FRANCIS PARKMAN. 443 



if he had lived at the court of Henri III. If it had lain in the direct 

 course of his professional study, it would have been remarkable ; 

 lying, as it did, a little beyond his actual province of work, it was 

 astonishing. You began to wonder whether, in that stirring imagina- 

 tion of his, he had stored away all the picturesque facts of recorded 

 history. Very likely his accurate knowledge of the Guise times was 

 a matter of chance. It was a chance, though, which happened to be 

 very impressive, — all the more because of the extraordinary power of 

 oral composition which had come to him from the frequent necessity of 

 dictating rather than actually writing his books. 



For several years after this, I have but two distinct memories of 

 him, — one general, the other individual. The first is of his presidency 

 of the St. Botolph Club in Boston. Founded early in 1880, for the 

 purpose of bringing together men genuinely interested in literature 

 and art, it contained in its earlier years many of the most interesting 

 men in New England. Mr. Parkman was its first President. His 

 health did not allow him often to attend the larger meetings of the 

 club, which at that time occurred every Saturday evening. What one 

 remembers, then, is the pleasant stir which would go through the room 

 when now and then he would unexpectedly appear. He would gen- 

 erally sit on a sofa, leaning back perhaps a shade more languidly than 

 one commonly remembers him. He would talk, with more animation 

 than usual, to whoever chanced to be near at hand. He would greet 

 whoever approached with a cheeriness which made one feel as if the 

 pleasure of meeting were mutual. Here, as everywhere else, it was 

 the man whose presence that you felt, and not the historian. Little 

 by little you began to wonder whether the grave, heroic personage 

 of your youthful . tradition could possibly be identical with this alert, 

 kindly, quietly sympathetic human being. 



My other distinct memory of him, in these years, is perhaps too 

 complacently personal for record. One afternoon in the first months 

 of my married life, when I happened to be alone at home, his card was 

 brought to me. A moment later he came up stairs to the little library 

 where I was sitting. He did not stay long, he said very little. I was 

 a bit- conscious, I suppose, and I rather think there was a moment or 

 two of conscious silence. The fact that he came in person, though, to 

 wish God speed to a pair of young friends just beginning their mar- 

 ried life seems to me worth remembering. Just that sort of friendly 

 kindness is not so common in New England as to be commonplace. 



It was only during the last two or three summers of his life that I 

 saw him with anything approaching intimacy. In " The Half-Century 



