It was one of the disappointments of a time which was nearly all joy that I did not then meet a man who meant hardly less than Lowell himself for me.  George William Curtis was during my first winter in New York away on one of the long lecturing rounds to which he gave so many of his winters, and I did not see him till seven years afterwards, at Mr. Norton’s in Cambridge.  He then characteristically spent most of the evening in discussing an obscure point in Browning’s poem of ‘My Last Duchess’.  I have long forgotten what the point was, but not the charm of Curtis’s personality, his fine presence, his benign politeness, his almost deferential tolerance of difference in opinion.  Afterwards I saw him again and again in Boston and New York, but always with a sense of something elusive in his graciousness, for which something in me must have been to blame.  Cold, he was not, even to the youth that in those days was apt to shiver in any but the higher temperatures, and yet I felt that I made no advance in his kindness towards anything like the friendship I knew in the Cambridge men.  Perhaps I was so thoroughly attuned to their mood that I could not be put in unison with another; and perhaps in Curtis there was really not the material of much intimacy.

He had the potentiality of publicity in the sort of welcome he gave equally to all men; and if I asked more I was not reasonable.  Yet he was never far from any man of good-will, and he was the intimate of multitudes whose several existence he never dreamt of.  In this sort he had become my friend when he made his first great speech on the Kansas question in 1855, which will seen as remote to the young men of this day as the Thermopylae question to which he likened it.  I was his admirer, his lover, his worshipper before that for the things he had done in literature, for the ‘Howadji’ books, and for the lovely fantasies of ‘Prue and I’, and for the sound-hearted satire of the ‘Potiphar Papers’, and now suddenly I learnt that this brilliant and graceful talent, this travelled and accomplished gentleman, this star of society who had dazzled me with his splendor far off in my Western village obscurity, was a man with the heart to feel the wrongs of men so little friended then as to be denied all the rights of men.  I do not remember any passage of the speech, or any word of it, but I remember the joy, the pride with which the soul of youth recognizes in the greatness it has honored the goodness it may love.  Mere politicians might be pro-slavery or anti-slavery without touching me very much, but here was the citizen of a world far greater than theirs, a light of the universal republic of letters, who was willing and eager to stand or fall with the just cause, and that was all in all to me.  His country was my country, and his kindred my kindred, and nothing could have kept me from following after him.