Worcester daily spy. [volume] (Worcester [Mass.]) 1850-1888, 1871-07-24
The "OId Corner,v with Fields and
TicknOr.

If, twenty years ago, the young traveller,
from "up-country" exclaimed, on nearing the
city, and observing single house in process of
erection: "Whyl amt Boston done yit~ what
can be said Of the constructions and rcconstruc-
tions going on nowadays in every drect0nf Ii
dazes me when l return TO the places which
once knew me, and which | once knew so well.
have to steady myself by Faneuil hall and the
Old South church. They are all the buildings
could positively swear to, except, indeed, the
dear, dingy old store at the corner of Washing
ton and School stTeets-"Iicknors." l am
always drawn TO this gray old nest, from which
the ambitious birds have flown, though tits
sight that makes me grieye." 1t is haunted, for
me, with the ghosts of other days, and with
memories of friends honored and well beloved
some gone over the border, some gone only TO
brighter and more eligible sites for business
and traffic. What place this used to be, es-
pecially on Saturday afternoon, for getting
free sight at the lions.
Here, many a time, we saw Longfellow, COM
ing in from Cambridge, looking wonderfully
like rudy, hearty, happy English gentleman,
with his full lips and beaming blue eyes. That
was before the untimely frosting of his hair
and beard. The change is too becoming to be
saddening. After a brief struggle, the white
harmonized with the red, like the rival roses of
England. Sometimes there came in with him
tall, graceful woman, with large, tender, dark
eyes, and voice of singular sweetness and
pathos-a voice which was q soul in itself;
which was at once a prophecy of unutterable
sadness and of unutterable peace. Perhaps
there came also with him, from the classic
shades of Harvard, his neighbor, the poet Low
ell, with his fine, fastidious, studious face
smiling rarely, speaking purely, and wearing
his hair parted in the middle by divine right.
Now and then, coming down from Amesbury,
suddenly entered the store, as though shot in,
the Quakerly-attired form of Whittier, alert and
slender and long. Half-eager, hali-shy was his
manner and both cordial and evasive was his
SMILE and the glare of his deep-set eyes, glow
ing with the tender fame of the most humane
genius of our time. Perhaps he was met by
the next shyest man-Hawth0rne, coming in
from CoDcord-who talked with him in a corner,
in low, hesitating voice, with sweet, furtive
smile playing about his sensitive, tremulous
lips, and calling out CLEANS of quaint humor
from the melancholy deeps of his dreaming,
brooding eyes.
Sometimes Emerson dropped in, and beamed
about him, with that wise, superior look of his,
so free from severity and condescensiona curl
GUS mingling of Athenian philosophy, fine and
aesthetic, and Yankee "cuteness,' cool and prac-
teal. Sometimes came FELTON,, the genial Gre
clan, overlooking with vitality and gusty merri-
ment; more often came big-eyed and big
Drained, and big-hearted Edwin Whipple, and
talked essays and brilliant paragraphs; and
Henry Giles, the wit, the orator, the grand and
somber prose-poet, with the sensitiveness of a
woman, and the righteousness of a child; and
preacher; and Oliver Wendell Holmes, small
but precious package of poetry, humor and hui
mainly; and SAKE, the handsome, herculean
punster. Every few months, Bayard Taylor,
fresh from Europe, Africa, or some other CONT
| nent, came Swagging in on the legs that have
| done him and the world such good service, and
Smiled around right childy." N. p. Willis,
with his indestructible buoyancy of step and
iauntiness of manner; Alcott, well charged with
Orphic sayings; Higginson, eloquent apostle of
muscular Christianity; and Wendell Phillips,
inspired apostle of freedom. Here often came
scholarly Sumner, and dainty Hillard, and
Prescott, the Milton of historians, and ThOreau,
the amateur hermit. Here have seen Char
lotte Cushman, bringing the air of nature, even
from the stage, into what is called "rea life,
and her fair young friend, Harriet Prescott,
fresh, and shy, and sweet. Here l saw Harriet
Beecher Stowe when that old "cabin" was new,
yet not so well rooted but that it let in through
the chinks Danaian shower of gold. Here,
too, first saw G. 2. K. Jones, generous, love-
able man, and a good novelist, though his
"horsemen" do seem TO be fast riding back into
the feuda times from which they emerged; and
Anthony Trollope, beaming, bluff embodi-
ment OF English heartness and good cheer.
In this niche, by the window at the left, could
always be found a handsome happy-lOoking
young man, who smiled welcome on every
conner, who abounded in wit and anecdote, and
lavished bon nlOtS and compliments on all sides.
This was Mr.. Fields. He is older now, but
scarce graver. He is now little heavier in
flesh if not in spirit. His well-pruned whiskers
have been suffered to run wild and expand into
a bounteous beard, and down the centre of that
beard there is streak of pure white, as though
he had spilled over some of the "milk of human
kindness"-all the world gives him TO drink
or some of the cream of his own jokes. In an
alcove on the other side of the store was always
to be found a busy, energetic, rapid wOrker-a
rare, true man, the most devoted and sympathet
ic and unforgetable of friends-the head and
heart Of the firm. OF him cannot speak more.
Grace Greenwood