His was the life of the
poet first of all, and yet the tale of his sympathetic friendliness,
and his generosities and care-taking for others will never be fully
told. The dark eyes had great powers of insight; they could flash
scorn as well as shine with the soft light of encouragement.
He accustomed himself, of course, to more frequent visits to Boston
after his sister's death, but he was seldom, if ever, persuaded to go
to the Saturday Club, to which so many of his friends belonged.
Sometimes he would bring a new poem for a private first reading, and
for that purpose would stay to breakfast or luncheon; but late dinners
were contrary to the habit of his life, and he seldom sat down to one.
"I take the liberty," he wrote one day, "of inclosing a little poem of
mine which has beguiled some weary hours. I hope thee will like it.
How strange it seems not to read it to my sister! If thee have read
Schoolcraft, thee will remember what he says of the 'Little
Vanishers.' The legend is very beautiful, and I hope I have done it
justice in some sort."
In the spring of 1865 he came to Campton, on the Pemigewasset River,
in New Hampshire, a delightful place for those who love green hills
and the mystery of rivers.
We were passing a few weeks there by ourselves, and it was a great
surprise and pleasure to see our friend. He drove up to the door one
afternoon just as the sun was slanting to the west, too late to drive
away again that day.
Pages:
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251