literary boston as i knew it-第4节

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its　laughter　at　the　fact　which　he　owned；　his　profile；　which　burlesqued。
an　eagle's；　was　the　profile　of　a　drooping　eagle；　his　lank　length　of　limb
trembled　away　with　him　when　we　parted。　　I　did　not　see　him　again；
I　scarcely　heard　of　him　till　I　heard　of　his　death；　and　this　sad　image
remains　with　me　of　the　humorist　who　first　gave　the　world　a　taste　of　the
humor　which　characterizes　the　whole　American　people。

I　was　meeting　all　kinds　of　distinguished　persons；　in　my　relation　to　the
magazine；　and　early　that　winter　I　met　one　who　remains　in　my　mind　above
all　others　a　person　of　distinction。　　He　was　scarcely　a　celebrity；　but　he
embodied　certain　social　traits　which　were　so　characteristic　of　literary
Boston　that　it　could　not　be　approached　without　their　recognition。
The　Muses　have　often　been　acknowledged　to　be　very　nice　young　persons；
but　in　Boston　they　were　really　ladies；　in　Boston　literature　was　of　good
family　and　good　society　in　a　measure　it　has　never　been　elsewhere。
It　might　be　said　even　that　reform　was　of　good　family　in　Boston；
and　literature　and　reform　equally　shared　the　regard　of　Edmund　Quincy；
whose　race　was　one　of　the　most　aristocratic　in　New　England。　　I　had　known
him　by　his　novel　of　'Wensley'　（it　came　so　near　being　a　first…rate　novel）；
and　by　his　Life　of　Josiah　Quincy；　then　a　new　book；　but　still　better　by
his　Boston　letters　to　the　New　York　Tribune。　　These　dealt　frankly；　in　the
old　anti…slavery　days　between　1850　and　1860；　with　other　persons　of
distinction　in　Boston；　who　did　not　see　the　right　so　clearly　as　Quincy
did；　or　who　at　least　let　their　interests　darken　them　to　the　ugliness　of
slavery。　　Their　fault　was　all　the　more　comical　because　it　was　the　error
of　men　otherwise　so　correct；　of　characters　so　stainless；　of　natures　so
upright；　and　the　Quincy　letters　got　out　of　it　all　the　fun　there　was　in
it。　　Quincy　himself　affected　me　as　the　finest　patrician　type　I　had　ever
met。　　He　was　charmingly　handsome；　with　a　nose　of　most　fit　aquilinity；
smooth…shaven　lips；　〃educated　whiskers；〃　and　perfect　glasses；　his　manner
was　beautiful；　his　voice　delightful；　when　at　our　first　meeting　he　made　me
his　reproaches　in　terms　of　lovely　kindness　for　having　used　in　my
'Venetian　Life'　the　Briticism　'directly'　for　'as　soon　as。'

Lowell　once　told　me　that　Quincy　had　never　had　any　calling　or　profession；
because　when　he　found　himself　in　the　enjoyment　of　a　moderate　income　on
leaving　college；　he　decided　to　be　simply　a　gentleman。　　He　was　too　much　of
a　man　to　be　merely　that；　and　he　was　an　abolitionist；　a　journalist；　and
for　conscience'　sake　a　satirist。　　Of　that　political　mood　of　society　which
he　satirized　was　an　eminent　man　whom　it　was　also　my　good　fortune　to　meet
in　my　early　days　in　Boston；　and　if　his　great　sweetness　and　kindness　had
not　instantly　won　my　liking；　I　should　still　have　been　glad　of　the　glimpse
of　the　older　and　statelier　Boston　which　my　slight　acquaintance　with
George　Ticknor　gave　me。　　The　historian　of　Spanish　literature；　the　friend
and　biographer　of　Prescott；　and　a　leading　figure　of　the　intellectual
society　of　an　epoch　already　closed；　dwelt　in　the　fine　old　square　brick
mansion　which　yet　stands　at　the　corner　of　Park　Street　and　Beacon；　though
sunk　now　to　a　variety　of　business　uses；　and　lamentably　changed　in　aspect。
The　interior　was　noble；　and　there　was　an　air　of　scholarly　quiet　and　of
lettered　elegance　in　the　library；　where　the　host　received　his　guests；
which　seemed　to　pervade　the　whole　house；　and　which　made　its　appeal　to　the
imagination　of　one　of　them　most　potently。　　It　seemed　to　me　that　to　be
master　of　such　circumstance　and　keeping　would　be　enough　of　life　in　a
certain　way；　and　it　all　lingers　in　my　memory　yet；　as　if　it　were　one　with
the　gentle　courtesy　which　welcomed　me。

Among　my　fellow…guests　one　night　was　George　S。　Hillard；　now　a　faded
reputation；　and　even　then　a　life　defeated　of　the　high　expectation　of　its
youth。　　I　do　not　know　whether　his　'Six　Months　in　Italy'　still　keeps
itself　in　print；　but　it　was　a　book　once　very　well　known；　and　he　was
perhaps　the　more　gracious　to　me；　as　our　host　was；　because　of　our　common
Italian　background。　　He　was　of　the　old　Silver…gray　Whig　society　too；　and
I　suppose　that　order　of　things　imparted　its　tone　to　what　I　felt　and　saw
in　that　place。　　The　civil　war　had　come　and　gone；　and　that　order　accepted
the　result　if　not　with　faith；　then　with　patience。　　There　were　two　young
English　noblemen　there　that　night；　who　had　been　travelling　in　the　South；
and　whose　stories　of　the　wretched　conditions　they　had　seen　moved　our　host
to　some　open　misgiving。　　But　the　Englishmen　had　no　question；　in　spite　of
all；　they　defended　the　accomplished　fact；　and　when　I　ventured　to　say　that
now　at　least　there　could　be　a　hope　of　better　things；　while　the　old　order
was　only　the　perpetuation　of　despair；　he　mildly　assented；　with　a　gesture
of　the　hand　that　waived　the　point；　and　a　deeply　sighed；　〃Perhaps；
perhaps。〃

He　was　a　presence　of　great　dignity；　which　seemed　to　recall　the　past　with
a　steadfast　allegiance；　and　yet　to　relax　itself　towards　the　present　in
the　wisdom　of　the　accumulated　years。　　His　whole　life　had　been　passed　in
devotion　to　polite　literature　and　in　the　society　of　the　polite　world；　and
he　was　a　type　of　scholar　such　as　only　the　circumstances　of　Boston　could
form。　　Those　circumstances　could　alone　form　such　another　type　as　Quincy；
and　I　wish　I　could　have　felt　then　as　I　do　now　the　advantage　of　meeting
them　so　contemporaneously。




VII。

The　historian　of　Spanish　literature　was　an　old　man　nearer　eighty　than
seventy　when　I　saw　him；　and　I　recall　of　him　personally　his　dark　tint；
and　the　scholarly　refinement　of　his　clean…shaven　face；　which　seemed　to　me
rather　English　than　American　in　character。　　He　was　quite　exterior　to　the
Atlantic　group　of　writers；　and　had　no　interest　in　me　as　one　of　it。
Literary　Boston　of　that　day　was　not　a　solidarity；　as　I　soon　perceived；
and　I　understood　that　it　was　only　in　my　quality　of　stranger　that　I　saw
the　different　phases　of　it。　　I　should　not　be　just　to　a　vivid　phase　if　I
failed　to　speak　of　Mrs。　Julia　Ward　Howe　and　the　impulse　of　reform　which
she　personified。　　I　did　not　sympathize　with　this　then　so　much　as　I　do
now；　but　I　could　appreciate　it　on　the　intellectual　side。　　Once；　many
years　later；　I　heard　Mrs。　Howe　speak　in　public；　and　it　seemed　to　me　that
she　made　one　of　the　best　speeches　I　had　ever　heard。　　It　gave　me　for　the
first　time　a　notion　of　what　women　might　do　in　that　sort　if　they　entered
public　life；　but　when　we　met　in　those　earlier　days　I　was　interested　in
her　as　perhaps　our　chief　poetess。　　I　believe　she　did　not　care　much　to
speak　of　literature；　she　was　alert　for　other　meanings　in　life；　and　I
remember　how　she　once　brought　to　book　a　youthful　matron　who　had　perhaps
unduly　lamented　the　hardships　of　housekeeping；　with　the　sharp　demand；
〃Child；　where　is　your　religion？〃　　After　the　many　years　of　an　acquaintance
which　had　not　nearly　so　many　meetings　as　years；　it　was　pleasant　to　find
her；　at　the　latest；　as　strenuous　as　ever　for　the　faith　of　works；　and　as
eager　to　aid　Stepniak　as　John　Brown。　　In　her　beautiful　old　age　she
survives　a　certain　literary　impulse　of　Boston；　but　a　still　higher　impulse
of　Boston　she　will　not　survive；　for　that　will　last　while　the　city
endures。




VIII。

The　Cambridge　men　were　curiously　apart　from　others　that　formed　the　great
New　England　group；　and　with　whom　in　my　earlier　ignorance　I　had　always
fancied　them　mingling。　　Now　and　then　I　met　Doctor　Holmes　at　Longfellow's
table；　but　not　oftener　than　now　and　then；　and　I　never　saw　Emerson　in
Cambridge　at　all　except　at　Longfellow's　funeral。　　In　my　first　years　on
the　Atlantic　I　sometimes　saw　him；　when　he　would　address　me　some　grave；
rather　retrorsive　civilities；　after　I　had　been　newly　introduced　to　him；
as　I　had　always　to　be　on　these　occasions。　　I　formed　the　belief　that　he
did　not　care　for　me；　either　in　my　being　or　doing；　and　I　am　far　from
blaming　him　for　that：　on　such　points　there　might　easily　be　two　opinions；
and　I　was　myself　often　of　the　mind　I　imagined　in　him。

If　Emerson　forgot　me；　it　was　perhaps　because　I　was　not　of　those　qualities
of　things　which　even　then；　it　was　said；　he　could　remember　so　much　better
than　things　themselves。　　In　his　later　years　I　sometimes　saw　him　in　the
Boston　streets　with　his　beautiful　face　dreamily　set；　as　he　moved　like　one
to　whose　vision

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　〃Heaven　opens　inward；　chasms　yawn；
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Vast　images　in　glimmering　dawn；
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Half　shown；　are　broken　and　withdrawn。〃

It　is　known　how　before　the　end　the　eclipse　became　total　and　from　moment
to　moment　the　record　inscribed　upon　his　mind　was　erased。　　Some　years
before　he　died　I　sat　between　him　and　Mrs。　Rose　Terry　Cooke；　at　an
'Atlantic　Breakfast'　where　it　was　part　of　my　editorial　function　to
preside。　　When　he　was　not　asking　me　who　she　was；　I　could　hear　him　asking
her　who　I　was。　　His　great　soul　worked　so　independently　of　memory　as　we
conceive　it；　and　so　powerfully　and　essentially；　that　one　could　not　help
wondering　if；　after　all；　our　personal　continuity；　our　identity　hereafter；
was　necessarily　trammeled　up　with　our　enduring　knowledge　of　what　happens
here。　　His　remembrance　absolutely　ceased　with　an　event；　and　yet　his
character；　his　personality；　his　id