A Morning With Fitz-Greene Halleck

SHE had been one of the handsomest women of her day, and although the mists of life’s evening had saddened her hues and straightened somewhat the lines of her symmetry, there were still abundant traces of a beauty which in the dawn of the last century owned almost a national renown. A lovely color in her cheeks, too reserved to be artificial, beautiful teeth, and a joyous curling in her white hair at the temples, seemed to justify the somewhat stately consciousness of her bearing. For she came of a family which had contributed generals to the Revolution and whose name was among the signers of the Declaration, while the hereditary acres that still remained were the gift of royalty.

As this truly grande dame swept into the reception room of a noted specialist, whose youthful usher I was, there were ejaculations of admiration and whispered comment in the corridor. Indeed, among the rococo curiosities of art was a picture painted by Robert Fulton when his brain was still throbbing with the scheme that became perpetual motion to thousands, — a picture representing the three lovely daughters of the famous chancellor, grouped as the Three Graces. The group in the corridor comprised, among others, Professor Greene, — still busied with the biography of his ancestor, General Nathanael Greene, — a blond, eager man, with his pockets stuffed with books, for he read incessantly ; and Professor Youmans, pallid, handsome, and impatient.

These conversed in an undertone pending the arrival of the genius loci. Presently there came a newcomer less familiar with the premises, who, on being asked to wait, began to look uneasily about, as though he knew not where to ensconce himself. He was a man of medium stature, neither short nor tall, stout nor lean, with handsome gray hair inclined to curl, and worn rather long, as was the fashion in those days. He stood so erect, with head slightly thrown back, that he looked taller than he really was. I noticed that, like most men of his generation, he turned his toes out (like a French dancing master), so that his gait had something pedantic, as of a former time. His dress bespoke a serious interest in the subject, as became an earlier day, before carelessness of attire grew from an affectation to a fad. He seemed, notwithstanding his defiant erectness, to be about seventy years of age. He approached me wearily. “ Where can I find a quiet place to sit ? said he, looking with well - bred dismay at the group of gentlemen present; adding, as I led the way to the darkened reception room, “ At my time of life I find it so fatiguing to try to be civil.”

I opened the door, and the old gentleman was walking gallantly in, when he perceived the lady I have mentioned. Instantly all his weary languor disappeared. He stood more erect. Holding the handle of the door in his left hand, he made an apologetic gesture with his right, and, bowing, said, “ Madam, your most obedient; ” then, after a pause, “ Have I your permission ? ” In response to some assenting gesture, invisible to me, he passed into the centre of the room and was about to seat himself, when he started with delighted surprise. “ Pardon me, madam, if I am wrong, but is not this my friend, Mrs. Coventry ? ”

The lady peered, perplexed, through the penumbra, and slightly shook her head.

“ Surely, madam, you remember your old friend and playmate, Fitz-Greene Halleck? ”

“ What ! the celebrated poet ! ” exclaimed she, with kindling interest.

His head drooped ; his weariness all seemed to return. “ People used to say so ; but fashions in verse change as quickly as do other fashions,” looking down at his quaint but spruce attire, as if pleading consistency.

“ Surely, the author of Marco Bozzaris can hardly consider himself neglected or forgotten ! Every schoolboy would bear witness to the contrary.”

“ True, madam, I ought to be grateful for any shelter when my hour is numbered ; but do you know that to find myself an inmate of some poetic almshouse, like those collections for reciting, reminds me of the artist who found his own picture in the Louvre, where the works of none living are admitted.”

Here the speakers became confidential, — dropped their voices so as no longer to include the other occupants of the room, who in their turn appeared unconsciously to fall back, leaving to the speakers what would be called in the theatre the “centre of the stage.” To watch the progress of this most discreet flirtation in what was practically dumb show was most interesting. There was something almost of fear in the politely restrained gestures and deferential manner of this lady and gentleman of the old school. They spoke, evidently, of that former time when both were young ; and although the lady’s face flushed with pleasure at some delicately hinted compliment of the poet, yet at no time did he approach near enough to touch the uttermost hem of her garment or the chair in which she sat. No need to mouth or rant in this comedy ; the most delicate byplay sufficed, so keen were their perceptions. The courtly grace, the reverential homage of the man, the delighted interest, the consciousness of pleasing, the ladylike coquetry of the woman, were long to be remembered. And when they came to part, with noble dignity in every movement, we, the unintentional lookers-on, felt that an hour had been cut from the past for our instruction in ethics.