first visit to new england-第15章

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with　poet's　eyes　lighting　an　aquiline　profile。　　Afterwards；　when　I　saw
him　afoot；　I　found　him　of　a　worldly　splendor　in　dress；　and　envied　him；
as　much　as　I　could　envy　him　anything；　the　New　York　tailor　whose　art　had
clothed　him：　I　had　a　New　York　tailor　too；　but　with　a　difference。　　He　had
a　worldly　dash　along　with　his　supermundane　gifts；　which　took　me　almost　as
much；　and　all　the　more　because　I　could　see　that　he　valued　himself　nothing
upon　it。　　He　was　all　for　literature；　and　for　literary　men　as　the
superiors　of　every　one。　　I　must　have　opened　my　heart　to　him　a　good　deal；
for　when　I　told　him　how　the　newspaper　I　had　written　for　from　Canada　and
New　England　had　ceased　to　print　my　letters；　he　said；　〃Think　of　a　man　like
sitting　in　judgment　on　a　man　like　you！〃　I　thought　of　it；　and　was　avenged
if　not　comforted；　and　at　any　rate　I　liked　Stedman's　standing　up　so
stiffly　for　the　honor　of　a　craft　that　is　rather　too　limp　in　some　of　its
votaries。

I　suppose　it　was　he　who　introduced　me　to　the　Stoddards；　whom　I　met　in　New
York　just　before　I　sailed；　and　who　were　then　in　the　glow　of　their　early
fame　as　poets。　　They　knew　about　my　poor　beginnings；　and　they　were　very；
very　good　to　me。　　Stoddard　went　with　me　to　Franklin　Square；　and　gave　the
sanction　of　his　presence　to　the　ineffectual　offer　of　my　poem　there。
But　what　I　relished　most　was　the　long　talks　I　had　with　them　both　about
authorship　in　all　its　phases；　and　the　exchange　of　delight　in　this　poem
and　that；　this　novel　and　that；　with　gay；　wilful　runs　away　to　make　some
wholly　irrelevant　joke；　or　fire　puns　into　the　air　at　no　mark　whatever。
Stoddard　had　then　a　fame；　with　the　sweetness　of　personal　affection　in　it；
from　the　lyrics　and　the　odes　that　will　perhaps　best　keep　him　known；　and
Mrs。　Stoddard　was　beginning　to　make　her　distinct　and　special　quality　felt
in　the　magazines；　in　verse　and　fiction。　　In　both　it　seems　to　me　that　she
has　failed　of　the　recognition　which　her　work　merits。　　Her　tales　and
novels　have　in　them　a　foretaste　of　realism；　which　was　too　strange　for　the
palate　of　their　day；　and　is　now　too　familiar；　perhaps。　　It　is　a　peculiar
fate；　and　would　form　the　scheme　of　a　pretty　study　in　the　history　of
literature。　　But　in　whatever　she　did　she　left　the　stamp　of　a　talent　like
no　other；　and　of　a　personality　disdainful　of　literary　environment。　　In　a
time　when　most　of　us　had　to　write　like　Tennyson；　or　Longfellow；　or
Browning；　she　never　would　write　like　any　one　but　herself。

I　remember　very　well　the　lodging　over　a　corner　of　Fourth　Avenue　and　some
downtown　street　where　I　visited　these　winning　and　gifted　people；　and
tasted　the　pleasure　of　their　racy　talk；　and　the　hospitality　of　their
good…will　toward　all　literature；　which　certainly　did　not　leave　me　out。
We　sat　before　their　grate　in　the　chill　of　the　last　October　days；　and　they
set　each　other　on　to　one　wild　flight　of　wit　after　another；　and　again　I
bathed　my　delighted　spirit　in　the　atmosphere　of　a　realm　where　for　the
time　at　least　no

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　〃rumor　of　oppression　or　defeat；
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Of　unsuccessful　or　successful　war；〃

could　penetrate。　　I　liked　the　Stoddards　because　they　were　frankly　not　of
that　Bohemia　which　I　disliked　so　much；　and　thought　it　of　no　promise　or
validity；　and　because　I　was　fond　of　their　poetry　and　found　them　in　it。
I　liked　the　absolutely　literary　keeping　of　their　lives。　　He　had　then；
and　for　long　after；　a　place　in　the　Custom　house；　but　he　was　no　more　of
that　than　Lamb　was　of　India　House。　　He　belonged　to　that　better　world
where　there　is　no　interest　but　letters；　and　which　was　as　much　like　heaven
for　me　as　anything　I　could　think　of。

The　meetings　with　the　Stoddards　repeated　themselves　when　I　came　back　to
sail　from　New　York；　early　in　November。　　Mixed　up　with　the　cordial
pleasure　of　them　in　my　memory　is　a　sense　of　the　cold　and　wet　outdoors；
and　the　misery　of　being　in　those　infamous　New　York　streets；　then　as　for
long　afterwards　the　squalidest　in　the　world。　　The　last　night　I　saw　my
friends　they　told　me　of　the　tragedy　which　had　just　happened　at　the　camp
in　the　City　Hall　Park。　　Fitz　James　O'Brien；　the　brilliant　young　Irishman
who　had　dazzled　us　with　his　story　of　〃The　Diamond　Lens；〃　and　frozen　our
blood　with　his　ingenious　tale　of　a　ghost〃What　was　It〃a　ghost　that
could　be　felt　and　heard；　but　not　seenhad　enlisted　for　the　war；　and
risen　to　be　an　officer　with　the　swift　process　of　the　first　days　of　it。
In　that　camp　he　had　just　then　shot　and　killed　a　man　for　some　infraction
of　discipline；　and　it　was　uncertain　what　the　end　would　be。　　He　was
acquitted；　however；　and　it　is　known　how　he　afterwards　died　of　lockjaw
from　a　wound　received　in　battle。




VI。

Before　this　last　visit　in　New　York　there　was　a　second　visit　to　Boston；
which　I　need　not　dwell　upon；　because　it　was　chiefly　a　revival　of　the
impressions　of　the　first。　　Again　I　saw　the　Fieldses　in　their　home；　again
the　Autocrat　in　his；　and　Lowell　now　beneath　his　own　roof；　beside　the
study　fire　where　I　was　so　often　to　sit　with　him　in　coming　years。　　At
dinner　（which　we　had　at　two　o'clock）　the　talk　turned　upon　my　appointment；
and　he　said　of　me　to　his　wife：　〃Think　of　his　having　got　Stillman's　place！
We　ought　to　put　poison　in　his　wine；〃　and　he　told　me　of　the　wish　the
painter　had　to　go　to　Venice　and　follow　up　Ruskin's　work　there　in　a　book
of　his　own。　　But　he　would　not　let　me　feel　very　guilty；　and　I　will　not
pretend　that　I　had　any　personal　regret　for　my　good　fortune。

The　place　was　given　me　perhaps　because　I　had　not　nearly　so　many　other
gifts　as　he　who　lost　it；　and　who　was　at　once　artist；　critic；　journalist；
traveller；　and　eminently　each。　　I　met　him　afterwards　in　Rome；　which　the
powers　bestowed　upon　him　instead　of　Venice；　and　he　forgave　me；　though　I
do　not　know　whether　he　forgave　the　powers。　　We　walked　far　and　long　over
the　Campagna；　and　I　felt　the　charm　of　a　most　uncommon　mind　in　talk　which
came　out　richest　and　fullest　in　the　presence　of　the　wild　nature　which　he
loved　and　knew　so　much　better　than　most　other　men。　　I　think　that　the　book
he　would　have　written　about　Venice　is　forever　to　be　regretted；　and　I　do
not　at　all　console　myself　for　its　loss　with　the　book　I　have　written
myself。

At　Lowell's　table　that　day　they　spoke　of　what　sort　of　winter　I　should
find　in　Venice；　and　he　inclined　to　the　belief　that　I　should　want　a　fire
there。　　On　his　study　hearth　a　very　brisk　one　burned　when　we　went　back　to
it；　and　kept　out　the　chill　of　a　cold　easterly　storm。　　We　looked　through
one　of　the　windows　at　the　rain；　and　he　said　he　could　remember　standing
and　looking　out　of　that　window　at　such　a　storm　when　he　was　a　child；　for
he　was　born　in　that　house；　and　his　life　had　kept　coming　back　to　it。　　He
died　in　it；　at　last。

In　a　lifting　of　the　rain　he　walked　with　me　down　to　the　village；　as　he
always　called　the　denser　part　of　the　town　about　Harvard　Square；　and　saw
me　aboard　a　horse…car　for　Boston。　　Before　we　parted　he　gave　me　two
charges：　to　open　my　mouth　when　I　began　to　speak　Italian；　and　to　think
well　of　women。　　He　said　that　our　race　spoke　its　own　tongue　with　its　teeth
shut；　and　so　failed　to　master　the　languages　that　wanted　freer　utterance。
As　to　women；　he　said　there　were　unworthy　ones；　but　a　good　woman　was　the
best　thing　in　the　world；　and　a　man　was　always　the　better　for　honoring
women。









End