. Literary friends and acquaintance : a personal retrospect of American authorship. glad now that I held my tongue, forthat kind soul is no longer in this world, and I shouldnot like to think he knew how far short of my expec-tations the sea he was so proud of had fallen. I wentup with him into a tower or belvedere there was athand; and when he pointed to the eastern horizon andsaid, Now there was nothing but sea between us andAfrica, I pretended to expand with the thought, andbegan to sound myself for the emotions which I oughtto have felt at such a sight. But in my heart I wasempty, and heav
. Literary friends and acquaintance : a personal retrospect of American authorship. glad now that I held my tongue, forthat kind soul is no longer in this world, and I shouldnot like to think he knew how far short of my expec-tations the sea he was so proud of had fallen. I wentup with him into a tower or belvedere there was athand; and when he pointed to the eastern horizon andsaid, Now there was nothing but sea between us andAfrica, I pretended to expand with the thought, andbegan to sound myself for the emotions which I oughtto have felt at such a sight. But in my heart I wasempty, and heaven knows whether I saw the steamerwhich the ancient mariner in charge of that tower in-vited me to look at through his telescope. I nevercould see anything but a vitreous glare through a tele-scope, which has a vicious habit of dodging aboutthrough space, and failing to bring down anythingof less than planetary magnitude. But there was something at Portland vastly moreto me than seas or continents, and that was the housewhere Longfellow was born. I believe, now, I did not 14 ni. MY FIRST VISIT TO NEW ENGLAND get the right house, but only the house he went to livein later; but it served, and I rejoiced in it with a rap-ture that could not have been more genuine if it hadbeen the real birthplace of the poet. I got my friendto show me —the breezy dome of groves,The shadows of Deerings woods, because they were in one of Longfellows loveliest andtenderest poems; and I made an errand to the docks,for the sake of the —black wharves and the slips. And the sea-tides tossing free,And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea, mainly for the reason that these were colors and shapesof the fond vision of the poets past. I am in doubtwhether it was at this time or a later time that I wentto revere —the dead captains as they layIn their graves oerlooking the tranquil bay,Where they in battle died, but I am quite sure it was now t
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