man of great
beauty of person, enticed one of the infantas of Spain from the school
or convent in which she was pursuing her education. This adventure made
much noise at the time. Mrs. Eames once read me part of a letter from
this lady, in which she spoke of "the fatal Gurowski beauty."

It was in the early years of this decade (1850-1860) that I definitively
came before the world as an author. My first volume of poems, entitled
"Passion Flowers," was published by Ticknor and Fields, without my name.
In the choice and arrangement of the poems James T. Fields had been very
helpful to me. My lack of experience had led me to suppose that my
incognito might easily be maintained, but in this my expectations were
disappointed. The authorship of the book was at once traced to me. It
was much praised, much blamed, and much called in question. From the
highest literary authorities of the time it received encouraging
commendation. Mr. Emerson acknowledged the copy sent him, in a very kind
letter. Mr. Whittier did likewise. He wrote, "I dare say thy volume has
faults enough." For all this, he spoke warmly of its merits. Prescott,
the beloved historian, made me happy with his good opinion. George
Ripley, in the "New York Tribune," Edwin Whipple and Frank Sanborn in
Boston, reviewed the volume in a very genial and appreciative spirit. I
think that my joy reached its height when I heard Theodore Parker repeat
some of my lines from the pulpit. Miss Catharine Sedgwick, in speaking
of the poems to a mutual friend, quoted with praise a line from my long
poem on Rome. Speaking of my first hearing of the nightingale, it
says:--

"A note
Fell as a star falls, trailing sound for light."

Dr. Francis Lieber quoted the following passage as having a
Shakespearean ring:--

"But, as none can tell
Among the sunbeams which unconscious one
Comes weaponed with celestial will, to strike
The stroke of Freedom on the fettered floods,
Giving the spring his watchword--even so
Rome knew not she had spoke the word of Fate
That should, from out its sluggishness, compel
The frost-bound vastness of barbaric life,
Till, with an ominous sound, the torrent rose
And rushed upon her with terrific brow,
Sweeping her back, through all her haughty ways,
To her own gates, a piteous fugitive."

I make mention of these things because the volume has long been out of
print. It was a timid