the white mr. longfellow-第7节

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would　not　be　aware　of　having　slept。　　〃　But；〃　he　would　add；　with　his
heavenly　patience；　〃I　always　get　a　good　deal　of　rest　from　lying　down　so
long。〃　　I　cannot　say　whether　these　conditions　persisted；　or　how　much　his
insomnia　had　to　do　with　his　breaking　health；　three　or　four　years　before
the　end　came；　we　left　Cambridge　for　a　house　farther　in　the　country；　and　I
saw　him　less　frequently　than　before。　　He　did　not　allow　our　meetings　to
cease；　he　asked　me　to　dinner　from　time　to　time；　as　if　to　keep　them　up；
but　it　could　not　be　with　the　old　frequency。　　Once　he　made　a　point　of
coming　to　see　us　in　our　cottage　on　the　hill　west　of　Cambridge；　but　it　was
with　an　effort　not　visible　in　the　days　when　he　could　end　one　of　his　brief
walks　at　our　house　on　Concord　Avenue；　he　never　came　but　he　left　our　house
more　luminous　for　his　having　been　there。　　Once　he　came　to　supper　there　to
meet　Garfield　（an　old　family　friend　of　mine　in　Ohio）；　and　though　he　was
suffering　from　a　heavy　cold；　he　would　not　scant　us　in　his　stay。　　I　had
some　very　bad　sherry　which　he　drank　with　the　serenity　of　a　martyr；　and　I
shudder　to　this　day　to　think　what　his　kindness　must　have　cost　him。　　He
told　his　story　of　the　clothes…line　ghost；　and　Garfield　matched　it　with
the　story　of　an　umbrella　ghost　who　sheltered　a　friend　of　his　through　a
midnight　storm；　but　was　not　cheerful　company　to　his　beneficiary；　who
passed　his　hand　through　him　at　one　point　in　the　effort　to　take　his　arm。

After　the　end　of　four　years　I　came　to　Cambridge　to　be　treated　for　a　long
sickness；　which　had　nearly　been　my　last；　and　when　I　could　get　about　I
returned　the　visit　Longfellow　had　not　failed　to　pay　me。　　But　I　did　not
find　him；　and　I　never　saw　him　again　in　life。　　I　went　into　Boston　to
finish　the　winter　of　1881…2；　and　from　time　to　time　I　heard　that　the　poet
was　failing　in　health。　　As　soon　as　I　felt　able　to　bear　the　horse…car
journey　I　went　out　to　Cambridge　to　see　him。　　I　had　knocked　once　at　his
door；　the　friendly　door　that　had　so　often　opened　to　his　welcome；　and
stood　with　the　knocker　in　my　hand　when　the　door　was　suddenly　set　ajar；
and　a　maid　showed　her　face　wet　with　tears。　　〃How　is　Mr。　Longfellow？〃
I　palpitated；　and　with　a　burst　of　grief　she　answered；　〃Oh；　the　poor
gentleman　has　just　departed！〃　　I　turned　away　as　if　from　a　helpless
intrusion　at　a　death…bed。

At　the　services　held　in　the　house　before　the　obsequies　at　the　cemetery；　I
saw　the　poet　for　the　last　time；　where

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　〃Dead　he　lay　among　his　books；〃

in　the　library　behind　his　study。　　Death　seldom　fails　to　bring　serenity　to
all；　and　I　will　not　pretend　that　there　was　a　peculiar　peacefulness　in
Longfellow's　noble　mask；　as　I　saw　it　then。　　It　was　calm　and　benign　as　it
had　been　in　life；　he　could　not　have　worn　a　gentler　aspect　in　going　out　of
the　world　than　he　had　always　worn　in　it；　he　had　not　to　wait　for　death　to
dignify　it　with　〃the　peace　of　God。〃　　All　who　were　left　of　his　old
Cambridge　were　present；　and　among　those　who　had　come　farther　was　Emerson。
He　went　up　to　the　bier；　and　with　his　arms　crossed　on　his　breast；　and　his
elbows　held　in　either　hand；　stood　with　his　head　pathetically　fallen
forward；　looking　down　at　the　dead　face。　　Those　who　knew　how　his　memory
was　a　mere　blank；　with　faint　gleams　of　recognition　capriciously　coming
and　going　in　it；　must　have　felt　that　he　was　struggling　；to　remember　who
it　was　lay　there　before　him；　and　for　me　the　electly　simple　words
confessing　his　failure　will　always　be　pathetic　with　his　remembered
aspect：　〃The　gentleman　we　have　just　been　burying；〃　he　said；　to　the　friend
who　had　come　with　him；　〃was　a　sweet　and　beautiful　soul；　but　I　forget　his
name。〃

I　had　the　privilege　and　honor　of　looking　over　the　unprinted　poems
Longfellow　left　behind　him；　and　of　helping　to　decide　which　of　them　should
be　published。

There　were　not　many　of　them；　and　some　of　these　few　were　quite
fragmentary。　　I　gave　my　voice　for　the　publication　of　all　that　had　any
sort　of　completeness；　for　in　every　one　there　was　a　touch　of　his　exquisite
art；　the　grace　of　his　most　lovely　spirit。　　We　have　so　far　had　two　men
only　who　felt　the　claim　of　their　gift　to　the　very　best　that　the　most
patient　skill　could　give　its　utterance：　one　was　Hawthorne　and　the　other
was　Longfellow。　　I　shall　not　undertake　to　say　which　was　the　greater
artist　of　these　two；　but　I　am　sure　that　every　one　who　has　studied　it　must
feel　with　me　that　the　art　of　Longfellow　held　out　to　the　end　with　no　touch
of　decay　in　it；　and　that　it　equalled　the　art　of　any　other　poet　of　his
time。　　It　knew　when　to　give　itself；　and　more　and　more　it　knew　when　to
withhold　itself。

What　Longfellow's　place　in　literature　will　be；　I　shall　not　offer　to　say；
that　is　Time's　affair；　not　mine；　but　I　am　sure　that　with　Tennyson　and
Browning　he　fully　shared　in　the　expression　of　an　age　which　more
completely　than　any　former　age　got　itself　said　by　its　poets。









End