the white mr. longfellow-第2节

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from　the　proof…sheets　on　the　round　table　before　him；　and　over　at　me；
growing　consciously　smaller　and　smaller；　like　something　through　a
reversed　opera…glass。　　He　had　a　shaded　drop…light　in　front　of　him；　and　in
its　glow　his　beautiful　and　benignly　noble　head　had　a　dignity　peculiar　to
him。

All　the　portraits　of　Longfellow　are　likenesses　more　or　less　bad　and　good；
for　there　was　something　as　simple　in　the　physiognomy　as　in　the　nature　of
the　man。　　His　head；　after　he　allowed　his　beard　to　grow　and　wore　his　hair
long　in　the　manner　of　elderly　men；　was　leonine；　but　mildly　leonine；　as
the　old　painters　conceived　the　lion　of　St。　Mark。　　Once　Sophocles；　the　ex…
monk　of　Mount　Athos；　so　long　a　Greek　professor　at　Harvard；　came　in　for
supper；　after　the　reading　was　over；　and　he　was　leonine　too；　but　of　a
fierceness　that　contrasted　finely　with　Longfellow's　mildness。　　I　remember
the　poet's　asking　him　something　about　the　punishment　of　impaling；　in
Turkey；　and　his　answering；　with　an　ironical　gleam　of　his　fiery　eyes；
〃Unhappily；　it　is　obsolete。〃　　I　dare　say　he　was　not　so　leonine；　either；
as　he　looked。

When　Longfellow　read　verse；　it　was　with　a　hollow；　with　a　mellow　resonant
murmur；　like　the　note　of　some　deep…throated　horn。　　His　voice　was　very
lulling　in　quality；　and　at　the　Dante　Club　it　used　to　have　early　effect
with　an　old　scholar　who　sat　in　a　cavernous　armchair　at　the　corner　of　the
fire；　and　who　drowsed　audibly　in　the　soft　tone　and　the　gentle　heat。　　The
poet　had　a　fat　terrier　who　wished　always　to　be　present　at　the　meetings　of
the　Club；　and　he　commonly　fell　asleep　at　the　same　moment　with　that　dear
old　scholar；　so　that　when　they　began　to　make　themselves　heard　in　concert；
one　could　not　tell　which　it　was　that　most　took　our　thoughts　from　the　text
of　the　Paradiso。　　When　the　duet　opened；　Longfellow　would　look　up　with　an
arch　recognition　of　the　fact；　and　then　go　gravely　on　to　the　end　of　the
canto。　　At　the　close　he　would　speak　to　his　friend　and　lead　him　out　to
supper　as　if　he　had　not　seen　or　heard　anything　amiss。




III。

In　that　elect　company　I　was　silent；　partly　because　I　was　conscious　of　my
youthful　inadequacy；　and　partly　because　I　preferred　to　listen。　　But
Longfellow　always　behaved　as　if　I　were　saying　a　succession　of　edifying
and　delightful　things；　and　from　time　to　time　he　addressed　himself　to　me；
so　that　I　should　not　feel　left　out。　　He　did　not　talk　much　himself；　and　I
recall　nothing　that　he　said。　　But　he　always　spoke　both　wisely　and　simply；
without　the　least　touch　of　pose；　and　with　no　intention　of　effect；　but
with　something　that　I　must　call　quality　for　want　of　a　better　word；　so
that　at　a　table　where　Holmes　sparkled；　and　Lowell　glowed；　and　Agassiz
beamed；　he　cast　the　light　of　a　gentle　gaiety；　which　seemed　to　dim　all
these　vivider　luminaries。　　While　he　spoke　you　did　not　miss　Fields's　story
or　Tom　Appleton's　wit；　or　even　the　gracious　amity　of　Mr。　Norton；　with　his
unequalled　intuitions。

The　supper　was　very　plain：　a　cold　turkey；　which　the　host　carved；　or　a
haunch　of　venison；　or　some　braces　of　grouse；　or　a　platter　of　quails；　with
a　deep　bowl　of　salad；　and　the　sympathetic　companionship　of　those　elect
vintages　which　Longfellow　loved；　and　which　he　chose　with　the　inspiration
of　affection。　　We　usually　began　with　oysters；　and　when　some　one　who　was
expected　did　not　come　promptly；　Longfellow　invited　us　to　raid　his　plate；
as　a　just　punishment　of　his　delay。　　One　evening　Lowell　remarked；　with　the
cayenne　poised　above　his　bluepoints；　〃It's　astonishing　how　fond　these
fellows　are　of　pepper。〃

The　old　friend　of　the　cavernous　arm…chair　was　perhaps　not　wide　enough
awake　to　repress　an　〃Ah？〃　of　deep　interest　in　this　fact　of　natural
history；　and　Lowell　was　provoked　to　go　on。　　〃Yes；　I've　dropped　a　red
pepper　pod　into　a　barrel　of　them；　before　now；　and　then　taken　them　out　in
a　solid　mass；　clinging　to　it　like　a　swarm　of　bees　to　their　queen。〃

〃Is　it　possible？〃　cried　the　old　friend；　and　then　Longfellow　intervened　to
save　him　from　worse；　and　turned　the　talk。

I　reproach　myself　that　I　made　no　record　of　the　talk；　for　I　find　that　only
a　few　fragments　of　it　have　caught　in　my　memory；　and　that　the　sieve　which
should　have　kept　the　gold　has　let　it　wash　away　with　the　gravel。
I　remember　once　Doctor　Holmes's　talking　of　the　physician　as　the　true
seer；　whose　awful　gift　it　was　to　behold　with　the　fatal　second　sight　of
science　the　shroud　gathering　to　the　throat　of　many　a　doomed　man
apparently　in　perfect　health；　and　happy　in　the　promise　of　unnumbered
days。　　The　thought　may　have　been　suggested　by　some　of　the　toys　of
superstition　which　intellectual　people　like　to　play　with。

I　never　could　be　quite　sure　at　first　that　Longfellow's　brother…in…law；
Appleton；　was　seriously　a　spiritualist；　even　when　he　disputed　the　most
strenuously　with　the　unbelieving　Autocrat。　　But　he　really　was　in　earnest
about　it；　though　he　relished　a　joke　at　the　expense　of　his　doctrine；　like
some　clerics　when　they　are　in　the　safe　company　of　other　clerics。　　He　told
me　once　of　having　recounted　to　Agassiz　the　facts　of　a　very　remarkable
seance；　where　the　souls　of　the　departed　outdid　themselves　in　the
athletics　and　acrobatics　they　seem　so　fond　of　over　there；　throwing　large
stones　across　the　room；　moving　pianos；　and　lifting　dinner…tables　and
setting　them　a…twirl　under　the　chandelier。　　〃And　now；〃　he　demanded；　〃what
do　you　say　to　that？〃　　〃Well；　Mr。　Appleton；〃　Agassiz　answered；　to
Appleton's　infinite　delight；　〃I　say　that　it　did　not　happen。〃

One　night　they　began　to　speak　at　the　Dante　supper　of　the　unhappy　man
whose　crime　is　a　red　stain　in　the　Cambridge　annals；　and　one　and　another
recalled　their　impressions　of　Professor　Webster。　　It　was　possibly　with　a
retroactive　sense　that　they　had　all　felt　something　uncanny　in　him；　but；
apropos　of　the　deep　salad…bowl　in　the　centre　of　the　table；　Longfellow
remembered　a　supper　Webster　was　at；　where　he　lighted　some　chemical　in
such　a　dish　and　held　his　head　over　it；　with　a　handkerchief　noosed　about
his　throat　and　lifted　above　it　with　one　hand；　while　his　face；　in　the　pale
light；　took　on　the　livid　ghastliness　of　that　of　a　man　hanged　by　the　neck。

Another　night　the　talk　wandered　to　the　visit　which　an　English　author　（now
with　God）　paid　America　at　the　height　of　a　popularity　long　since　toppled
to　the　ground；　with　many　another。　　He　was　in　very　good　humor　with　our
whole　continent；　and　at　Longfellow's　table　he　found　the　champagne　even
surprisingly　fine。　　〃But；〃　he　said　to　his　host；　who　now　told　the　story；
〃it　cawn't　be　genuine；　you　know！〃

Many　years　afterwards　this　author　revisited　our　shores；　and　I　dined　with
him　at　Longfellow's；　where　he　was　anxious　to　constitute　himself　a　guest
during　his　sojourn　in　our　neighborhood。　　Longfellow　was　equally　anxious
that　he　should　not　do　so；　and　he　took　a　harmless　pleasure　in　out…
manoeuvring　him。　　He　seized　a　chance　to　speak　with　me　alone；　and　plotted
to　deliver　him　over　to　me　without　apparent　unkindness；　when　the　latest
horse…car　should　be　going　in　to　Boston；　and　begged　me　to　walk　him　to
Harvard　Square　and　put　him　aboard。　　〃Put　him　aboard；　and　don't　leave　him
till　the　car　starts；　and　then　watch　that　he　doesn't　get　off。〃

These　instructions　he　accompanied　with　a　lifting　of　the　eyebrows；　and　a
pursing　of　the　mouth；　in　an　anxiety　not　altogether　burlesque。　　He　knew
himself　the　prey　of　any　one　who　chose　to　batten　on　him；　and　his
hospitality　was　subject　to　frightful　abuse。　　Perhaps　Mr。　Norton　has
somewhere　told　how；　when　he　asked　if　a　certain　person　who　had　been
outstaying　his　time　was　not　a　dreadful　bore；　Longfellow　answered；　with
angelic　patience；　〃Yes；　but　then　you　know　I　have　been　bored　so　often！〃

There　was　one　fatal　Englishman　whom　I　shared　with　him　during　the　great
part　of　a　season：　a　poor　soul；　not　without　gifts；　but　always　ready　for
more；　especially　if　they　took　the　form　of　meat　and　drink。　　He　had　brought
letters　from　one　of　the　best　English　men　alive；　who　withdrew　them　too
late　to　save　his　American　friends　from　the　sad　consequences　of　welcoming
him。　　So　he　established　himself　impregnably　in　a　Boston　club；　and　came
out　every　day　to　dine　with　Longfellow　in　Cambridge；　beginning　with　his
return　from　Nahant　in　October　and　continuing　far　into　December。　　That　was
the　year　of　the　great　horse…distemper；　when　the　plague　disabled　the
transportation　in　Boston；　and　cut　off　all　intercourse　between　the　suburb
and　the　city　on　the　street　railways。　　〃I　did　think；〃　Longfellow
pathetically　lamented；　〃that　when　the　horse…cars　stopped　running；　I
should　have　a　little　respite　from　L。；　but　he　walks　out。〃

In　the　midst　of　his　own　suffering　he　was　willing　to　advise　with　me
concerning　some　poems　L。　had　offered　to　the　Atlantic　Monthly；　and　after
we　had　desperately　read　them　together　he　said；　with　inspiration；　〃I　think
these　things　are　more　adapted　to　music　than　the　magazine；〃　and　this
seemed　so　good　a　notion　that　when　L。　came　to　know　their　fate　from　me；
I　answered；　confidently；　〃I　think　they　are　rather　more　adapted　to　music。〃
He　calmly　asked；　〃Why？〃　and　as　this　was　an　exigency　which　Longfellow　had
not　forecast　for　me；　I　was　caught　in　it　without　hope　of　escape。　　I　really
do　not　know　what　I　said；　but　I　know　that　I　did　not　take　the　poems；　such
was　my　literary　conscience　in　tho