No More Learning

In the terrible flash of the thing all together, one almost
fancied them all gone like smoke; and for a moment I thought
I was falling away off, down into the wide sky, so up I started to
sit. From that, suddenly I took to guessing and puzzling closely
again how I should go to work myself, if I were the strange
Frenchman I saw in the brig at sea, and wanted to manage
Napoleon's escape out of St. Helena. And first, there was how
to get into the island and put him up to the scheme. why, sure
enough, I couldn't have laid it down better than they seemed to
have done all along: what could one do but just dodge about
that latitude under all sorts of false rig, then catch hold of
somebody fit to cover one's landing. No Englishman would do
it, and no foreigner but would set Sir Hudson Lowe on his
guard in a moment. Next we should have to get put on the
island and really a neat enough plan it was, to dog one of the
very cruisers themselves, knock up a mess of planks and spars
in the night-time, set them all ablaze with tar, and pretend we
were fresh from a craft on fire; when even Captain Wallis of the
Podargus, as it happened, was too much of a British seaman not
to carry us straight to St. Helena! Again, I must say it was a
touch beyond me- but to hit the governor's notions of a hobby,
and go picking up plants around Longwood, was a likely enough
way to get speech of the prisoner, or at least let him see one
was there!
-
-
-
How should I set about carrying him off to the coast, though?
That was the prime matter. Seeing that even if the schooner-
which was no doubt hovering out of sight- were to make a
bold dash for the land with the trade-wind, in a night eleven
hours long, there were sentries close round Longwood from sun-
set, the starlight shining mostly always in the want of a moon;
and at any rate there was rock and gully enough betwixt here
and the coast to try the surest foot aboard the Hebe, let alone
――


## p. 4216 (#594) ###########################################

4216
GEORGE CUPPLES
an emperor. With plenty of woods for a cover, one might steal
up close to Longwood, but the bare rocks showed you off to be
made a mark of. Whew! but why were those same blacks on
the island, I thought: just strip them stark naked, and let them
lie in the Devil's Punch Bowl, or somewhere beyond military
hours, when I warrant me they might slip up, gully by gully,
to the very sentries' backs! Their color wouldn't show them,
and savages as they seemed, couldn't they settle as many sen-
tries as they needed, creep into the very bedchamber where
Bonaparte slept, and manhandle him bodily away down through
some of the nearest hollows, before any one was the wiser? The
point that still bothered me was, why the fourth of the blacks
was wanting at present, unless he had his part to play elsewhere.
If it was chance, then the whole might be a notion of mine,
which I knew I was apt to have sometimes. If I could only
make out the fourth black, so as to tally with the scheme, on
the other hand, then I thought it was all sure; but of course
this quite pauled me, and I gave it up, to work out my fancy
case by providing signals betwixt us plotters inside and the
schooner, out of sight from the telegraphs. There was no use
for her to run in and take the risk, without good luck having
turned up on the island; yet any sign she could profit by must
be both sufficient to reach sixty miles or so, and hidden enough
not to alarm the telegraphs or the cruisers. Here was a worse
puzzle than all, and I only guessed at it for my own satisfac-
tion as a fellow can't help doing when he hears a question
he can't answer - till my eye
lighted on Diana's Peak, near
three thousand feet above the sea. There it was, by Jove!
'Twas quite clear at the time; but by nightfall there was always
more or less cloud near the top, and if you set a fire on the
very peak 'twould only be seen leagues off: a notion that
brought to mind a similar thing which I told you saved the
Indiaman from a lee-shore one night on the African coast-
and again, by George! I saw that must have been meant at first
by the negroes as a smoke to help the French brig easier in!
Putting that and that together, why it struck me at once what
the fourth black's errand might be-namely, to watch for the
schooner, and kindle his signal as soon as he couldn't see the
island for mist. I was sure of it; and as for a dark night com-
ing on at sea, the freshening of the breeze there promised noth-
ing more likely; a bright white haze was softening out the
-
-


## p. 4217 (#595) ###########################################

GEORGE CUPPLES
4217
horizon already, and here and there the egg of a cloud could be
seen to break off the sky to windward, all of which would be
better known afloat than here.
The truth was, I was on the point of tripping my anchor to
hurry down and get aboard again; but on standing up, the head
of a peak fell below the sail I had noticed in the distance, and
seeing she loomed large on the stretch of water, I pretty soon
found she must be a ship of the line. The telegraph over the
Alarm House was hard at work again, so I e'en took down my
glass and cleaned it to have a better sight, during which I
caught sight, for a minute, of some soldier officer or other on
horseback, with a mounted redcoat behind him, riding hastily up
the gully a good bit from my back, till they were round the red
piece of crag, turning at times as if to watch the vessel. Though
I couldn't have a better spy at him for want of my glass, I had
no doubt he was the governor himself, for the sentries in the
distance took no note of him. There was nobody else visible at
the time, and the said cliff stood fair up like a look-out place,
so as to shut them out as they went higher. Once or twice
after, I fancied I made out a man's head or two lower down
the gully than the cliff was; which, it occurred to me, might
possibly be the botanists, as they called themselves, busy finding
out how long St. Helena had been an island; however, I soon
turned the glass before me upon the ship, by this time right
opposite the ragged opening of Prosperous Bay, and heading
well up about fourteen miles or so off the coast, as I reckoned
to make James Town harbor. The moment I had the sight of
the glass right for her, though you'd have thought she stood
still on the smooth soft blue water,—I could see her whole
beam rise off the swells before me, from the dark side and
white band, checkered with a double row of ports, to the ham-
per of her lofty spars, and the sails braced slant to the breeze;
the foam gleaming under her high bows, and her wake running
aft in the heave of the sea. She was evidently a seventy-four;
I fancied I could make out her men's faces peering over the
yards toward the island, as they thought of "Boneypart"; a white
rear-admiral's flag was at the mizenroyal masthead, leaving no
doubt she was the Conqueror at last, with Admiral Plampin, and
in a day or two at farthest the Hebe would be bound for India.
I had just looked over my shoulder toward Longwood, letting
the Conqueror sink back again into a thing no bigger than
-


## p. 4218 (#596) ###########################################

4218
GEORGE CUPPLES
a model on a mantelpiece, when all at once I saw some one
standing near the brow of the cliff I mentioned, apparently
watching the vessel, with a long glass at his eye like myself.
'Twas farther than I could see to make out anything, save so
much; and ere I had screwed the glass for such a near sight,
there were seven or eight figures more appearing half over the
slope behind; while my hand shook so much with holding the
glass so long, that at first I brought it to bear full on the cracks
and blocks in the front of the crag, with the large green leaves
and trailers on it flickering idly with the sunlight against my
eyes, till I could have seen the spiders inside, I daresay. Next
I held it too high, where the admiral and Lord Frederick were
standing by their horses, a good way back; the governor, as I
supposed, sitting on his, and two or three others along the rise.
At length, what with kneeling down to rest it on one knee, I
had the glass steadily fixed on the brow of the rocks, where I
plainly saw a tall dark-whiskered man in a rich French uniform,
gazing to seaward. I knew him I sought too well by pictures,
however, not to be sadly galled. Suddenly a figure came slowly
down from before the rest, with his hands behind his back, and
his head a little drooped. The officer at once lowered the tele-
scope and held it to him, stepping upward as if to leave him.
alone - what dress he had on I scarce noticed; but there he was
standing, single in the round bright field of the glass I had hold
of like a vise- his head raised, his hands hiding his face, as I
kept the telescope fixed fair in front of me-only I saw the
smooth broad round of his chin. I knew, as if I'd seen him in
the Tuileries at Paris, or known him by sight since I was a boy,
-I knew it was Napoleon.
-
During that minute the rest of them were out of sight, so
far as the glass went-you'd have supposed there was no one
there but himself, as still as a figure in iron; watching the same
thing, no doubt, as I'd done myself five minutes before, where
the noble seventy-four was beating slowly to windward. When
I did glance to the knot of officers twenty yards back, 'twas as
if one saw a ring of his generals waiting respectfully while he
eyed some field of battle or other, with his army at the back of
the hill; but next moment the telescope fell in his hands, and
his face, as pale as death, with his lip firm under it, seemed
near enough for me to touch it - his eyes shot stern into me
from below his wide white forehead, and I started, dropping my


## p. 4219 (#597) ###########################################

GEORGE CUPPLES
4219
glass in turn. That instant the whole wild lump of St. Helena,
with its ragged brim, the clear blue sky and the sea, swung
round about the dwindled figures above the crag, till they were
nothing but so many people together against the slope beyond.
'Twas a strange scene to witness, let me tell you; never can
I forget the sightless, thinking sort of gaze from that head of
his, after the telescope sank from his eye, when the Conqueror
must have shot back with all her stately hamper into the floor
of the Atlantic again! Once more I brought my spy-glass to
bear on the place where he had been, and was almost on the
point of calling out to warn him off the edge of the cliff, for-
getting the distance I was away. Napoleon had stepped, with
one foot before him, on the very brink, his two hands hanging
loose by his side with the glass in one of them, till the shadow
of his small black cocked hat covered the hollows of his eyes,
and he stood as it were looking down past the face of the
precipice. What he thought of, no mortal tongue can say:
whether he was master at the time over a wilder battle than
any he'd ever fought; but just then, what was the surprise it
gave me to see the head of a man, with a red tasseled cap on
it, raised through among the ivy from below, while he seemed
to have his feet on the cracks and juts of the rock, hoisting
himself by one hand round the tangled roots till no doubt he
must have looked right aloft into the French Emperor's face;
and perhaps he whispered something-though for my part it
was all dumb show to me, where I knelt peering into the glass.
I saw even him start at the suddenness of the thing-he raised
his head upright, still glancing down over the front of the crag,
with the spread hand lifted, and the side of his face half
turned toward the party within earshot behind, where the gov-
ernor and the rest apparently kept together out of respect, no
doubt watching both Napoleon's back and the ship of war far
beyond. The keen sunlight on the spot brought out every motion
of the two in front-the one so full in my view, that I could
mark his look settle again on the other below, his firm lips part-
ing and his hand out before him like a man seeing a spirit he
knew; while a bunch of leaves on the end of a wand came steal-
ing up from the stranger's post to Napoleon's very fingers. The
head of the man on the cliff turned round seaward for one
moment, ticklish as his footing must have been; then he looked
back, pointing with his loose hand to the horizon,-there was


## p. 4220 (#598) ###########################################

4220
GEORGE CUPPLES
one minute between them without a motion, seemingly - the
captive Emperor's chin was sunk on his breast, though you'd
have said his eyes glanced up out of the shadow on his fore-
head; and the stranger's red cap hung like a bit of the bright
colored cliff, under his two hands holding among the leaves.
Then I saw Napoleon lift his hand calmly, he gave a sign with
it-it might have been refusing, it might have been agreeing,
or it might be farewell, I never expect to know; but he folded
his arms across his breast, with the bunch of leaves in his
fingers, and stepped slowly back from the brink toward the
officers. I was watching the stranger below it, as he swung
there for a second or two, in a way like to let him go dash to
the bottom; his face sluing wildly seaward again. Short though
the glance I had of him was,- his features set hard in some
bitter feeling or other, his dress different too, besides the mus-
tache being off, and his complexion no doubt purposely darkened,
- it served to prove what I'd suspected: he was no other than
the Frenchman I had seen in the brig; and mad or sensible, the
very look I caught was more like that he faced the thunder-
squall with, than aught beside. Directly after, he was letting
himself carefully down with his back to my glass; the party
above were moving off over the brow of the crags, and the
governor riding round, apparently to come once more down the
hollow between us. In fact, the seventy-four had stood by this.
time so far in that the peaks in the distance shut her out; but I
ran the glass carefully along the whole horizon in my view, for
signs of the schooner. The haze was too bright, however, to
make sure either way; though, dead to windward, there were
some streaks of cloud risen with the breeze, where I once or
twice fancied I could catch the gleam of a speck in it. The
Podargus was to be seen through a notch in the rocks, too,
beating out in a different direction, as if the telegraph had sig-
naled her elsewhere; after which you heard the dull rumble of
the forts saluting the Conqueror down at James Town as she
came in and being late in the afternoon, it was high time for
me to crowd sail downward, to fall in with my shipmates.


## p. 4221 (#599) ###########################################

4221
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
(1824-1892)
BY EDWARD CARY
In
EORGE WILLIAM CURTIS was born in Providence, R. I. , Febru-
ary 24th, 1824, of a New England family, his ancestry on
the father's side running back in unbroken line to the
Massachusetts settlers of the first half of the seventeenth century.
Though his home was in New York from early boyhood, he was
through life a type-one of the best-of New England manhood.
The firm, elastic, sometimes hard, fibre of a steadfast and intense
moral sense was always found, occasion requiring, beneath the social
grace and charm and the blithe and vivid
fancy of the author. His schooling was
brief- a few years only before the age of
eleven. The rest of his education, which
was varied and in some lines thorough,
was gained by reading, with private tutors,
with his accomplished and gifted step-
mother, and-richest of all-alone.
1842, while yet a lad of eighteen, he went
for a couple of years as a boarder to Brook
Farm. There, to quote his own words, «<
the ripest scholars, men and women of the
most æsthetic culture and accomplishment,
young farmers, seamstresses, mechanics,
preachers, the industrious, the lazy, the con-
ceited, the sentimental. But they associated in such a spirit and un-
der such conditions that, with some extravagance, the best of every-
body appeared. " "Compared with other efforts upon which time and
money and industry are lavished, measured by Colorado and Nevada
speculations, by California gold-washings, by oil-boring and the
Stock Exchange, Brook Farm was certainly a very reasonable and
practical enterprise, worthy of the hope and aid of generous men
and women. The friendships that were formed there were enduring.
The devotion to noble endeavor, the sympathy with what is most
useful to men, the kind patience and constant charity that were fos-
tered there, have been no more lost than the grain dropped upon
the field. "
were

GEORGE W. CURTIS


## p. 4222 (#600) ###########################################

4222
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
These two years, and one spent on a farm at Concord, Massachu-
setts, near the homes of Emerson, Hawthorne, Thoreau, were fol-
lowed by four years in Europe,-in Germany, Italy, France, Egypt;
and in 1851, at the age of twenty-seven, Curtis took up seriously the
work of a writer. Within a year he published two small volumes,
The Nile Notes of a Howadji,' and 'The Howadji in Syria. ' For a
couple of years he was a writer on the New York Tribune, where his
Brook Farm friends, Ripley and Dana, were engaged; and 'Lotus-
Eating' was made up of letters to that paper from the then famous
"watering-places. " He dropped newspaper work to become an editor
and writer with Putnam's Magazine, and the 'Potiphar Papers' and
'Prue and I were written for that periodical. For a time he formed
a connection with the printer of Putnam's in a publishing business;
in which, and through the fault of others, he failed; assuming, quite
beyond the requirements of the law, debts which it took a score of
years to discharge. Finally he found his publishing home with the
house of Harper and Brothers. At first a contributor to the Maga-
zine and the Weekly, he became the editor of the Weekly and the
writer of the "Easy Chair"; and from those two coignes of vantage,
until his death on August 31st, 1892, he did what, apart from his
lectures and addresses, was the work of his life. He made no more
books, save the one not successful novel of Trumps,' written as a
serial for the Weekly, and the volumes from the Addresses and the
"Easy Chair" published after his death; yet he fulfilled the prophecy
of Hawthorne on the appearance of the Nile Notes'—"I see that
you are forever an author. »
It would not be easy, were it worth while, exactly to classify
Curtis; and if in general phrase we say that he was an essayist, that
only betrays how comprehensive a label is needed to cover his work.
Essays, long or short, the greater number of his writings were; each
practically embraced a single subject, and of this presented one
phase, important perhaps and grave, or light, amusing, tender, and
sometimes satiric to the verge of bitterness—though never beyond it.
The Howadji books, which first gave him a name and fairly
launched him as a writer, were a singular and original product,
wholly different from what could have been expected of his training
and associations; a venture in a field which, curiously enough, since
the venture was in every sense more than ordinarily successful, he
promptly and forever abandoned. "I aimed," he says in one of his
private letters, "to represent the essentially sensuous, luxurious,
languid, and sense-satisfied spirit of Eastern life. " The style was
adapted with courage, not to say audacity, to the aim. No American
at that time had ever written English so riotously beyond the
accepted conventions, so frankly, almost saucily, limited only by what


## p. 4223 (#601) ###########################################

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
4223
the writer chose to say of what he felt or fancied under the inspira-
tion of the East. Leigh Hunt compared the 'Nile Notes' to 'Eothen'
and to 'Hyperion,' but the relation was extravagantly remote. The
Howadji books were as individual as the lavish and brilliant bloom
of a plant in the hot rays of the southern spring-and as passing.
Once the shining and slightly gaudy flowers were shed, the normal
growth proceeded to substantial fruitage.
The Potiphar Papers' were like the Eastern books in this, that
they were at the time a still more successful venture in a field
which, if not wholly abandoned by Curtis, was not continuously cul-
tivated, but was only entered occasionally and never quite in the
same spirit. They were a series of satires, fanciful enough in con-
ception, but serious and almost savage in spirit, on the most conspic-
uous society of the day: its vulgarity, vanity, shallowness, and
stupidity, the qualities inherent in the prevalent rivalry in money-
spending. They were of marked importance at the time, because
they were the brilliant and stinging comment of a gentleman and a
patriot on a portion of society whose wealth gave dangerous promi-
nence to the false standards set up and followed. Happily the vices
Curtis scourged were those of an over-vigorous and unchastened
youth of society, and the chief value of the satire now is as a picture
of the past.
'Prue and I was a series of papers written, as Curtis's letters
show, in odd moments and with great rapidity, to meet the exigencies
of the magazine. But the papers survive as an example of the pure
literary work of the author. The opulence and extravagance of the
'Howadji' books disappear; but the rich imagination, the sportive
fancy, the warm and life-giving sentiment, the broad philosophy, are
expressed in a style of singular beauty, flexibility, and strength.
And it was in this line that the "Easy Chair" essays were con-
tinued, forming one of the most remarkable bodies of literary product
of the time. They were written for Harper's Magazine, four or five
monthly, equivalent each year to an ordinary duodecimo volume, and
the series closed with the death of the writer some thirty-five years
from their beginning. Their variety was very great. Some of them
touched the events and questions of the time, and the time embraced
the political contest with slavery, the Civil War, and the marvelously
rapid and complex development of the nation after the war.
when the events or questions of the day were touched, it was at
at once lightly and broadly, to illuminate and fix some suggestion of
philosophy; through all ran the current of wise and gracious and
noble thought or sentiment. Many of the essays were woven of
reminiscence and comment on persons. In the little volume selected
by himself and published shortly before his death, a dozen of the


## p. 4224 (#602) ###########################################

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
4224
twenty-seven were of this nature, embracing such varying person-
alities as Edward Everett, Browning, Wendell Phillips, Dickens,
Thoreau, Jenny Lind, Emerson, Joseph Jefferson. Whoever was thus
brought under the clear, soft, penetrating light of Curtis's pen lived
thereafter in the mind of the reader with a character more real and
just. In many of the essays of the "Easy Chair" there was a tone of
gentle satire, but always hopeful and helpful, not bitter or discoura-
ging; as if in "Titbottom's Spectacles," that broke the heart of the
wearer with their revelation of the evil in those who passed before
them, new lenses had been set, revealing the everlasting beauty and
power of the ideal which evil violates, and to whose gracious and
blessing sway the writer, with a kindly smile at the incongruities of
the actual, invited his friend the reader. The very title had a gleam
of this subtle humor, it being well known to the profession, and
established by the experience of successive generations, that in
reality there is no such thing as an "editor's easy-chair. " Even if
we allow for the fact that Curtis's seat was in his tranquil library on
Staten Island, remote from the complications and vexations of the
magazine's office, we must still recognize that the ease was not in the
chair, but in that firm high poise of the writer's spirit which enabled
him, with wisdom as unfailing as his gracious cheer, "to Report and
Consider all Matters of What Kind Soever. "
Curtis was, perhaps, in his lifetime even more widely known as a
speaker than as a writer. At the very outset of his career he be-
came one of the half-dozen lecturers under the curious and potent
lyceum system, that in the third quarter of the century did so much
to arouse and satisfy a deep interest in things of the mind in the
widely scattered communities of the American republic. At the
very outset, too, he entered with all his soul into the political agita-
tion against slavery, and became one of the most stirring and most
highly regarded popular orators of the Republican party. Later he
was eagerly sought upon occasions of historical interest and for
memorial addresses. Still later he delivered the remarkable series of
addresses on the reform of the civil service, in what was in effect a
second struggle for political emancipation, waged with as broad a
human purpose, with as high courage, as was the struggle against
slavery, and with even a riper knowledge of the conditions of safety
for the republic. The great body of these addresses, many of the
slightest as well as the more elaborate, were essentially literary.
Most of them were written out and committed to memory, and many
were marked by more of the polish and completeness of the scholar's
conscientious and deliberate work than most of the writing intended
only for publication. But they were still the orator's work, addressed
to the ear, though fitted to bear the test of study, and intended


## p. 4225 (#603) ###########################################

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
4225
through the ear to touch the conscience and the heart and sway the
will. Apart from the unfailing and lofty moral purpose that per-
vades them, their lasting charm lies in their music. They were the
emmelia, the "well-tuned speech," of the Greeks. But the hidden
monitor who kept the orator true to the carefully chosen "pitch"
was not the freedman of Gracchus, it was the sensitive and faithful
artistic sense of the speaker. A writer lives in the world's literature,
necessarily, by those of his writings that find a permanent form in
books. Of these Curtis left few. But fairly to judge of his influence
on the thought, and so on the life as well as the literature, of his
country, we must remember that the unusual gifts and the rare
spirit revealed in these few books pervaded also his work in the
magazine and the journal; that the fruit of his work would fill a
hundred volumes, and that it reached readers by the hundred thou-
sand. Had Curtis sought only the fame of the writer, he could
hardly have failed to gain it, and in notable measure. In pursuing
the object he did, he might rightly believe at the close of his career
-it is doubtful if he ever gave it a thought-that he had rendered
to American literature a service unrecognized and untraceable, but
singularly, perhaps uniquely, great.
Edward Cary.
THE MIST AT NEWPORT
From Lotus Eating. Copyright, 1852, by Harper & Brothers
I
RODE one afternoon with Undine along the southern shore of
the Island, by the lonely graves of which I have spoken.
could see only a few feet over the water, but the ocean con-
stantly plunged sullenly out of the heavy fog, which was full of
hoarse roars and wailings, - the chaotic sound of the sea. We
took the homeward path through the solitary fields, just unfa-
miliar enough to excite us with a vague sense of going astray.
At times, gleams of sunlight, bewildered like ourselves, strug-
gled, surprised, through the mist and disappeared. But strange.
and beautiful were those estrays; and I well understand why
Turner studied vapors so long and carefully.
Two grander figures are not in contemporary biography than
that of Coleridge, in Carlyle's 'Sterling,' looking out from High-
gate over the mingled smoke and vapor which buries London, as
VII-265


## p. 4226 (#604) ###########################################

4226
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
in lava Pompeii is buried; and that of Turner, in some anony-
mous but accurate sketches of his latter days, at his cottage on
the edge of London, where, apart from his fame and under a
feigned name, he sat by day and night upon the housetop, watch-
ing the sun glorify the vapors and the smoke with the same
splendor that he lavishes upon the evening west, and which we
deemed the special privilege of the sky. Those two men, great-
est in their kind among their companions, illustrate with happy
force what Wordsworth sang:
"In common things that round us lie,
Some random truths he can impart,-
The harvest of a quiet eye
That broods and sleeps on his own heart. "
Gazing from his Highgate window with "large gray eye," did
Coleridge see more than the image of his own mind and his own
career, in that limitless city, wide-sparkling, many-turreted, fad-
ing and mingling in shining mist,- with strange voices calling
from its clouds,- the solemn peal of cathedral chimes and the
low voice of the vesper bell; and out of that London fog with
its irresistible splendors, and out of the holy vapors which float
serene amid the Alps, has Turner quarried his colossal fame.
There is no grander lesson in any history of any art than the
spectacle of the greatest painter of our time, sitting upon his
house-top, and from the mist which to others was but a clog and
inconvenience, and associated in all men's minds only with link-
boys and lanterns, plucking the heart of its mystery and making
it worshiped and remembered.
NAZARETH
From 'Howadji in Syria. Copyright, 1856, by Harper & Brothers
THE
HE traditions which cluster around Nazareth are so tender and
domestic that you will willingly believe, or at least you will
listen to, the improbable stories of the friars as a father
to the enthusiastic exaggerations of his child. With Jerusalem
and its vicinity the gravity of the doctrine is too intimately
associated to allow the mind to heed the quarrels and theories
about the localities. It is the grandeur of the thought which
commands you. But in Nazareth it is the personality of the
Teacher which interests you. All the tenderness of the story


## p. 4227 (#605) ###########################################

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
4227
centers here. The youth of the Madonna and the unrecorded
years of the Child belong to Nazareth. Therefore imagination
unbends to the sweet associations of domestic life. The little
picture in the Uffizi recurs again, and the delicate sketches of
Overbeck, illustrating the life of Christ, in which as a blooming
boy in his father's shop he saws a bit of wood into the form of
a cross, looking up smilingly to the thoughtful Joseph and the
yearning Mary, as when he brings her the passion-flower in the
pleasant room.
The tranquil afternoon streams up the valley, and your heart
is softened as if by that tender smile of Mary; and yielding to
soliciting friars, you go quietly and see where Joseph's house.
stood, and where the Angel Gabriel saluted Mary, and the chim-
ney of the hearth upon which she warmed food for her young
child, and baked cakes for Joseph when he came home from
work, and the rock whence the Jews wished to cast Jesus, and
another rock upon which he ate with his disciples.
You listen quietly to these stories, and look at the sights.
The childish effort to give plausible form to the necessary facts.
of the history of the place is too natural to offend. When the
pretense is too transparent you smile, but do not scold. For
whether he lived upon this side of the way or upon that, this is
the landscape he saw for thirty years. A quiet workman, doubt-
less, with his father, strolling among the melancholy hills of
Galilee, looking down into the lake-like vastness of Esdraëlon,
where the great captains of his nation had fought, hearing the
wild winds blow from the sea, watching the stars, and remem-
bering the three days of his childhood when he sat in the temple
at Jerusalem.
Walking in the dying day over the same solitary hills, you
will see in the sunset but one figure moving along the horizon,-
a grave manly form, outlined upon the west.
Here was the true struggle of his life-the resolve to devote
himself to the work. These are the exceeding high mountains
upon which he was lifted in temptation; here in the fullness of
his youth and hope Satan walked with him, seductive. For
every sin smiles in the first address, says Jeremy Taylor, and
carries light in the face and honey in the lip. Green and
flowery as Esdraëlon lay the valleys of ease and reputation at his
feet; but sternly precipitous as the heights of Galilee, the cliffs
of duty above him buried their heads in heaven.
-――


## p. 4228 (#606) ###########################################

4228
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
Here too was he transfigured; and in the light of thought he
floats between Moses and Elias, between faith and duty, and the
splendor of his devotion so overflows history with glory that
men call him God.
AURELIA AS A GRANDMOTHER
From Prue and I. '
Copyright, 1856, by Harper & Brothers
TH
HERE will be a time when you will no longer go out to
dinner; or only very quietly, in the family. I shall be
gone then; but other old bookkeepers in white cravats will
inherit my tastes, and saunter on summer afternoons to see what
I loved to see.
They will not pause, I fear, in buying apples, to look at the
old lady in venerable cap who is rolling by in the carriage.
They will worship another Aurelia. You will not wear dia-
monds or opals any more, only one pearl upon your blue-veined
finger,- your engagement ring. Grave clergymen and antiquated
beaux will hand you down to dinner, and the group of polished
youth who gather around the yet unborn Aurelia of that day
will look at you, sitting quietly upon the sofa, and say softly,
"She must have been very handsome in her time. "
All this must be; for consider how few years since it was
your grandmother who was the belle, by whose side the hand-
some young men longed to sit and pass expressive mottoes.
Your grandmother was the Aurelia of a half-century ago,
although you cannot fancy her young. She is indissolubly asso-
ciated in your mind with caps and dark dresses. You can be-
lieve Mary Queen of Scots, or Nell Gwyn, or Cleopatra, to have
been young and blooming, although they belonged to old and
dead centuries; but not your grandmother. Think of those who
shall believe the same of you-you, who to-day are the very
flower of youth.
Might I plead with you, Aurelia, I, who would be too
happy to receive one of those graciously beaming bows that I
see you bestow upon young men, in passing,—I would ask you
to bear that thought with you always, not to sadden your sunny
smile, but to give it a more subtle grace. Wear in your sum-
mer garland this little leaf of rue. It will not be the skull at


## p. 4229 (#607) ###########################################

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
4229
the feast, it will rather be the tender thoughtfulness in the face.
of the young Madonna.
For the years pass like summer clouds, Aurelia, and the
children of yesterday are the wives and mothers of to-day.
Even I do sometimes discover the mild eyes of my Prue fixed
pensively upon my face, as if searching for the bloom which she
remembers there in the days, long ago, when we were young.
She will never see it there again, any more than the flowers
she held in her hand, in our old spring rambles. Yet the tear
that slowly gathers as she gazes is not grief that the bloom has
faded from my cheek, but the sweet consciousness that it can
never fade from my heart; and as her eyes fall upon her work
again, or the children climb her lap to hear the old fairy-tales
they already know by heart, my wife Prue is dearer to me than
the sweetheart of those days long ago.
PRUE'S MAGNOLIA
From Prue and I. Copyright, 1892, by Harper & Brothers
IF
F I meet Charles, who is bound for Alabama, or John, who
sails for Savannah, with a trunk full of white jackets, I do
not say to them, as their other friends say:-
"Happy travelers, who cut March and April out of the dismal
year! "
I do not envy them. They will be seasick on the way.
The
Southern winds will blow all the water out of the rivers; and,
desolately stranded upon mud, they will relieve the tedium
of the interval by tying with large ropes a young gentleman
raving with delirium tremens. They will hurry along, appalled
by forests blazing in the windy night; and housed in a bad inn,
they will find themselves anxiously asking, "Are the cars punc-
tual in leaving? "-grimly sure that impatient travelers find all
conveyances too slow. The travelers are very warm indeed, even
in March and April,-but Prue doubts if it is altogether the
effect of the Southern climate.
—
Why should they go to the South? If they only wait a little,
the South will come to them. Savannah arrives in April;
Florida in May; Cuba and the Gulf come in with June; and the
full splendor of the Tropics burns through July and August.


## p. 4230 (#608) ###########################################

4230
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
Sitting upon the earth, do we not glide by all the constellations,
all the awful stars? Does not the flash of Orion's scimitar
dazzle as we pass? Do we not hear, as we gaze in hushed
midnights, the music of the Lyre; are we not throned with
Cassiopeia; do we not play with the tangles of Berenice's hair, as
we sail, as we sail?
When Christopher told me that he was going to Italy, I went
into Bourne's conservatory, saw a magnolia, and so reached Italy
before him. Can Christopher bring Italy home? But I brought
to Prue a branch of magnolia blossoms, with Mr. Bourne's kind-
est regards, and she put them upon her table, and our little
house smelled of Italy for a week afterward. The incident
developed Prue's Italian tastes, which I had not suspected to be
so strong. I found her looking very often at the magnolias;
even holding them in her hand, and standing before the table
with a pensive air. I suppose she was thinking of Beatrice.
Cenci, or of Tasso and Leonora, or of the wife of Marino Fali-
ero, or of some other of those sad old Italian tales of love and
woe. So easily Prue went to Italy.
Thus the spring comes in my heart as well as in the air, and
leaps along my veins as well as through the trees. I immedi-
ately travel. An orange takes me to Sorrento, and roses, when
they blow, to Pæstum. The camellias in Aurelia's hair bring
Brazil into the happy rooms she treads, and she takes me to
South America as she goes to dinner. The pearls upon her
neck make me free of the Persian Gulf. Upon her shawl, like
the Arabian prince upon his carpet, I am transported to the
vales of Cashmere; and thus, as I daily walk in the bright
spring days, I go around the world.
But the season wakes a finer longing, a desire that could only
be satisfied if the pavilions of the clouds were real, and I could
stroll among the towering splendors of a sultry spring evening.
Ah! if I could leap those flaming battlements that glow along
the west-if I could tread those cool, dewy, serene isles of
sunset, and sink with them in the sea of stars.
I say so to Prue, and my wife smiles.


## p. 4231 (#609) ###########################################

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
4231
-
OUR COUSIN THE CURATE
From 'Prue and I.
Copyright, 1856, by Harper & Brothers
WHE
HEN Prue and I are most cheerful, and the world looks fair
-we talk of our cousin the curate. When the world
seems a little cloudy, and we remember that though we
have lived and loved together we may not die together-we talk
of our cousin the curate. When we plan little plans for the boys
and dream dreams for the girls-we talk of our cousin the
curate. When I tell Prue of Aurelia, whose character is every
day lovelier- we talk of our cousin the curate. There is no
subject which does not seem to lead naturally to our cousin the
curate. As the soft air steals in and envelops everything in the
world, so that the trees, and the hills, and the rivers, the cities,
the crops, and the sea, are made remote and delicate and beauti-
ful by its pure baptism, so over all the events of our little lives
-comforting, refining, and elevating-falls like a benediction the
remembrance of our cousin the curate.
He was my only early companion.
He had no brother, I
had none; and we became brothers to each other.
He was
always beautiful.
His face was symmetrical and delicate; his
figure was slight and graceful. He looked as the sons of kings.
ought to look; as I am sure Philip Sidney looked when he was
a boy. His eyes were blue, and as you looked at them they
seemed to let your gaze out into a June heaven. The blood ran
close to the skin, and his complexion had the rich transparency
of light. There was nothing gross or heavy in his expression or
texture; his soul seemed to have mastered his body. But he
had strong passions, for his delicacy was positive, not negative;
it was not weakness, but intensity.
There was a patch of ground about the house which we tilled
as a garden. I was proud of my morning-glories and sweet-
peas; my cousin cultivated roses. One day and we could.
scarcely have been more than six years old - we were digging
merrily and talking. Suddenly there was some kind of differ-
ence; I taunted him, and raising his spade he struck me upon
the leg. The blow was heavy for a boy, and the blood trickled
from the wound. I burst into indignant tears, and limped
toward the house. My cousin turned pale and said nothing; but
just as I opened the door he darted by me, and before I could


## p. 4232 (#610) ###########################################

4232
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
interrupt him he had confessed his crime and asked for punish-
ment.
From that day he conquered himself. He devoted a kind of
ascetic energy to subduing his own will, and I remember no
other outbreak. But the penalty he paid for conquering his will
was a loss of the gushing expression of feeling. My cousin
became perfectly gentle in his manner; but there was a want of
that pungent excess which is the finest flavor of character. His
views were moderate and calm. He was swept away by no boy-
ish extravagance; and even while I wished he would sin only a
very little, I still adored him as a saint. The truth is, as I tell
Prue, I am so very bad because I have to sin for two- for
myself and our cousin the curate. Often, when I returned pant-
ing and restless from some frolic which had wasted almost all
the night, I was rebuked as I entered the room in which he lay
peacefully sleeping. There was something holy in the profound
repose of his beauty; and as I stood looking at him, how many
a time the tears have dropped from my hot eyes upon his face
while I vowed to make myself worthy of such a companion,- for
I felt my heart owning its allegiance to that strong and imperial
nature.
-―――――――
My cousin was loved by the boys, but the girls worshiped
him. His mind, large in grasp and subtle in perception, natu-
rally commanded his companions, while the lustre of his character
allured those who could not understand him. The asceticism
occasionally showed itself in a vein of hardness, or rather of
severity, in his treatment of others. He did what he thought it
his duty to do; but he forgot that few could see the right so
clearly as he, and very few of those few could so calmly obey
the least command of conscience. I confess I was a little afraid
of him, for I think I never could be severe.
In the long winter evenings I often read to Prue the story of
some old father of the church, or some quaint poem of George
Herbert's; and every Christmas Eve I read to her Milton's
'Hymn of the Nativity. ' Yet when the saint seems to us most
saintly, or the poem most pathetic or sublime, we find ourselves.
talking of our cousin the curate. I have not seen him for many
years; but when we parted, his head had the intellectual symme-
try of Milton's, without the Puritanic stoop, and with the stately
grace of a Cavalier


## p. 4233 (#611) ###########################################

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
4233
THE CHARM OF PARIS
From The Potiphar Papers. Copyright, 1858, by Harper & Brothers
YES, my dear Madame," answered the Pacha, "this is indeed
"YES making the best of one's opportunities. This is well
worth coming to Europe for. It is in fact for this that
Europe is chiefly valuable to an American, as the experience of
an observer shows. Paris is notoriously the great centre of
historical and romantic interest. To be sure, Italy, Rome,
Switzerland, and Germany-yes, and even England-have some
few objects of interest and attention; but the really great things
of Europe, the superior interests, are all in Paris. Why, just
reflect. Here is the Café de Paris, the Trois Frères, and the
Maison Dorée. I don't think you can get such dinners elsewhere.
Then there is the Grand Opera, the Comic Opera, and now and
then the Italian-I rather think that is good music. Are there
any such theatres as the Vaudeville, the Variétés, and the
Montansier, where there is the most dexterous balancing on the
edge of decency that ever you saw? and when the balance is
lost, as it always is at least a dozen times every evening, the
applause is tremendous, showing that the audience have such a
subtle sense of propriety that they can detect the slightest devia-
tion from the right line. Is there not the Louvre, where, if
there is not the best picture of a single great artist, there are
good specimens of all? Will you please to show me such a
promenade as the Boulevards, such fêtes as those of the Champs.
Elysées, such shops as those of the Passages and the Palais
Royal? Above all, will you indicate to such students of mankind
as Mr. Boosey, Mr. Firkin, and I, a city more abounding in
piquant little women, with eyes, and coiffures and toilettes, and
je ne sais quoi, enough to make Diogenes a dandy, to obtain
their favor? I think, dear madame, you would be troubled to
do it. And while these things are Paris, while we are sure of
an illimitable allowance of all this in the gay capital, we do
right to remain here. Let who will, sadden in moldy old Rome,
or luxuriate in the orange groves of Sorrento and the South, or
wander among the ruins of the most marvelous of empires, and
the monuments of art of the highest human genius, or float about
the canals of Venice, or woo the Venus and the Apollo, and
learn from the silent lips of those teachers a lore sweeter than


## p. 4234 (#612) ###########################################

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
4234
the French novelists impart; let who will, climb the tremendous
Alps, and feel the sublimity of Switzerland as he rises from the
summer of Italian lakes and vineyards into the winter of the
glaciers, or makes the tour of all climates in a day by descending
those mountains towards the south; let those who care for it,
explore in Germany the sources of modern history, and the remote
beginnings of the American spirit;-ours be the boulevards, the
demoiselles, the operas, and the unequaled dinners. Decency
requires that we should see Rome, and climb an Alp. We will
devote a summer week to the one, and a winter month to the
other. They will restore us, renewed and refreshed, for the
manly, generous, noble, and useful life we lead in Paris. »
"PHARISAISM OF REFORM»
From Orations and Addresses. ' Copyright, 1893, by Harper & Brothers
N°
O AMERICAN, it seems to me, is so unworthy the name as he
who attempts to extenuate or defend any national abuse,
who denies or tries to hide it, or who derides as pessimists
and Pharisees those who indignantly disown it and raise the cry
of reform. If a man proposes the redress of any public wrong,
he is asked severely whether he considers himself so much wiser
and better than other men, that he must disturb the existing
order and pose as a saint. If he denounces an evil, he is
exhorted to beware of spiritual pride. If he points out a dan-
gerous public tendency or censures the action of a party, he is
advised to cultivate good-humor, to look on the bright side, to
remember that the world is a very good world, at least the best
going, and very much better than it was a hundred years ago.
Undoubtedly it is; but would it have been better if every-
body had then insisted that it was the best of all possible
worlds, and that we must not despond if sometimes a cloud
gathered in the sky, or a Benedict Arnold appeared in the
patriot army, or even a Judas Iscariot among the chosen twelve?
Christ, I think, did not doubt the beloved disciple nor the
coming of his kingdom, although he knew and said that the be-
trayer sat with him at the table. I believe we do not read that
Washington either thought it wiser that Arnold's treachery should
be denied or belittled, or that he or any other patriot despaired
although the treason was so grave. Julius Cæsar or Marlborough


## p. 4235 (#613) ###########################################

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
4235
or Frederick would hardly be called a great general if he had
rebuked the soldier who reported that the lines were beginning
to break. When the sea is pouring into the ship through an
open seam, everybody is aware of it. But then it is too late.
It is the watch who reports the first starting of the seam who
saves the ship.
It is an ill sign when public men find in exposure and
denunciation of public abuses evidence of the pharisaic disposi-
tion and a tendency in the critic to think himself holier than
other men. Was Martin Luther, cheerfully defending his faith
against the princes of Christendom, a Pharisee? Were the Eng-
lish Puritans, iconoclasts in Church and State but saviors of
liberty, pessimists? Were Patrick Henry demanding liberty or
death, and Wendell Phillips in the night of slavery murmuring
the music of the morning, birds of ill omen? Was Abraham
Lincoln saying of the American Union, "A house divided with
itself cannot stand," assuming to be holier than other Amer-
To win a cheap cheer, I have known even intelligent
men to sneer at the scholar in politics. But in a republic
founded upon the common school, such a sneer seems to me to
show a momentary loss of common-sense. It implies that the
political opinions of educated men are unimportant and that
ignorance is a safer counselor of the republic. If the gentleman
who in this very hall last stooped to that sneer, had asked him-
self what would have been the fortune of this State and this
country without its educated leadership, from Samuel Adams to
Charles Sumner,- both sons of Massachusetts, both scholars in
politics from Harvard College,- he might have spared his coun-
try, his party, and himself, the essential recreancy to America
and to manhood which lies in a sneer at education. To the cant
about the pharisaism of reform there is one short and final
answer. The man who tells the truth is a holier man than the
liar. The man who does not steal is a better man than the
thief.


## p. 4236 (#614) ###########################################

4236
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
THE CALL OF FREEDOM
From Orations and Addresses.
Copyright, 1893, by Harper & Brothers
IN
NTO how many homes along this lovely valley came the news
of Lexington and Bunker Hill eighty years ago; and young
men like us, studious, fond of leisure, young lovers, young
husbands, young brothers, and sons, knew that they must forsake
the wooded hillside, the river meadows golden with harvest, the
twilight walk along the river, the summer Sunday in the old
church, parents, wife, child, mistress, and go away to uncertain
Putnam heard the call at his plow, and turned to go
without waiting. Wooster heard it, and obeyed.
war.
Not less lovely in those days was this peaceful valley, not
less soft this summer air. Life was as dear and love as beauti-
ful to those young men as to us who stand upon their graves.
But because they were so dear and beautiful, those men went
out bravely to fight for them and fall. Through these very
streets they marched, who never returned. They fell and were
buried; but they never can die. Not sweeter are the flowers
that make your valley fair, not greener are the pines that give
your river its name, than the memory of the brave men who
died for freedom. And yet no victim of those days, sleeping
under the green sod of Connecticut, is more truly a martyr of
Liberty than every murdered man whose bones lie bleaching in
this summer sun upon the silent plains of Kansas.
Gentlemen, while we read history we make history. Because
our fathers fought in this great cause, we must not hope to escape
fighting. Because two thousand years ago Leonidas stood against
Xerxes, we must not suppose that Xerxes was slain, nor, thank
God! that Leonidas is not immortal. Every great crisis of human
history is a pass of Thermopylæ, and there is always a Leonidas
and his three hundred to die in it, if they cannot conquer.
And
so long as Liberty has one martyr, so long as one drop of blood
is poured out for her, so long from that single drop of bloody
sweat of the agony of humanity shall spring hosts as countless
as the forest leaves and mighty as the sea.
Brothers! the call has come to us. I bring it to you in these
calm retreats. I summon you to the great fight of Freedom. I
call upon you to say with your voices, whenever the occasion
offers, and with your votes when the day comes, that upon


## p. 4237 (#615) ###########################################

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
4237
these fertile fields of Kansas, in the very heart of the continent,
the upas-tree of slavery, dripping death-dews upon national pros-
perity and upon free labor, shall never be planted. I call upon
you to plant there the palm of peace, the wine and the olive of
a Christian civilization. I call upon you to determine whether
this great experiment of human freedom, which has been the
scorn of despotism, shall by our failure be also our sin and
shame. I call upon you to defend the hope of the world.
The voice of our brothers who are bleeding, no less than our
fathers who bled, summons us to this battle. Shall the children
of unborn generations, clustering over that vast western empire,
rise up and call us blessed or cursed? Here are our Marathon
and Lexington; here are our heroic fields. The hearts of all
good men beat with us. The fight is fierce- the issue is with
God. But God is good.
ROBERT BROWNING IN FLORENCE
From The Easy Chair. Copyright, 1891, by Harper & Brothers
IT
IS more than forty years since Margaret Fuller first gave
distinction to the literary notices and reviews of the New
York Tribune. Miss Fuller was a woman of extraordinary
scholarly attainments and intellectual independence, the friend of
Emerson and of the "Transcendental" leaders; and her criti-
cal papers were the best then published, and were fitly succeeded
by those of her scholarly friend, George Ripley. It was her
review in the Tribune of Browning's early dramas and the
'Bells and Pomegranates' that introduced him to such general
knowledge and appreciation among cultivated readers in this
country, that it is not less true of Browning than of Carlyle that
he was first better known in America than at home.
It was but about four years before the publication of Miss
Fuller's paper that the Boston issue of Tennyson's two volumes
had delighted the youth of the time with the consciousness of
the appearance of a new English poet. The eagerness and
enthusiasm with which Browning was welcomed soon after were
more limited in extent, but they were even more ardent; and
the devoted zeal of Mr. Levi Thaxter as a Browning missionary
and pioneer forecast the interest from which the Browning soci-
eties of later days have sprung. When Matthew Arnold was


## p. 4238 (#616) ###########################################

4238
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
told in a small and remote farming village in New England that
there had been a lecture upon Browning in the town the week
before, he stopped in amazement, and said, "Well, that is the
most surprising and significant fact I have heard in America. "
It was in those early days of Browning's fame, and in the
studio of the sculptor Powers in Florence, that the youthful
Easy Chair took up a visiting-card, and reading the name Mr.
Robert Browning, asked with eager earnestness whether it was
Browning the poet. Powers turned his large, calm, lustrous
eyes upon the youth, and answered, with some surprise at the
warmth of the question:-
-
"It is a young Englishman, recently married, who is here
with his wife, an invalid. He often comes to the studio. "
"Good Heaven! " exclaimed the youth, "it must be Browning
and Elizabeth Barrett. "
Powers, with the half-bewildered air of one suddenly made
conscious that he had been entertaining angels unawares, said
reflectively, “I think we must have them to tea. "
The youth begged to take the card which bore the poet's
address, and hastening to his room near the Piazza Novella, he
wrote a note asking permission for a young American to call
and pay his respects to Mr. and Mrs. Browning; but wrote it in
terms which, however warm, would yet permit it to be put aside
if it seemed impertinent, or if for any reason such a call were
not desired. The next morning betimes the note was dispatched,
and a half-hour had not passed when there was a brisk rap at
the Easy Chair's door. He opened it and saw a young man,
who briskly inquired:
-
"Is Mr. Easy Chair here? »
"That is my name. "
"I am Robert Browning. "
Browning shook hands heartily with his young American
admirer, and thanked him for his note. The poet was then
about thirty-five. His figure was not large, but compact, erect,
and active; the face smooth, the hair dark; the aspect that of
active intelligence, and of a man of the world. He was in no
way eccentric, either in manner or appearance. He talked
freely, with great vivacity, and delightfully, rising and walking
about the room as his talk sparkled on. He heard with evident
pleasure, but with entire simplicity and manliness, of the Ameri-
can interest in his works and in those of Mrs. Browning; and


## p. 4239 (#617) ###########################################

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
4239
the Easy Chair gave him a copy of Miss Fuller's paper in the
Tribune.
It was a bright, and to the Easy Chair a wonderfully happy
hour. As he went, the poet said that Mrs. Browning would cer-
tainly expect to give Mr. Easy Chair a cup of tea in the even-
ing; and with a brisk and gay good-by, Browning was gone.
The Easy Chair blithely hied him to the Café Doné, and
ordered of the flower-girl the most perfect of nosegays, with
such fervor that she smiled; and when she brought the flowers
in the afternoon, said with sympathy and meaning, "Eccola,
signore! per la donna bellissima! "
It was not in the Casa Guidi that the Brownings were then
living, but in an apartment in the Via della Scala, not far from
the place or square most familiar to strangers in Florence - the
Piazza Trinità. Through several rooms the Easy Chair passed,
Browning leading the way; until at the end they entered a
smaller room arranged with an air of English comfort, where at
a table, bending over a tea-urn, sat a slight lady, her long curls
drooping forward. "Here," said Browning, addressing her with a
tender diminutive, "here is Mr. Easy Chair. " And, as the bright
eyes but wan face of the lady turned towards him, and she put
out her hand, Mr. Easy Chair recalled the first words of her
verse he had ever known:
―――
"Onora, Onora!