mine was mentioned. And when I was on the point of lathering those
people for bringing it to my mind when I had gotten the memory of it
almost squelched, I perceived with joy that the C.'s were indignant about
the way that my performance had been received in Boston. They poured out
their opinions most freely and frankly about the frosty attitude of the
people who were present at that performance, and about the Boston
newspapers for the position they had taken in regard to the matter.
That position was that I had been irreverent beyond belief, beyond
imagination. Very well; I had accepted that as a fact for a year or two,
and had been thoroughly miserable about it whenever I thought of it
--which was not frequently, if I could help it. Whenever I thought of it
I wondered how I ever could have been inspired to do so unholy a thing.
Well, the C.'s comforted me, but they did not persuade me to continue to
think about the unhappy episode. I resisted that. I tried to get it out
of my mind, and let it die, and I succeeded. Until Mrs. H.'s letter
came, it had been a good twenty-five years since I had thought of that
matter; and when she said that the thing was funny I wondered if possibly
she might be right. At any rate, my curiosity was aroused, and I wrote
to Boston and got the whole thing copied, as above set forth.

I vaguely remember some of the details of that gathering--dimly I can see
a hundred people--no, perhaps fifty--shadowy figures sitting at tables
feeding, ghosts now to me, and nameless forevermore. I don't know who
they were, but I can very distinctly see, seated at the grand table and
facing the rest of us, Mr. Emerson, supernaturally grave, unsmiling;
Mr. Whittier, grave, lovely, his beautiful spirit shining out of his
face; Mr. Longfellow, with his silken white hair and his benignant face;
Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, flashing smiles and affection and all
good-fellowship everywhere like a rose-diamond whose facets are being
turned toward the light first one way and then another--a charming man,