Another night the talk wandered to the visit which an English author (now with God) paid America at the height of a popularity long since toppled to the ground, with many another.  He was in very good humor with our whole continent, and at Longfellow’s table he found the champagne even surprisingly fine.  “But,” he said to his host, who now told the story, “it cawn’t be genuine, you know!”

Many years afterwards this author revisited our shores, and I dined with him at Longfellow’s, where he was anxious to constitute himself a guest during his sojourn in our neighborhood.  Longfellow was equally anxious that he should not do so, and he took a harmless pleasure in out-manoeuvring him.  He seized a chance to speak with me alone, and plotted to deliver him over to me without apparent unkindness, when the latest horse-car should be going in to Boston, and begged me to walk him to Harvard Square and put him aboard.  “Put him aboard, and don’t leave him till the car starts, and then watch that he doesn’t get off.”

These instructions he accompanied with a lifting of the eyebrows, and a pursing of the mouth, in an anxiety not altogether burlesque.  He knew himself the prey of any one who chose to batten on him, and his hospitality was subject to frightful abuse.  Perhaps Mr. Norton has somewhere told how, when he asked if a certain person who had been outstaying his time was not a dreadful bore, Longfellow answered, with angelic patience, “Yes; but then you know I have been bored so often!”

There was one fatal Englishman whom I shared with him during the great part of a season:  a poor soul, not without gifts, but always ready for more, especially if they took the form of meat and drink.  He had brought letters from one of the best English men alive, who withdrew them too late to save his American friends from the sad consequences of welcoming him.  So he established himself impregnably in a Boston club, and came out every day to dine with Longfellow in Cambridge, beginning with his return from Nahant in October and continuing far into December.  That was the year of the great horse-distemper, when the plague disabled the transportation in Boston, and cut off all intercourse between the suburb and the city on the street railways.  “I did think,” Longfellow pathetically lamented, “that when the horse-cars stopped running, I should have a little respite from L., but he walks out.”

In the midst of his own suffering he was willing to advise with me concerning some poems L. had offered to the Atlantic Monthly, and after we had desperately read them together he said, with inspiration, “I think these things are more adapted to music than the magazine,” and this seemed so good a notion that when L. came to know their fate from me, I answered, confidently, “I think they are rather more adapted to music.”  He calmly asked, “Why?” and as this was an exigency which Longfellow had not forecast for me, I was caught in it without hope of escape.  I really do not know what I said, but I know that I did not take the poems, such was my literary conscience in those days; I am afraid I should be weaker now.