roundabout to boston-第2节

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worshipper's　own　showing；　scarcely　level　with　the　popular　movement　which
he　did　not　so　much　direct　as　follow；　but　it　is　a　good　deal　for　a　prince
to　be　able　even　to　follow　his　people；　and　it　cannot　be　said　that　Motley
does　not　fully　recognize　the　greatness　of　the　Dutch　people；　though　he　may
see　the　Prince　of　Orange　too　large。　　The　study　of　their　character　made　at
least　a　theoretical　democrat　of　a　scholar　whose　instincts　were　not
perhaps　democratic；　and　his　sympathy　with　that　brave　little　republic
between　the　dikes　strengthened　him　in　his　fealty　to　the　great
commonwealth　between　the　oceans。　　I　believe　that　so　far　as　he　was　of　any
political　tradition；　he　was　of　the　old　Boston　Whig　tradition；　but　when　I
met　him　at　Venice　he　was　in　the　glow　of　a　generous　pride　in　our　war　as　a
war　against　slavery。　　He　spoke　of　the　negroes　and　their　simple…hearted；
single…minded　devotion　to　the　Union　cause　in　terms　that　an　original
abolitionist　might　have　used；　at　a　time　when　original　abolitionists　were
not　so　many　as　they　have　since　become。

For　the　rest；　I　fancy　it　was　very　well　for　us　to　be　represented　at　Vienna
in　those　days　by　an　ideal　democrat　who　was　also　a　real　swell；　and　who　was
not　likely　to　discredit　us　socially　when　we　so　much　needed　to　be　well
thought　of　in　every　way。


At　a　court　where　the　family　of　Count　Schmerling；　the　Prime　Minister；
could　not　be　received　for　want　of　the　requisite　descents；　it　was　well　to
have　a　minister　who　would　not　commit　the　mistake　of　inviting　the　First
Society　to　meet　the　Second　Society；　as　a　former　Envoy　Extraordinary　had
done；　with　the　effect　of　finding　himself　left　entirely　to　the　Second
Society　during　the　rest　of　his　stay　in　Vienna。




II。

One　of　my　consular　colleagues　under　Motley　was　another　historian；　of　no
such　popularity；　indeed；　nor　even　of　such　success；　but　perhaps　not　of
inferior　powers。　　This　was　Richard　Hildreth；　at　Trieste；　the　author　of
one　of　the　sincerest　if　not　the　truest　histories　of　the　United　States；
according　to　the　testimony　both　of　his　liking　and　his　misliking　critics。
I　have　never　read　his　history；　and　I　speak　of　it　only　at　second　hand；　but
I　had　read；　before　I　met　him；　his　novel　of　'Archy　Moore；　or　The　White
Slave'；　which　left　an　indelible　impression　of　his　imaginative　verity　upon
me。　　The　impression　is　still　so　deep　that　after　the　lapse　of　nearly　forty
years　since　I　saw　the　book；　I　have　no　misgiving　in　speaking　of　it　as　a
powerful　piece　of　realism。　　It　treated　passionately；　intensely；　though
with　a　superficial　coldness；　of　wrongs　now　so　remote　from　us　in　the
abolition　of　slavery　that　it　is　useless　to　hope　it　will　ever　beg
generally　read　hereafter；　but　it　can　safely　be　praised　to　any　one　who
wishes　to　study　that　bygone　condition；　and　the　literature　which　grew　out
of　it。　　I　fancy　it　did　not　lack　recognition　in　its　time；　altogether；　for
I　used　to　see　it　in　Italian　and　French　translations　on　the　bookstalls。
I　believe　neither　his　history　nor　his　novel　brought　the　author　more　gain
than　fame。　　He　had　worn　himself　out　on　a　newspaper　when　he　got　his
appointment　at　Trieste；　and　I　saw　him　in　the　shadow　of　the　cloud　that　was
wholly　to　darken　him　before　he　died。　　He　was　a　tall　thin　man；　absent；
silent：　already　a　phantom　of　himself；　but　with　a　scholarly　serenity　and
dignity　amidst　the　ruin；　when　the　worst　came。

I　first　saw　him　at　the　pretty　villa　where　he　lived　in　the　suburbs　of
Trieste；　and　where　I　passed　several　days；　and　I　remember　him　always
reading；　reading；　reading。　　He　could　with　difficulty　be　roused　from　his
book　by　some　strenuous　appeal　from　his　family　to　his　conscience　as　a
host。　　The　last　night　he　sat　with　Paradise　Lost　in　his　hand；　and　nothing
could　win　him　from　it　till　he　had　finished　it。　　Then　he　rose　to　go　to
bed。　　Would　not　he　bid　his　parting　guest　good…bye？　　The　idea　of　farewell
perhaps　dimly　penetrated　to　him。　　He　responded　without　looking　round；

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　〃They；　hand　in　hand；　with　wandering　steps　and　slow；
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Through　Eden　took　their　solitary　way；〃

and　so　left　the　room。

I　had　earlier　had　some　dealings　with　him　as　a　fellow…consul　concerning　a
deserter　from　an　American　ship　whom　I　inherited　from　my　predecessor　at
Venice。　　The　man　had　already　been　four　or　five　months　in　prison；　and　he
was　in　a　fair　way　to　end　his　life　there；　for　it　is　our　law　that　a
deserting　sailor　must　be　kept　in　the　consul's　custody　till　some　vessel　of
our　flag　arrives；　when　the　consul　can　oblige　the　master　to　take　the
deserter　and　let　him　work　his　passage　home。　　Such　a　vessel　rarely　came　to
Venice　even　in　times　of　peace；　and　in　times　of　war　there　was　no　hope　of
any。　　So　I　got　leave　of　the　consul　at　Trieste　to　transfer　my　captive　to
that　port；　where　now　and　then　an　American　ship　did　touch。　　The　flag
determines　the　nationality　of　the　sailor；　and　this　unhappy　wretch　was
theoretically　our　fellow…citizen；　but　when　he　got　to　Trieste　he　made　a
clean　breast　of　it　to　the　consul。　　He　confessed　that　when　he　shipped
under　our　flag　he　was　a　deserter　from　a　British　regiment　at　Malta；　and　he
begged　piteously　not　to　be　sent　home　to　America；　where　he　had　never　been
in　his　life；　nor　ever　wished　to　be。　　He　wished　to　be　sent　back　to　his
regiment　at　Malta；　and　to　whatever　fate　awaited　him　there。　　The　case
certainly　had　its　embarrassments；　but　the　American　consul　contrived　to
let　our　presumptive　compatriot　slip　into　the　keeping　of　the　British
consul；　who　promptly　shipped　him　to　Malta。　　In　view　of　the　strained
relations　between　England　and　America　at　that　time　this　was　a　piece　of
masterly　diplomacy。

Besides　my　old　Ohio…time　friend　Moncure　D。　Conway；　who　paid　us　a　visit；
and　in　his　immediate　relations　with　literary　Boston　seemed　to　bring　the
mountain　to　Mahomet；　I　saw　no　one　else　more　literary　than　Henry　Ward
Beecher。　　He　was　passing　through　Venice　on　his　way　to　those　efforts　in
England　in　behalf　of　the　Union　which　had　a　certain　great　effect　at　the
time；　and　in　the　tiny　parlor　of　our　apartment　on　the　Grand　Canal；　I　can
still　see　him　sitting　athletic；　almost　pugilistic；　of　presence；　with　his
strong　face；　but　kind；　framed　in　long　hair　that　swept　above　his　massive
forehead；　and　fell　to　the　level　of　his　humorously　smiling　mouth。　　His
eyes　quaintly　gleamed　at　the　things　we　told　him　of　our　life　in　the
strange　place；　but　he　only　partly　relaxed　from　his　strenuous　pose；　and
the　hands　that　lay　upon　his　knees　were　clinched。　　Afterwards；　as　he
passed　our　balcony　in　a　gondola；　he　lifted　the　brave　red　fez　he　was
wearing　（many　people　wore　the　fez　for　one　caprice　or　another）　and　saluted
our　eagle　and　us：　we　were　often　on　the　balcony　behind　the　shield　to
attest　the　authenticity　of　the　American　eagle。




III。

Before　I　left　Venice；　however；　there　came　a　turn　in　my　literary　luck；　and
from　the　hand　I　could　most　have　wished　to　reverse　the　adverse　wheel　of
fortune。　　I　had　labored　out　with　great　pains　a　paper　on　recent　Italian
comedy；　which　I　sent　to　Lowell；　then　with　his　friend　Professor　Norton
jointly　editor　of　the　North　American　Review；　and　he　took　it　and　wrote　me
one　of　his　loveliest　letters　about　it；　consoling　me　in　an　instant　for　all
the　defeat　I　had　undergone；　and　making　it　sweet　and　worthy　to　have　lived
through　that　misery。　　It　is　one　of　the　hard　conditions　of　this　state　that
while　we　can　mostly　make　out　to　let　people　taste　the　last　drop　of
bitterness　and　ill…will　that　is　in　us；　our　love　and　gratitude　are　only
semi…articulate　at　the　best；　and　usually　altogether　tongue…tied。　　As
often　as　I　tried　afterwards　to　tell　Lowell　of　the　benediction；　the
salvation；　his　letter　was　to　me；　I　failed。　　But　perhaps　he　would　not　have
understood；　if　I　had　spoken　out　all　that　was　in　me　with　the　fulness　I
could　have　given　a　resentment。　　His　message　came　after　years　of　thwarted
endeavor；　and　reinstated　me　in　the　belief　that　I　could　still　do　something
in　literature。　　To　be　sure；　the　letters　in　the　Advertiser　had　begun　to
make　their　impression；　among　the　first　great　pleasures　they　brought　me
was　a　recognition　from　my　diplomatic　chief　at　Vienna；　but　I　valued　my
admission　to　the　North　American　peculiarly　because　it　was　Lowell　let　me
in；　and　because　I　felt　that　in　his　charge　it　must　be　the　place　of　highest
honor。　　He　spoke　of　the　pay　for　my　article；　in　his　letter；　and　asked　me
where　he　should　send　it；　and　I　answered；　to　my　father…in…law；　who　put　it
in　his　savings…bank；　where　he　lived；　in　Brattleboro；　Vermont。　　There　it
remained；　and　I　forgot　all　about　it；　so　that　when　his　affairs　were
settled　some　years　later　and　I　was　notified　that　there　was　a　sum　to　my
credit　in　the　bank；　I　said；　with　the　confidence　I　have　nearly　always　felt
when　wrong；　that　I　had　no　money　there。　　The　proof　of　my　error　was　sent　me
in　a　check；　and　then　I　bethought　me　of　the　pay　for　〃Recent　Italian
Comedy。〃

It　was　not　a　day　when　I　could　really　afford　to　forget　money　due　me；　but
then　it　was　not　a　great　deal　of　money。　　The　Review　was　as　poor　as　it　was
proud；　and　I　had　two　dollars　a　printed　page　for　my　paper。　　But　this　was
more　than　I　got　from　the　Advertiser；　which　gave　me　five　dollars　a　column
for　my　letters；　printed　in　a　type　so　fine　that　the　money；　when　translated
from　greenbacks　into　gold　at　a　discount　of　2。80；　must　have　been　about　a
dollar　a　t