eBooks Base 2000

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May 22d.--Yesterday, while we were at dinner, Mr. ------ called. I never
saw him but once before, and that was at the door of our little red
cottage in Lenox; he sitting in a wagon with one or two of the
Sedgewicks, merely exchanging a greeting with me from under the brim of
his straw hat, and driving on. He presented himself now with a long
white beard, such as a palmer might have worn as the growth of his long
pilgrimages, a brow almost entirely bald, and what hair he has quite
hoary; a forehead impending, yet not massive; dark, bushy eyebrows and
keen eyes, without much softness in them; a dark and sallow complexion; a
slender figure, bent a little with age; but at once alert and infirm. It
surprised me to see him so venerable; for, as poets are Apollo's kinsmen,
we are inclined to attribute to them his enviable quality of never
growing old. There was a weary look in his face, as if he were tired of
seeing things and doing things, though with certainly enough still to see
and do, if need were.


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