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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 tragical associations。 The first night after Christmas the
holly and the pine wreathed about the chandelier above the supper…table
took fire from the gas； just as we came out from the reading； and
Longfellow ran forward and caught the burning garlands down and bore them
out。 No one could speak for thinking what he must be thinking of when
the ineffable calamity of his home befell it。 Curtis once told me that a
little while before Mrs。 Longfellow's death he was driving by Craigie
House with Holmes； who said be trembled to look at it； for those who
lived there had their happiness so perfect that no change； of all the
changes which must come to them； could fail to be for the worse。
I did not know Longfellow before that fatal time； and I shall not say
that his presence bore record of it except in my fancy。 He may always
have had that look of one who had experienced the utmost harm that fate
can do； and henceforth could possess himself of what was left of life in
peace。 He could never have been a man of the flowing ease that makes all
comers at home； some people complained of a certain 'gene' in him； and he
had a reserve with strangers； which never quite lost itself in the
abandon of friendship； as Lowell's did。 He was the most perfectly modest
man I ever saw； ever imagined； but he had a gentle dignity which I do not
believe any one； the coarsest； the obtusest； could trespass upon。 In the
years when I began to know him； his long hair and the beautiful beard
which mixed with it were of one iron…gray； which I saw blanch to a
perfect silver； while that pearly tone of his complexion； which Appleton
so admired； lost itself in the wanness of age and pain。 When he walked；
he had a kind of spring in his gait； as if now and again a buoyant
thought lifted him from the ground。 It was fine to meet him coming down
a Cambridge street； you felt that the encounter made you a part of
literary history； and set you apart with him for the moment