the white mr. longfellow-第3部分

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allege。　　But　in　Craigie　House　dwelt　the　proud　fair　lady　who　was　buried　in
the　Cambridge　church…yard　with　a　slave　at　her　head　and　a　slave　at　her
feet。

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　〃Dust　is　in　her　beautiful　eyes；〃

and　whether　it　was　they　that　smiled　or　wept　in　their　time　over　those
love…letters；　I　will　leave　the　reader　to　say。　　The　fortunes　of　her　Tory
family　fell　with　those　of　their　party；　and　the　last　Vassal　ended　his　days
a　prisoner　from　his　creditors　in　his　own　house；　with　a　weekly　enlargement
on　Sundays；　when　the　law　could　not　reach　him。　　It　is　known　how　the　place
took　Longfellow's　fancy　when　he　first　came　to　be　professor　in　Harvard；
and　how　he　was　a　lodger　of　the　last　Mistress　Craigie　there；　long　before
he　became　its　owner。　　The　house　is　square；　with　Longfellow's　study　where
he　read　and　wrote　on　the　right　of　the　door；　and　a　statelier　library
behind　it；　on　the　left　is　the　drawing…room；　with　the　dining…room　in　its
rear；　from　its　square　hall　climbs　a　beautiful　stairway　with　twisted
banisters；　and　a　tall　clock　in　their　angle。

The　study　where　the　Dante　Club　met；　and　where　I　mostly　saw　Longfellow；
was　a　plain；　pleasant　room；　with　broad　panelling　in　white　painted　pine；
in　the　centre　before　the　fireplace　stood　his　round　table；　laden　with
books；　papers；　and　proofs；　in　the　farthest　corner　by　the　window　was　a
high　desk　which　he　sometimes　stood　at　to　write。　　In　this　room　Washington
held　his　councils　and　transacted　his　business　with　all　comers；　in　the
chamber　overhead　he　slept。　　I　do　not　think　Longfellow　associated　the
place　much　with　him；　and　I　never　heard　him　speak　of　Washington　in
relation　to　it　except　once；　when　he　told　me　with　peculiar　relish　what　he
called　the　true　version　of　a　pious　story　concerning　the　aide…de…camp　who
blundered　in　upon　him　while　he　knelt　in　prayer。　　The　father　of　his
country　rose　and　rebuked　the　young　man　severely；　and　then　resumed　his
devotions。　　〃He　rebuked　him；〃　said　Longfellow；　lifting　his　brows　and
making　rings　round　the　pupils　of　his　eyes；　〃by　throwing　his　scabbard　at
his　head。〃

All　the　front　windows　of　Craigie　House　look；　out　over　the　open　fields
across　the　Charles；　which　is　now　the　Longfellow　Memorial　Garden。　　The
poet　used　to　be　amused　with　the　popular　superstition　that　he　was　holding
this　vacant　ground　with　a　view　to　a　rise　in　the　price　of　lots；　while　all
he　wanted　was　to　keep　a　feature　of　his　beloved　landscape　unchanged。
Lofty　elms　drooped　at　the　corners　of　the　house；　on　the　lawn　billowed
clumps　of　the　lilac；　which　formed　a　thick　hedge　along　the　fence。　　There
was　a　terrace　part　way　down　this　lawn；　and　when　a　white…painted
balustrade　was　set　some　fifteen　years　ago　upon　its　brink；　it　seemed
always　to　have　been　there。　　Long　verandas　stretched　on　either　side　of　the
mansion；　and　behind　was　an　old…fashioned　garden　with　beds　primly　edged
with　box　after　a　design　of　the　poet's　own。　　Longfellow　had　a　ghost　story
of　this　quaint　plaisance；　which　he　used　to　tell　with　an　artful　reserve　of
the　catastrophe。　　He　was　coming　home　one　winter　night；　and　as　he　crossed
the　garden　he　was　startled　by　a　white　figure　swaying　before　him。　　But　he
knew　that　the　only　way　was　to　advance　upon　it。　　He　pushed　boldly　forward；
and　was　suddenly　caught　under　the　throat…by　the　clothes…line　with　a　long
night…gown　on　it。

Perhaps　it　was　at　the　end　of　a　long　night　of　the　Dante　Club　that　I　heard
him　tell　this　story。　　The　evenings　were　sometimes　mornings　before　the
reluctant　break…up　came；　but　they　were　never　half　long　enough　for　me。
I　have　given　no　idea　of　the　high　reasoning　of　vital　things　which　I　must
often　have　heard　at　that　table；　and　that　I　have　forgotten　it　is　no　proof
that　I　did　not　hear　it。　　The　memory　will　not　be　ruled　as　to　what　it　shall
bind　and　what　it　shall　loose；　and　I　should　entreat　mine　in　vain　for
record　of　those　meetings　other　than　what　I　have　given。　　Perhaps　it　would
be　well；　in　the　interest　of　some　popular　conceptions　of　what　the　social
intercourse　of　great　wits　must　be；　for　me　to　invent　some　ennobling　and
elevating　passages　of　conversation　at　Longfellow's；　perhaps　I　ought　to　do
it　for　the　sake　of　my　own　repute　as　a　serious　and　adequate　witness。　　But
I　am　rather　helpless　in　the　matter；　I　must　set　down　what　I　remember；　and
surely　if　I　can　remember　no　phrase　from　Holmes　that　a　reader　could　live
or　die　by；　it　is　something　to　recall　how；　when　a　certain　potent　cheese
was　passing；　he　leaned　over　to　gaze　at　it；　and　asked：　〃Does　it　kick？
Does　it　kick？〃　　No　strain　of　high　poetic　thinking　remains　to　me　from
Lowell；　but　he　made　me　laugh　unforgettably　with　his　passive　adventure　one
night　going　home　late；　when　a　man　suddenly　leaped　from　the　top　of　a　high
fence　upon　the　sidewalk　at　his　feet；　and　after　giving　him　the　worst
fright　of　his　life；　disappeared　peaceably　into　the　darkness。　　To　be　sure；
there　was　one　most　memorable　supper；　when　he　read　the　〃Bigelow　Paper〃
he　had　finished　that　day；　and　enriched　the　meaning　of　his　verse　with　the
beauty　of　his　voice。　　There　lingers　yet　in　my　sense　his　very　tone　in
giving　the　last　line　of　the　passage　lamenting　the　waste　of　the　heroic
lives　which　in　those　dark　hours　of　Johnson's　time　seemed　to　have　been

　　　　　　　　　　〃Butchered　to　make　a　blind　man's　holiday。〃

The　hush　that　followed　upon　his　ceasing　was　of　that　finest　quality　which
spoken　praise　always　lacks；　and　I　suppose　that　I　could　not　give　a　just
notion　of　these　Dante　Club　evenings　without　imparting　the　effect　of　such
silences。　　This　I　could　not　hopefully　undertake　to　do；　but　I　am　tempted
to　some　effort　of　the　kind　by　my　remembrance　of　Longfellow's　old　friend
George　Washington　Greene；　who　often　came　up　from　his　home　in　Rhode
Island；　to　be　at　those　sessions；　and　who　was　a　most　interesting　and
amiable　fact　of　those　delicate　silences。　　A　full　half　of　his　earlier　life
had　been　passed　in　Italy；　where　he　and　Longfellow　met　and　loved　each
other　in　their　youth　with　an　affection　which　the　poet　was　constant　to　in
his　age；　after　many　vicissitudes；　with　the　beautiful　fidelity　of　his
nature。　　Greene　was　like　an　old　Italian　house…priest　in　manner；　gentle；
suave；　very　suave；　smooth　as　creamy　curds；　cultivated　in　the　elegancies
of　literary　taste；　and　with　a　certain　meek　abeyance。　　I　think　I　never
heard　him　speak；　in　all　those　evenings；　except　when　Longfellow　addressed
him；　though　he　must　have　had　the　Dante　scholarship　for　an　occasional
criticism。　　It　was　at　more　recent　dinners；　where　I　met　him　with　the
Longfellow　family　alone；　that　he　broke　now　and　then　into　a　quotation　from
some　of　the　modern　Italian　poets　he　knew　by　heart　（preferably　Giusti）；
and　syllabled　their　verse　with　an　exquisite　Roman　accent　and　a　bewitching
Florentine　rhythm。　　Now　and　then　at　these　times　he　brought　out　a　faded
Italian　anecdote；　faintly　smelling　of　civet；　and　threadbare　in　its
ancient　texture。　　He　liked　to　speak　of　Goldoni　and　of　Nota；　of　Niccolini
and　Manzoni；　of　Monti　and　Leopardi；　and　if　you　came　to　America；　of　the
Revolution　and　his　grandfather；　the　Quaker　General　Nathaniel　Greene；
whose　life　he　wrote　（and　I　read）　in　three　volumes：　　He　worshipped
Longfellow；　and　their　friendship　continued　while　they　lived；　but　towards
the　last　of　his　visits　at　Craigie　House　it　had　a　pathos　for　the　witness
which　I　should　grieve　to　wrong。　　Greene　was　then　a　quivering　paralytic；
and　he　clung　tremulously　to　Longfellow's　arm　in　going　out　to　dinner；
where　even　the　modern　Italian　poets　were　silent　upon　his　lips。　　When　we
rose　from　table；　Longfellow　lifted　him　out　of　his　chair；　and　took　him
upon　his　arm　again　for　their　return　to　the　study。

He　was　of　lighter　metal　than　most　other　members　of　the　Dante　Club；　and　he
was　not　of　their　immediate　intimacy；　living　away　from　Cambridge；　as　he
did；　and　I　shared　his　silence　in　their　presence　with　full　sympathy。
I　was　by　far　the　youngest　of　their　number；　and　I　cannot　yet　quite　make
out　why　I　was　of　it　at　all。　　But　at　every　moment　I　was　as　sensible　of　my
good　fortune　as　of　my　ill　desert。　　They　were　the　men　whom　of　all　men
living　I　most　honored；　and　it　seemed　to　be　impossible　that　I　at　my　age
should　be　so　perfectly　fulfilling　the　dream　of　my　life　in　their　company。
Often；　the　nights　were　very　cold；　and　as　I　returned　home　from　Craigie
House　to　the　carpenter's　box　on　Sacramento　Street；　a　mile　or　two　away；
I　was　as　if　soul…borne　through　the　air　by　my　pride　and　joy；　while　the
frozen　blocks　of　snow　clinked　and　tinkled　before　my　feet　stumbling　along
the　middle　of　the　road。　　I　still　think　that　was　the　richest　moment　of　my
life；　and　I　look　back　at　it　as　the　moment；　in　a　life　not　unblessed　by
chance；　which　I　would　most　like　to　live　over　againif　I　must　live　any。
The　next　winter　the　sessions　of　the　Dante　Club　were　transferred　to　the
house　of　Mr。　Norton；　who　was　then　completing　his　version　of　the　'Vita
Nuova'。　　This　has　always　seemed　to　me　a　work　of　not　less　graceful　art
than　Longfellow's　translation　of　the　'Commedia'。　　In　fact；　it　joins　the
effect　of　a　sympathy　almost　mounting　to　divination　with　a　patient
scholarship　and　a　delicate　skill　unknown　to　me　elsewhere　in　such　work。
I　do　not　know　whether　Mr。　Norton　has　satisfied　himself　better　in　his
prose　version　of　the　'Commedia'　than　in　this　of　the　'Vita　Nuova'；　but　I
do　not　believe　he　could　have　satisfied　Dante　better；　unless　he　had　rhymed
his　sonnets　and　canzonets。　　I　am　sure　he　might　have　done　this　if　he　had
chosen。　　He　has　always　pretended　that　it　was　impossible；　but　miracles　are
never　impossible　in　the　right　hands。




V。

After　three　or　four　years　we　sold　the　carpenter's　box　on　Sacramento
Street；　and　removed　to　a　larger　house　near　Harvard　Square；　and　in　the
immediate　neighborhood　of　Longfellow。　　He　gave　me　an　easement　across　that
old　garden　behind　his　house；　through　an　opening　in　the　high　board　fence
which　enclosed　it；　and　I　saw　him　oftener　than　ever；　though　the　meetings
of　the　Dante　Club　had　come　to　an　end。　　At　the　last　of　them；　Lowell　had
asked　him；　with　fond　regret　in　his　jest；　〃Longfellow；　why　don't　you　do
that　Indian　poem　in　forty　thousand　verses？〃　　The　demand　but　feebly
expressed　the　reluctance　in　us　all；　though　I　suspect　the　Indian　poem
existed　only　by　the　challenger's　invention。　　Before　I　leave　my　faint　and
unworthy　record　of　these　great　times　I　am　tempted　to　mention　an　incident
poignant　with　t