first visit to new england-第7节

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about　with　me；　and　showed　me　the　life　of　the　city。　　A　great　city　it
seemed　to　me　then；　and　a　seething　vortex　of　business　as　well　as　a　whirl
of　gaiety；　as　I　saw　it　in　Washington　Street；　and　in　a　promenade　concert
at　Copeland's　restaurant　in　Tremont　Row。　　Probably　I　brought　some
idealizing　force　to　bear　upon　it；　for　I　was　not　all　so　strange　to　the
world　as　I　must　seem；　perhaps　I　accounted　for　quality　as　well　as　quantity
in　my　impressions　of　the　New　England　metropolis；　and　aggrandized　it　in
the　ratio　of　its　literary　importance。　　It　seemed　to　me　old；　even　after
Quebec；　and　very　likely　I　credited　the　actual　town　with　all　the　dead　and
gone　Bostonians　in　my　sentimental　census。　　If　I　did　not；　it　was　no　fault
of　my　cicerone；　who　thought　even　more　of　the　city　he　showed　me　than　I
did。　　I　do　not　know　now　who　he　was；　and　I　never　saw　him　after　I　came　to
live　there；　with　any　certainty　that　it　was　he；　though　I　was　often
tormented　with　the　vision　of　a　spectacled　face　like　his；　but　not　like
enough　to　warrant　me　in　addressing　him。

He　became　part　of　that　ghostly　Boston　of　my　first　visit；　which　would
sometimes　return　and　possess　again　the　city　I　came　to　know　so　familiarly
in　later　years；　and　to　be　so　passionately　interested　in。　　Some　color　of
my　prime　impressions　has　tinged　the　fictitious　experiences　of　people　in
my　books；　but　I　find　very　little　of　it　in　my　memory。　　This　is　like　a　web
of　frayed　old　lace；　which　I　have　to　take　carefully　into　my　hold　for　fear
of　its　fragility；　and　make　out　as　best　I　can　the　figure　once　so　distinct
in　it。　　There　are　the　narrow　streets；　stretching　saltworks　to　the　docks；
which　I　haunted　for　their　quaintness；　and　there　is　Faunal　Hall；　which　I
cared　to　see　so　much　more　because　Wendell　Phillips　had　spoken　in　it　than
because　Otis　and　Adams　had。　　There　is　the　old　Colonial　House；　and　there
is　the　State　House；　which　I　dare　say　I　explored；　with　the　Common　sloping
before　it。　　There　is　Beacon　Street；　with　the　Hancock　House　where　it　is
incredibly　no　more；　and　there　are　the　beginnings　of　Commonwealth　Avenue；
and　the　other　streets　of　the　Back　Bay；　laid　out　with　their　basements　left
hollowed　in　the　made　land；　which　the　gravel　trains　were　yet　making　out　of
the　westward　hills。　　There　is　the　Public　Garden；　newly　planned　and
planted；　but　without　the　massive　bridge　destined　to　make　so　ungratefully
little　of　the　lake　that　occasioned　it。　　But　it　is　all　very　vague；　and　I
could　easily　believe　now　that　it　was　some　one　else　who　saw　it　then　in　my
place。

I　think　that　I　did　not　try　to　see　Cambridge　the　same　day　that　I　saw
Lowell；　but　wisely　came　back　to　my　hotel　in　Boston；　and　tried　to　realize
the　fact。　　I　went　out　another　day；　with　an　acquaintance　from　Ohio；　whom　I
ran　upon　in　the　street。　　We　went　to　Mount　Auburn　together；　and　I　viewed
its　monuments　with　a　reverence　which　I　dare　say　their　artistic　quality
did　not　merit。　　But　I　am；　not　sorry　for　this；　for　perhaps　they　are　not
quite　so　bad　as　some　people　pretend。　　The　Gothic　chapel　of　the　cemetery；
unsorted　as　it　was；　gave　me；　with　its　half…dozen　statues　standing　or
sitting　about；　an　emotion　such　as　I　am　afraid　I　could　not　receive　now
from　the　Acropolis；　Westminster　Abbey；　and　Santa　Crocea　in　one。　　I　tried
hard　for　some　aesthetic　sense　of　it；　and　I　made　believe　that　I　thought
this　thing　and　that　thing　in　the　place　moved　me　with　its　fitness　or
beauty；　but　the　truth　is　that　I　had　no　taste　in　anything　but　literature；
and　did　not　feel　the　effect　I　would　so　willingly　have　experienced。

I　did　genuinely　love　the　elmy　quiet　of　the　dear　old　Cambridge　streets；
though；　and　I　had　a　real　and　instant　pleasure　in　the　yellow　colonial
houses；　with　their　white　corners　and　casements　and　their　green　blinds；
that　lurked　behind　the　shrubbery　of　the　avenue　I　passed　through　to　Mount
Auburn。　　The　most　beautiful　among　them　was　the　most　interesting　for　me；
for　it　was　the　house　of　Longfellow；　my　companion；　who　had　seen　it　before；
pointed　it　out　to　me　with　an　air　of　custom；　and　I　would　not　let　him　see
that　I　valued　the　first　sight　of　it　as　I　did。　　I　had　hoped　that　somehow　I
might　be　so　favored　as　to　see　Longfellow　himself；　but　when　I　asked　about
him　of　those　who　knew；　they　said；　〃Oh；　he　is　at　Nahant；〃　and　I　thought
that　Nahant　must　be　a　great　way　off；　and　at　any　rate　I　did　not　feel
authorized　to　go　to　him　there。　　Neither　did　I　go　to　see　the　author　of
'The　Amber　Gods'；who　lived　at　Newburyport；　I　was　told；　as　if　I　should
know　where　Newburyport　was；　I　did　not　know；　and　I　hated　to　ask。　　Besides；
it　did　not　seem　so　simple　as　it　had　seemed　in　Ohio；　to　go　and　see　a　young
lady　simply　because　I　was　infatuated　with　her　literature；　even　as　the
envoy　of　all　the　infatuated　young　people　of　Columbus；　I　could　not　quite
do　this；　and　when　I　got　home；　I　had　to　account　for　my　failure　as　best　I
could。　　Another　failure　of　mine　was　the　sight　of　Whittier；　which　I　then
very　much　longed　to　have。　　They　said；　〃Oh；　Whittier　lives　at　Amesbury；〃
but　that　put　him　at　an　indefinite　distance；　and　without　the　introduction
I　never　would　ask　for；　I　found　it　impossible　to　set　out　in　quest　of　him。
In　the　end；　I　saw　no　one　in　New　England　whom　I　was　not　presented　to　in
the　regular　way；　except　Lowell；　whom　I　thought　I　had　a　right　to　call　upon
in　my　quality　of　contributor；　and　from　the　acquaintance　I　had　with　him　by
letter。　　I　neither　praise　nor　blame　myself　for　this；　it　was　my　shyness
that　with　held　me　rather　than　my　merit。　　There　is　really　no　harm　in
seeking　the　presence　of　a　famous　man；　and　I　doubt　if　the　famous　man
resents　the　wish　of　people　to　look　upon　him　without　some　measure；　great
or　little；　of　affectation。　　There　are　bores　everywhere；　but　he　is
likelier　to　find　them　in　the　wonted　figures　of　society　than　in　those
young　people；　or　old　people；　who　come　to　him　in　the　love　of　what　he　has
done。　　I　am　well　aware　how　furiously　Tennyson　sometimes　met　his
worshippers；　and　how　insolently　Carlyle；　but　I　think　these　facts　are
little　specks　in　their　sincerity。　　Our　own　gentler　and　honester
celebrities　did　not　forbid　approach；　and　I　have　known　some　of　them　caress
adorers　who　seemed　hardly　worthy　of　their　kindness；　but　that　was　better
than　to　have　hurt　any　sensitive　spirit　who　had　ventured　too　far；　by　the
rules　that　govern　us　with　common　men。




IX。

My　business　relations　were　with　the　house　that　so　promptly　honored　my
letter　of　credit。　　This　house　had　published　in　the　East　the　campaign　life
of　Lincoln　which　I　had　lately　written；　and　I　dare　say　would　have
published　the　volume　of　poems　I　had　written　earlier　with　my　friend　Piatt；
if　there　had　been　any　public　for　it；　at　least；　I　saw　large　numbers　of　the
book　on　the　counters。　　But　all　my　literary　affiliations　were　with　Ticknor
&　Fields；　and　it　was　the　Old　Corner　Book…Store　on　Washington　Street　that
drew　my　heart　as　soon　as　I　had　replenished　my　pocket　in　Cornhill。　　After
verifying　the　editor　of　the　Atlantic　Monthly　I　wised　to　verify　its
publishers；　and　it　very　fitly　happened　that　when　I　was　shown　into　Mr。
Fields's　little　room　at　the　back　of　the　store；　with　its　window　looking
upon　School　Street；　and　its　scholarly　keeping　in　books　and　prints；　he　had
just　got　the　magazine　sheets　of　a　poem　of　mine　from　the　Cambridge
printers。　　He　was　then　lately　from　abroad；　and　he　had　the　zest　for
American　things　which　a　foreign　sojourn　is　apt　to　renew　in　us；　though　I
did　not　know　this　then；　and　could　not　account　for　it　in　the　kindness　he
expressed　for　my　poem。　　He　introduced　me　to　Mr。　Ticknor；　who　I　fancied
had　not　read　my　poem；　but　he　seemed　to　know　what　it　was　from　the　junior
partner；　and　he　asked　me　whether　I　had　been　paid　for　it。　　I　confessed
that　I　had　not；　and　then　he　got　out　a　chamois…leather　bag；　and　took　from
it　five　half…eagles　in　gold　and　laid　them　on　the　green　cloth　top　of　the
desk；　in　much　the　shape　and　of　much　the　size　of　the　Great　Bear。　　I　have
never　since　felt　myself　paid　so　lavishly　for　any　literary　work；　though　I
have　had　more　for　a　single　piece　than　the　twenty…five　dollars　that
dazzled　me　in　this　constellation。　　The　publisher　seemed　aware　of　the
poetic　character　of　the　transaction；　he　let　the　pieces　lie　a　moment；
before　he　gathered　them　up　and　put　them　into　my　hand；　and　said；　〃I　always
think　it　is　pleasant　to　have　it　in　gold。〃

But　a　terrible　experience　with　the　poem　awaited　me；　and　quenched　for　the
moment　all　my　pleasure　and　pride。　　It　was　'The　Pilot's　Story；'　which　I
suppose　has　had　as　much　acceptance　as　anything　of　mine　in　verse　（I　do　not
boast　of　a　vast　acceptance　for　it）；　and　I　had　attempted　to　treat　in　it　a
phase　of　the　national　tragedy　of　slavery；　as　I　had　imagined　it　on　a
Mississippi　steamboat。　　A　young　planter　has　gambled　away　the　slave…girl
who　is　the　mother　of　his　child；　and　when　he　tells　her；　she　breaks　out
upon　him　with　the　demand：

　　　　　〃What　will　you　say　to　our　boy　when　he　cries　for　me；　there　in　Saint
　　　　　Louis？〃

I　had　thought　this　very　well；　and　natural　and　simple；　but　a　fatal
proof…reader　had　not　thought　it　well　enough；　or　simple　and　natural
enough；　and　he　had　made　the　line　read：

　　　　　〃What　will　you　say　to　our　boy　when　he　cries　for　'Ma；'　there　in　Saint
　　　　　Louis？〃

He　had　even　had　the　inspiration　to　quote　the　word　he　preferred　to　the　one
I　had　written；　so　that　there　was　no