " and the"Autobiography of Richard Jefferies" endure, so long will "Among theIsles of Shoals" hold its place with all lovers of nature. She says inone place, "All the pictures over which I dream are set in thisframework of the sea, that sparkled and sang, or frowned andthreatened, in the ages that are gone as it does to-day. "

The solitude of Celia Thaxter's childhood, which was not solitude, surrounded as she was with the love of a father and a mother, alltenderness, and brothers dear to her as her own life, developed in thechild strange faculties. She was five years old when the family leftPortsmouth, --old enough, given her inborn power of enjoyment ofnature, to delight in the free air and the wonderful sights aroundher. She gives in her book a pretty picture of the child watching thebirds that flew against the lighthouse lantern, when they lived atWhite Island. The birds would strike it with such force as to killthemselves. "Many a May morning, " she says, "have I wandered about therock at the foot of the tower, mourning over a little apron brimful ofsparrows, swallows, thrushes, robins, fire-winged blackbirds, many-colored warblers and flycatchers, beautifully clothed yellow-birds, nuthatches, catbirds, even the purple finch and scarlet tanager andgolden oriole, and many more beside, --enough to break the heart of asmall child to think of! Once a great eagle flew against the lanternand shivered the glass. "

Her father seems to have been a man of awful energy of will. Somedisappointment in his hope of a public career, it has been said, decided him to take the step of withdrawing himself forever from theworld of the mainland, and this attitude he appears to have sustainedunflinchingly to the end. Her mother, with a heart stayed asunflinchingly upon love and obedience, seems to have followed himwithout a murmur, leaving every dear association of the past as thoughit had not been. From this moment she became, not the slave, but thequeen of her affections; and when she died, in 1877, the sun appearedto set upon her daughter's life. On the morning after Mrs. Thaxter'ssudden death, seventeen years later, a friend asked her eldest sonwhere his mother was, with the intent to discover if she had been wellenough to leave her room. "Oh, " he replied, "her mother came in thenight and took her away. " This reply showed how deeply all who werenear to Celia Thaxter were impressed with the fact that to see hermother again was one of the deepest desires of her heart. 

The development wrought in her eager character by those early days ofexceptional experience gives a new sense of what our poor humanity mayachieve, left face to face with the vast powers of nature. 

In speaking of the energy of Samuel Haley, one of the early settlersof the islands, she says he learned to live as independently aspossible of his fellow-men; "for that is one of the first things asettler on the Isles of Shoals finds it necessary to learn. " Her ownlesson was learned perfectly. The sunrise was as familiar to her eyesas the sunset, and early and late the activity of her mind was rivaledby the ceaseless industry of her hands. She pays a tribute to thememory of Miss Peabody, of Newburyport, who went to Star Island in1823 and "did wonders for the people during the three years of herstay. She taught the school, visited the families, and on Sundays readto such audiences as she could collect, took seven of the poor femalechildren to live with her at the parsonage, instructed all who wouldlearn in the arts of carding, spinning, weaving, knitting, sewing, braiding mats, etc. Truly she remembered what 'Satan finds for idlehands to do, ' and kept all her charges busy, and consequently happy. All honor to her memory! She was a wise and faithful servant. There isstill an affectionate remembrance of her among the presentinhabitants, whose mothers she helped out of their degradation into abetter life. "

If it was not in Celia Thaxter's nature to teach in this direct wayherself, she did not fail to appreciate and to stimulate excellence ofevery kind in others. Appledore was too far away in winter from thevillage at Star Island for any regular or frequent communicationbetween them. Even so late as in the month of May she records watchinga little fleet beating up for shelter under the lee of Appledore toride out a storm. "They were in continual peril. . . . It was notpleasant to watch them as the early twilight shut down over the vastweltering desolation of the sea, to see the slender masts wavinghelplessly from one side to another. . . . Some of the men had wives andchildren watching them from lighted windows at Star. What a fearfulnight for them! They could not tell from hour to hour, through thethick darkness, if yet the cables held; they could not see tilldaybreak whether the sea had swallowed up their treasures. I wonderthe wives were not white haired when the sun rose and showed themthose little specks yet rolling in the breakers!" How clearly thesescenes were photographed on the sensitive plate of her mind! She neverforgot nor really lost sight of her island people. Her sympathy drewthem to her as if they were her own, and the little colony ofNorwegians was always especially dear to her. "How pathetic, " shesays, "the gathering of women on the headlands, when out of the skyswept the squall that sent the small boat staggering before it, andblinded the eyes, already drowned in tears, with sudden rain that hidsky and sea and boats from their eager gaze!"

What she was, what her sympathy was, to those people, no one can everquite express. The deep devotion of their service to her brothers andto herself, through the long solitude of winter and the storm ofsummer visitors, alone could testify. Such service cannot be bought:it is the devotion born of affection and gratitude and admiration. Speaking of one of the young women who grew up under her eye, sheoften said: "What could I do in this world without Mine Burntssen? Ihope she will be with me when I die. " And there indeed, at the last, was Mine, to receive the latest word and to perform the few sadoffices. 

To tell of the services Mrs. Thaxter rendered to some of the morehelpless people about her, in the dark season, when no assistance fromthe mainland could be hoped for, would make a long and noble story initself. Her good sense made her an excellent doctor; the remedies sheunderstood she was always on hand to apply at the right moment. Sometimes she was unexpectedly called to assist in the birth of achild, when knowledge and strength she was hardly aware of seemed tobe suddenly developed. But the truth was she could do almost anything;and only those who knew her in these humbler human relations couldunderstand how joyous she was in the exercise of such duties, or howwell able to perform them. Writing to Mine from the Shoals once inMarch, she says: "This is the time to be here; this is what I enjoy!To wear my old clothes every day, grub in the ground, dig dandelionsand eat them too, plant my seeds and watch them, fly on the tricycle, row in a boat, get into my dressing-gown right after tea, and makelovely rag rugs all the evening, and nobody to disturb us, --_this_ is fun!" In the house and out of it she was capable ofeverything. How beautiful her skill was as a dressmaker, the exquisitelines in her own black or gray or white dresses testified to every onewho ever saw her. She never wore any other colors, nor was anythinglike "trimming" ever seen about her; there were only the fine, freeoutlines, and a white handkerchief folded carefully about her neck andshoulders. 

In her young days it was the same, with a difference! She was slighterin figure then, and overflowing with laughter, the really beautifulbut noisy laughter which died away as the repose of manner of lateryears fell upon her. I can remember her as I first saw her, with theseashells which she always wore then around her neck and wrists, and agray poplin dress defining her lovely form. She talked simply andfearlessly, while her keen eyes took in everything around her; shepaid the tribute of her instantaneous laughter to the wit of others, --never too eager to speak, and never unwilling. Her sense of beauty, not vanity, caused her to make the most of the good physical pointsshe possessed; therefore, although she grew old early, the samegeneral features of her appearance were preserved. She was almost toowell known even to strangers, in these later years at the Shoals, tomake it worth while to describe the white hair carefully put up topreserve the shape of the head, and the small silver crescent whichshe wore above her forehead; but her manner had become very quiet andtender, more and more affectionate to her friends, and appreciative ofall men. One of those who knew her latterly wrote me: "Many of herletters show her boundless sympathy, her keen appreciation of the bestin those whom she loved, and her wonderful growth in beauty androundness of character. And how delightful her enthusiasms were, --aspure and clear as those of a child! She was utterly unlike any one inthe world, so that few people really understood her. But it seems tome that her trials softened and mellowed her, until she became likeone of her own beautiful flowers, perfect in her full development;then in a night the petals fell, and she was gone. "

The capabilities which were developed in her by the necessities of thesituation, during her life at the Shoals in winter, were more variousand remarkable than can be fitly told. The glimpses which we get inher letters of the many occupations show what energy she brought tobear upon the difficulties of the place. 

In "Among the Isles of Shoals" she says: "After winter has fairly setin, the lonely dwellers at the Isles of Shoals find life quite as muchas they can manage, being so entirely thrown upon their own resourcesthat it requires all the philosophy at their disposal to answer thedemand. . . . One goes to sleep in the muffled roar of the storm, andwakes to find it still raging with senseless fury. . . . The weatherbecomes of the first importance to the dwellers on the rock; thechanges of the sky and sea, the flitting of the coasters to and fro, the visits of the sea-fowl, sunrise and sunset, the changing moon, thenorthern lights, the constellations that wheel in splendor through thewinter night, --all are noted with a love and careful scrutiny that isseldom given by people living in populous places. . . . For these thingsmake our world: there are no lectures, operas, concerts, theatres, nomusic of any kind, except what the waves may whisper in rarely gentlemoods; no galleries of wonders like the Natural History rooms, inwhich it is so fascinating to wander; no streets, shops, carriages; nopostman, no neighbors, not a door-bell within the compass of theplace!. . . The best balanced human mind is prone to lose its elasticityand stagnate, in this isolation. One learns immediately the value ofwork to keep one's wits clear, cheerful, and steady; just as much realwork of the body as it can bear without weariness being alwaysbeneficent, but here indispensable. . . . No one can dream what a charmthere is in taking care of pets, singing birds, plants, etc. , withsuch advantages of solitude; how every leaf and bud and flower ispored over, and admired, and loved! A whole conservatory, flushed withazaleas and brilliant with forests of camellias and every preciousexotic that blooms, could not impart so much delight as I have known asingle rose to give, unfolding in the bleak bitterness of a day inFebruary, when this side of the planet seemed to have arrived at itsculmination of hopelessness, with the Isles of Shoals the mosthopeless spot upon its surface. One gets close to the heart of thesethings; they are almost as precious as Picciola to the prisoner, andyield a fresh and constant joy such as the pleasure-seekinginhabitants of cities could not find in their whole round of shiftingdiversions. With a bright and cheerful interior, open fires, books andpictures, windows full of thrifty blossoming plants and climbingvines, a family of singing birds, plenty of work, and a clear head andquiet conscience, it would go hard if one could not be happy even insuch loneliness. Books, of course, are inestimable. Nowhere does onefollow a play of Shakespeare's with greater zest, for it brings thewhole world, which you need, about you; doubly precious the deepthoughts which wise men have given to help us, doubly sweet the songsof all the poets; for nothing comes between to distract you. "

It was not extraordinary that the joy of human intercourse, after suchestrangement, became a rapture to so loving a nature as CeliaLaighton's; nor that, very early, before the period of fully ripenedwomanhood, she should have been borne away from her island by ahusband, a man of birth and education, who went to preach to the wildfisher folk on the adjacent island called Star. 

The exuberant joy of her unformed maidenhood, with its power of self-direction, attracted the reserved, intellectual nature of Mr. Thaxter. He could not dream that this careless, happy creature possessed thestrength and sweep of wing which belonged to her own sea-gull. In goodhope of teaching and developing her, of adding much in which she wasuninstructed to the wisdom which the influences of nature and thenatural affections had bred in her, he carried his wife to a quietinland home, where three children were very soon born to them. Underthe circumstances, it was not extraordinary that his ideas ofeducation were not altogether successfully applied; she required morestrength than she could summon, more adaptability than many a grownwoman could have found, to face the situation, and life becamedifficult and full of problems to them both. Their natures werestrongly contrasted, but perhaps not too strongly to complement eachother, if he had fallen in love with her as a woman, and not as achild. His retiring, scholarly nature and habits drew him away fromthe world; her overflowing, sun-loving being, like a solar system initself, reached out on every side, rejoicing in all created things. 

Her introduction to the world of letters was by means of her firstpoem, "Land-Locked, " which, by the hand of a friend, was brought tothe notice of James Russell Lowell, at that time editor of the"Atlantic. " He printed it at once, without exchanging a word with theauthor. She knew nothing about it until the magazine was laid beforeher. This recognition of her talent was a delight indeed, and it wasone of the happiest incidents in a life which was already overcloudedwith difficulties and sorrow. It will not be out of place to reprintthis poem here, because it must assure every reader of the pure poeticgift which was in her. In form, in movement, and in thought it is asbeautiful as her latest work. 

LAND-LOCKED

 Black lie the hills; swiftly doth daylight flee; And, catching gleams of sunset's dying smile, Through the dusk land for many a changing mile The river runneth softly to the sea. 

 O happy river, could I follow thee! O yearning heart, that never can be still! O wistful eyes, that watch the steadfast hill, Longing for level line of solemn sea!

 Have patience; here are flowers and songs of birds, Beauty and fragrance, wealth of sound and sight, All summer's glory thine from morn till night, And life too full of joy for uttered words. 

 Neither am I ungrateful; but I dream Deliciously how twilight falls to-night Over the glimmering water, how the light Dies blissfully away, until I seem

 To feel the wind, sea-scented, on my cheek, To catch the sound of dusky, flapping sail, And dip of oars, and voices on the gale Afar off, calling low, --my name they speak!

 O Earth! thy summer song of joy may soar Ringing to heaven in triumph. I but crave The sad, caressing murmur of the wave That breaks in tender music on the shore. 

With the growth of Mrs. Thaxter's children and the death of herfather, the love and duty she owed her mother caused her to return inwinter to the Shoals, although a portion of every summer was passedthere. This was her husband's wish; his sense of loyalty to age andhis deep attachment to his own parents made such a step appearnecessary to him under the circumstances. 

But she had already tasted of the tree of knowledge, and the worldoutside beckoned to her with as fascinating a face as it everpresented to any human creature. It was during one of these returningvisits to the Shoals that much of the delightful book from which Ihave quoted was written; a period when she had already learnedsomething of the charms of society, --sufficient to accentuate herappreciation of her own past, and to rejoice in what a larger life nowheld in store for her. 

Lectures, operas, concerts, theatres, pictures, music above all, --whatwere they not to her! Did artists ever before find such an eye andsuch an ear? She brought to them a spirit prepared for harmony, bututterly ignorant of the science of painting or music until the lightof art suddenly broke upon her womanhood. 

Of what this new world was to her we find some hint, of course, in herletters; but no human lips, not even her own exuberant power ofexpression, could ever say how her existence was enriched and madebeautiful through music. Artists who sang to her, or those whorehearsed the finest music on the piano or violin or flute, or thosewho brought their pictures and put them before her while shelistened, --they alone, in a measure, understood what these thingssignified, and how she was lifted quite away by them from the ordinarylevel of life. They were inspired to do for her what they could seldomdo for any other creature; and her generous response, overflowing, almost extravagant in expression, was never half enough to begin totell the new life they brought to her. The following lines from asonnet addressed to the tenor singer William J. Winch, a singer whohas given much pleasure to many persons by his beautiful voice, willconvey some idea of the deep feeling which his ardent rendering ofgreat songs stirred in her:--

 "Carry us captive, thou with the strong heart And the clear head, and nature sweet and sound! Most willing captives we to thy great art. 

 * * * * *

 Sing, and we ask no greater joy than this, Only to listen, thrilling to the song, * * * * *

 Borne skyward where the winged hosts rejoice. "

Mrs. Thaxter found herself, as the years went on, the centre of acompany who rather selected themselves than were selected from thevast number of persons who frequented her brothers' "house ofentertainment" at the islands. Her "parlor, " as it was called, was a_milieu_ quite as interesting as any of the "salons" of the past. Her pronounced individuality forbade the intrusion even of a fancy ofcomparison with anything else, and equally forbade the possibility ofrivalry. There was only one thought in the mind of the frequenters ofher parlor, --that of gratitude for the pleasure and opportunity shegave them, and a genuine wish to please her and to become her friends. She possessed the keen instincts of a child with regard to people. Ifthey were unlovable to her, if they were for any reason unsympathetic, nothing could bring her to overcome her dislike. She was in thisparticular more like some wild thing than a creature of the nineteenthcentury; indeed, one of her marked traits was a curious intractabilityof nature. I believe that no worldly motive ever influenced herrelation with any human creature. Of course these native qualitiesmade her more ardently devoted in her friendships; but it went hardlywith her to ingratiate those persons for whom she felt a naturalrepulsion, or even sometimes to be gentle with them. Later in life shelearned to call no man "common or unclean;" but coming into the world, as she did, full grown, like Minerva in the legend, with keen eyes, and every sense alive to discern pretension, untruth, ungodliness inguise of the church, and all the uncleanness of the earth, thesethings were as much a surprise to her as it was, on the other hand, tofind the wondrous world of art and the lives of the saints. Perhaps nolarge social success was ever achieved upon such unworldly conditions;she swung as free as possible of the world of society and itsopinions, forming a centre of her own, built up on the surefoundations of love and loyalty. She saw as much as any woman of thetime of large numbers of people, and she was able to give them thebest kind of social enjoyment: music, pictures, poetry, andconversation; the latter sometimes poor and sometimes good, accordingto the drift which swept through her beautiful room. Mrs. Thaxter wasgenerous in giving invitations to her parlor, but to its frequentersshe said, "If people do not enjoy what they find, they must go theirway; my work and the music will not cease. " The study of nature andart was always going forward either on or around her work-table. Thekeynote of conversation was struck there for those who were able tohear it. We were reminded of William Blake's verse:--

 "I give you the end of a golden string, Only wind it into a ball, It will lead you in at Heaven's gate, Built in Jerusalem wall. "

Here it was that Whittier could be heard at his best, sympathetic, stimulating, uplifting, as he alone could be, and yet as he, with hisQuaker training to silence, was so seldom moved to prove himself. Herehe would sit near her hour after hour; sometimes mending her aeolianharp while they talked together, sometimes reading aloud to theassembled company. Here was Rose Lamb, artist and dear friend; andhere Mrs. Mary Hemenway was a most beloved presence, with her eagerenthusiasm for reform, yet with a modesty of bearing which made youngand old press to her side. She loved Celia Thaxter, who in her turnwas deeply and reverently attached to Mrs. Hemenway. 

The early affection of both Mr. Thaxter and his wife for WilliamMorris Hunt grew to be the love of a lifetime. Hunt's grace, versatility, and charm, not to speak of his undoubted genius, exertedtheir combined fascination over these appreciative friends in commonwith the rest of his art-loving contemporaries; but to these two, eachin their several ways, Hunt felt himself equally attracted, and thelast sad summer of his life he gladly turned to Celia Thaxter in herisland home as a sure refuge in time of trouble. It was she whowatched him day by day, listening to his words, which came clothedwith a kind of inspiration. "Whatever genius may be, " said TomAppleton, "we all feel that William Hunt had it. His going is theextinction of a great light; a fervent hand is cold; and the warmthwhich glowed through so many friends and disciples is like a troddenember, extinguished. " It was Celia Thaxter's hurrying footsteps whichtraced her friend to the spot where, in extreme weakness, he fell indeath. She wrote, "It was that pretty lake where my wild roses hadbeen blooming all summer, and where the birds dipped and sang atsunrise. "

Her gratitude to the men and women who brought music to her door knewno limit; it was strong, deep, and unforgetting. "What can I ever dofor them, " she would say, "when I remember the joy they bring me!"

Julius Eichberg was one of the earliest friends who ministered in thisway to her happiness. Her letters of the time overflow with thedescriptions of programmes for the day, when Mr. Paine and Mr. Eichberg would play, together or alone, during long mornings andafternoons. "I am lost in bliss, " she wrote; "every morning, afternoon, and evening, Beethoven! I am emerging out of all my cloudsby help of it; it is divine!"

And again, writing of Mr. Paine in his own house, she said: "I am inthe midst of the awful and thrilling music of the Oedipus Tyrannus, and it curdles my blood; we are all steeped in it, for J. K. P. Goeson and on composing it all the time, and the tremendous chords thrillthe very timbers of the house. It is _most_ interesting!"

Of Arthur Whiting, too, and his wife, whose musical gifts she placedamong the first, she frequently wrote and spoke with lovingappreciation. These friendships were a never failing source ofgladness to her. 

Later in life came Mr. William Mason, who was the chief minister toher joy in music, her enlightener, her consoler, to the end. Those wholoved her best must always give him the tribute of their admirationand grateful regard. Mr. Mason must have known her keen gratitude, forwho understood better than he the feeling by which she was lifted awayfrom the things of this world by the power of music. 

"The dignity of labor" is a phrase we have often heard repeated inmodern life, but it was one unnecessary to be spoken by Celia Thaxter. It may easily be said of her that one of the finest lessons sheunconsciously taught was not only the value of labor, but the joy ofdoing things well. The necessities of her position, as I have alreadyindicated, demanded a great deal, but she responded to the need with areadiness and generosity great enough to extort admiration from thosewho knew her. How much she contributed to the comfort of the lives ofthose she loved at the Shoals we have endeavored to show; howbeautiful her garden was there, in the summer, all the world couldsee; but at one period there was also a farm at Kittery Point, to bemade beautiful and comfortable by her industry, where one of her sonsstill lives; and a _pied a terre_ in Boston or in Portsmouth, whither she came in the winter with her eldest son, who was especiallydependent upon her love and care: and all these changes demanded muchof her time and strength. 

She was certainly one of the busiest women in the world. Writing fromKittery Point September 6, 1880, she says: "It is divinely lovelyhere, and the house is charming. I have brought a servant over fromthe hotel, and it is a blessing to be able to make them allcomfortable; to set them down in the charming dining-room overlookingthe smooth, curved crescent of sandy beach, with the long rollersbreaking white, and the shoals looming on the far sea-line. . . . But oh, how tired we all get! I shall be quite ready for my rest!"

This note gives a picture of her life. She was always seeking to makea bright spot around her; to give of herself in some way. There is abit in her book which illustrates this instinct. The incident occurredduring a long, dreary storm at the Shoals. Two men had come in a boatasking for help. "A little child had died at Star Island, and theycould not sail to the mainland, and had no means to construct a coffinamong themselves. All day I watched the making of that littlechrysalis; and at night the last nail was driven in, and it lay acrossa bench, in the midst of the litter of the workshop, and a curiousstillness seemed to emanate from the senseless boards. I went back tothe house and gathered a handful of scarlet geranium, and returnedwith it through the rain. The brilliant blossoms were sprinkled withglittering drops. I laid them in the little coffin, while the windwailed so sorrowfully outside, and the rain poured against thewindows. Two men came through the mist and storm, and one swung thelight little shell to his shoulder, and they carried it away, and thegathering darkness shut down and hid them as they tossed among thewaves. I never saw the little girl, but where they buried her I know;the lighthouse shines close by, and every night the quiet, constantray steals to her grave and softly touches it, as if to say, with acaress, 'Sleep well! Be thankful you are spared so much that I seehumanity endure, fixed here forever where I stand. '"

We have seen the profound love she felt for, and the companionship shefound in, nature and natural objects; but combined with thesesentiments, or developed simply by her love to speak more directly, was a very uncommon power of observation. This power grew day by day, and the delightful correspondence which existed between BradfordTorrey and herself, although they had never met face to face, bearswitness to her constant mental record and memory respecting the habitsof birds and woodland manners. Every year we find her longing forlarger knowledge; books and men of science attracted her; and if herlife had been less intensely laborious, in order to make those whobelonged to her comfortable and happy, what might she not haveachieved! Her nature was replete with boundless possibilities, and wefind ourselves asking the old, old question, Must the artist forevercrush the wings by which he flies against such terrible limitations?--a question never to be answered in this world. 

Her observations began with her earliest breath at the islands. "Iremember, " she says, "in the spring, kneeling on the ground to seekthe first blades of grass that pricked through the soil, and bringingthem into the house to study and wonder over. Better than a shopful oftoys they were to me! Whence came their color? How did they draw theirsweet, refreshing tint from the brown earth, or the limpid air, or thewhite light? Chemistry was not at hand to answer me, and all herwisdom would not have dispelled the wonder. Later, the little scarletpimpernel charmed me. It seemed more than a flower; it was like ahuman thing. I knew it by its homely name of 'poor man's weatherglass. ' It was so much wiser than I; for when the sky was yet withouta cloud, softly it clasped its small red petals together, folding itsgolden heart in safety from the shower that was sure to come. Howcould it know so much?"

Whatever sorrows life brought to her, and they were many and of theheaviest, this exquisite enjoyment of nature, the tender love and carefor every created thing within her reach, always stayed her heart. Tosee her lift a flower in her fingers, --fingers which gave one a senseof supporting everything which she touched, expressive, too, offineness in every fibre, although strong and worn with labor, --to seeher handle these wonderful creatures which she worshiped, wassomething not to be forgotten. The lines of Keats, --

 "Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent marigolds!"

were probably oftener flitting through her mind or from her lips thanthrough the mind or from the lips of any since Keats wrote them. Sheremembered that he said he thought his "intensest pleasure in life hadbeen to watch the growth of flowers, " but she was sure he never felttheir beauty more devoutly "than the little half-savage being whoknelt, like a fire-worshiper, to watch the unfolding of those goldendisks. "

The time came at last, as it comes to every human being, for askingthe reason of the faith that was in her. It was difficult for her toreply. 

Her heart had often questioned whether she believed, and what; andyet, as she has said, she could not keep her faith out of her poems ifshe would. We find the following passage in "Among the Isles ofShoals, " which throws a light beyond that of her own lantern. 

"When the boat was out late, " she says, "in soft, moonless summernights, I used to light a lantern, and going down to the water's edgetake my station between the timbers of the slip, and with the lanternat my feet sit waiting in the darkness, quite content, knowing mylittle star was watched for, and that the safety of the boat dependedin a great measure upon it. . . . I felt so much a part of the Lord'suniverse, I was no more afraid of the dark than the waves or winds;but I was glad to hear at last the creaking of the mast and therattling of the rowlocks as the boat approached. "

"A part of the Lord's universe, "--that Celia Thaxter always feltherself to be, and for many years she was impatient of other teachingthan what nature brought to her. As life went on, and the mingledmysteries of human pain and grief were unfolded, she longed for acloser knowledge. At first she sought it everywhere, and patiently, save in or through the churches; with them she was long _im_patient. At last, after ardent search through the religious books and by meansof the teachers of the Orient, the Bible was born anew for her, andthe New Testament became her stay and refreshment. At this period shewrote to her friend, Mrs. H. M. Rogers: "K. And I read the BhagavadGita every day of our lives, and when we get to the end we begin again!It is a great thing to keep one's mind full of it, permeated as it were;and I think Mohini's own words are a great help and inspiration every-where, all through it as well as in the beautiful introduction. I havewritten out clearly on the margin of my copy every text which he hasquoted from the Scriptures, and find it most interesting. 'Truth isone. '"

Nothing was ever "born anew" in Celia Thaxter which she did not striveto share with others. She could keep nothing but secrets to herself. Joys, experiences of every kind, sorrows and misfortunes, except whenthey could darken the lives of others, were all brought open handedand open hearted, to those she loved. Her generosity knew no limits. 

There is a description by her of the flood which swept over her being, and seemed to carry her away from the earth, when she once saw thegreat glory of the Lord in a rainbow at the island. She hid her facefrom the wonder; it was more than she could bear. "I felt then, " shesaid, "how I longed to speak these things which made life so sweet, --to speak the wind, the cloud, the bird's flight, the sea's murmur, --and ever the wish grew;" and so it was she became, growing from andwith this wish, a poet the world will remember. Dr. Holmes said oncein conversation that he thought the value of a poet to the world wasnot so much the pleasure that this or that poem might give to certainreaders, or even perchance to posterity, as the fact that a poet wasknown to be one who was sometimes rapt out of himself into the regionof the Divine; that the spirit had descended upon him and taught himwhat he should speak. 

This is especially true of Celia Thaxter, whose life was divorced fromworldliness, while it was instinct with the keenest enjoyment of lifeand of God's world. She liked to read her poems aloud when peopleasked for them; and if there was ever a genuine reputation from doinga thing well, such a reputation was hers. From the first person whoheard her the wish began to spread, until, summer after summer, in herparlor, listeners would gather if she would promise to read to them. Night after night she has held her sway, with tears and smiles fromher responsive little audiences, which seemed to gain new courage andlight from what she gave them. Her unspeakably interesting nature wasalways betraying itself and shining out between the lines. Occasionally she yielded to the urgent claims brought to bear upon herby her friend Mrs. Johnson, of the Woman's Prison, and would go toread to the sad-eyed audience at Sherborn. Even those hearts dulled bywrong and misery awakened at the sound of her voice. It was notaltogether this or that verse or ballad that made the tears flow, orbrought a laugh from her hearers; it was the deep sympathy which shecarried in her heart and which poured out in her voice; a hope, too, for them, and for what they might yet become. She could not gofrequently, --she was too deeply laden with responsibilities nearerhome; but it was always a holiday when she was known to be coming, anda season of light-heartedness to Mrs. Johnson as well as to theprisoners. 

It is a strange fallacy that a poet may not read his own verses well. Who besides the writer should comprehend every shade of meaning whichmade the cloud or sunshine of his poem? Mrs. Thaxter certainly readher own verse with a fullness of suggestion which no other readercould have given it; and her voice was sufficient, too, although notloud or striking, to fill and satisfy the ear of the listener. But atthe risk of repetition we recall that it was her own generous, beautiful nature, unlike that of any other, which made her readinghelpful to all who heard her. She speaks somewhere of the birds on herisland as "so tame, knowing how well they are beloved, that theygather on the window-sills, twittering and fluttering gay andgraceful, turning their heads this way and that, eying you askancewithout a trace of fear. " And so it was with the human beings who cameto know her. They were attracted, they came near, they flew under herprotection, and were not disappointed of their rest. 

Four years before Mrs. Thaxter left this world, when she was stillonly fifty-five years old, she was stricken with a shaft of death. Heroverworked body was prostrated in sudden agony, and she, well, young, vigorous beyond the ordinary lot of mortals, found herself weak andunable to rise. "I do so hate figuring as an interesting invalid, " shewrote. "Perhaps I have been doing too much, getting settled. But oh, Iused to be able to do _any_thing! Where is my old energy and vigor andpower gone! It should not ebb away quite so soon!" She recovered herwonted tone and sufficient strength for every-day needs, and stillfound "life so interesting. " But her keen observation had been broughtto bear upon her own condition, and she suspected that she might flitaway from us quickly some day. 

Except for one who was especially dependent upon her she was quiteready. The surprises of this life were so wonderful, it was easy forher to believe in the surprises of the unseen; but her letters werefull as usual of the things which feed the springs of joy around us inthis world. One summer it was the first volume of poems of RichardWatson Gilder which gave her great happiness. She talked of them, recited them, sent them to her friends, and finally wrote to Mr. Gilder himself. Since her death he has said, "I never saw Mrs. Thaxterbut once, and that lately; but her immediate and surprising andcontinuous appreciation and encouragement I can never forget. " Howmany other contemporaneous writers and artists could say the same!

The transparent simplicity of her character and manners, her love andcapacity for labor, were combined with equal capacities for enjoyingthe complex in others and a pure appetite for pleasure. It would beimpossible to find a more childlike power of enjoyment. 

A perfect happiness came to her, during the last eight years of herlife, with the birth of her grandchildren. The little boy whosurprised her into bliss one day by crying out "I 'dore you, I 'doreyou, granna! I love you every breff!" was the creature perhaps dearestto her heart; but she loved them all, and talked and wrote of themwith abandonment of rejoicing. Writing to her friend Mrs. Rogers, shesays: "Little E. Stayed with his 'granna, ' who worships the ground hewalks on, and counted every beat of his quick-fluttering little heart. Oh, I never meant, in my old age, to become subject to the thrall of alove like this; it is almost dreadful, so absorbing, so stirring downto the deeps. For the tiny creature is so old and wise and sweet, andso fascinating in his sturdy common sense and clear intelligence; andhis affection for me is a wonderful, exquisite thing, the sweetestflower that has bloomed for me in all my life through. "

Her enjoyment of art could not fade nor lose its keenness. Her lifehad been shut, as we have seen, into very narrow limits. She never hadseen the city of New York, and life outside the circle we havedescribed was an unknown world to her. She went to Europe once withher eldest brother, when he was ill, for three months, and she hasleft in her letters some striking descriptions of what she saw there;but her days were closely bounded by the necessities we havesuggested. Nevertheless the great world of art was more to CeliaThaxter than to others; perhaps for the very reason that her mind wasopen and unjaded. Her rapture over the great players from England; herabsolute agony, after seeing "The Cup" played by them in London, lestshe could never, never tell the happiness it was to her, withTennyson's words on her own tongue, as it were, to follow Miss Terry'sperfect enunciation of the lines, --these enjoyments, true pleasures asindeed they are, did not lose their power over her. 

Gilbert and Sullivan, too, could not have found a more amused admirer. "Pinafore" never grew stale for her, and her brothers yielded to herfancy, or pleased it, by naming their little steamer Pinafore. Shewent to the theatre again and again to see this, and all thesucceeding comedies by the same hands. She never seemed to weary oftheir fun. 

But the poets were her great fountain of refreshment; "Siloa's brook"was her chief resort. Tennyson was her chosen master, and there werefew of his lines she did not know by heart. Her feeling for nature wassatisfied by the incomparable verses in which he portrays the divinelight shining behind the life of natural things. How often have weheard her murmuring to herself, --

 "The wind sounds like a silver wire, "

or, "To watch the emerald-colored water falling, "

or, "Black as ash-buds on the front of March. "

Whatever it might be she was observing, there was some line of thisgreat interpreter of nature ready to make the moment melodious. Shakespeare's sonnets were also her close companions; indeed, sheseized and retained a cloud of beautiful things in her trustworthymemory. They fed and cheered her on her singing way. 

In the quiet loveliness of early summer, and before the tide ofhumanity swept down upon Appledore, she went for the last time, inJune, 1894, with a small company of intimate friends, to revisit thedifferent islands and the well-known haunts most dear to her. The dayswere still and sweet, and she lingered lovingly over the old places, telling the local incidents which occurred to her, and touching thewhole with a fresh light. Perhaps she knew that it was a farewell; butif it had been revealed to her, she could not have been more tenderand loving in her spirit to the life around her. 

How suddenly it seemed at last that her days with us were ended! Shehad been listening to music, had been reading to her little company, had been delighting in one of Appleton Brown's new pictures, and thenshe laid her down to sleep for the last time, and flitted away fromher mortality. 

The burial was at her island, on a quiet afternoon in the late summer. Her parlor, in which the body lay, was again made radiant, after herown custom, with the flowers from her garden, and a bed of sweet baywas prepared by her friends Appleton Brown and Childe Hassam, on whichher form was laid. 

William Mason once more played the music from Schumann which shechiefly loved, and an old friend, James De Normandie, paid a brieftribute of affection, spoken for all those who surrounded her. She wasborne by her brothers and those nearest to her up to the silent spotwhere her body was left. 

The day was still and soft, and the veiled sun was declining as thesolemn procession, bearing flowers, followed to the sacred place. At arespectful distance above stood a wide ring of interested observers, but only those who knew her and loved her best drew near. After allwas done, and the body was at rest upon the fragrant bed prepared forit, the young flower-bearers brought their burdens to cover her. Thebright, tear-stained faces of those who held up their arms full offlowers to be heaped upon the spot until it became a mound ofblossoms, allied the scene, in beauty and simplicity, to the solemnrites of antiquity. 

It was indeed a poet's burial, but it was far more than that: it wasthe celebration of the passing of a large and beneficent soul. 

WHITTIER. NOTES OF HIS LIFE AND HIS FRIENDSHIPS

BORN DECEMBER 17, 1807; DIED SEPTEMBER 7, 1892

The figure of the Quaker poet, as he stood before the world, wasunlike that of any other prominent figure which has walked across thestage of life. This may be said, of course, of every individual; yetthe likenesses between men of a given era, or between modern men ofstrong character and those of the ancient world, cause us sometimes toexclaim with wonder at the evident repetitions in development. One canhardly walk through the galleries of antique statues, nor read thepassages of Plutarch or Thucydides, without finding this idea thrustupon the mind. But with regard to Whittier, such comparisons werenever made, even in fancy. His lithe, upright form, full of quickmovement, his burning eye, his keen wit, bore witness to a contrast inhimself with the staid, controlled manner and the habit of the sectinto which he was born. The love and devotion with which he adhered tothe Quaker Church and doctrines served to accentuate his unlikeness tothe men of his time, because he early became also one of the mostdetermined contestants in one of the sternest combats which the worldhas witnessed. 

Neither in the ranks of poets nor divines nor philosophers do we findhis counterpart. He felt a certain brotherhood with Robert Burns, andearly loved his genius; but where were two more unlike? A kind ofsolitude of life and experience, greater than that which usuallythrows its shadow on the human soul, invested him in his passagethrough the world. The refinement of his education, the calm of natureby which, in youth, he was surrounded, the few books which he made hisown, nearly all serious in their character, and the religiousatmosphere in which he was nurtured, all tended to form an environmentin which knowledge developed into wisdom, and the fiery soul formed apower to restrain or to express its force for the good of humanity. 

But as surely as he was a Quaker, so surely also did he feel himself apart of the life of New England. He believed in the ideals of histime; the simple ways of living; the eager nourishing of all goodthings by the sacrifice of many private wishes; in short, he made onecause with Garrison and Phillips, Emerson and Lowell, Longfellow andHolmes. His standards were often different from those of his friends, but their ideals were on the whole made in common. 

His friends were to Whittier, more than to most men, an unfailingsource of daily happiness and gratitude. With the advance of years, and the death of his unmarried sister, his friends became all in allto him. They were his mother, his sister, and his brother; but in acertain sense they were always friends of the imagination. He saw someof them only at rare intervals, and sustained his relations with themchiefly in his hurried correspondence. He never suffered himself tocomplain of what they were not; but what they were, in loyalty tochosen aims, and in their affection for him, was an unending source ofpleasure. With the shortcomings of others he dealt gently, having toomany shortcomings of his own, as he was accustomed to say, with truehumility. He did not, however, look upon the failings of his friendswith indifferent eyes. "How strange it is!" he once said. "We seethose whom we love going to the very verge of the precipice ofself-destruction, yet it is not in our power to hold them back!"

A life of invalidism made consecutive labor of any kind animpossibility. For years he was only able to write for half an hour orless, without stopping to rest, and these precious moments weredevoted to some poem or other work for the press, which was almost hisonly source of income. His correspondence suffered, from a literarypoint of view; but his letters were none the less delightful to hisfriends. To the world of literature they are perhaps less importantthan those of most men who have achieved a high place. 

Whittier was between twenty and thirty years of age when his familyleft the little farm near Haverhill, where he was born, and moved intothe town of Amesbury, eight miles distant. Long before that period hehad identified himself with the antislavery cause, and had visited, inthe course of his ceaseless labors for the slaves, New York, Philadelphia, and Washington. These brief journeys bounded his travelsin this world. 

In the year 1843 he wrote anxiously to his publisher, Mr. Fields, "Isend with this 'The Exiles, ' a kind of John Gilpin legend. I am indoubt about it. Read it, and decide for thyself whether it is worthprinting. "

He began at this rather late period (he was then thirty-six years old)to feel a touch of satisfaction in his comparatively new occupation ofwriting poetry, and to speak of it without reserve to his chosenfriends. His poems were then beginning to bring him into personalrelation with the reading world. Many years later, when speaking ofthe newspaper writing which absorbed his earlier life, he said that hehad written a vast amount for the press; he thought that his workwould fill nearly ten octavo volumes; but he had grown utterly wearyof throwing so much out into space from which no response ever cameback to him. At length he decided to put it all aside, discoveringthat a power lay in him for more congenial labors. 

From the moment of the publication of his second volume of poems, Whittier felt himself fairly launched upon a new career, and seemed tostand with a responsive audience before him. The poems "ToussaintL'Ouverture, " "The Slave-Ships, " and others belonging to the sameperiod, followed in quick succession. Sometimes they took the form ofappeal, sometimes of sympathy, and again they are prophetic ordramatic. He hears the slave mother weep:--

 "Gone--gone--sold and gone To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters-- Woe is me, my stolen daughters!"

Such voices could not be silenced. Though men might turn away andrefuse to read or to listen, the music once uttered rang out into thecommon air, and would not die. 

A homely native wit pointed Whittier's familiar correspondence. Writing in 1849, while revising his volume for publication, he speaksof one of his poems as "that rascally old ballad 'Kathleen, '" and addsthat it "wants something, though it is already too long. " He adds:"The weather this morning is cold enough for an Esquimau purgatory--terrible. What did the old Pilgrims mean by coming here?"

With the years his friendship with his publisher became more intimate. In writing him he often indulged his humor for fun and banter:"Bachelor as I am, I congratulate thee on thy escape from single(misery!) blessedness. It is the very wisest thing thee ever did. WereI autocrat, I would see to it that every young man over twenty-fiveand every young woman over twenty was married without delay. Perhaps, on second thought, it might be well to keep one old maid and one oldbachelor in each town, by way of warning, just as the Spartans didtheir drunken helots. "

Discussing the question of some of his "bad rhymes, " and what to doabout them, he wrote once: "I heartily thank thee for thy suggestions. Let me have more of them. I had a hearty laugh at thy hint of the'carnal' bearing of one of my lines. It is now simply _rural. _ Imight have made some other needful changes had I not been sufferingwith headache all day. "

Occasionally the fire which burned in him would flame out, as when hewrites in 1851: "So your Union-tinkers have really caught a 'nigger'at last! A very pretty and refreshing sight it must have been toSabbath-going Christians yesterday--that _chained_ court-house ofyours. And Bunker Hill Monument looking down upon all! But the matteris too sad for irony. God forgive the miserable politicians who gamblefor office with dice loaded with human hearts!"

From time to time, also, we find him expressing his literary opinionseagerly and simply as friend may talk with friend, and withoutaspiring to literary judgment. "Thoreau's 'Walden' is capital reading, but very wicked and heathenish. The practical moral of it seems to bethat if a man is willing to sink himself into a woodchuck he can liveas cheaply as that quadruped; but after all, for me, I prefer walkingon two legs. "

It would be unjust to Whittier to quote this talk on paper as hisfinal opinion upon Thoreau, for he afterwards read everything hewrote, and was a warm appreciator of his work. 

His enthusiasm for books and for the writers of books never faded. "What do we not all owe you, " he writes Mr. Fields, "for your editionof De Tocqueville! It is one of the best books of the century. Thanks, too, for Allingham's poems. After Tennyson, he is my favorite amongmodern British poets. "

And again: "I have just read Longfellow's introduction to his 'Talesof the Inn'--a splendid piece of painting! Neither Boccaccio norChaucer has done better. Who wrote 'A Loyal Woman's No?' Was it LucyLarcom? I thought it might be. "

In 1866 he says: "I am glad to see 'Hosea Biglow' in book form. It isa grand book--the best of its kind for the last half-century or more. It has wit enough to make the reputation of a dozen Englishsatirists. "

This appreciation of his contemporaries was a strong feature of hischaracter. His sympathy with the difficulties of a literary life, particularly for women, was very keen. There seem to be few womenwriters of his time who have failed to receive from his pen some tokenof recognition. Of Edith Thomas he once said in one of his notelets, "She has a divine gift, and her first book is more than a promise--anassurance. " Of Sarah Orne Jewett he was fond as of a daughter, andfrom their earliest acquaintance his letters are filled withappreciation of her stories. "I do not wonder, " he wrote one day, "that 'The Luck of the Bogans' is attractive to the Irish folks, andto everybody else. It is a very successful departure from New Englandlife and scenery, and shows that Sarah is as much at home in Irelandand on the Carolina Sea Islands as in Maine or Massachusetts. I amvery proud that I was one of the first to discover her. " Thispredisposition to think well of the work of others gave him the happyopportunity in more than one instance of bringing authors of realtalent before the public who might otherwise have waited long forgeneral recognition. 

This was especially the case with one of our best beloved New Englandwriters, Lucy Larcom. As early as 1853 he wrote a letter to hispublisher introducing her work to his notice. "I inclose, " he says, "what I regard as a very unique and beautiful little book in MS. Idon't wish thee to take my opinion, but the first leisure hour theehave, read it, and I am sure thee will decide that it is exactly thething for publication. . . . The little prose poems are unlike anythingin our literature, and remind me of the German writer Lessing. Theyare equally adapted to young and old. . . . The author, Lucy Larcom, ofBeverly, is a novice in writing and book-making, and with no ambitionto appear in print; and were I not perfectly certain that her littlecollection is worthy of type, I would be the last to encourage her totake even this small step to publicity. Read 'The Impression ofRain-drops, ' 'The Steamboat and Niagara, ' 'The Laughing Water, ' 'MyFather's House, ' etc. "

He thus early became the foster-father of Lucy Larcom's children ofthe brain, and, what was far more to her, a life-long friend, adviser, and supporter. 

One of his most intimate personal friends for many years was LydiaMaria Child. Beginning in the earliest days of the anti-slaverystruggle, their friendship lasted into the late and peaceful sunset oftheir days. As Mrs. Child advanced in years, it was her custom in thewinter to leave her cottage at Wayland for a few months, and to takelodgings in Boston. The dignity and independence of Mrs. Child'scharacter were so great that she knew her friends would find herwherever she might live, and her desire to help on the good work ofthe world led her to practice the most austere economies. Therefore, instead of finding a comfortable boarding-place, which she might wellhave excused herself for doing at her advanced age of eighty years, she took rooms in a very plain little house in a remote quarter of thecity, and went by the street cars daily to the North End, to get herdinner at a restaurant which she had discovered as being clean, andhaving wholesome food at the very lowest prices. This enabled her togive away sums which were surprisingly large to those who knew herincome. Wendell Phillips, who had always taken charge of her affairs, said to me at the time of her death that when the negroes made theirflight into Kansas, Mrs. Child came in as soon as the news arrived andasked him to forward fifty dollars for their assistance. 

"I am afraid you cannot afford to send that sum just now, " said Mr. Phillips. "Perhaps you will do well to think it over. "

"So I will, " said Mrs. Child, and departed. 

In the course of the day he received a note from her, saying she hadmade a mistake. It was one hundred dollars that she wished to send. 

Mrs. Child's chief pleasure in coming to town was the opportunity shefound of seeing her friends. Whittier always sought her out, and theirmeetings at the houses of their mutual cronies were festivals indeed. They would sit side by side, while memories crowded up and filledtheir faces with a tenderness they could not express in words. As theytold their tales and made merry, they would sit with their hands oneach other's knees, and with glances in which tears and laughter wereclosely intermingled. 

"It was good to see Mrs. Child, " some one remarked, after one of thoseinterviews. 

"Yes, " said Whittier, "Lyddy's bunnets aren't always in the fashion"(with a quaint look, as much as to say, "I wonder what you think ofanything so bad"), "but we don't like her any the worse for that. "

Shortly after Mrs. Child's death he wrote from Amesbury: "My heart hasbeen heavy ever since I heard of dear Maria Child's death. The true, noble, loving soul! _Where_ is she? _What_ is she? _How_ is she?The moral and spiritual economy of God will not suffer such lightand love to be lost in blank annihilation. She was herself anevidence of immortality. In a letter written to me at seventyyears of age she said: 'The older I grow the more I am awe-struck(not frightened, but awed) by the great mystery of an existencehere and hereafter. No thinking can solve the problem. Infinitewisdom has purposely sealed it from our eyes. '"

There was never a moment of Whittier's life when, prostrated byillness, or overwhelmed by private sorrows, or removed from the hauntsof men, he forgot to take a living interest in public affairs, and tostudy closely the characteristics and works of the men who were ourgovernors. He understood the characters of our public officers as ifhe had lived with them continually, and his quick apprehension withregard to their movements was something most unusual. De Quincey, weremember, surprised his American friends by taking their hands, as itwere, and showing them about Boston, so familiar was he with ourlocalities. Whittier could sit down with politicians and easily provehimself the better man on contested questions. In 1861 he wrote:--"Our government needs more wisdom than it has thus far had credit forto sustain the national honor and avert a war with England. What apity that Welles _indorsed_ the act of Wilkes in his report! Whycouldn't we have been satisfied with the thing without making such acackling over it? Apologies are cheap, and we could afford to make avery handsome one in this case. A war with England would ruin us. Itis too monstrous to think of. May God in His mercy save us from it!"

In 1862 and 1863 Whittier was in frequent correspondence with Mr. Fields. Poems suggested by the stirring times were crowding thick uponhis mind. "It is a great thing to live in these days. I am thankfulfor what I have lived to see and hear, " he says. "There is nothing forus but the old Methodist ejaculation, 'Glory to God!'"

The volume entitled "In War-time" appeared at this period, though, asusual, he seems to have had little strength and spirit for therevision of his poems. For this, however unwillingly, he would oftenthrow himself upon the kindness of his friend and publisher. 

In writing to ask some consideration for the manuscript of an unknownlady during this year, he adds: "I ought to have sent to you aboutthis lady's MS. Long ago, but the fact is, I hate to bother you withsuch matters. I am more and more impressed with the Christiantolerance and patience of publishers, beset as you are with legions ofclamorous authors, male and female. I should think you would hate thevery sight of one of these importunates. After all, Fields, let us ownthe truth: writing folks are bores. How few of us (let them say whatthey will of our genius) have any common sense! I take it that it isthe providential business of authors and publishers to torment eachother. "

These little friendly touches in his correspondence show us the manfar more distinctly than many pages of writing about him. Some one hassaid that Whittier's epistolary style was perfect. Doubtless he couldwrite as good a letter on occasion as any man who ever lived, but hesustained no such correspondence. His notes and letters were homelyand affectionate, with the delightful carelessness possible in thetalk of intimate friends. They present no ordinary picture of humantenderness, devotion, and charity, and these qualities gain awonderful beauty when we remember that they come from the same spiritwhich cried out with Ezekiel:--

 "The burden of a prophet's power Fell on me in that fearful hour; From off unutterable woes The curtain of the future rose; I saw far down the coming time The fiery chastisement of crime; With noise of mingling hosts, and jar Of falling towers and shouts of war, I saw the nations rise and fall Like fire-gleams on my tent's white wall. "

"The fire and fury of the brain" were his indeed; a spirit was in himto redeem the land; he was one of God's interpreters; but there wasalso the tenderness of divine humanity, the love and patience of thosewho dwell in the courts of the Lord. 

Whittier's sister Elizabeth was a sensitive woman, whose delicatehealth was a constant source of anxiety to her brother, especiallyafter the death of their mother, when they were left alone together inthe home at Amesbury. As one of their intimate friends said, no onecould tell which would die first, but they were each so anxious aboutthe other's health that it was a question which would wear away intothe grave first, for the other's sake. 

It was Whittier's sad experience to be deprived of the companionshipof all those most dear to him, and for over twenty years to livewithout that intimate household communion for the loss of which theworld holds no recompense. For several years, before and after hissister Elizabeth's death, Whittier wore the look of one who was veryill. His large dark eyes burned with peculiar fire, and contrastedwith his pale brow and attenuated figure. He had a sorrowful, strickenlook, and found it hard enough to reconstruct his life, missing thecompanionship and care of his sister, and her great sympathy with hisown literary work. There was a likeness between the two; the samespeaking eyes marked the line from which they sprang, and theirkinship and inheritance. Old New England people were quick torecognize "the Bachiler eyes, " not only in the Whittiers, but inDaniel Webster, Caleb Cushing, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and WilliamBachiler Greene, a man less widely known than these distinguishedcompatriots. Mr. Greene was, however, a man of mark in his own time, adaring thinker, and one who was possessed of much brave originality, whose own deep thoughtfulness was always planting seeds of thought inothers, and who can certainly never be forgotten by those who werefortunate enough to be his friends. 

These men of the grand eyes were all descended from a gifted oldpreacher of great fame in early colonial days, a man of truedistinction and devoted service, in spite of the dishonor with whichhe let his name be shadowed in his latest years. It would be mostinteresting to trace the line still further back into the past; butwhen the Bachiler eyes were by any chance referred to in Whittier'spresence, he would look shyly askance, and sometimes speak, half withpride, half with a sort of humorous compassion, of his Hamptonancestor. The connection of the Whittiers of Haverhill with theGreenes was somewhat closer than with other branches of the Bachilerline. One of the poet's most entertaining reminiscences of his boyhoodwas the story of his first visit to Boston. Mr. William Greene'smother was an interesting woman of strong, independent character andwide interests, wonted to the life of cities, and one of the first, inspite of his boyish shyness, to appreciate her young relative. Herkind eagerness, during one of her occasional visits to the Whittiers, that Greenleaf should come to see her when he came to Boston, fell inwith his own dreams, and a high desire to see the sights of the greattown. 

One can easily see how his imagination glorified the naturalexpectations of a country boy, and when the time arrived how the wholehousehold lent itself to furthering so great an expedition. He was notonly to have a new suit of clothes, but they were, for the first time, to be trimmed with "boughten buttons, " to the lad's completesatisfaction, his mind being fixed upon those as marking thedifference between town and country fashions. When the preparationswere made, his fresh homespun costume, cut after the best usage of theSociety of Friends, seemed to him all that heart could desire, and hestarted away bravely by the coach to pass a week in Boston. His motherhad not forgotten to warn him of possible dangers and snares; it wasthen that he made her a promise which, at first from principle andlater from sentiment, he always most sacredly kept--that he would notenter a playhouse. As he told the story, it was easy for a listener tocomprehend how many good wishes flew after the adventurer, and howmuch wild beating of the heart he himself experienced as the coachrolled away; how bewildering the city streets appeared when he foundhimself at the brief journey's end. After he had reported himself toMrs. Greene, and been received with most affectionate hospitality, andhad promised to reappear at tea-time, he sallied forth to the greatbusiness of sight-seeing. 

"I wandered up and down the streets, " he used to say. "Somehow itwasn't just what I expected, and the crowd was worse and worse after Igot into Washington Street; and when I got tired of being jostled, itseemed to me as if the folks might get by if I waited a little while. Some of them looked at me, and so I stepped into an alleyway andwaited and looked out. Sometimes there didn't seem to be so manypassing, and I thought of starting, and then they'd begin again. 'Twasa terrible stream of people to me. I began to think my new clothes andthe buttons were all thrown away. I stayed there a good while. " (Thiswas said with great amusement. ) "I began to be homesick. I thought itmade no difference at all about my having those boughten buttons. "

How long he waited, or what thoughts were stirred by this firstglimpse at the ceaseless procession of humanity, who can say? Butthere was a sequel to the tale. He was invited to return to Mrs. Greene's to drink tea and meet a company of her guests. Among themwere some ladies who were very gay and friendly; we can imagine thatthey were attracted by the handsome eyes and quaint garb of the youngFriend, and by his quick wit and homely turns of speech, all the moreamusing for a rustic flavor. They tried to tease him a little, butthey must have quickly found their match in drollery, while the ladwas already a citizen of the commonwealth of books. No doubt thestimulus of such a social occasion brought him, as well as thestrangers, into new acquaintance with his growing gifts. But presentlyone of the ladies, evidently the favorite until this shocking moment, began to speak of the theatre, and asked for the pleasure of hispresence at the play that very night, she herself being the leadingplayer. At this disclosure, and the frank talk of the rest of thecompany, their evident interest in the stage, and regard for a youngperson who had chosen such a profession, the young Quaker lad wasstricken with horror. In after years he could only remember it withamusement, but that night his mother's anxious warnings rang in hisears, and he hastened to escape from such a snare. Somehow thispleasant young companion of the tea party hardly represented thewickedness of playhouses as Puritan New England loved to picture them;but between a sense of disappointment and homesickness and generalinsecurity, he could not sleep, and next morning when the earlystage-coach started forth, it carried him as passenger. He said nothingto his amazed family of the alarming episode of the playing-woman, norof his deep consciousness of the home-made clothes, but he no doubtreflected much upon this Boston visit in the leisure of the silentfields and hills. 

It is impossible to convey to those who never saw Mr. Whittier thecharm of his gift of story telling; the exactness and simplicity ofhis reminiscences were flavored by his poetical insight and dramaticrepresentation. It was a wonderful thing to hear him rehearse in thetwilight the scenes of his youth, and the figures that came and wentin that small world; the pathos and humor of his speech can never beexceeded; and there can never be again so complete a linking of theancient provincial lore and the new life and thought of New England asthere was in him. While he was with us, his poems seemed hardly togive sufficient witness of that rich store of thought and knowledge;he was always making his horizon wider, at the same time that he cameinto closer sympathy with things near at hand. For him the ancientcustoms of a country neighborhood, the simple characters, the lovesand hates and losses of a rural household, stood for a type of humanlife in every age, and were never trivial or narrow. As he grew older, these became less and less personal. He sometimes appeared to think ofdeath rather than the person who had died, and of love and griefrather than of those who felt their influence. His was the life of thepoet first of all, and yet the tale of his sympathetic friendliness, and his generosities and care-taking for others will never be fullytold. The dark eyes had great powers of insight; they could flashscorn as well as shine with the soft light of encouragement. 

He accustomed himself, of course, to more frequent visits to Bostonafter his sister's death, but he was seldom, if ever, persuaded to goto the Saturday Club, to which so many of his friends belonged. Sometimes he would bring a new poem for a private first reading, andfor that purpose would stay to breakfast or luncheon; but late dinnerswere contrary to the habit of his life, and he seldom sat down to one. 

"I take the liberty, " he wrote one day, "of inclosing a little poem ofmine which has beguiled some weary hours. I hope thee will like it. How strange it seems not to read it to my sister! If thee have readSchoolcraft, thee will remember what he says of the 'LittleVanishers. ' The legend is very beautiful, and I hope I have done itjustice in some sort. "

In the spring of 1865 he came to Campton, on the Pemigewasset River, in New Hampshire, a delightful place for those who love green hillsand the mystery of rivers. 

We were passing a few weeks there by ourselves, and it was a greatsurprise and pleasure to see our friend. He drove up to the door oneafternoon just as the sun was slanting to the west, too late to driveaway again that day. In our desire to show him all the glories of thespot, we carried him out at once, up the hillside, leaping across thebrook, gathering pennyroyal and Indian posy as we went, past the sheepand on and up, until he, laughing, said: "Look here, I can't followthee; besides, I think I've seen more of this life than thee have, andit isn't all so new to me! Come and sit down here; I'm tired. " We sata while overlooking the wonderful panorama, the winding river, thehills and fields all green and radiant, listening at times to amountain stream which came with wild and solitary roar from its solemnhome among the farther heights. Presently we returned to supper; andafterwards, sitting in the little parlor which looked towards thesunset on the high hills far away, his mind seemed to rise into ahigher atmosphere. He began by quoting the last verse of Emerson's"Sphinx:"--

 "Uprose the merry Sphinx, And couched no more in stone; She melted into purple cloud, She silvered in the moon; She spired into a yellow flame; She flowered in blossoms red; She flowed into a foaming wave; She stood Monadnock's head. "

He talked long and earnestly upon the subject of our spiritualexistence independent of the body. I have often heard him dwell uponthis subject since; but the awful glory of the hills, the dark andsilence of our little parlor, the assured speech touching the unseen, of one who had thought much and suffered much, and found a refuge inthe tabernacle not made with hands, were very impressive. We felt that"it was good for us to be there. "

Speaking of his faith in the visions of others--though he did not havethese visions himself, and believed they were not vouchsafed to all--he told us of a prophecy that was written down twenty-five yearsbefore by an old man in Sandwich (a village among the hills, aboutfifteen miles from Campton), predicting the terrible civil war whichhad just been raging between the North and the South. This man was inthe fields at noonday, when a darkness fell upon his sight and coveredthe earth. He beheld the divided nation and the freed people and thefinal deliverance from the terrors of war. The whole series of eventswere clearly detailed, and Whittier had stored them away in hismemory. He said that only one thing was wrong. He foretold foreignintervention, from which we were happily spared. The daughter of thisprophet was living; he knew her well, --an excellent woman and a Friendwho was often impressed to speak in meeting. "She is good, " saidWhittier, "and speaks from her experience, and for that reason I liketo hear her. "

Spiritualism, as it is called in our day, was a subject whichearnestly and steadily held his attention. Having lived very near tothe Salem witchcraft experience in early times, the topic was one thatcame more closely home to his mind than to almost any one else in ourcentury. There are many passages in his letters on this question whichstate his own mental position very clearly. 

"I have had as good a chance to see a ghost, " he once said, "asanybody ever had, but not the slightest sign ever came to me. I do notdoubt what others tell me, but I sometimes wonder over my ownincapacity. I should like to see some dear ghost walk in and sit downby me when I am here alone. The doings of the old witch days havenever been explained; and as we are so soon to be transferred toanother state, how natural it appears that some of us should haveglimpses of it here! We all feel the help we receive from the DivineSpirit. Why deny, then, that some men have it more directly and morevisibly than others?"

In his memories of New England country life when he was a child, thissubject was closely interwoven with every association. He had anuncle, who made one of the family, a man by no means devoid of theold-fashioned faith in witches, and who was always ready to give histestimony. He remembered an old woman in the neighborhood who wasaccused of being a witch, and that when his uncle's opinion was askedabout her, he replied that he _knew she was a witch. _"How do you know?" they said. 

"Oh, " he replied, "I've seen her!"

Whittier recalled this uncle's returning one night from a long drivethrough the woods; and when he came in and sat down by the fire aftersupper, he told them that he had seen three old women in a clearingaround a kettle, "a-stirrin'of it. " When they saw him, they moved offbehind the trees, but he distinctly saw the smoke from the kettle, andhe recognized the old woman in question as one of the three beyond theshadow of a doubt. No doubt some curious rustic remedy or charm wasbeing brewed in the dark of the moon. Nothing escaped his observationthat was printed or circulated upon this topic. In the summer of 1882he discovered that Old Orchard Beach had been made a theatre of newwonders. Dr. ---- had been there, "working Protestant miracles, andthe lame walk and the deaf hear under his manipulation and holy oil. There seems no doubt that cures of nervous diseases are reallysometimes effected, and I believe in the efficacy of prayer. Thenearer we are drawn to Him who is the source of all life, the betterit must be for soul and body. "

In Robert Dale Owen he always took a strong and friendly interest; andwhen, late in life, reverses fell upon Mr. Owen in the shape ofhumiliating revelations of his own credulity, Whittier's relations tohim were unchanged. "I have read with renewed interest, " he wrote, "the paper of R. D. Owen. I had a long talk with him years ago on thesubject. He was a very noble and good man, and I was terriblyindignant when he was so deceived by the pretended materialized 'KatieKing. ' I could never quite believe in 'materialization, ' as I hadreason to know that much of it was fraudulent. It surely argues afathomless depth of depravity to trifle with the yearning love ofthose who have lost dear ones, and 'long for the touch of a vanishedhand. '"

In the year 1866 a very fine portrait of Abraham Lincoln was engravedby Marshall. A copy of it was presented to Whittier, who wroteconcerning it: "It was never my privilege to know Abraham Lincolnpersonally, and the various pictures have more or less failed tosatisfy my conception of him. They might be, and probably were, whatare called 'good likenesses, ' so far as outline and detail wereconcerned; but to me they always seemed to lack one great essential ofa true portrait, --the informing spirit of the man within. This I findin Marshall's portrait. The old harsh lines and unmistakable mouth arethere, without flattery or compromise; but over all and through allthe pathetic sadness, the wise simplicity and tender humanity of theman are visible. It is the face of the speaker at Gettysburg, and thewriter of the second inaugural. "

It was during this year, also, that the "Tent on the Beach" waswritten. He had said again and again in his notes that he had thiswork in hand, but always declared he was far too ill to finish itduring the year. Nevertheless, in the last days of December thepackage was forwarded to his publisher. "Tell me, " he wrote, "if theeobject to the personal character of it. I have represented thee andBayard Taylor and myself living a wild tent life for a few summer dayson the beach, where, for lack of something better, I read my storiesto the others. My original plan was the old 'Decameron' one, eachpersonage to read his own poems; but the thing has been so hackneyedby repetition that I abandoned it in disgust, and began anew. Theresult is before thee. Put it in type or the fire. I am content--likeEugene Aram, 'prepared for either fortune. '"

He had intended also to accomplish some work in prose at this period, but the painful condition of his health forbade it. "I am forbidden touse my poor head, " he said, "so I have to get along as I can withoutit. The Catholic St. Leon, thee knows, walked alert as usual after hishead was cut off. "

I am tempted to quote still further from a letter of this period: "Iinclose a poem of mine which has never seen the light, although it waspartly in print from my first draft to spare me the trouble ofcopying. It presents my view of Christ as the special manifestation ofthe love of God to humanity. . . . Let me thank the publisher of Milton'sprose for the compliment of the dedication. Milton's prose has longbeen my favorite reading. My whole life has felt the influence of hiswritings. "

There is a delightful note on the subject of the popularity of the"Tent on the Beach, " which shows his natural pleasure in success. "Think, " he says, "of bagging in this tent of ours an unsuspectingpublic at the rate of a thousand a day! This will never do. Theswindle is awful. Barnum is a saint to us. I am bowed with a sense ofguilt, ashamed to look an honest man in the face. But Nemesis is onour track; somebody will puncture our tent yet, and it will collapselike a torn balloon. I know I shall have to catch it; my back tinglesin anticipation. "

It was perhaps in this same year, 1866, that we made an autumn visitto Whittier which is still a well-remembered pleasure. The weather waswarm and the fruit was ripening in the little Amesbury garden. Weloitered about for a while, I remember, in the afternoon, among thefalling pear leaves and in the sweet air, but he soon led the way intohis garden-room, and fell into talk. He was an adept in the art ofconversation, having trained himself in the difficult school of a NewEngland farmhouse, fit ground for such athletics, being typically bareof suggestion and of relief from outside resources. The unbrokenafternoons and the long evenings, when the only hope of entertainmentis in such fire as one brain can strike from another, produce asituation as difficult to the unskilled as that of an untaught swimmerwhen first cast into the sea. Persons long habituated to thesecontests could face the position calmly, and see the early "tea-things"disappear and the contestants draw their chairs around thefire with a kind of zeal; but to one new to such experience there wasroom for heart-sinkings when preparations were made, by putting freshsticks on the fire, for sitting from gloaming to vespers, andsometimes on again unwearied till midnight. 

Mrs. Stowe and Whittier were the invincible Lancelots of thesetourneys, and any one who has had the privilege of sitting by the NewEngland hearthstone with either of them will be ready to confess thatno playhouse, or game, or any of the distractions the city may afford, can compare with the satisfaction of such an experience. Upon thevisit in question Whittier talked of the days of his anti-slavery lifein 1835 or 1836, when the English agitator, George Thompson, firstcame to this country. The latter was suffering from the attack of manya mob, and was fatigued by frequent speaking and as frequent abuse. Whittier invited him to his home in the neighborhood of Haverhill, where he could find quiet and rest during the warm weather. Thompsonaccepted the invitation, and remained with him a fortnight. They usedto rake hay together, and go about the farm unmolested. At length, however, a pressing invitation came for Thompson to go to Concord, NewHampshire, to speak in the cause of freedom, and afterwards tocontinue on to the village of Plymouth and visit a friend in thatplace. Whittier was included in the invitation, and it was settledthat they should accept the call. They traveled peaceably enough intheir own chaise as far as Concord, where the speech was deliveredwithout interruption; but when they attempted to leave the hall afterthe address was ended, they found it almost impossible. A crowdfollowed them with the apparent intention of stoning and killing them. "I understood how St. Paul felt when he was thrice stoned, " saidWhittier. The missiles fell around them and upon them like hail, nottouching their heads, providentially, although he could still rememberthe sound of the stones when they missed their aim and struck thewooden fence behind them. They were made very lame by the blows, butthey managed to reach their friend's house, where they sprang up thesteps three at a time, before the crowd knew where they were going. Their host was certainly a brave man, for he took them in at the door, and then throwing it open, exclaimed, "Whoever comes in here must comeover my dead body. " The door was then barricaded, and the crowd rushedround to the back of the house, thinking that their victims intendedto go out that way; but the travelers waited until it was dark, whenWhittier exchanged his Friend's hat for that of his host, and, everything else peculiar about his dress being well disguised, the twomanaged to pass out unperceived by the crowd, and go on their way toPlymouth. They stopped one night on their journey at a small inn, where the landlord asked if they had heard anything of the riot inConcord. Two men had been there, he said, one an Englishman by thename of Thompson, who had been making abominable and seditiousspeeches, stirring up people about "the niggers;" the other was ayoung Quaker by the name of Whittier, who was always making speeches. He heard him lecture once himself, he said (a base lie, Whittier toldus, because he had never "lectured" in his life), and it was well thatactive measures had been taken against them. "We heard him allthrough, " said Whittier; "and then, just as I had my foot on the stepof the chaise, ready to drive away from the door, I remarked to him, 'Wouldn't you like to see that Thompson of whom you have beenspeaking?' I took good care not to use 'plain' language (that is, theQuaker form). 'I rather think I should, ' said the man. 'Well, this isMr. Thompson, ' I said, as I jumped into the chaise. And this is theQuaker, Whittier, ' said Thompson, driving away as fast as he could. Ilooked back, and saw him standing, mouth wide open, gazing after us inthe greatest astonishment. "

The two kept on to Plymouth, where they were nearly mobbed a secondtime. Years after, Whittier said that once when he was passing throughPortland, a man, seeing him go by, stepped out of his shop and askedif his name were Whittier, and if he were not the man who was stoned, years before, by a mob at Concord. The answer being in theaffirmative, he said he believed a devil possessed him that night; forhe had no reason to wish evil either to Whittier or Thompson, yet hewas filled with a desire to kill them, and he thought he should havedone so if they had not escaped. He added that the mob was like acrowd of demons, and he knew one man who had mixed a black dye to dipthem in, which would be almost impossible to get off. He could notexplain to himself or to another the state of mind he was in. 

The next morning we walked with Whittier again in his little garden, and saw his grapes, which were a source of pride and pleasure. Onevine, he told us, came up from a tiny rootlet sent to him by CharlesSumner, in a letter from Washington. 

Later we strolled forth into the village street as far as the Friends'meeting-house, and sat down upon the steps while he told us somethingof his neighbors. He himself, he said, had planted the trees about thechurch: they were then good-sized trees. He spoke very earnestly aboutthe worship of the Friends. All the associations of his youth and allthe canons of his education and development were grounded on theFriends' faith and doctrine, and he was anxious that they should showa growth commensurate with the age. He disliked many of theinnovations, but his affectionate spirit clung to his people, and helonged to see them drawing to themselves a larger measure of spirituallife, day by day. He loved the old custom of sitting in silence, andhoped they would not stray away into habits of much speaking. The oldhabits of the meeting-house were very dear to him. 

One cold, clear morning in January I heard his early ring at the door. He had been ill, but was so much better that he was absolutely gay. Heinsisted upon blowing the fire, which, as sometimes happens, willstruggle to do its worst on the coldest days; and as the flames atlast began to roar, his spirits rose with them. He was rejoicing overGaribaldi's victory. The sufferings of Italy had been so terrible thateven one small victory in their behalf seemed a great gain. He saidthat he had been trying to arouse the interest of the Friends, but itusually took about two years to awaken them thoroughly on any greattopic!

He remained several hours that morning talking over his hopes for thecountry, --of politics, of Charles Sumner, of whom he said, "Sumner isalways fundamentally right;" and of John Bright, for whose great giftshe had sincere admiration. Soon afterwards, at the time of this greatman's death, Whittier wrote to us: "Spring is here to-day, warm, birdfull. . . . It seems strange that I am alive to welcome her when somany have passed away with the winter, and among them that stalwartestof Englishmen, John Bright, sleeping now in the daisied grounds ofRochdale, never more to move the world with his surpassing eloquence. How I regret that I have never seen him! We had much in common in ourreligious faith, our hatred of war and oppression. His great geniusseemed to me to be always held firmly in hand by a sense of duty, andby the practical common sense of a shrewd man of business. He foughtthrough life like an old knight-errant, but without enthusiasm. He hadno personal ideals. I remember once how he remonstrated with me for myadmiration for General Gordon. He looked upon that wonderfulpersonality as a wild fighter, a rash adventurer, doing evil that goodmight come. He could not see him as I saw him, giving his life forhumanity, alone and unfriended, in that dreadful Soudan. He did notlike the idea of fighting Satan with Satan's weapons. Lord Salisburysaid truly that John Bright was the greatest orator England hadproduced, and his eloquence was only called out by what he regarded asthe voice of God in his soul. "

When at length Whittier rose to go that winter morning, with thefeeling that he had already taken too large a piece out of the day, wepressed him to stay longer, since it was already late. "Why can't youstay?" urged his host. "Because, I tell you, I don't want to, " whichset us all laughing, and settled the question. 

Our first knowledge of his arrival in town was usually that early andpunctual ring at the door to which I have referred. He would come inlooking pale and thin, but full of fire, and, as we would soon find, of a certain vigor. He became interested one morning in a planproposed to him for making a collection of poems for young people, onewhich he finally completed with the aid of Miss Lucy Larcom. We gotdown from the shelf Longfellow's "Poets and Poetry of Europe, " andlooked it over together. "Annie of Tharaw" was a great favorite ofhis, and the poem by Dirk Smit, on "The Death of an Infant, " found hisready appreciation. Whittier easily fell from these into talk ofBurns, who was his master and ideal. "He lives, next to Shakespeare, "he said, "in the heart of humanity. "

In speaking of Rossetti and of his ballad of "Sister Helen, " heconfessed to being strangely attracted to this poem because he couldremember seeing his mother, "who was as good a woman as ever lived, "and his aunt performing the same strange act of melting a waxen figureof a clergyman of their time. 

The solemnity of the affair made a deep impression on his mind, as achild, for the death of the clergyman in question was confidentlyexpected. His "heresies" had led him to experience this cabalistictreatment. 

There was some talk, also, that morning of the advantages, in theserestless days, accruing to those who "stay put" in this world, insteadof to those who are forever beating about, searching for greateropportunities from position or circumstance. He laughed heartily overthe tale, which had just then reached us, of Carlyle going to hunt upa new residence in London with a map of the world in his pocket. 

We asked Whittier if he never felt tempted to go to Quebec from hiswell-beloved haunts in the White Mountains. "Oh no, " he replied. "Iknow it all by books and pictures just as well as if I had seen it. "

This talk of traveling reminded him of a circus which came one seasonto Amesbury. "I was in my garden, " he said, "when I saw an Arab wanderdown the street, and by and by stop and lean against my gate. He helda small book in his hand, which he was reading from time to time whenhe was not occupied with gazing about him. Presently I went to talkwith him, and found he had lived all his life on the edge of theDesert until he had started for America. He was very homesick, andlonged for the time of his return. He had hired himself for a term ofyears to the master of the circus. He held the Koran in his hand, andwas delighted to find a friend who had also read his sacred book. Heopened his heart still further then, and said how he longed for hisold, wild life in the Desert, for a sight of the palms and the sands, but, above all, for its freedom. " This interview made a deepimpression, naturally, upon Whittier's mind, he, who was no travelerhimself, having thus sung:--

 "He who wanders widest, lifts No more of beauty's jealous veil Than he who from his doorway sees The miracle of flowers and trees. "

The memory of a visit to Amesbury, made once in September, vividlyremains with me. It was early in the month, when the lingering heat ofsummer seems sometimes to gather fresh intensity from the fact that weare so soon to hear the winds of autumn. Amesbury had greatly alteredof late years; large enough to be a city, " our friend declared; "but Iam not fat enough to be an alderman. " To us it was still a smallvillage, though somewhat dustier and less attractive than when wefirst knew it. 

As we approached the house, we saw him from a distancecharacteristically gazing down the road for us, from his front yard, and then at the first glimpse suddenly disappearing, to come forthagain to meet us, quite fresh and quiet, from his front door. It hadbeen a very hot, dry summer, and everything about that place, as aboutevery other, was parched and covered with dust. There had been no rainfor weeks, and the village street was then quite innocent of wateringcarts. The fruit hung heavily from the nearly leafless trees, and thesoft thud of the pears and apples as they fell to the ground could beheard on every side in the quiet house-yards. The sun struggled feeblythrough the mists during the noontide hours, when a still heatpervaded rather than struck the earth; and then in the earlyafternoon, and late into the next morning, a stirless cloud seemed tocover the face of the world. These mists were much increased by theburning of peat and brush, and, alas! of the very woods themselves inevery direction. Altogether, as Whittier said, quaintly, "it was veryencouraging weather for the Millerites. "

His niece, who bears the name of his beloved sister, was then themistress of his house, and we were soon made heartily welcome. Everything was plain and neat as became a Friend's household; but asthe village had grown to be a stirring place, and the house stoodclose upon the dusty road, such charming neatness must sometimes havebeen a difficult achievement. The noonday meal was soon served andsoon ended, and then we sat down behind the half-closed blinds, looking out upon the garden, the faded vines, and almost leaflesstrees. It was a cosy room, with its Franklin stove, at this seasonsurmounted by a bouquet, and a table between the windows, where was alarger bouquet, which Whittier himself had gathered that morning inanticipation of our arrival. He seemed brighter and better than we haddared to hope, and was in excellent mood for talking. Referring againto the Millerites, who had been so reanimated by the forest fires, hesaid he had been deeply impressed lately with their deplorabledoctrines. "Continually disappointed because we don't all burn up on asudden, they forget to be thankful for their preservation from thedire fate they predict with so much complacency. "

He had just received a proof of his poem "Miriam, " with theintroduction, and he could not be content until they had both beenread aloud to him. After the reading they were duly commented upon, and revised until he thought he could do no more; yet twice before ourdeparture the proofs were taken out of the hand-bag where they weresafely stowed away, and again more or less altered. 

Whittier's ever-growing fame was not taken by him as a matter ofcourse. "I cannot think very well of my own things, " he used to say;"and what is mere fame worth when thee is at home, alone, and sickwith headaches, unable either to read or to write?" Nevertheless, hederived very great pleasure and consolation from the letters andtributes which poured in upon him from hearts he had touched or liveshe had quickened. "That I like, " he would say sometimes; "that isworth having. " But he must often have known the deeps of sadness inwinter evenings when he was too ill to touch book or pen, and when hecould do nothing during the long hours but sit and think over thefire. 

We slept in Elizabeth's chamber. The portrait of their mother, framedin autumn leaves gathered in the last autumn of her life, hung uponthe wall. Here, too, as in our bedroom at Dickens's, the Diary ofPepys lay on the table. Dickens had read his copy faithfully, andwritten notes therein. Of this copy the leaves had not been cut; butwith it lay the "Prayers of the Ages, " and volumes of poems, which hadall been well read, and "Pickwick" upon the top. 

In the year 1867 Charles Dickens came to America to give his famousReadings. Whittier, as we have seen, was seldom tempted out of hiscountry home and habitual ways, but Dickens was for one moment toomuch for him. To our surprise, he wrote to ask if he could possiblyget a seat to hear him. "I see there is a crazy rush for tickets. " Afavorable answer was dispatched to him as soon as practicable, but hehad already repented of the indiscretion. "My dear Fields, " he wrote, "up to the last moment I have hoped to occupy the seat so kindlypromised me for this evening. But I find I must give it up. Gladdenwith it the heart of some poor wretch who dangled and shivered all invain in your long _queue_ the other morning. I must read my'Pickwick' alone, as the Marchioness played cribbage. I should solike, nevertheless, to see Dickens and shake that creative hand ofhis! It is as well, doubtless, so far as he is concerned, that Icannot do it; he will have enough and too much of that, I fear. Idreamed last night I saw him surrounded by a mob of ladies, each withher scissors snipping at his hair, and he seemed in a fair way to be'shaven and shorn, ' like the Priest in 'The House that Jack Built. '"

The large events of humanity were to Whittier a portion of his ownexperience, his personal life being, in the ordinary sense, devoid ofincident. The death of Charles Dickens, in 1871, was a personal loss, just as his life had been a living gain to this remote and invalidman. One long quiet summer afternoon shortly after, Whittier joined usfor the sake of talking about Dickens. He told us what sunshine camefrom him into his own solemn and silent country life, and whatgrateful love he must ever bear to him. He wished to hear all thatcould be told of him as a man. Tea came, and the sun went down, andstill he talked and questioned, and then, after a long silence, hesaid suddenly: "What's he doing now? Sometimes I say, in Shakespeare'sphrase, O for some 'courteous ghost, ' but nothing ever comes to me. Hewas so human I should think thee must see him sometimes. It seems asif he were the very person to manifest himself and give us a glimpsebeyond. I believe I have faith; I sometimes think I have; but thisdesire to see just a little way is terribly strong in me. I haveexpressed something of it in my verses to Mrs. Child about Loring. "

He spoke also of the significance of our prayers; of their deep valueto our spirit in constantly renewing the sense of dependence; andfurther, since we "surely find that our prayers are answered, whatblindness and fatuity there is in neglect or abuse of our privilege!"

He was thinking of editing a new edition of John Woolman. He hoped toinduce certain people who would read his own books to read that, bywriting a preface for it. 

The death of Henry Ward Beecher was also a loss and a sadness to himin his solitary life. "I am saddened by the death of Beecher, " hewrote; "he was so strong, so generous, so warm hearted, and so braveand stalwart in so many good causes. It is a mighty loss. He hadfaults, like all of us, and needed forgiveness; but I think he couldsay, with David of old, that he would rather fall into the Lord'shands than into the hands of man. "

It is anticipating the years and interrupting the narrative to mentionhere a few of the men who gladdened his later life by theirfriendship, but the subject demands a brief space before we return tothe current story of his days. 

Matthew Arnold went to see him upon his arrival in this country, andit is needless to say that Whittier derived sincere pleasure from thevisit; but Arnold's delightful recognition of Whittier's "In SchoolDays" as one of the perfect poems which must live, gave him freshassurance of fulfilled purpose in existence. He had followed Arnoldwith appreciation from his earliest appearance in the world ofletters, and knew him, as it were, "by heart" long before a personalinterview was possible. In a letter written after Arnold's return toEngland, he says: "I share thy indignation at the way our people havespoken of him--one of the foremost men of our time, a true poet, awise critic, and a brave, upright man, to whom all the English-speakingpeople owe a debt of gratitude. I am sorry I could not seehim again. "

When the end came, a few years later, he was among the first to say, "What a loss English literature has sustained in the death of MatthewArnold!"

As I have already suggested, he kept the run of all the noteworthypersons who came to Boston quite as surely as they kept in pursuit ofhim. 

"I hope thee will see the wonderful prophet of the Bramo Somaj, Mozoomdar, before he leaves the country. I should have seen him inBoston but for illness last week. That movement in India is thegreatest event in the history of Christianity since the days of Paul. 

"So the author of 'Christie Johnstone' is dead. I have read andre-read that charming little story with ever-increasing admiration. I am sorry for the coarseness of some of his later writings; but hewas, after all, a great novelist, second only in our times to GeorgeEliot, Dickens, and Thackeray. . . . I shall be glad to hear more aboutMr. Wood's and Mrs. ----'s talks. Any hint or sign or token from theunseen and spiritual world is full of solemn interest, standing as Ido on the shore of 'that vast ocean I must sail so soon. '. . . 

"You will soon have Amelia Edwards again with you. I am sorry that Ihave not been able to call on her. Pray assure her of my sincererespect and admiration. "

And again: "Have thee seen and heard the Hindoo Mohini? He seems tohave really converted some people. I hear that one of them has got aBible!"

The phrase that he is "beset by pilgrims" occurs frequently in hisletters, contrasted with pleased expressions, and descriptions ofvisits from Phillips Brooks, Canon Farrar, Governor and Mrs. Claflin, and other friends whose faces were always a joy to him. 

I have turned aside from the narrative of every-day life to mentionthese friends; but it is interesting to return and recall the earlieryears, when he came one day to dine in Charles Street with Mr. Emerson. As usual, his coming had been very uncertain. He was never tobe counted upon as a visitor, but at length the moment came when hewas in better health than ordinary, and the stars were in conjunction. I can recall his saying to Emerson: "I had to choose between hearingthee at thy lecture and coming here to see thee. I chose to see thee. I could not do both. " Emerson was heard to say to him solicitously: "Ihope you are pretty well, sir! I believe you formerly bragged of badhealth. "

It was Whittier's custom, however, to make quite sure that all "lions"and other disturbing elements were well out of the way before heturned his steps to the library in Charles Street. I recall his comingone Sunday morning when we were at church, and waiting until ourreturn. He thought that would be a safe moment! He was full, as Madamede Sevigne says, "_de conversations infinies_" being especiallyinterested just then in the question of schools for the freedmen, andeagerly discussed ways and means for starting and supporting them. 

We were much amused by his ingenuity in getting contributions from hisown town. It appears he had taken into consideration the manycarriage-makers in Amesbury. He suggested that each one of these menshould give some part of a carriage--one the wheels, one the body, onethe furnishings, thus dividing it in all among twenty workmen. When itwas put together, there stood a carriage which was sold for twohundred dollars, exactly the sum requisite for Amesbury to give. 

He had just parted from his niece, who had gone to teach the freedpeople in a small Southern village. He could not help feeling anxiousfor her welfare. She and her young co-workers would be the onlyNortherners in the place. Of course, such new comers would be regardedwith no friendly eye by the "mean whites, " and their long distancefrom home and from any protection would make their position a veryforlorn one indeed if the natives should turn against them. He wasfearful lest they should be half starved. However, they had departedin excellent spirits, which went a long way to cheer everybodyconcerned. 

He was also full of sympathy and anxiety regarding the well being of ayoung colored girl here at the North, whose sad situation he had beencalled upon to relieve; and after discussing ways and laying plans forher comfort (which he afterwards adhered to, until in later years shewas placed in a happy home of her own), he went on to discuss theneeds of yet a third young person, another victim of the war, who wasthen teaching in Amesbury. He was almost as remarkable as Mrs. Childin his power of making his own small provision into a broad mantle tocover many shoulders. He was undaunted, too, in his efforts, where hisown resources failed, to get what was needed by the help of others. His common sense was so great and his own habits so frugal, that noone could imagine a dollar wasted or misapplied that was confided tohis stewardship. His benefactions were ceaseless, and they were one ofthe chief joys of his later life. The subject of what may be done forthis or that person or cause is continually recurring in his letters. Once I find this plea in verse after the manner of Burns:--

 "O well-paid author, fat-fed scholar, Whose pockets jingle with the dollar, No sheriff's hand upon your collar, No duns to bother, Think on 't, a tithe of what ye swallow Would save your brother!"

And again and again there are passages in his letters like thefollowing: "I hope the Industrial Home may be saved, and wish I was arich man just long enough to help save it. As it is, if thesubscription needs $30 to fill it up, I shall be glad to give themite. " "I have long followed Maurice, " he says again, "in his work asa religious and social reformer--a true apostle of the gospel ofhumanity. He saw clearly, and in advance of his clerical brethren, thenecessity of wise and righteous dealing with the momentous andappalling questions of labor and poverty. "

He wrote one day: "If you go to Richmond, why don't you visit Hamptonand Old Point Comfort, where that Christian knight and latter-dayGalahad, General Armstrong, is making his holy experiment? I think itwould be worth your while. "

General Armstrong and his brave work in founding and maintaining theHampton School for the education, at first, of the colored peoplealone, and finally for the Indians also, was one of the near andliving interests of Whittier's life. Often and often in his letters dowe find references to the subject; either he regrets having to missseeing the general, upon one of his Northern trips, or he rejoices infalling in with some of the teachers at Asquam Lake or elsewhere, orhis note is jubilant over some new gift which will make the general'swork for the year less difficult. 

Once he writes: "I am grieved to hear of General Armstrong's illness. I am not surprised at it. He has been working in his noble causebeyond any mortal man's strength. He must have a rest if it ispossible for him, and his friends must now keep up the school byredoubled efforts. Ah me! There is so much to be done in this world! Iwish I were younger, or a millionaire. "

And yet again: "I had the pleasure of sending General Armstrong atChristmas, with my annual subscription, one thousand dollars which afriend placed in my hand. I wish our friend could be relieved from thetask of raising money by a hundred such donations. "

The choice of the early breakfast hour for his visits was his ownidea. He was glad to hit upon a moment which was not subject tointerruptions, one when he could talk at his ease of books and men. These visits were always a surprise. He liked to be abroad in goodseason, and had rarely missed seeing the sun rise in forty years. Heknew, too, that we were not late people, and that his visits couldnever be untimely. Occasionally, with the various evening engagementsof a city, we were not altogether fit to receive him, but it was apleasure to hear his footstep in the morning, and to know that weshould find him in the library by the fire. He was himself a badsleeper, seldom, as he said, putting a solid bar of sleep between dayand day, and therefore often early abroad to question the secrets ofthe dawn. We owe much of the intimate friendship of our life to thesemorning hours spent in private, uninterrupted talk. 

"I have lately felt great sympathy with ----, " he said one morning, "for I have been kept awake one hundred and twenty hours--anexperience I should not care to try again. "

One of Whittier's summer pleasures, in which he occasionally indulgedhimself, was a visit to the Isles of Shoals. He loved to see hisfriend Celia Thaxter in her island home, and he loved the freedom of alarge hotel. He liked to make arrangements with a group of his moreparticular friends to meet him there; and when he was well enough toleave his room, he might be seen in some carefully chosen corner ofthe great piazzas, shady or sunny, as the day invited him, enjoyingthe keenest happiness in the voluntary society and conversation ofthose dear to him. Occasionally he would pass whole days in CeliaThaxter's parlor, watching her at her painting in the window, andlistening to the talk around him. He wished to hear and know whatinterested others. He liked nothing better, he once said, than goinginto the "store" in the old days at Amesbury, when it was a commoncentre, almost serving the purpose of what a club may be in theselater days, and sitting upon a barrel to hear "folks talk. " The menthere did not know much about his poetry, but they understood hispolitics, and he was able to put in many a word to turn the vote ofthe town. In Celia Thaxter's parlor he found a different company, buthis relations to the people who frequented that delightful place werepractically the same. He wished to understand their point of view, ifpossible, and then, if he could find opportunity, he would help themto a higher standpoint. 

I remember one season in particular, when the idle talk of idlepersons had been drifting in and out during the day, while he satpatiently on in the corner of the pretty room. Mrs. Thaxter wassteadily at work at her table, yet always hospitable, losing sight ofno cloud or shadow or sudden gleam of glory in the landscape, andpointing the talk often with keen wit. Nevertheless, the idleness ofit all palled upon him. It was Sunday, too, and he longed forsomething which would move us to "higher levels. " Suddenly, as if theidea struck him like an inspiration, he rose, and taking a volume ofEmerson from the little library he opened to one of the discourses, and handing it to Celia Thaxter said:

"Read that aloud, will thee? I think we should all like to hear it. "

She read it through at his bidding; then he took up the thread of thediscourse, and talked long and earnestly upon the beauty and necessityof worship--a necessity consequent upon the nature of man, upon hisown weakness, and his consciousness of the Divine Spirit within him. His whole heart was stirred, and he poured himself out towards us asif he longed, like the prophet of old, to breathe a new life into us. I could see that he reproached himself for not having spoken out inthis way before, but his enfranchised spirit took only a strongerflight for the delay. 

I have never heard of Whittier's speaking in the meeting-house, although he was doubtless often "moved" to do so; but to us who heardhim on that day he became more than ever a light unto our feet. It wasnot an easy thing to do to stem the accustomed current of life in thisway, and it is a deed only possible to those who, in the Bible phrase, "walk with God. "

Such an unusual effort was not without its consequences. It wasfollowed by a severe headache, and he was hardly seen abroad againduring his stay. 

We heard from him again, shortly after, under the shadow of the greathills where he always passed a part of every year. He loved them, andwrote eloquently of the loveliness of nature at Ossipee: "the Bearcampwinding down, " the long green valley close by the door, the longSandwich and Waterville ranges, and Chocorua filling up the horizonfrom west to northeast. 

The frequent loneliness of his life often found expression. Once hesays:--

"I wish I could feel that I deserved a tithe even of the kind thingssaid of me by my personal friends. If one could but _be_ aseasily as preach! The confession of poor Burns might, I fear, be madeof the best of us:--

 "'God knows I'm no the thing I would be, Nor am I even the thing I could be. '

And yet I am thankful every day of my life that God has put it intothe hearts of so many whom I love and honor and reverence to send meso many messages of good will and kindness. It is an unspeakablecomfort in the lonely and darkening afternoon of life. Indeed, I cannever feel quite alone so long as I know that all about me are thosewho turn to me with friendly interest, and, strange to say, withgratitude. A sense of lack of desert on my part is a drawback, ofcourse; but then, I say to myself, if my friends judge me by my aimand desire, and not by my poor performance, it may be all right andjust. "

The painful solitude of his life after his dear niece's marriage wassoftened when he went to live with his cousins at Oak Knoll, inDanvers, a pleasant country seat, sheltered and suited to his needs. 

Of this place Mrs. Spofford says, in a delightful biographical paper:"The estate of Oak Knoll is one of some historical associations, ashere once lived the Rev. George Burroughs, the only clergyman in theannals of Salem witchcraft who was hung for dark dealings, Danvershaving originally been a part of the town of Salem, where witchcraftcame to a blaze, and was stamped out of existence. . . . The only relicon the place of its tragedy is the well of the Burroughs' house, whichis still in the hay-field, and over which is the resting-place of thesounding-board of the pulpit in the church where the witches weretried. "

At Danvers he was able to enjoy the free open air. He loved to situnder the fine trees which distinguished the lawn, to play with thedogs, and wander about unmolested until he was tired. The ladies ofthe house exerted themselves to give him perfect freedom and thetenderest care. The daughter became his playmate, and she never quitegrew up, in his estimation. She was his lively and loving companion. Writing from Danvers, one December, he says, "What with the child, andthe dogs, and Rip Van Winkle the cat, and a tame gray squirrel whohunts our pockets for nuts, we contrive to get through the short darkdays. "

Again: "I am thankful that February has come, and that the sun isgetting high on his northern journey. The past month has been tryingto flesh and spirit. . . . I am afraid my letter has a complaining tone, and I am rather ashamed of it, and shall be more so when my head isless out of order. . . . There are two gray squirrels playing in my room. Phoebe calls them Deacon Josiah and his wife Philury, after Rose TerryCooke's story of the minister's 'week of works' in the place of a'week of prayer. '"

He showed more physical vitality after he went to Danvers, and hisnotes evince a wide interest in matters private and public outside hisown library life. He still went to Portland to see his niece and herhusband whenever he was able, and now and then to Boston also. ButPhiladelphia at the time of the Centennial was not to be thought of. "I sent my hymn, " he wrote from Amesbury in 1876, "with manymisgivings, and am glad it was so well received. I think I should liketo have heard the music, but probably I should not have understood. The gods have made me most unmusical. 

"I have just got J. T. F. 's charming little book of 'Barry Cornwalland His Friends. ' It is a most companionable volume, and will giverare pleasure to thousands. . . . I write in the midst of our Quakerquarterly meeting, and our house has been overrun for three days. Wehad twelve to dine to-day; they have now gone to meeting, but I am tootired for preaching. 

"I don't expect to visit Philadelphia. The very thought of thatEzekiel's vision of machinery and the nightmare confusion of theworld's curiosity shop appalls me. I shall not venture. "

He was full of excellent resolutions about going often to Boston, buthe never could make a home there. "I see a great many more things inthe city than thee does, " he would say, "because I go to town soseldom. The shop windows are a delight to me, and everything andeverybody is novel and interesting. I don't need to go to the theatre. I have more theatre than I can take in every time I walk out. "

No sketch of Whittier, however slight, should omit to mention hisfriendship for Bayard Taylor. Their Quaker parentage helped to bringthe two poets into communion; and although Taylor was so much theyounger and more vigorous man, Whittier was also to see him pass, andto mourn his loss. He took a deep interest in his literaryadvancement, and considered "Lars" his finest poem. Certainly no oneknew Taylor's work better, or brought a deeper sympathy into hisreading of it. "I love him too well to be a critic of his verse, " hesays in one of his letters. "But what a brave worker he was!"

The reading of good books was, very late in life, as it had been veryearly, his chief pleasure. His travels, his romance, his friendships, were indulged in chiefly by proxy of the printed page. "I felt verynear Dr. Mulford through his writings, " he said. "He was the strongestthinker of our time, and he thought in the right direction. 'TheRepublic of God' is intellectually greater than St. Augustine's 'Cityof God, ' and infinitely nearer the Christian ideal. "

"That must be a shrewd zephyr, " Charles Lamb used to say, speaking ofhis Gentle Giantess, "that can escape her. " And so we may say ofWhittier and a book. "Has thee seen the new book by the author of 'Mr. Isaacs'?" he asked (having sent me "Mr. Isaacs" as soon as itappeared, lest I should miss reading so novel and good a story). Inthe same breath he adds: "I have been reading 'The Freedom of Faith, 'by the author of 'On the Threshold, ' just published by Houghton & Co. It is refreshing and tonic as the northwest wind. The writer is one ofthe leaders of the new departure from the ultra-Calvinism. Thank theejust here for the pleasure of reading Annie Keary's biography. What awhite, beautiful soul! Her views of the mission of spiritualism seemvery much like ----'s. I do not know when I have read a more restful, helpful book. 

"How good Longfellow's poem is! A little sad, but full of 'sweetnessand light. ' Emerson, Longfellow, Holmes, and myself are all getting tobe old fellows, and that swan-song might serve for us all. 'We who areabout to die. ' God help us all! I don't care for fame, and have nosolicitude about the verdicts of posterity. 

 "'When the grass is green above us And they who know us and who love us Are sleeping by our side, Will it avail us aught that men Tell the world with lip and pen That we have lived and died?'

"What we _are_ will then be more important than what we have doneor said in prose or rhyme, or what folks that we never saw or heard ofthink of us. "

The following hitherto unpublished poem was written about this periodupon the marriage of the daughter of his friend Mrs. Leonowens:--

TO A. L. 

WITH THE CONGRATULATIONS OF HER MOTHER'S FRIEND

 The years are many, the years are old, My dreams are over, my songs are sung, But, out of a heart that has not grown cold, I bid God-speed to the fair and young. Would that my prayer were even such As the righteous pray availing much, But nothing save good can Love befall, And naught is lacking since Love is all, Thy one great blessing of life the best, Like the rod of Moses swallows the rest!

(Signed) JOHN G. WHITTIER. 

Oak Knoll, 6th mo. 7, 1878. 

Later he describes himself as listening to the "Life of Mrs. Stowe. ""It is a satisfying book, a model biography, or, rather, autobiographyfor dear Mrs. Stowe speaks all through it. Dr. Holmes's letters revealhim as he is--wise, generous, chivalrous. Witness the kindliness anddelicate sympathy of his letters during the Lord Byron trouble. . . . Miss W. Has read us some of Howells's 'Hazard of New Fortunes. ' Itstrikes me that it is a strong book. That indomitable old German, Linden--that saint of the rather godless sect of dynamiters andanarchists--is a grand figure; one can't help loving him. "

The poet's notes and letters are full of passages showing how closelyhe followed public affairs. "If I were not sick, and to-morrow werenot election day, " he says, "I should go to Boston. I hope to be therein a few days, at any rate. You must 'vote early and often, ' and electHooper. Here we are having Marryat's triangular duel acted over by ourthree candidates. I wish they were all carpet-bagging among theKukluxes. It wouldn't hurt us to go without a representative until wecan raise one of our own. " . . . 

And again: "I am somewhat disappointed by the vote on the suffragequestion. It should be a lesson to us not to trust to politicalplatforms. A great many Republicans declined to vote for it or againstit. They thought the leaders of the suffrage movement had thrownthemselves into the hands of Butler and the Democrats. However, it isonly one of those set-backs which all reforms must have--temporary, but rather discouraging. 

"I worked hard in our town, and we made a gain of nearly one hundredvotes over last year. "

"I am happy, " he says later, "in the result of the election--thankfulthat the State has sat down heavily on ----. I never thought of takingan active interest in politics this year, but I could not help it whenthe fight began. "

And still later in life: "I am glad of the grand overturn in Boston, and the courage of the women voters. How did it seem to elbow thy wayto the polls through throngs of men folk?"

Whittier never relinquished his house at Amesbury, where his kindfriends, Judge Cate and his wife, always made him feel at home. As theend of his life drew near, it was easy to see that the village homewhere his mother and his sister lived and died was the place hechiefly loved; but he was more inaccessible to his friends inAmesbury, and the interruptions of a fast-growing factory town weresometimes less agreeable to him than the country life at Oak Knoll. Hewas a great disbeliever in too much solitude, however, and used tosay, "The necessary solitude of the human soul is enough; it issurprising how great that is. "

Once only he expresses this preference for the dear old village homein his letters. "I have been at Amesbury for a fortnight. Somehow Iseem nearer to my mother and sister; the very walls of the rooms seemto have become sensitive to the photographs of unseen presences. "

As the end drew near, he passed more and more time with his belovedcousins Gertrude and Joseph Cartland in Newburyport, whose interestsand aims in life were so close to his own. 

The habit of going to the White Mountains in their company for a fewweeks during the heat of summer was a fixed one. He grew to loveAsquam, with its hills and lakes, almost better than any other placefor this sojourn. It was there he loved to beckon his friends to joinhim. "Do come, if possible, " he would write. "The years speed on; itwill soon be too late. I long to look on your dear faces once more. "

His deafness began to preclude general conversation; but he delightedin getting off under the pine-trees in the warm afternoons, or into aquiet room upstairs at twilight, and talking until bedtime. Hedescribed to us, during one visit, his first stay among the hills. Hisparents took him where he could see the great wooded slope of

Agamenticus. As he looked up and gazed with awe at the solemn sight, acloud drooped, and hung suspended as it were from one point, andfilled his soul with astonishment. He had never forgotten it. He saidnothing at the time, but this cloud hanging from the breast of thehill filled his boyish mind with a mighty wonder, which had neverfaded away. 

Notwithstanding his strong feeling for Amesbury, and his presencethere always at "quarterly meeting, " he found himself increasinglycomfortable in the companionship of his devoted relatives. Somethingnearer "picturesqueness" and "the beautiful" came to please the senseand to soothe the spirit at Oak Knoll. He did not often make record inhis letters of these things; but once he speaks charmingly of theyoung girl in a red cloak, on horseback, with the dog at her side, scampering over the lawn and brushing under the sloping branches ofthe trees. The sunset of his life burned slowly down; and in spite ofillness and loss of power, he possessed his soul in patience. After aperiod when he usually felt unable to write, he revived and wrote aletter, in which he spoke as follows of a poem which had been sent forhis revision: "The poem is solemn and tender; it is as if a wind fromthe Unseen World blew over it, in which the voice of sorrow is sweeterthan that of gladness--a holy fear mingled with holier hope. Formyself, my hope is always associated with dread, like the shining of astar through mist. I feel, indeed, that Love is victorious, that thereis no dark it cannot light, no depth it cannot reach; but I imaginethat between the Seen and the Unseen there is a sort of neutralground, a land of shadow and mystery, of strange voices andundistinguished forms. There are some, as Charles Lamb says, 'whostalk into futurity on stilts, ' without awe or self-distrust. But Ican only repeat the words of the poem before me. ". . . . 

One of the last, perhaps the very last visit he made to his friends inBoston was in the beautiful autumn weather. The familiar faces hehoped to find were absent. He arrived without warning, and the veryloveliness of the atmosphere which made it possible for him to travelhad tempted younger people out among the falling leaves. He wasdisappointed, and soon after sent these verses to rehearse hisexperience:--

 "I stood within the vestibule Whose granite steps I knew so well, While through the empty rooms the bell Responded to my eager pull. 

 "I listened while the bell once more Rang through the void, deserted hall; I heard no voice, nor light foot-fall, And turned me sadly from the door. 

 "Though fair was Autumn's dreamy day, And fair the wood-paths carpeted With fallen leaves of gold and red, I missed a dearer sight than they. 

 "I missed the love-transfigured face, The glad, sweet smile so dear to me, The clasp of greeting warm and free; What had the round world in their place?

 "O friend, whose generous love has made My last days best, my good intent Accept, and let the call I meant Be with your coming doubly paid. "

But even this journey was beyond his strength. He wrote: "Coming backfrom Boston in a crowded car, a window was opened just behind me andanother directly opposite, and in consequence I took a bad cold, andam losing much of this goodly autumnal spectacle. But Oak Knoll woodswere never, I think, so beautiful before. "

In future his friends were to seek him; he could go no more to them:the autumn had indeed set in. 

Now began a series of birthday celebrations, which were blessings notunmixed in his cup of life. He was in the habit of writing a briefnote of remembrance on these anniversaries; in one of which, afterconfessing to "a feeling of sadness and loneliness, " he turns to theEmerson Calendar, and says, "I found for the day some lines from his'World Soul:'--

 "'Love wakes anew this throbbing heart, And we are never old; Over the winter glaciers I see the summer glow, And through the wild piled snow-drift The warm rose-buds blow. '

Reading them, I took heart. "

On another occasion he says: "In the intervals of visitation on thatday my thoughts were with dear friends who have passed from us; amongwhom, I need not say, was thy dearest friend. How vividly thebeautiful mornings with you were recalled! Then I wondered at my age, and if it was possible that I was the little boy on the old Haverhillfarm, unknown, and knowing nobody beyond my home horizon. I could notquite make the connection of the white-haired man with the black-locked boy. I could not help a feeling of loneliness, thinking ofhaving outlived many of my life-companions; but I was still gratefulto God that I had not outlived my love for them and for those stillliving. Among the many tokens of good will from all parts of thecountry and beyond the sea, there were some curious and amazingmissives. One Southern woman took the occasion to include me in hercurse of the 'mean, hateful Yankees. ' To offset this, I had a telegramfrom the Southern Forestry Congress assembled in Florida, signed bypresident and secretary, informing me that 'In remembrance of yourbirthday, we have planted a live-oak tree to your memory, which, likethe leaves of the tree, will be forever green. '"

Birthdays, on the whole, in the face of much sadness, brought him alsomuch that was agreeable and delightful in remembrance. One old friendalways gave him great pleasure by sending a huge basket of gildedwicker, in which were placed fruits of every variety from all quartersof the globe, and covered with rare flowers and ferns. In this way hevisited the gardens of the Orient, and could see in his imaginationthe valleys of Napa and of Shiraz. On the occasion of a dinner givenhim at the Brunswick Hotel, on his seventieth birthday, he wrote: "Imissed my friend. In the midst of so much congratulation, I do notforget his earlier appreciation and encouragement, and every kind wordwhich assured and cheered me when the great public failed to recognizeme. I dare not tell thee, for fear of seeming to exaggerate, how muchhis words have been to me. "

Thus the long years and the long days passed on with scarcelyperceptible diminution of interest in the affairs of this world. "I amsorry to find that the hard winter has destroyed some handsome sprucesI planted eight years ago, " he wrote one May day; "they had grown tobe fine trees. Though rather late for me, I shall plant others intheir places; for I remember the advice of the old Laird ofDumbiedikes to his son Jock: 'When ye hae naething better to do, yecan be aye sticking in a tree; it'll aye be growin' when ye aresleeping. ' There is an ash-tree growing here that my mother plantedwith her own hands at threescore and ten. What agnostic folly to thinkthat tree has outlived her who planted it!"

The lines of Whittier's life stretched "between heaven and home"during the long period of eighty-four years. A host of friends, friends of the spirit, were, as we have seen, forever clusteringaround him; and what a glorious company it was! Follen, Shipley, Chalkley, Lucy Hooper, Joseph Sturge, Channing, Lydia Maria Child, hissister Elizabeth--a shining cloud too numerous to mention; theinciters of his poems and the companions of his fireside. In thesilence of his country home their memories clustered about him andfilled his heart with joy. 

 "He loved the good and wise, but found His human heart to all akin

 Who met him on the common ground Of suffering and of sin. "

His "Home Ballads" grew out of this very power of clinging to the sameplaces and the old loves, and what an incomparable group they make!"Telling the Bees, " "Skipper Ireson's Ride, " "My Playmate, " "In SchoolDays, " are sufficient in themselves to set the seal to his great fame. 

As a traveler, too, he is unrivaled, giving us, without leaving hisown garden, the fine fruit of foreign lands. In reading his poems ofthe East, it is difficult to believe that he never saw Palestine, norCeylon, nor India; and the wonder is no less when he writes of our ownwide country. Indeed, the vividness of his poems about the slaves atSt. Helena's Island and elsewhere make them among the finest of allhis local poems. One called "The Pass of the Sierra" may easily bearthe palm among much descriptive writing. 

He watched over his last remaining brother during a long illness anddeath, during the autumn and winter of 1882 and 1883 in Boston. Thefamily all left Oak Knoll and came to be with him at a hotel, whencehe could make frequent visits to his brother's bedside; but theunwonted experience of passing several months in town, and the wearingmission which brought him there, told seriously upon his health, andcaused well-grounded anxiety as to the result. The day after the lastservices had been performed he wrote to a friend: "Indeed, it was agreat comfort to sit beside you and to feel that if another belovedone had passed into the new life beyond sight and hearing, the warmhearts of loved friends were beating close to my own. You do not knowhow grateful it was to me. Dr. Clarke's presence and words were fullof comfort. My brother did not approve of a display of flowers, but heloved violets, and your simple flowers were laid in his hand. . . . Givemy love to S. , and kiss the dear child for me. "

It was not, however, until 1890 that we could really feel he had leftthe years of active service and of intellectual achievement as thingsof the past. He was shut out from much that gave him pleasure, but thespirit which animated the still breathing frame, though waiting and attimes longing for larger opportunity, seemed to us like a lovingsentinel, covering his dear ones as with a shield, and watching overthe needs of humanity. The advance of the colored people, the claimsof the Indians and their wrongs, opportunities for women, statesmen, and politicians, the private joys and sorrows of those dear to him, were all present and kept alive, though in the silence of his breast. 

The end came, the door opened, while he was staying with the daughterof an old friend at Hampton Falls, in New Hampshire--that saintlywoman whom we associate with one of the most spiritual and beautifulof his poems, "A Friend's Burial. " After a serious illness in thewinter of 1892 he was almost too frail for any summer journeying; butwith his usual wisdom and instinctive turning of the heart towards oldfamiliar places, he thought of this hospitable house where he seemedto gain strength, and where he found much happiness and the quietnessthat he loved. His last illness was brief; he was ministered to bythose who stood nearest him. And thus the waves of time passed overhim and swept him from our sight. 

It is a pleasure now to recall many a beautiful scene in summerafternoons, under the trees at Danvers, when his spirit animated theair and made the landscape shine with a radiance not its own. Suchmemories serve to keep the whole world beautiful wherein he moved, andadd to his poetry a sense of presence and a living light. 

Old age appears in comparison to every other stage of human existenceas a most undesirable state. We look upon its approaches and itsravages with alarm. Death itself is far less dreadful, and "the lowdoor, " if it will only open quickly, brings little fear to thethoughtful mind. But the mystery of decadence, the long sunsetting, the loss of power--what do they mean? The Latin word _saga_, fromwhich the French get _la sagesse_, and we "the sage, " gives us ahint of what we do not always understand--the spiritual beauty and thesignificance even of loss in age. 

Whittier, wearing his silver crown, brought the antique word into useagain, and filled it with fresh meaning for modern men. 

TENNYSON

It is difficult at the present time, when Tennyson's poetry has becomea part of the air we breathe, to look back into the world ofliterature as it existed before he came. 

There is a keen remembrance, lingering ineradicably with the writer, of a little girl coming to school once upon recitation day, with a"piece" of her own selection safely stored away in her childishmemory. It was a new poem to the school, and when her turn came torecite her soul was full of the gleam and glory of Camelot. She feltas if she were unlocking a treasure-house, and it was with unspeakablepleasure to herself that she gave, verse after verse, the entire poemof "The Lady of Shalott. " Doubtless the child's voice drifted awayinto sing-song, as her whole little self seemed to drift away into theland of faery, and doubtless also the busy teacher, who was morefamiliar with Jane Taylor and Cowper, was sadly puzzled. When thechild at length sat down, scarcely knowing where she was in her suddendescent from the land of marvel, she heard the teacher say, to heramazement and discouragement, after an ominous pause, "I wonder if anyyoung lady can tell me what this poem means?" There was no reply. 

"Can _you_ tell us?" was the next question, pointed at the poorlittle girl who had just dropped out of cloudland. "I thought itexplained itself, " was the plaintive reply. With a slight air ofdepreciation, in another moment the next recitation was called for, and the dull clouds of routine shut down over the sudden glory. "Shades of the prison-house" then and there began to close over thegrowing child. One joy had for the present faded from her life, thatof a sure sympathy and understanding. Not even her teacher could seewhat she saw, nor could feel what lay deep down in her own glowingheart. Nevertheless Tennyson was henceforth a seer and a prophet tothis child and to the growing world; but for some, who could neverlearn his language, he was born too late. 

The picturesqueness of Scott and Byron, the simple piety of Cowper, had satisfied the poetic and religious nature of the world up to thattime. Shelley and Keats had indeed lived, but men had scarcely thenlearned generally to read them. Tennyson may be looked upon as theirinterpreter, in a measure, to the common world. Even Wordsworth, themountain-top of poetry, the leader, whom Tennyson called his master--even he failed to give the common mind, which looks for drama, anylong poem which he who runs may read. This humanity in poetry isdistinctly, first of all, Shakespearian; but if this quality shouldseem to any reader not also Tennysonian, let him re-read "Guinevere, "in the "Idylls of the King, " and reverse his decision. 

The hearts of men were largely attuned by Tennyson, and taught tounderstand the affinities and symbolisms of nature. This new era inliterature opened about the year 1830, when Tennyson gave a few poemsto the world, which were chiefly canceled by his later judgment. Asmall book in green paper covers lies before me as I write, "privatelyprinted" in 1862, containing his poems printed between 1830 and 1833, and giving the first readings of some which have been sanctioned inhis later editions. The volume "privately printed" has been mostprivately treasured lest anything should appear from it to "vex thepoet's mind. " For thirty years it has lain in a secret drawer, withthese words inscribed upon the cover: "Not to be lent; not to bestolen; not to be given away. "

Some of these poems have been wrought over until we are reminded ofhis own line, "Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere, "

and incorporated in his later editions; others seem to have beengathered up and published without permission by an American publisher, who in some way gained possession of the book. The present perfectededition, however, published by Macmillan, evidently contains all thepoems Tennyson wished to have remembered. The chief interest in thesmall green book is in the early readings, which are a good study forthose who pursue the art of poetry. We see in them the sure integrityof the master-hand. 

"Isabel" was not, perhaps, one of the very earliest poems, although itstands among the early poems of character in the perfected edition. Itdoes not appear in the green book, yet the title already stands in thetable of contents. In his own revised editions it has always appearedunchanged from the first. There is a flawless loveliness in this poemwhich makes it especially worthy of admiration. "Isabel" possesses apeculiar interest, because it is understood to be the poet's tributeto his wife, and indeed even his imaginative eye could hardlyelsewhere have found another to whom this description would soproperly fit:--

 "The intuitive decision of a bright And thorough-edged intellect to part Error from crime; a prudence to withhold The laws of marriage character'd in gold Upon the blanched tablets of her heart; A love still burning upward, giving light To read those laws; an accent very low In blandishment, but a most silver flow Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, Right to the heart and brain, tho' undescried, Winning its way with extreme gentleness Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride A courage to endure and to obey; A hate of gossip parlance and of sway, -- Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife. "

The relation of Tennyson's life to that of other men has been butimperfectly understood. There was indeed a natural sublimity in hischaracter which gave him, as he has himself said of the poet's mind, apower for scorn of things fit to be scorned; but his capacity forfriendship has been proved again and again. The tree, as of old, isknown by its fruits, and we need only recall the poems to JamesSpedding, to F. D. Maurice, to Mary Boyle, to Lord Dufferin, hiscorrespondence with Edward Fitzgerald, and the great note of grief andconsolation in "In Memoriam, " to know a man capable of friendship, andone who has drawn to himself the noble lovers of his time. 

There was an unconsciousness of outward things, of the furniture oflife, which left him freer than most men to face the individual soulthat approached him. There was also a fine consistency in hispersonality, --no tampering with the world; no trying to serve twomasters. The greatness of his presence was felt, we believe, by allwho approached him; he seemed to be invested by a strange remotenessfrom the affairs of the world. Yet it was easy for the spirits to drawnear to him who really wanted what he could give. His hospitality waslarge and sincere. In his own words of the "Great Duke" we read hisperfect likeness:--

 "As the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime. "

A friend who knew him wrote once: "Tennyson found out in the goldenseason of his life, his youth, just what kind of work he was fitted todo, and he never squandered an hour in search of his primarybearings. . . . There is always a gravity about him, a becomingnobleness, which reminds one of what St. Simon said of Fenelon, 'Whenhe is present it requires an effort to cease looking at him. '"

When this friend returned after his first interview with Tennyson, many years ago, we can well recall the eagerness with which welistened. His excitement as he described the hours they had passedtogether was hardly less than that of his hearer. Every minute detailof the interview was impatiently demanded. "How did he look?" wasasked immediately in the first pause, and "What did he say?" followedbefore there was quite time to speak. In reply came a full descriptionof the tall figure, clad in a long gray dressing-gown, presentingitself in the half-opened doorway of his chambers in the Temple, andlooking cautiously out at the new comer. 

"'Oh! it is you, ' he said, drawing his visitor in through the narrowspace with a most cordial welcome. He was sitting before the fire, with his books about him, which he put aside, and while he talked hebegan to toast sundry slices of bread for our repast. As for hislooks, his head is a very grand one, and his voice has a deep swellingrichness in it. He had just received from the printers some proofsheets of the 'Idylls of the King, ' and then and there he chanted thestory of Enid and Elaine: chanted is the true word to apply to hisrecitations. He had a theory that poetry should always be given outwith the rhythm accentuated, and the music of the verse stronglyemphasized, and he did it with a power that was marvelous. "

The next recollection, and one that sweeps vividly across my memory, is that of going to Farringford for the first time, and seeingTennyson among the surroundings so admirably suited to his tastes andnecessities. The place was much more retired than at present; indeed, there was neither sight nor sound of any intrusion during those summerdays. The island might have been Prospero's own, it seemed so stilland far away. 

Beyond the gardens and the lawn the great downs sloped to the sea, andin the distance on either hand could be seen the cliffs and shores asthey wound away and were lost in the dim haze that lay between us andthe horizon. We found ourselves suddenly walking as in a dream, surrounded with the scenery of his poems. 

It is still easy to distinguish with perfect clearness to the "inwardeye" two figures rambling along the downs that lovely day, and pausingat a rude summer-house, a kind of forgotten shelter, a relic of someother life. The great world was still as only the noon of summer knowshow to be; the air blew freshly up from the sea, and the figuresstopped a moment to look and rest. The door of the shelter hung idlyon rusted hinges, and the two entered to enjoy the shade. Turning, they saw the whole delicious scene framed in the rude doorway. "Ah, "the lady said, "I have found one of your haunts. I think you mustsometimes write here. " Tennyson looked at her with a smile which said, "I can trust my friends;" and putting his hand up high over the door, he took from the tiny ledge a bit of pencil and paper secreted there, held them out to her for one moment, and then carefully put them backagain. There was not much said, but it was an immediate revelation, and a cherished bit of confidence. Perhaps on that sheet was alreadyinscribed, "Ask me no more; the moon may draw the sea, The cloud may stoop from heaven and lake the shape, With fold on fold, of mountain or of cape;"

or perhaps the page was waiting for "The Sailor-Boy, " or glimpses ofthe great "Tyntagel, " or "Lyonesse. "

I could not know, nor did he, what he was yet to do. I only felt--allwho knew him felt--that he knew his work demanded from him thesacrifice of what the world calls pleasure. He endeavored to hold hisspirit ready, and his mind trained and responsive. 

His constant preoccupation with the business of his life rendered himoften impatient of wasting hours in mere "personal talk. " He wasalways eager and ready to hear of large matters of church or statefrom those who were competent to inform him; but it was his chief joy, when his friends were gathered about him, to read from other poets orfrom his own books. 

In this same visit there was much talk of Milton, of whom he spoke as"the great organist of verse, who always married sound to sense whenhe wrote. " Surely no one ever gave the lines of that great poet as hedid. It was wonderful to hear. It would be impossible to forget thatgrand voice as he repeated:--

 "The imperial ensign which full high advanced Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind, With gems and golden lustre rich emblazed, Seraphic arms and trophies; all the while Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds. "

Tennyson's chanting of his own "Boaedicea" was very remarkable. 

 "Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to becelebrated, Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illimitable. "

But nothing could excel the effect of his rendering of "Guinevere, "his voice at times tremulous with emotion, and his face turned fromthe light as he read, "Let no man dream but that I love thee still, "

and all the noble context glowing with a white heat. It was easy thento find that his own ideal, "Flos regum Arthuris, "

was not a legend to him alone, but a vision of the Holy Grail towardwhich he aspired. 

It were easy, indeed it is a temptation, to record every detail, stamped as they all are on the memory after several visits atFarringford and at Aldworth; but the beautiful paper printed only afew years ago by Mrs. Anne Thackeray Ritchie, now given to the worldin a volume, where Tennyson stands as one of "The Light-Bearers, "would make any repetition of the history of his family life worse thanunnecessary. Mrs. Ritchie's friendship with the members of thathousehold, and her familiarity with the houses and scenery whichsurrounded them, have given her the opportunity to do what her geniushas executed. 

Summer was again here, with a touch of autumn in the air--this autumnin which we write--when we last saw Lord Tennyson at Aldworth. He wasalready unwell and suffering from a cold. He sat, however, on hiscouch, which was drawn across the great window, where he could lookoff, when he turned his head, and see the broad green valley and thehills beyond, or, near at hand, could watch the terrace and his owntrees, and catch a glimpse of the garden. 

The great frame had lost its look of giant strength; the hands werethinner; but the habit of his mind and spirit was the same. Again weheard the voice; again we felt the uplift of his presence. He wasaware that he was not to stay here much longer, and when we bent overhim to say good-by, we knew and he knew it was indeed "farewell. " Hewas surrounded with deep love and tenderness and the delightfulpresence of his little grandchildren, and when, shortly after, hisweakness increased, he doubtless heard the words sounding in hismind:--

 "Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages, Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. "

He asked for "Cymbeline" that he might carry the noble lines clearlyin remembrance. Later the moon shone full into the room, and in thatdim splendor, and to the music of the autumn wind, his spirit passed. 

EMILY, LADY TENNYSON

When I first saw Lady Tennyson she was in the prime of life. Her twosons, boys of eight and ten years of age perhaps, were by her side. Farringford was at that time almost the same beautiful solitude thelovers had found it years before, when it was first their home. Occasionally a curious sight-seer, or a poet-worshiper, had been knownto stray across the grounds or to climb a tree in order to view thegreen retired spot; but as a rule Tennyson could still wanderunwatched and unseen through the garden, over the downs, and standalone on the shore of the great sea. 

It was already afternoon when we arrived dusty and travel-stained atthe hospitable door, which was wide open, shaded by vines, showing theinterior dark and cool. Mrs. Tennyson, in her habitual and simplecostume of a long gray dress and lace kerchief over her head, met uswith her true and customary cordiality, leading us to the low drawing-room, where a large oriel window opening on the lawn and the half-life-size statue of Wordsworth were the two points which caught myattention as we entered. Her step as she preceded us was long andfree. Something in her bearing and trailing dress, perhaps, gave her amediaeval aspect which suited with the house. The latter, I have beentold, was formerly a baronial holding, and the fair Enid and the youngElaine appeared to be at one with her own childhood. They were nolonger centuries apart from the slender fair-haired lady who now layon a couch by our side, --they were a portion of her own existence, ofa nature obedient to tradition, obedient to home, obedient to love. The world has made large advance, and the sound of the wheels ofprogress were not unheard in the lady's room at Farringford. She wasready to sympathize with every form of emancipation; but for herself, her poet's life was her life, and his necessity was her greatopportunity. 

I recall Mrs. Browning once saying to me, "Ah, Tennyson is too muchindulged. His wife is too much his second self; she does not criticiseenough. " But Tennyson was not a second Browning. The delicateframework of his imagination, filled in by elemental harmonies, wasnot to be carelessly touched. She understood his work and his nature, and he stood firm where he had early planted himself by her side inworshiping affection and devotion. "Alfred carried the sheets of hisnew poem up to London, " she said one day, "and showed them to Mr. Monckton Milnes, who persuaded him to leave out one of the best lines;but I persuaded him to replace it when he came home. It is a mistakein general for him to listen to the suggestions of others about hispoems. "

All this was long ago, and the finger of memory has left fainttracings for me to follow; but I recall her figure at dinner as shesat in her soft white muslin dress, tied with blue, at that timehardly whiter than her face or bluer than her eyes, and how the boysstood sometimes one on either side of her in their black velvetdresses, like Millais' picture of the princes in the tower, andsometimes helped to serve the guests. By and by we adjourned toanother room, where there was a fire and a shining dark table withfruit and wine after her own picturesque fashion, and where later thepoet read to us, while she, being always delicate in health, took heraccustomed couch. I remember the quaint apartment for the night, ondifferent levels, and the faded tapestry, --recalling "the faded mantleand the faded veil, " her tender personal care, and her friendly good-night, the silence, the sweetness, and the calm. 

She sometimes joined our out-door expeditions, but could not walk withus. For years she used a wheeled chair, as Mrs. Ritchie has charminglydescribed in her truthful and sympathetic sketch of the life atAldworth. I only associated her with the interior, where her influencewas perfect. 

The social atmosphere of Farringford, which depended upon itsmistress, was warm and simple. A pleasant company of neighbors andfriends was gathered when "Maud" was read aloud to us, a wide group, grateful and appreciative, and one to which he liked to read. 

After this the mists of time close over! I can recall her again in thegray dress and kerchief following our footsteps to the door. I can seeher graceful movement of the head as she waved her adieux; I can seethe poet's dusky figure standing by her side, and that is all. 

Sometimes she lives confusedly to the world of imagination as theAbbess at Almesbury; and sometimes, as one who knew her has said, shewas like the first of the three queens, "the tallest of them all, andfairest, " who bore away the body of Arthur. She was no less thanthese, being a living inspiration at the heart of the poet's every-daylife. 

It would seem to be upon another visit that we were talking in thedrawing-room about Browning. "We should like to see him oftener, " shesaid, "he is delightful company, but we cannot get him to come here;we are too quiet for him!"

I found food for thought in this little speech when I remembered thefatuous talk at dinner-tables where I had sometimes met Browning, andthought of Tennyson's great talk and the lofty serenity of his lady'spresence. 

My last interview with Lady Tennyson was scarcely two months beforeTennyson's death. The great grief of their life in the loss of theirson Lionel had fallen upon them meanwhile. They were then at Aldworth, which, although a house of their own building, was far more mediaevalin appearance than Farringford. She was alone, and still on the couchin the large drawing-room, and there she spoke with the same youth ofheart, the same deep tenderness, the same simple affection which hadnever failed through years of intercourse. When she rose to sayfarewell and to follow me as far as possible, she stepped with thesame spirited sweep I had first seen. 

The happiness of welcoming her lovely face, which wore to those whoknew her an indescribable heavenliness, is mine no more; but thememory cannot be effaced of one lady who held the traditions of highwomanhood safe above the possible deteriorations of human existence.