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 identity fully persisted。
I do not know； whether the things that we printed for Emerson after his
memory began to fail so utterly were the work of earlier years or not；
but I know that they were of his best。 There were certain poems which
could not have been more electly； more exquisitely his； or fashioned with
a keener and juster self…criticism。 His vision transcended his time so
far that some who have tired themselves out in trying to catch up with
him have now begun to say that he was no seer at all； but I doubt if
these form the last court of appeal in his case。 In manner； he was very
gentle； like all those great New England men； but he was cold； like many
of them； to the new…comer； or to the old…comer who came newly。 As I have
elsewhere recorded； I once heard him speak critically of Hawthorne； and
once he expressed his surprise at the late flowering brilliancy of
Holmes's gift in the Autocrat papers after all his friends supposed it
had borne its best fruit。 But I recall no mention of Longfellow； or
Lowell； or Whittier from him。 At a dinner where the talk glanced upon
Walt Whitman he turned to me as perhaps representing the interest
posterity might take in the matter； and referred to Whitman's public use
of his privately written praise as something altogether unexpected。 He
did not disown it or withdraw it； but seemed to feel （not indignantly）
that there had been an abuse of it。
IX。
The first time I saw Whittier was in Fields's room at the publishing
office； where I had come upon some editorial errand to my chief。 He
introduced me to the poet： a tall； spare figure in black of Quaker cut；
with a keen； clean…shaven face； black hair； and vivid black eyes。 It was
just after his poem； 'Snow Bound'； had made its great success； in the
modest fashion of those days； and had sold not two hundred thousand but
twenty thousand； and I tried to make him my compliment。 I contrived to
say that I could not tell him how much I liked it； and he received the
inadequate expression of my feeling with doubtless as much effusion as he
would have met something more explicit and abundant。 If he had judged
fit to take my contract off my hands in any way； I think he would have
been less able to do so than any of his New England contemporaries。
In him； as I have suggested； the Quaker calm was bound by the frosty
Puritanic air； and he was doubly cold to the touch of the stranger；
though he would thaw out to old friends； and sparkle in laugh and joke。
I myself never got so far with him as to experience this geniality；
though afterwards we became such friends as an old man and a young man
could be who rarely met。 Our better acquaintance began with some talk；
at a second meeting； about Bayard Taylor's 'Story of Kennett'； which had
then lately appeared； and which he praised for its fidelity to Quaker
character in its less amiable aspects。 No doubt I had made much of my
own Quaker descent （which I felt was one of the few things I had to be
proud of）； and he therefore spoke the more frankly of those traits of
brutality into which the primitive sincerity of the sect sometimes
degenerated。 He thought the habit of plain…speaking had to be jealously
guarded to keep it from becoming rude…speaking； and he matched with
stories of his own some things I had heard my father tell of Friends in
the backwoods who were Foes to good manners。
Whittier was one of the most generous of men towards the work of others；
especially the work of a new man； and if I did anything that he liked；
I could count upon him for cordial recognition。 In the quiet of his
country home at Danvers he apparently read all the magazines； and kept
himself fully abreast of the literary movement； but I doubt if he so
fully appreciated the importance of the social movement。 Like some
others of the great anti…slavery men； he seemed to imagine that mankind
had won itself a clear field by destroying chattel slavery； and he had。
no sympathy with those who think that the man who may any moment be out
of work is in