"
In maturer years I believed that his smile brought refreshment,
encouragement, and waves of virtue to those who saw it. To be sure, it
was a sort of questioning; sometimes even quizzical; sometimes only a
safeguard; but it was eminently kind, and no one else could do it. His
manner was patronizing, in spite of its suavity; but it grew finer
every spring, until it had become as exquisitely courteous as Sir
Philip Sidney's must have been. The arch of his dark eyebrows
sometimes seemed almost angry, being quickly lifted, and then bent in
a scowl of earnestness; but as age advanced this sternness of brow
grew to be, unchangeably, a calm sweep of infinite kindness.
It was never so well understood at The Wayside that its owner had
retiring habits as when Alcott was reported to be approaching along
the Larch Path, which stretched in feathery bowers between our house
and his. Yet I was not aware that the seer failed at any hour to gain
admittance,--one cause, perhaps, of the awe in which his visits were
held. I remember that my observation was attracted to him curiously
from the fact that my mother's eyes changed to a darker gray at his
advents, as they did only when she was silently sacrificing herself. I
clearly understood that Mr. Alcott was admirable; but he sometimes
brought manuscript poetry with him, the dear child of his own Muse,
and a guest more unwelcome than the enfant terrible of the
drawing-room. There was one particularly long poem which he had read
aloud to my mother and father; a seemingly harmless thing, from which
they never recovered.
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