which　I　find　it　hard　to　put　in　words。　　She　was　never　of　the　fine　world　of
  literature；　she　dwelt　where　she　was　born；　in　that　unfashionable　Beverly
  which　is　not　Beverly　Farms；　and　was　of　a　simple；　sea…faring；　God…fearing
  race；　as　she　has　told　in　one　of　the　loveliest　autobiographies　I　know；
  〃A　New　England　Girlhood。〃　　She　was　the　author　of　many　poems；　whose　number
  she　constantly　enlarged；　but　she　was　chiefly；　and　will　be　most　lastingly；
  famed　for　the　one　poem；　'Hannah　Binding　Shoes'；　which　years　before　my
  days　in　Boston　had　made　her　so　widely　known。　　She　never　again　struck　so
  deep　or　so　true　a　note；　but　if　one　has　lodged　such　a　note　in　the　ear　of
  time；　it　is　enough；　and　if　we　are　to　speak　of　eternity；　one　might　very
  well　hold　up　one's　head　in　the　fields　of　asphodel；　if　one　could　say　to
  the　great　others　there；　〃I　wrote　Hannah　Binding　Shoes。〃　　Her　poem　is
  very；　very　sad；　as　all　who　have　read　it　will　remember；　but　Miss　Larcom
  herself　was　above　everything　cheerful；　and　she　had　a　laugh　of　mellow
  richness　which　willingly　made　itself　heard。　　She　was　not　only　of　true　New
  England　stock；　and　a　Boston　author　by　right　of　race；　but　she　came　up　to
  that　city　every　winter　from　her　native　town。
  By　the　same　right　and　on　the　same　terms；　another　New　England　poetess；
  whom　I　met　those　first　days　in　Boston；　was　a　Boston　author。　　When　I　saw
  Celia　Thaxter　she　was　just　beginning　to　make　her　effect　with　those　poems
  and　sketches　which　the　sea　sings　and　flashes　through　as　it　sings　and
  flashes　around　the　Isles　of　Shoals；　her　summer　home；　where　her　girlhood
  had　been　passed　in　a　freedom　as　wild　as　the　curlew's。　　She　was　a　most
  beautiful　creature；　still　very　young　；　with　a　slender　figure；　and　an
  exquisite　perfection　of　feature；　she　was　in　presence　what　her　work　was：
  fine；　frank；　finished。　　I　do　not　know　whether　other　witnesses　of　our
  literary　history　feel　that　the　public　has　failed　to　keep　her　as　fully　in
  mind　as　her　work　merited；　but　I　do　not　think　there　can　be　any　doubt　but
  our　literature　would　be　sensibly　the　poorer　without　her　work。　　It　is
  interesting　to　remember　how　closely　she　kept　to　her　native　field；　and　it
  is　wonderful　to　consider　how　richly　she　made　those　sea…beaten　rocks　to
  blossom。　　Something　strangely　full　and　bright　came　to　her　verse　from　the
  mystical　environment　of　the　ocean；　like　the　luxury　of　leaf　and　tint　that
  it　gave　the　narrower　flower…plots　of　her　native　isles。　　Her　gift；　indeed；
  could　not　satisfy　itself　with　the　terms　of　one　art　alone；　however　varied；
  and　she　learned　to　express　in　color　the　thoughts　and　feelings　impatient
  of　the　pallor　of　words。
  She　remains　in　my　memories　of　that　far　Boston　a　distinct　and　vivid
  personality；　as　the　authoress　of　'Amber　Gods'；　and　'In　a　Cellar'；　and
  'Circumstance'；　and　those　other　wild　romantic　tales；　remains　the　gentle
  and　somewhat　evanescent　presence　I　found　her。　　Miss　Prescott　was　now　Mrs。
  Spofford；　and　her　husband　was　a　rising　young　politician　of　the　day。　　It
  was　his　duties　as　member　of　the　General　Court　that　had　brought　them　up
  from　Newburyport　to　Boston　for　that　first　winter；　and　I　remember　that　the
  evening　when　we　met　he　was　talking　of　their　some　time　going　to　Italy　that
  she　might　study　for　imaginative　literature　certain　Italian　cities　he
  named。　　I　have　long　since　ceased　to　own　those　cities；　but　at　the　moment　I
  felt　a　pang　of　expropriation　which　I　concealed　as　well　as　I　could；　and
  now　I　heartily　wish　she　could　have　fulfilled　that　purpose　if　it　was　a
  purpose；　or　realized　that　dream　if　it　was　only　a　dream。　　Perhaps；
  however；　that　sumptuous　and　glowing　fancy　of　hers；　which　had　taken　the
  fancy　of　the　young　readers　of　that　day；　needed　the　cold　New　England
  background　to　bring　out　all　its　intensities　of　tint；　all　its　splendors　of
  light。　　Its　effects　were　such　as　could　not　last；　or　could　not　be　farther
  evolved；　they　were　the　expression　of　youth　musing　away　from　its
  environment　and　smitten　with　the　glories　of　a　world　afar　and　beyond；　the
  great　world；　the　fine　world；　the　impurpled　world　of　romantic　motives　and
  passions。　　But　for　what　they　were；　I　can　never　think　them　other　than　what
  they　appeared：　the　emanations　of　a　rarely　gifted　and　singularly　poetic
  mind。　　I　feel　better　than　I　can　say　how　necessarily　they　were　the
  emanations　of　a　New　England　mind；　and　how　to　the　subtler　sense　they　must
  impart　the　pathos　of　revolt　from　the　colorless　rigidities　which　are　the
  long　result　of　puritanism　in　the　physiognomy　of　New　England　life。
  Their　author　afterwards　gave　herself　to　the　stricter　study　of　this　life
  in　many　tales　and　sketches　which　showed　an　increasing　mastery；　but　they
  could　not　have　the　flush；　the　surprise；　the　delight　of　a　young　talent
  trying　itself　in　a　kind　native　and；　so　far　as　I　know；　peculiar　to　it。
  From　time　to　time　I　still　come　upon　a　poem　of　hers　which　recalls　that
  earlier　strain　of　music；　of　color；　and　I　am　content　to　trust　it　for　my
  abiding　faith　in　the　charm　of　things　I　have　not　read　for　thirty　years。
  V。
  I　speak　of　this　one　and　that；　as　it　happens；　and　with　no　thought　of
  giving　a　complete　prospect　of　literary　Boston　thirty　years　ago。　　I　am
  aware　that　it　will　seem　sparsely　peopled　in　the　effect　I　impart；　and　I
  would　have　the　reader　always　keep　in　mind　the　great　fames　at　Cambridge
  and　at　Concord；　which　formed　so　large　a　part　of　the　celebrity　of　Boston。
  I　would　also　like　him　to　think　of　it　as　still　a　great　town；　merely；　where
  every　one　knew　every　one　else；　and　whose　metropolitan　liberation　from
  neighborhood　was　just　begun。
  Most　distinctly　of　that　yet　uncitified　Boston　was　the　critic　Edwin　P。
  Whipple；　whose　sympathies　were　indefinitely　wider　than　his　traditions。
  He　was　a　most　generous　lover　of　all　that　was　excellent　in　literature；　and
  though　I　suppose　we　should　call　him　an　old…fashioned　critic　now；　I
  suspect　it　would　be　with　no　distinct　sense　of　what　is　newer　fashioned。
  He　was　certainly　as　friendly　to　what　promised　well　in　the　younger　men　as
  he　was　to　what　was　done　well　in　their　elders；　and　there　was　no　one
  writing　in　his　day　whose　virtues　failed　of　his　recognition；　though　it
  might　happen　that　his　foibles　would　escape　Whipple's　censure。　　He　wrote
  strenuously　and　of　course　conscientiously；　his　point　of　view　was　solely
  and　always　that　which　enabled　him　best　to　discern　qualities。　　I　doubt　if
  he　had　any　theory　of　criticism　except　to　find　out　what　was　good　in　an
  author　and　praise　it；　and　he　rather　blamed　what　was　ethically　bad　than
  what　was　aesthetically　bad。　　In　this　he　was　strictly　of　New　England；　and
  he　was　of　New　England　in　a　certain　general　intelligence；　which　constantly
  grew　with　an　interrogative　habit　of　mind。
  He　liked　to　talk　to　you　of　what　he　had　found　characteristic　in　your　work；
  to　analyze　you　to　yourself；　and　the　very　modesty　of　the　man；　which　made
  such　a　study　impersonal　as　far　as　he　was　concerned；　sometimes　rendered
  him　insensible　to　the　sufferings　of　his　subject。　　He　had　a　keen
  perception　of　humor　in　others；　but　he　had　very　little　humor；　he　had　a
  love　of　the　beautiful　in　literature　which　was　perhaps　sometimes　greater
  than　his　sense　of　it。
  I　write　from　a　cursory　acquaintance　with　his　work；　not　recently　renewed。
  Of　the　presence　of　the　man　I　have　a　vivider　remembrance：　a　slight；　short；
  ecclesiasticized　figure　in　black；　with　a　white　neckcloth　and　a　silk　hat
  of　strict　decorum；　and　between　the　two　a　square　face　with　square
  features；　intensified　in　their　regard　by　a　pair　of　very　large　glasses；
  and　the　prominent；　myopic　eyes　staring　through　them。　　He　was　a　type　of
  out…dated　New　England　scholarship　in　these　aspects；　but　in　the　hospitable
  qualities　of　his　mind　and　heart；　the　sort　of　man　to　be　kept　fondly　in　the
  memory　of　all　who　ever　knew　him。
  Out　of　the　vague　of　that　far…off　time　another　face　and　figure；　as
  essentially　New　En&land　as　this；　and　yet　so　different；　relieve
  themselves。　　Charles　F。　Browne；　whose　drollery　wafted　his　pseudonym　as
  far　as　the　English　speech　could　carry　laughter；　was　a　Westernized　Yankee。
  He　added　an　Ohio　way　of　talking　to　the　Maine　way　of　thinking；　and　he　so
  became　a　literary　product　of　a　rarer　and　stranger　sort　than　our
  literature　had　otherwise　known。　　He　had　gone　from　Cleveland　to　London；
  with　intervals　of　New　York　and　the　lecture　platform；　four　or　five　years
  before　I　saw　him　in　Boston；　shortly　after　I　went　there。　　We　had　met　in
  Ohio；　and　he　had　personally　explained　to　me　the　ducatless　well…meaning　of
  Vanity　Fair　in　New　York；　but　many　men　had　since　shaken　the　weary　hand　of
  Artemus　Ward　when　I　grasped　it　one　day　in　front　of　the　Tremont　Temple。
  He　did　not　recognize　me；　but　he　gave　me　at　once　a　greeting　of　great
  impersonal　cordiality；　with　〃How　do　you　do？　　When　did　you　come？〃　and
  other　questions　that　had　no　concern　in　them；　till　I　began　to　dawn　upon
  him　through　a　cloud　of　other　half　remembered　faces。　　Then　he　seized　my
  hand　and　wrung　it　all　over　again；　and　repeated　his　friendly　demands　with
  an　intonation　that　was　now　〃Why；　how　are　you；　how　are　you？〃　for　me　alone。
  It　was　a　bit　of　comedy；　which　had　the　fit　pathetic　relief　of　his
  impending　doom：　this　was　already　stamped　upon　his　wasted　face；　and　his
  gay　eyes　had　the　death…look。　　His　large；　loose　mouth　was　drawn；　for　all
  its　laughter　at　the　fact　which　he　owned；　his　profile；　which　burlesqued。
  an　ea