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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Half shown； are broken and withdrawn。〃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 industrially a slave。 This is not strange； so few men last
over from one reform to another that the wonder is that any should； not
that one should not。 Whittier was prophet for one great need of the
divine to man； and he spoke his message with a fervor that at times was
like the trembling of a flame； or the quivering of midsummer sunshine。
It was hard to associate with the man as one saw him； still； shy； stiff；
the passion of his verse。 This imbued not only his antislavery
utterances； but equally his ballads of the old witch and Quaker
persecution； and flashed a far light into the dimness where his
interrogations of Mystery pierced。 Whatever doubt there can be of the
fate of other New England poets in the great and final account； it seems
to me that certain of these pieces make his place secure。
There is great inequality in his work； and I felt this so strongly that
when I came to have full charge of the Magazine； I ventured once to
distinguish。 He sent me a poem； and I had the temerity to return it； and
beg him for something else。 He magnanimously refrained from all show of
offence； and after a while； when he had printed the poem elsewhere；
he gave me another。 By this time； I perceived that I had been wrong；
not as to the poem returned； but as to my function regarding him and such
as he。 I had made my reflections； and never again did I venture to pass
upon what contributors of his quality sent me。 I took it and printed it；
and praised the gods； ；and even now I think that with such men it was not
my duty to play the censor in the periodical which they had made what it
was。 They had set it in authority over American literature； and it was
not for me to put myself in authority over them。 Their fame was in their
own keeping； and it was not my part to guard it against them。
After that experience I not only practised an eager acquiescence in their
wish to reach the public through the Atlantic； but I used all the
delicacy I was master of in bowing the way to them。