"
"I am surprised by that remark. After the age of fifteen, when I read
all my father's writings except 'The Scarlet Letter,' which I was told
to reserve till I was eighteen, I did not study his books thoroughly
till several years ago, in order to cherish the enjoyment of fresh
effects,--except 'The Marble Faun,' which I think I prefer."
He answered: "I feel that 'The Scarlet Letter' is the greatest. It
will be, it seems to me, the one upon which his future renown will
rest."
I admitted that I also considered it the greatest. In the above
conversation I was entranced by what I have experienced often: the
praise of my father's personality or work (in many cases by people who
have never met him) is not only the courtesy that might be thought
decorous towards a member of his family, or the bright zest of a
student of literature, but also the glowing ardor of a creature
feeling itself a part of him in spirit; one who longs for the human
sweetness of the grasp of his hand; who longs to hear him speak, to
meet his fellowship, but finds the limit reached in saying, at a
distance of time and space, "I love him!" I have lowered my eyes
before the emotion to be observed in the faces of some of his readers
who were trying to reach him through a spoken word of eagerness. Very
few have seen him, but how glad I am to cross their paths! Dr.
Holmes's warmth of enthusiasm was so radiant that it could not be
forgotten. It lit every word with the magic of the passion we feel for
what is perfect, unique, and beyond our actual possession, now and
forever.
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