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THE HOME LIFE 
 
 HENRY W.LONGFELLOW, 
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 OF 
 
 MANY VISITS AT CAMBRIDGE AND NAHANT, 
 
 DURING THE YEARS 1880, 1881 AND 1882. 
 
 BY 
 
 BLANCHE ROOSEVELT TUCKER-MACCHETTA. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 Copyright, 1882. by 
 
 G. IV. Carle ton & Co., Publishers. 
 
 LONDON : S. LOW, SON & CO. 
 MDCCCLXXXII. 
 
Stereotyped by 
 SAMUEL STODDER, 
 ELEOTROTYPEII & STEREOTYPES, 
 00 ANN STREET, N. Y. 
 
 TROW 
 
 PRINTING AND BOOK-BINDING Co. 
 N. Y. 
 
5 
 
 ZDeiricaticn. 
 
 TO GEORGE I. SENEY, 
 
 A TRUE FRIEND, AND WISE COUNSELOR, 
 
 THIS, MY FIRST WORK, 
 IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED, 
 IN WARM AND GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE 
 
 3O5577 
 
INTEODUOTIOK 
 
 DURING the month of July, 1880, I had the 
 pleasure of spending several days at Nahant, as the 
 guest of Henry "W. Longfellow, and at his suggestion, 
 I kept the journal from which these pages have been 
 taken. 
 
 Honored with the poet s friendship, I could not 
 but appreciate the benefit of passing much time 
 in his society, and seeing him in the home circle, 
 where the genuineness of his nature could best be 
 understood. For nearly three years I had been in 
 active correspondence with him. My friends ex 
 pressed so much curiosity regarding the home life of 
 so great a man that the idea came to me to make use 
 
 [11] 
 
12 Introduction. 
 
 of my journal and publish a book of Reminiscences. 
 Having thought long and seriously on the subject I 
 prepared more than half of the present work, and on 
 the twenty-eighth of last December, in response to 
 the following letter, I went with my sister to Cam 
 bridge, where we spent the day with the poet : 
 
 " CAMBRIDGE, December Wh> 1881. 
 "DEAR PANDORA:* I have just received your 
 telegram and am so glad you are coming, and so sorry 
 that I cannot come in to welcome you. Alas ! I am 
 still confined to the house, and mostly to my room. 
 
 " Please come and see me to-morrow forenoon at 
 eleven, if possible ; not in the afternoon, as I have to 
 sleep. 
 
 " How delightful it will be to see you again. I 
 wish I could give a better account of myself. 1 im 
 prove very, very slowly. 
 
 " Yours faithfully, 
 
 " H. W. LONGFELLOW." 
 
 Mr. Longfellow expressed himself as very much 
 pleased with my idea and what I had done. He said 
 we would call the work " Reminiscences of a Poet s 
 
 * "Pandora" was the title with which the Poet usually 
 addressed me. 
 
Introduction. 13 
 
 Home Life." He corrected with his own hand many 
 lines, and made many suggestions. I wrote them 
 down in full. He reviewed and revised all that was 
 written most thoroughly, and remarked on the chap 
 ter containing his personal description : " Why, that 
 is my portrait ; nattered certainly, but it is me, and 
 I will never have another taken better than that." 
 
 He rather objected to the description of his visit 
 to Queen Victoria, but finally withdrew his opposi 
 tion. It would have been a pity to overlook so 
 salient a point in his character of an American poet. 
 It was decided that I should bring him the manu 
 script (the last six chapters were only sketched out) 
 in its entirety, when he would make necessary correc 
 tions, and revise it completely. 
 
 His sudden demise hastened the appearance of 
 this little work. My husband and myself dined 
 with Mr. T. G. Appleton the evening of March 28th. 
 I then read to him the entire work, receiving at the 
 time many newer suggestions and several important 
 facts from the poet s brother-in-law, which are here 
 incorporated. 
 
 My thanks are tendered to Mr. T. G. and Mr. 
 Nathan Appleton for their kindly interest and sug 
 gestions, and to Miss Fannie A. Tucker. 
 
Introduction. 
 
 The book pretends to claim no literary merit ; it 
 is merely an humble and affectionate tribute, not 
 alone to the great poet, but to the cherished friend. 
 
 BLANCHE ROOSEVELT MACCHETTA. 
 NEW YORK, April, 1882. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. Cambridge. The Home of the Poet, 
 II. W. Longfellow. Entrance to his House. 
 Longfellow folloivs the Custom of the Ancients. 
 Reception by the Poet. ,+- Introduction to the 
 famous Study. The beauty of the House. 
 The Craigie Mansion, once Washington s Head 
 quarters. Lady Washington s Room. The 
 Portraits. Tintoretto and David. A Re 
 markable Fire-place. An Old Clock on the 
 Stairs. Luncheon, and Longfellow s Remarks 
 on Jules Janin 19 
 
 CHAPTER II. A second Visit to Cambridge. De 
 scription of the Poet. Longfellow as he appears 
 at Seventy-four 43 
 
 CHAPTER III. The Promenade on the Terrace. 
 Longfellow will call Things by their Right 
 
 [15] 
 
1 6 Contents. 
 
 Names. Living in a Yellow House. 
 
 Visitor s, and his Reception of them. An Au 
 tograph for a Namesake. His last Visit to 
 England. His Call on Her Majesty Queen 
 Victoria. The Difference in Poets. Long 
 fellow a Poet of the People. The Queen s 
 Remark, " WJiy, even all my Servants read 
 your Poems." The real Dante. Sketch of the 
 Italian Poet. A rare Autograph Album . 48 
 
 CHAPTER IV. Naliant. The Poets Summer 
 Home. How he spends his Mornings. Modest 
 Interior of the Poes House. A well-bred Gen 
 tleman living in quiet Luxury. His Habits 
 and Correspondence. His Love of Fun . 65 
 
 CHAPTER Y. A morning Occupation. The Pro 
 fessor an early Riser. The Ceremony used by 
 the Family towards each other. A Family 
 Party at Table, and General Conversation on 
 the Terrace. The Poetfs Letters. His Hand 
 writing. Accidental Discovery of a New 
 Author. Unearthing of a Poet. Rubbish, 
 and my Unfortunate Remark. Description of 
 the Poets Laugh 80 
 
 CHAPTER VI. Longfellow SpeaJ&s of Poetical In 
 fluence. The Works he never Reads. Sketch 
 and his Opinion of Alfred de Musset, the French 
 Poet. " A God-given Talent put to lad Uses." 
 Longfellow not Willing to lie awake at Night 
 
Contents. 17 
 
 to set a lad Example to a Class of thirty the 
 next Morning .......... 95 
 
 CHAPTER VII. The Poetfs Appreciation of Paro- 
 di es , A Household Word. "/ know the 
 Lines." Dante in another Form. An English 
 Parody on Hiawatha ....... 108 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. Longfellow visits Jules Janin, the 
 French Critic. The Impression made on his 
 Mind ly his Mode of Living. In Doult as 
 to an old Acquaintance. Byron and Swin 
 burne ............ 
 
 CHAPTER IX. Longfellow with his Grandchild. 
 Youth and Old Age. Sketch of the Late Victor 
 Emmanuel, King of Italy. The Poefs Greet 
 ing to his Family ........ 130 
 
 CHAPTER X. A Drive to Lynn. Mr. Longfellow s 
 Love of the Sea. Where he Wrote his Poems 
 "A Secret of the Sea " and " Pallingenesis."- 
 The Real Story of Hyperion .... 142 
 
 CHAPTER XI. Longfellow 1 s Love of Flowers. The 
 Pink Pond Lily. A Poetic Sketch. An 
 Honest Opinion ......... 155 
 
 CHAPTER XII. Longfellow in Conversation. A 
 Good Listener. Characteristic Habits. The 
 Golden Century. The Glory of the Nine 
 teenth 165 
 
1 8 Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. A Wedding Anniversary. The 
 Real Way to made Fish Chowder. Poem, 
 " The Bells of Lynn" 174: 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. The Evening at Nahant. Long- 
 
 fellow s Love of Music. Fond of Rossini. 
 
 Recitation of a Favorite Poem l>y the 
 
 Poet 183 
 
 CHAPTER XV. Talk on Potts. Sketch, Victor 
 Hugo. Longfellow Wwhes to Shake him ly the 
 Hand 103 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. Visit to Cambridge a Year later. 
 
 Christmas Dinner in the Craigie Mansion. 
 
 Tales of a Wayside Inn. All Characters 
 
 from Life. Portrait of The Sicilian, Luigi 
 
 Monti 210 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. My Lost Youth. Pen Portrait 
 of G. W. Greene. The Historian and Longfel 
 low. Friends of over Three-score Years. 
 The Study at Cambridge, in Ihe Lamplight. 
 Mr. Longfellow Speaks of Edgar Allan 
 Poe . . 221 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. Looking over my Journal. My 
 last visit to Cambridge. The Poet 111 and 
 Suffering. Hoping for another May . .237 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. Ultima Thule. The last Rest 
 ing-place of the great Poet 245 
 
LONGFELLOW S HOME LIFE, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE HOUSE AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Once, ah ! once within these walls, 
 One, whom memory oft recalls, 
 The Father of his Country, dwelt." 
 
 To A CHILD. 
 
 Y DEAR MADAM : I have arranged it all, 
 and will call for you to-morrow at 
 eleven. Excuse my coming so early, 
 but it is a long way to Cambridge, and 
 luncheon is usually at one o clock. The Poet says 
 he will be charmed to sec }ou. In haste. 
 " Votre dcvoue, 
 
 APPLETON." 
 
 Such is the substance of a little note that I am 
 continually turning over and over in my hand. As 
 
 [19] 
 
2O The House at Cambridge. 
 
 I road and re-read it I know that a great desire of 
 my life is on the eve of realization. I am going 
 to Cambridge. Cambridge is the home of a poet, 
 and that poet is Henry Wadcworth Longfel 
 low. 
 
 When I was in Paris, in the Spring of 79, I 
 made the acquaintance of Mr. Nathan Appleton, 
 our distinguished compatriot, who had come to 
 Europe as a delegate to the International Congress, 
 called together by Count Ferdinand de Lesseps, 
 regarding a maritime canal across the American 
 isthmus. Mr. Appleton is a brother-in-law of 
 Mr. Longfellow, and he had promised to present 
 me to the poet if ever I should go to Boston. 1 
 am here now, and this little note is the agreeable 
 result. 
 
 The hours passed slowly till the following morn 
 ing, and only as we drove through the well-kept 
 carriage-way did I feel that my time of probation 
 was ended. Ascending the old-fashioned steps, we 
 found ourselves on the porch of the Craigie Mansion. 
 We walked towards the entrance, and to my amaze- 
 
The House at Cambridge. 2 1 
 
 ment Mr. Appleton did not ring, but turned the 
 knob softly, saying, 
 
 " Longfellow follows the custom of the ancients. 
 His latch-string is ever out." Or, I interrupted, 
 
 " The peasants of Normandy in the reign of the 
 Henrys. Neither locks had they to their doors, 
 nor bars to their windows ; but their dwellings were 
 open as day and the hearts of the owners. " 
 
 We entered a large antechamber which re 
 minded me of the small chamber in the Louvre of 
 Paris, dedicated to the Ycnus of Milo, and, in fact, 
 almost the first object my eye rested upon was a 
 copy of that wondrous work. The walls were 
 hung with plaques and pictures, while copies and 
 originals in ancient sculpture were artistically 
 placed about. In one corner, on a high pedestal, 
 was a beautiful head in white marble of the Eoman 
 hero Marcellus a copy of the famous bust in the 
 antique museum in Rome ; it is so well done as to 
 almost rival in beauty the great original. 
 
 There were several doors to this apartment, and 
 one at the farther end stood open. A maid came for- 
 
22 The House at Cambridge. 
 
 ward, and Mr. Appleton, recognizing her with a 
 smile, inquired if the poet were visible. She 
 answered in the affirmative, and showed the way 
 through a richly-furnished hall to his study. As 
 our advancing footsteps made themselves heard the 
 door opened and Longfellow stood before us. 
 
 With well-bred civility, he acknowledged Mr. 
 Applcton s introduction, and his first words were 
 calculated to set me at my ease. The apartment in 
 which we found ourselves was very large, and a 
 huge open fire-place occupied considerable space at 
 the left of the entrance. The morning was chilly, 
 and a soft fire of canncl coal intermingled with logs 
 of hickory shot a cheerful glow up into the wide 
 chimney. 
 
 While the poet was engaged with Mr. Appleton, 
 I looked around and examined the apartment at my 
 fullest leisure. I lost no time in concluding that I 
 was in the famous study of the poet, and what a 
 study ! 
 
 The room, about thirty feet square, seemed of 
 more ample dimensions. There was a harmonious 
 
The House at Cambridge 23 
 
 blending of furniture, walls, books, pictures and 
 statuary. The prevailing tint a warm Autumn 
 brown a sympathetic golden that comes to the 
 leaves in October, when, fanned by the western 
 winds, they deepen in color as they catch the glow 
 of a fading Summer s sun. 
 
 The day was so misty without that it threw 
 in bold relief the exquisite warmth and comfort 
 within. A lire-light cast fitful gleams of brightness 
 on the russet brown of the carpet, and dimly illu 
 mined even the farthermost objects in the apart 
 ment. I was absolutely penetrated with the atmo 
 sphere of repose and poetry of this wondrous cham 
 ber. My lips moved involuntarily, and I spoke 
 rather than thought the word, 
 
 " Simpatica" The poet s voice interrupted my 
 re very. 
 
 " I see that you are pleased with my study, and 
 have divined the very name that my heart so long has 
 given it. Besides being comfortable, there is one cap 
 ital reason why it should be called sympathetic. This 
 was Washington s own private room ; and where my 
 
24 The House at Cambridge. 
 
 writing-desk now stands, there stood his table. 
 These walls, lined with books, also shelved his lit 
 erary lore. In fact, I think the arrangement of the 
 room is exactly the same as when in his time." 
 I looked around and said, musingly : 
 
 Once, ah ! once within these walls, 
 One, whom memory oft recalls, 
 The Father of his Country, dwelt." 
 
 Thrilled with the influence of the past, I almost 
 expected to see the desk piled with maps and charts, 
 and the paraphernalia of a General s budget. In 
 stead, on either side of a carved portfolio was a 
 mass of letters; those on the left with faces 
 downward were answered (so the poet explained), 
 those on the right, turned upwards, awaited his con 
 venience for a response. A beautiful ink-stand 
 attracted my attention. 
 
 "It belonged to Coleridge," said Longfellow, 
 simply. 
 
 " And the quills ?" 1 asked, referring to a pack 
 age lying beside it. 
 
The House at Cambridge. 25 
 
 " Belong to me," added the poet, with a cunning 
 smile. 
 
 " I see," said I, laughing lightly, " you think, 
 with the Earl of Dudley, that it is beneath the 
 dignity of a gentleman to write with anything but 
 a quill. I was once guilty of answering an invita 
 tion in a way that called this comment down on my 
 head. His lordship explained further, that in the 
 best circles of England it is considered positively a 
 breach of etiquette to send a letter written with a 
 steel pen." 
 
 It was impossible in looking around the room not 
 to notice the many rare objects that adorned it. The 
 bookcases were Parisian and magnificently carved ; 
 all that is valuable in ancient and modern literature 
 peeped out from behind the glass, and in one was a 
 still rarer treasure the original manuscript of all the 
 poet s own works. On a beautiful table between the 
 windows reposed an immense volume which the 
 poet took up lovingly. It was a copy of the Lord s 
 Prayer, printed in every known language ; a most val- 
 
26 The House at Cambridge. 
 
 liable work and an exquisite testimonial of the book 
 binder s art. 
 
 The walls were hung with perfect likenesses in 
 crayon of Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Charles 
 Snirmer and Felton ; and near the door an excellent 
 likeness of the poet himself, although taken many 
 years ago. Opposite his desk was a bust of General 
 Green s grandson, G. "W. Green, capable historian 
 and Longfellow s dear friend. Over the door nearest 
 the window were two portraits, ancient, yellow and 
 time- stained, but inestimable in value. One was 
 George Washington, and the other, Martha, his wife. 
 An orange-tree stood in one window ; in the other a 
 high desk where the poet used often to write stand 
 ing, and by the fireside was the already famous chil 
 dren s chair. The center-table was carelessly laden 
 with choice volumes. I picked up one and read 
 " The Scarlet Letter." 
 
 " What a wonderful book," I exclaimed. 
 
 44 Yes, in truth a wonderful book," responded 
 Longfellow, " I have read it many times, and think it 
 stands pre-eminent among works of American fiction. 
 
The House at Cambridge. 27 
 
 Hawthorne was my dear friend, yet I speak without 
 prejudice." 
 
 I had thought that this room held all that was 
 valuable in literature, but the professor laughingly 
 opened a door to the right, disclosing a small room, 
 absolutely filled with books } pamphlets and papers. 
 Here are hidden some of his most valuable works ; 
 among them some original Bodonis, which marked 
 the first great era in the art of Italian printing. This 
 is also the legitimate home of the copy of the Lord s 
 Prayer which was on the table by accident that day. 
 
 From the study we passed into Lady Washington s 
 parlor, which now serves as a morning-room. An 
 immense oil painting representing the children of Sir 
 William Pepperill, the old colonial governor, the 
 figures dressed in the fashion of his time, lent an 
 added charm of quaintness to the apartment. The old- 
 fashioned simplicity of the furniture in its stately 
 repose seemed almost to bespeak the presence of the 
 " First lady in the Land " as she was then called, and 
 even a quantity of modern bric-a-brac could not 
 entirely dispel the idea. 
 
28 The House at Cambridge. 
 
 We stopped in an adjoining antechamber to 
 admire two marvelous works of art one a David, 
 his own picture painted by himself, the other a Tin 
 toretto, the head of a Venetian soldier. To one 
 familiar with the many originals in the galleries of 
 Venice, it was easy to recognize in the present pic 
 ture one of the painter s master-pieces. Longfellow 
 looked long and earnestly at both works, and pointed 
 out with the eye of a connoisseur the salient points, 
 the perfection of each as a work of art, yet withal 
 the astonishing difference in the school of painting. 
 Then ensued a discussion on the two artists and their 
 works. 
 
 Tintoretto seems to have shown, in very early 
 youth, a decided talent for painting. He first com 
 menced decorating the walls of the house, and all the 
 surrounding objects about the paternal workshop 
 were covered with bold drawings of heads and faces. 
 His good father, although only a poor dyer, deter 
 mined, at last, to give the lad the best education 
 that his means would permit. Some say he was 
 born in 1512, others in 1.517, and one may as well 
 
The House at Cambridge. 29 
 
 accept the last statement as the first. He certainly 
 was born about that time, and his real name was 
 Robust! Jacobo Robusti, a solid Italian cognomen, 
 and the one that decorated the gilded sign over his 
 father s workshop in far-famed Venice already 
 the birth-place of many great men, not alone among 
 whom was Tiziano, Moron e and Bonifazio. To this 
 list of artists we certainly may add "little Tin 
 toretto," as he was called, because of his father being 
 a dyer. "Tintura" is the Italian for "color," and 
 " tintore " naturally is for that of a " colorer ; " 
 hence " tintoretto " is the diminutive for " little 
 dyer." He was so clever that his pictures were 
 often painted without being drawn, although, when 
 he reached man s estate, he showed his appreciation 
 of the art of drawing by taking- Michel Angelo for 
 his guide. Tiziano, his master, figured side by side 
 with the great sculptor as pre-eminent in the art of 
 coloring; in fact, the motto over his door was "/Z 
 disegno di Michel Angelo il colorito di Tiziano" 
 (" The drawing of Michel Angelo and the coloring of 
 Tiziano.") It is said that his best pieces are " The 
 
3O The House at Cambridge. 
 
 Passion of our Savior," and the "Miracle of St. 
 Marc." He painted so fast and with such profusion 
 that his may be claimed as the most prolific of all 
 Italian pencils. His works were all good, if not 
 great. He was especially happy in portraits, 
 and here we find the great precepts learned of his 
 master, Tiziano, carried out with extraordinary vigor 
 and fidelity. Seeing only the large pictures he has 
 done one might well consider him a wonder, but on 
 examining those of less pretense, one sees the same 
 strength of color and a perfection of design worthy 
 of Michel Angelo himself. 
 
 " This one," said the professor, looking straight 
 at it, " merits more than a passing glance. See the 
 deep, earnest eyes, delicate yet boldly traced line 
 aments and rich coloring. It seems impossible to 
 realize that more than four centuries have elapsed 
 since Tintoretto first put this face on canvas. It is 
 distinct as if painted only a year ago, yet mellowed 
 enough in tone by age to have watched with the 
 night stars in Bethlehem when shepherds were 
 awaiting the dawn." 
 
The House at Cambridge. 31 
 
 " Well," said I, " I do not wonder that the son 
 of the poor dyer caused his rivals many a sleepless 
 night. His influence to-day, after four hundred 
 years, alternately exalts and drives to despair the 
 most ambitious and talented of his followers; yet 
 with all his faults, the world would gladly give 
 birth to another Tintoretto. It seems to me that 
 when one has done so much that is great, history 
 should kindly overlook the faults when they are in 
 such minority." 
 
 " Oh, you may well say with all his faults," 
 said Longfellow, laughingly, " poor Tintoretto has 
 received unstinted praise and unstinted blame from 
 historians of every century. Still, all seem to agree 
 that he was incapable of real study. He abused a 
 natural talent by drawing upon it at the last mo 
 ment for work that another would have already 
 prepared by faithful research and elaborate sketches. 
 Strange to say, the more exorbitant the demand he 
 made upon himself, and the more unreasonable, the 
 more stupendous was the picture in an artistic 
 sense. Perhaps, had he studied arduously, his 
 
32 The House at Cambridge. 
 
 works might all have been of equal excellence, 
 and compatible with genius, which Macaulay de 
 fines as an * infinite capacity for taking pains. " 
 
 " Or according to this," I interrupted, " Tinto 
 retto might have labored like a galley-slave, and yet 
 left to the world no more mementos than the few 
 that made his fame and are scattered here and there 
 with a rarity which accords with their great excel 
 lence. Let us be content with little." 
 
 Tintoretto died in 1588. Nature denied him 
 lineal descendants, but bestowed upon him the 
 greater gift of living himself forever. 
 
 " Now," said the poet, " will yon look at my 
 David ? The Tintoretto is wonderfully soft, but I 
 must say I like the great character expressed in this 
 face. David, you know, was a celebrated French 
 painter of the last century, and while a man of great 
 talent, there can be no comparison between himself 
 and Tintoretto from an artistic standpoint. In the 
 strength of character painting, however, they cer 
 tainly had points in common. Look at this head, 
 for instance. A great number of his pictures are 
 
The House at Cambridge. 33 
 
 in the gallery at Versailles, and some famous ones 
 in the collection of the Luxembourg, in Paris. One 
 of his finest works, " La mort de la reine Elizabeth," 
 in the last-named place, is universally admired. The 
 virgin queen is pictured half-raised from the pillow, 
 endeavoring to have speech with her attendants, 
 when she is stricken by the great destroyer. The 
 terror and agony depicted on the countenance are so 
 natural as to be alarming ; the hard face of the 
 queen, while retaining all of its usual characteristerics, 
 wears also a new expression of humility that lessens 
 the general repulsiveness and reflects wonderful 
 credit on the able pencil of the painter. It is mar 
 velous how, even in imagination, he could catch so 
 fleeting an expression and so faithfully reproduce 
 it." 
 
 " I remember well the picture always possessed a 
 certain fascination for me," I answered, " and I think 
 with you that David excels in portraits. As a color- 
 ist, he is crude and imitative, and his drawing never 
 put Michel Angelo to the blush. He was really a 
 
 sensational painter, and made stirring battle-pieces 
 2* 
 
34 The House at Cambridge. 
 
 enough to satisfy the blood-thirsty in eveiy land. 
 Tho galleries in Versailles are filled with them. 
 All of his works, however, have the quality of being 
 intensely realistic. One might say that he has used 
 miles of canvas, and his attempts were usually 
 grandiose or very modest. There seemed little half 
 way work about him. He was a man of indefati 
 gable energy, and while no one ever called him a 
 genius, he will always be classed among the dis 
 tinguished painters who have done great honor to 
 France." 
 
 Leaving the antechamber we came to another 
 room, corresponding in size to those previously seen. 
 A substantial "buffet in beautifully-carved wood sug 
 gested the nature of the apartment. Over it hung 
 the portrait of Mr. T. G. Appleton, the poet s 
 brother-in-law, taken in the Byronian style, at about 
 the age of fi ve-and-twenty. It was a fine face, and 
 must have been an exceedingly good likeness. 
 
 Over the mantelpiece was a Roman picture 
 by Guerra, in the style of the Mantegna frescoes. 
 It was bought in the Piazzi di Spagna, in Home, 
 
The House at Cambridge. 35 
 
 by Mr. Longfellow, and represents " A Cardinal and 
 his suite on the Pincio." His Holiness is just stop 
 ping to admire the wonderful fountain so well 
 known to all visitors to the Eternal City. 
 
 On one side of the room hung a portrait of three 
 children, painted for the father, by Buchanan Head. 
 All the world is familiar, if not with the painting, at 
 least with its copies. A look of infinite tenderness 
 came into the poet s face as we drew near to examine 
 the picture, and he said, softly : 
 
 " Yes, those are my three little girls." 
 
 Mr. Appleton interrupted : 
 
 Grave Alice, laughing Allegra, 
 And Edith, with golden hair. 
 
 The one to the left is Edith, Mrs. Dana, the one to 
 the right is the eldest daughter, Alice, and in the 
 center is our little Annie." 
 
 While we were yet speaking Miss Annie came 
 in. She greeted her father affectionately, and in a 
 sweetly-modulated voice bade me welcome. The 
 innate refinement of her manner was shown in the 
 
36 The House at Cambridge. 
 
 ease with which she joined us. The poet then led 
 the way to the state parlor or drawing-room. 
 
 This room served formerly as a sort of council - 
 chamber for AVashington and his staff. It was 
 double the size of any chamber I had yet seen, re 
 minding me, in its stateliness and beauty, of the East 
 Koom of the White House. Two ancient fluted pil 
 lars support the ceiling and form a natural panel in 
 the solid wall on one side. At one end two windows 
 opened on a French terrace, while directly facing the 
 other was the glory of the apartment, a mammoth 
 fire-place. Although not so antique, it has a striking 
 resemblance to the one in the house of William the 
 Conqueror at Dives, in Normandy. The old pile, at 
 present, is used as a tavern, but in one room the 
 grand old fire-place still remains in perfect preserva 
 tion. We can readily imagine how Guillaume and 
 his bride, Mathilde of Flanders, sat together, as lovers 
 might, before their own hearth, and in remembrance 
 of the hour, scratched, in a stone in the chimney, the 
 letters G. and M., a souvenir that centuries has not 
 effaced. 
 
The House at Cambridge. 37 
 
 Dives is not generally known to tourists, although 
 it is not far from Paris. It would be insignificant, 
 were it not for a certain Norman prettiness in 
 the old houses. 
 
 " Thatched were the roofs, with dormer windows 
 and gables projecting." 
 
 The gardens are quaint, and the actual existence 
 of the home dwelt in by the Conqueror makes the 
 spot interesting. 
 
 Pointing to the fire-place before us, the poet said, 
 " This chimney is old, but the one up-stairs bears a 
 plaque dated 1759." 
 
 We continued our examination of the apartment, 
 ^ but it would be impossible to describe all the costly 
 and rare articles of vertu that adorned it. To the 
 left of the fire-place stood a large Japanese folding 
 screen, which partially hid a wall of books. I say 
 " wall," as the cases seemed literally built in the side 
 of the house. Opposite the columns was another 
 large window, looking out on a side terrace, and 
 commanding a beautiful view of the spacious grounds 
 belonging to the place. In the window was a small 
 
38 The House at Cambridge. 
 
 writing-desk, furnished with other quills, trinkets 
 ancient and modern, and a substantially well-filled 
 portfolio. I took up a curious paper knife, which 
 proved to be a dagger bearing the arms of Francis L, 
 with the inscription " Tout est perdu fors VJion- 
 neur" 
 
 Seated beside the poet, I followed with eager 
 interest his gracious observations ; I think everything 
 in the room received an affectionate tribute, and it 
 was easy to see that every souvenir was held in con 
 stant remembrance by him. 
 
 The hands of many givers are peacefully folded to 
 rest, while others still do their daily work in this busy 
 life of ours. 
 
 A portrait of the Abbe Listz in his ecclesiastic 
 gown, holding in his hand a flaring taper, was a strik 
 ing likeness of the world-renowned pianist. 
 
 Admiring and discussing the time passed swiftly 
 until we were summoned to luncheon. A cozy party 
 sat down at table, and the poet made the tea. 
 Honored with a place at his right, I was near enough 
 to enjoy every word that fell from his lips. His con- 
 
The House at Cambridge. 39 
 
 versation, spiced with admirable and appropriate wit, 
 often sent the laugh around the festive board. He 
 ate sparingly, yet with such intention, that no one 
 could feel less frugal than he, verifying the diifer- 
 ence between " living to eat, and eating to live." 
 
 He enjoyed his tea, and I remarked on its flavor 
 and color ; a rich golden brown, it distilled an aroma 
 particularly appetizing. 
 
 " I am glad you like it," said the poet heartily, 
 " my son Charles brought it all the way from China." 
 
 Amongst other dishes, "hwnard a la yelee" 
 excited the following remark from our host : 
 
 " I never sec this dish without thinking of Jules 
 Janin ; in his remarks on fish, he called the lobster 
 * le cardinal de la mer (the cardinal of the sea) ; and 
 we all know," with a deliciously sly laugh and a 
 mirth-enlivened countenance, " that the lobster is not 
 red until it has been boiled." 
 
 Adjoining to the drawing-room we lingered over 
 our coffee, the conversation becoming ever more 
 animated and brilliant until daylight gradually faded. 
 Still under the charm of the professor s manner, a 
 
The House at Cambridge. 
 
 realizing sense of etiquette forced me to think of 
 leaving. I arose hastily, pleading as an excuse for 
 our long visit, that the poet himself had beguiled the 
 hours away. 
 
 " It is a long distance to come," he said amiably, 
 " and I thought this morning that it would be a dull 
 day ; but your visit has dispelled the clouds. Nathan," 
 turning to Mr. Appleton, " yon must persuade Madam 
 to come again ; you know les amis de mes amis sont 
 mes amis? (The friends of my friends are my 
 friends.)" 
 
 We retraversed the long hall and found ourselves 
 in the front corridor. In turning to take a last look 
 my eye rested on a wondrous time-piece, greatly 
 resembling the one immortal in the poem, "The old 
 clock on the stairs." 
 
 A broad staircase, with two landings, leads to the 
 upper chambers. From the ceiling, resting on the 
 first, stands this ancient time-piece. It is a magnifi 
 cently carved Dutch clock with chimes, and is alto 
 gether a wonderful piece of mechanism. The long 
 pendulum moved with a stately precision, and the tick, 
 
The House at Cambridge. 41 
 
 tick, tick, was in agreeable and continuous harmony. 
 The but stop ! Who would dare attempt a de 
 scription of a clock with the poet s own loving por 
 trayal of one before us.. 
 
 ** Half- way up the stair it stands, 
 It points and beacons with its hands 
 From its case of massive oak, 
 Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
 Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 
 With sorrowful voice to all who pass, 
 
 4 Forever never ! 
 
 Never forever ! " 
 
 With these words ringing in my ears, I turned to 
 the poet and said, 
 
 " So this inspired the poem we all know so well." 
 
 " No," said Mr. Longfellow, hastily, " that is the 
 general idea, but it is erroneous. The real old clock 
 on the stairs is in possession of my brother, Mr. T. 
 G. Appleton. When I wrote about it, it was in the 
 old Plunkett-Gold mansion, where we resided when 
 in Pittsfield, Massachusetts." 
 
 "Yes, I remember," I said, "these lines ex 
 plain 
 
42 T/te House at Cambridge. 
 
 1 Somewhat back from the village street 
 Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; 
 Across its antique portico 
 Tall poplar trees their shadows throw; 
 And from its station in the hall 
 An ancient time-piece says to all, 
 
 Forever never ! 
 
 Never forever ! 
 
 " That description also applies to this house ; it 
 stands somewhat back from the village street, and 
 this clock is stationed half-way up the stairs." 
 
 " That probably gave rise to the mistake, but I 
 will show you the real clock the next time you come 
 to my brother s," said Mr. Appleton. 
 
 "We then made our adieux 
 
CHAPTEE II. 
 
 PERSONAL DESCRIPTION OF THE POET. 
 
 u Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy 
 
 winters; 
 Hearty and hale was he, an oak, that is covered with 
 
 snowflukes ; 
 White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as 
 
 brown as the oak leaves. 
 
 EVANGELINE, PART I. 
 
 HINKING over the events of the day in 
 the quietude of my chamber, the recol 
 lection was so vivid, that I fancied my 
 self still in the presence of the poet. 
 Longfellow must, in youth, have been what the 
 world calls a handsome man. His was a beauty of 
 color rather than classic regularity of feature. He 
 had long, light curling hair, which fell upon his 
 
 shoulders in tangled and graceful confusion. His 
 
 [43] 
 
44 Personal Description of the Poet. 
 
 eyes were cerulean blue, and his face glowed with 
 animation ; the flesh tint being conspicuously bright 
 and beautiful. 
 
 He was born February 27th, 1807, and since 
 then tho years of nearly three-quarters of a century 
 have swept onward in their unending course. The 
 slender lad grew to sensitive youth, living more 
 within himself than with the outer world, and un 
 doubtedly this extraordinary mental introspection 
 did much to characterize his personal appearance. I 
 could see in the exact pictures of him, taken at 
 twenty, forty, and the later years of his life, the 
 same unvarying, lineal features. His face, filled 
 with rugged lines, presents a contour of great firm 
 ness and intelligence. The nose is Roman rather 
 than Greek, with the very slightest aquiline ten 
 dency. His eyes are clear, straightforward, almost 
 proud, yet reassuring, rather deeply set, and shaded 
 by heavy, overhanging brows. In moments of lofty 
 and inspired speech they have an eagle look, and 
 the orbs deepen and flash. Like the great bird of 
 prey, they seem to soar off into endless space, grasp- 
 
Personal Description of the Poet. 45 
 
 ing in the talons of the mental vision, things unat 
 tainable to less ambitious flight. With his moods 
 they vary, and when calm, nothing could exceed the 
 quietness of their expression. If sad, an infinite 
 tenderness reposes in their depths, and if merry, 
 they sparkle and bubble over with fun. In fact, 
 before the poet speaks, these traitorous eyes have 
 already betrayed his humor. I must not forget the 
 greatest of all expressions humility. To one whose 
 soul and mind are given to divine thought, tis in 
 the eye that this sentiment finds its natural outcome. 
 And the world knows that Longfellow s faith is the 
 crowning gem in a diadem of virtues. His face is 
 not a mask but an open book a positive index to 
 his character. His forehead is high, prominent, and 
 square at the temples ; numberless fine lines are 
 ingrained in its surface, and on either side, a 
 slender, serpentine vein starts from the eyes, and 
 mounting upwards loses itself beneath a mass of 
 silvery white hair. I should scarcely call them the 
 work of time, but rather the marks of an over- 
 active intelligence, and they may have appeared to 
 
46 Personal Description of the Poet. 
 
 others at thirty as plainly as they do to me to-day. 
 The cheek-bones are high, and near the jaw the 
 cheeks are slightly sunken. The mouth is the most 
 sensitive feature in the face. Its character is mobile, 
 even yielding, absolutely belying the outspoken 
 firmness of the other features. The lips are rather 
 full, sharply outlined, and faintly tinged with color ; 
 they close softly, and are sometimes tremulous with 
 emotional speech. Longfellow might be coaxed but 
 never driven. The whole of the face glows with a 
 beautiful carnation more suggestive of youth than 
 old age. The lower part is completely hidden by 
 a wavy beard of snowy whiteness, which also half 
 conceals the slender throat. The hair, mingling with 
 this, sets the rosy face in an aureole of snow. The 
 chest is broad, not deep. With a supple and graceful 
 carriage, he is straight as an arrow, and has a nature 
 of extraordinary vigor. 
 
 The charm of a well-bred manner asserts itself 
 over every other personal attribute. Were Long 
 fellow less Longfellow were he less characteristic 
 of a poet than a peasant, his courteous affability and 
 
Personal Description of the Poet. 47 
 
 rare grace of manner would still far outshine many 
 wlio have only this dependence for their success in 
 life. His disposition is kindliness and sweetness 
 itself, sympathetic, and utterly void of the slightest 
 touch of vanity. 
 
 Perhaps I have drawn on my imagination, still, I 
 think not. The first lines of Hyperion come into 
 my mind Hyperion, the greatest poem in modern 
 prose : 
 
 " In John Lyly s < Endymion, Sir Topas is made 
 to say: Dost thou know what a poet is? Why, 
 fool, a poet is as much as one should say a poet ! 
 And thou, reader, dost thou know what a hero is ? 
 Why, a hero is as much as one should say a hero !" 
 
 According to this, any further description would 
 be ambiguous. Longfellow is a poet, and my hero. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 A VISIT TO QUEEN VICTORIA. 
 
 11 Not of the howling dervishes of song, 
 Who craze the brain \\ith their delirious dance, 
 Art thou, oh, sweet historian of the heart. 
 Therefore to thee the laurel leaves belong, 
 To thee our love and our allegiance, 
 For thy allegiance to the poet s art." 
 
 WAPENTAKE. To ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 " Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom, 
 Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, 
 As up the convent walls, in golden streaks, 
 The ascending sunbeams mark the day s decrease; 
 And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, 
 Thy voice along the cloister whispers Peace. " 
 
 To DANTE. 
 
 T an early date, I availed myself of Mr. 
 Longfellow s invitation to visit him again. 
 As I drew near the house my eyes were 
 gladdened with a sight of the poet. He 
 was slowly pacing up and down the long terrace. 
 [48] 
 
A Visit to Queen Victoria. 49 
 
 Enveloped in an old-fashioned mantle, one end of 
 which was thrown carelessly over his shoulder, with 
 an Alpine hat of soft brown felt, he looked a very 
 handsome man, and the living embodiment of one 
 of Sir Walter Scott s cavaliers. 
 
 Apparently he was better than when I last saw 
 him. The fresh spring air and bright sunshine lent 
 a glow to his cheek and an unusual brightness to his 
 eye. He greeted me cordially. As he was taking 
 his usual morning exercise, I begged not to inter 
 rupt, and together we continued the promenade up 
 and down the old elm-shaded avenue, and back again 
 to the front piazza. For the first time I noticed the 
 house and its situation. 
 
 It stands on the road to Mount Auburn, about 
 half a mile from Harvard College, and commands a 
 perfect view of the Charles River, making a silver S 
 in the meadow. It is quiet, unostentatious, and 
 yellow. 
 
 In speaking of it, Mr. Appleton suggested that I 
 might at least dignify it with the name of "ecru" 
 
 whereat the poet said gravely, 
 3 
 
A Visit to Queen Victoria. 
 
 " Go on, I don t mind what you call it, only it is 
 yellow, and I like things to have their proper 
 
 names." 
 
 Thus, lightly conversing, we went within doors. 
 
 Scarcely were we seated when the visitors bell 
 announced callers. This time I was a looker-on, and 
 watched the poet s reception of his guests with in 
 finite interest. 
 
 In a general conversation, an unerring instinct 
 guided his questions and replies. He is so quick a 
 reader of character, that not one word fell on an uri- 
 appreciative person. Betrayed into some warmth of 
 feeling at a casual remark, he commenced what 
 would have been a glowing description of something 
 he had seen, but, glancing a second time at his visitor, 
 he quietly dropped the thread of his remarks. He 
 knows instantaneously by the questions put to him, 
 the mental calibre of each and every interlocutor. 
 
 Of course, as many epistolary tramps visit him out 
 of curiosity, as well-intentioned litterateurs who wor 
 ship at the shrine of poetic art. It was delicious to 
 see him quietly put down the former without their 
 
A Visit to Queen Victoria. 5 [ 
 
 being aware of it, and to remark with what astute 
 ness he divined the tastes of the latter mentioned. 
 Evidently the old adage of casting pearls before 
 swine is not unknown to him. 
 
 A bright little lad was shown into the room. He 
 was very young, perhaps seven years of age, and held 
 in his hand a newly-bound volume. His manner 
 suggested foreign breeding, as he bowed with raariou- 
 nette-like gravity to every one present, and there 
 stood still as if at a loss how to proceed. 
 
 Longfellow looked up smilingly ; his love of chil 
 dren was evident in the mildness of his speech. 
 
 " Good morning, my lad," said he. u Did you 
 wish to see me ?" 
 
 The boy said hesitatingly, " Professor Longfel 
 low?" 
 
 " Yes," responded the poet kindly, " what is it ? 
 Come hither." 
 
 " This is my birthday," he said, " and I have come 
 to beg you to put your autograph in my new album. 
 Mother just gave it to me, and she said she thought 
 I might ask you." 
 
52 A Visit to Queen Victoria. 
 
 "What is your name ?" asked the poet. 
 
 He looked up shyly. " I am named for you," lie 
 said simply, "and my father works in the college." 
 
 The poet was touched, and the shadows in his 
 face deepened into tender thoughtfulness. He took 
 the book, and after a moment inscribed the words, 
 "To my little namesake. In remembrance of 
 Henry "W. Longfellow." He then drew the lad 
 towards him, affectionately patted his hoad, and 
 kissed his cheek in sign of adieu, at the same time 
 sending his thanks to the mother for her kind 
 remembrance. The boy went proudly out with his 
 book under his arm, and this circumstance hastened 
 the departure of the other guests. 
 
 Some new reviews and magazines being on the 
 table, Longfellow turned to Mr. Appleton, and 
 selecting one from amongst them, showed it to him. 
 It was an English publication, and contained a criti 
 cism on himself and his works. In it the author 
 called Longfellow a " poet of the people." 
 
 I had thought him above caring what a news 
 paper said about him, still his annoyance was visible 
 
A Visit to Queen Victoria. 53 
 
 in the forced indifference of liis tone while reading 
 it, and a short laugh which now and then half -escaped 
 him. The words " poet of the people " evidently 
 amused him, and in a careless, half-indifferent way 
 he asked Mr. Appleton s explanation of them. Mr. 
 Appleton hesitated, but I felt the way out of it. 
 
 The English critic, with natural pride, in refer 
 ring to Tennyson as the "poet of the educated 
 masses," and to Longfellow as the "poet of the 
 people " unconsciously paid the highest compliment 
 to the latter. "With this thought in my mind, I ven 
 tured to say, with reasonable assurance : 
 
 " The truly inspired address all the world when 
 they speak to the heart. Eienzi, the last of the 
 Roman tribunes, was not only a great man, but a 
 poet of the people, and he said Vox poputi, vox 
 Dei. Blind Homer did not improvise for kings and 
 queens, yet the Iliad and Odyssey stand to-day. 
 Dante s Divine Comedy is addressed to the people ; 
 Tasso and the great Ariosto were the people s poets, 
 although the former was so much in love with 
 Leonora as to ardently desire alliance with a duke s 
 
54 A Visit to Queen Victoria. 
 
 sister; and in our own time Victor Hugo exiled 
 himself to be able to write for them." 
 
 The urbanity of our poet was quite restored ; he 
 looked up with an entirely changed expression, arid 
 said, lightly : 
 
 < Speaking of all those European poets reminds 
 me of my last visit to England. Shall I tell you 
 about it ? Would you care to hear ?" 
 
 "Would we care to hear! I should think we 
 would. 
 
 We drew our" chairs side by side, and Longfellow 
 began : 
 
 "When I last went to England I was pleased 
 and honored to receive an invitation from the queen 
 to pay a visit to Windsor Castle. A royal invitation 
 is a command, and being in Her Majesty s domin 
 ions, I obeyed. Windsor is but a short distance by 
 rail from London. The Thursday following my 
 arrival I presented myself at the palace. My name 
 being announced, the late Lady Augusta Stanley 
 came forward and received me with considerable 
 ceremony. Passing through numerous apartments 
 
A Visit to Queen Victoria. 55 
 
 of great richness and historic beauty, I was finally 
 left in an oval gallery of still more striking magnifi 
 cence. She left me, saying that she would announce 
 my visit to Her Majesty. 
 
 " In an incredibly short space of time Lady Stan 
 ley returned, and said that her royal mistress would 
 be graciously pleased to receive me. I was then con 
 ducted forth from the room, and we passed through 
 several long corridors. To rny amazement doors 
 were opened and shut, numberless heads peeped out, 
 surreptitiously drew back, and mysterious whisper 
 ings seemed to fill the royal apartment with indefi 
 nable murmurings. This caused mo wonderment, 
 and no slight discomfort. I was directly ushered 
 into the Throne Room. An imposing lady in black, 
 with flowing drapery, came quickly forward to 
 greet me. It was Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. 
 She extended her hand, and I offered to take it." 
 
 " What !" I interrupted, " did you not bend and 
 offer to kiss it ?" 
 
 " No," said he, timidly, " I was not then familiar 
 or acquainted with court etiquette, as I am now. 
 
56 A Visit to Queen Victoria. 
 
 She offered me her hand evidently to shake, and I 
 shook it." 
 
 "Why," said I, "she is the most inexorably 
 exigeante of all sovereigns. You must have horri 
 fied her." 
 
 "I presume I did," said he simply. "Now I 
 think of it, she was disconcerted, I suppose for that 
 reason, but she rallied graciously, and asked me 
 about America and myself. She explained, 
 
 " We speak of America first, because you are 
 America s poet. Tennyson is ours. 
 
 " Tennyson is the world s poet, Madam, said I, 
 bowing gravely. She smiled in gratified acquies 
 cence and continued, 
 
 " ( You are very generous. 
 
 Her Majesty was then pleased to converse on 
 general topics, but persistently got back to the sub 
 ject of myself. I felt she was piqued about some 
 thing at first, and her last words were : 
 
 " l We shall not forget you, adding, with a laugh, 
 1 why, even all my servants read your poems ! : 
 
 The poet then glanced up, and with an almost 
 
A Visit to Queen Victoria. 57 
 
 comical expression, and, as after reading the criti 
 cism, he said, 
 
 " What do you think she intended by it ? I 
 was nonplussed, and to-day, although many years 
 have passed, I am undecided as to what Her Majes 
 ty s real meaning was." 
 
 " Well, dear master," said I, " judging from 
 Her Majesty s appreciation of the truly beautiful 
 in art and nature, I think her words were meant to 
 convey a decided compliment. It was hard for her 
 to acknowledge that the poems of a foreigner were 
 household words for even the lowest of her sub 
 jects, when her own Poet Laureate does not always 
 succeed in making himself understood by the masses 
 for whom he writes." 
 
 The poet looked up and said : 
 
 " Speaking of poets, have you seen my picture 
 of Dante ? It was supposed, after his death, that a 
 portrait of him existed in the JBargello Palace, in 
 Florence. All efforts to discover it had been futile, 
 when in tearing down the fresco in one of the 
 apartments, the head was discovered, but alas ! not 
 3* 
 
58 A Visit to Queen Victoria. 
 
 in a perfect state. The cheek under the left eye 
 was irremediably scarred. Happily, I possess a cor 
 rect drawing of the original." 
 
 We then went to examine it. I was surprised 
 at the sweetness and extreme delicateness of the 
 features. 
 
 "The pictures of the present day," said Longfel 
 low, " are all taken from another view of the face, 
 representing a much older man with matured features 
 and sharply elongated countenance. The head is 
 covered with a monk s cowl ; a part of the shoul 
 ders are discovered, and in his hand lie carries an 
 ascetic flower. There is a boyish expression about 
 the lips of the Bargello picture, which lends a 
 charm not seen in those of a later date, and even 
 the nose is without the accustomed sharpness. 
 
 " Richard Henry Wild, of Georgia, the author of 
 the charming lines on the Tampa rose, 
 
 " My life is like the rose that blooms, &c.," 
 
 when in Florence, became convinced that there must 
 be under the whitewash of the Bargello Palace, a 
 
A Visit to Queen Victoria. 59 
 
 portrait of Dante. He induced Mr. Kirkup, an 
 English artist of considerable influence in Florence, 
 to persuade the government to allow him to make a 
 search for the picture. The room was explored 
 nearly through its entire length, when their faith 
 was rewarded by discovering the now well-known 
 fresco of the youthful Dante. The great interest of 
 the head is in the fact that it expresses the sweet 
 boyish face of the poet, as yet unfurrowed by care or 
 torn by the terrible conflicts of his later life. One is 
 all youthful hope and trust, and the other bitter, 
 almost saturnine, with life-long warfare. To use Mr. 
 Longfellow s own words, 
 
 " Such a fate as this was Dante s, 
 By defeat and exile maddened." 
 
 Dante was born in Florence, Italy, in the year 
 1265, in the thirteenth century, or, as it is called 
 nowadays the "tre cento" famous in Italian lore as 
 the century most productive of the great lights of 
 her literature. It is asserted by Ugolini, a Floren 
 tine, that Dante s father was a certain Aldighiero di 
 
60 A Visit to Queen Victoria. 
 
 Bellincione, and that the poet was born outside the 
 city gates in a house of poor aspect, and of very hum 
 ble dimensions. The real truth is, that no one ever 
 knew positively who his father was. There have 
 been many conjectures, many statements, but one 
 and all are alike inaccurate. Dante grew to youth 
 with many children about Florence, and had a very 
 good tutor in the person of a certain Brunetto Latini. 
 At an early age he was studious, gentle, and chival 
 rous He went into the army at twenty -four, and 
 fought for his country at Campaldino, a brave soldier 
 and a true patriot ; but in 1300, under Charles de 
 Yalois, he was suspected of siding with the enemy, 
 and with a faithful few was exiled. Shortly from 
 Gorgonza, where they had joined their forces, they 
 attacked Florence, but with defeat the only result. 
 Dante went to Verona and begged aid of the Scaligeri, 
 a noble house who flourished in that century, and 
 whose palaces and monuments to-day are among the 
 ancient glories of Yerona but from their refusal he 
 lost heart momentarily. Dante was a man of won 
 drous courage and patience, and he tried in every 
 
A Visit to Queen Victoria. 61 
 
 way, even through the medium of Pope Leon III., to 
 raise his country to a harmonious and beautiful state, 
 but he was only laughed at. 
 
 He was married to Gemma di Donati and had 
 seven children, but the love of his life was Beatrice 
 Portinari, and this affection, most beautiful in the 
 annals of platonic regard, colored his whole existence, 
 and is the most prominent figure in the part of his 
 poem called "II Paradiso." Dante wrote in verse 
 and in prose in Italian, called the Vulgar tongue, and 
 in Latin. His great poem is divided into three parts, 
 and is called "la Divina Commedia" (the Divine 
 Comedy). The first part is " F Inferno " (the Lower 
 Kegions), The second is " II Purgatorio " (Purgatory), 
 and the third is " II Paradiso " (Paradise). Although 
 living at a time when everything was corrupt, Dante 
 had a due regard for decency, and was unflagging in 
 his efforts to uphold virtue, and condemn vice. He 
 was in reality the creator of the pure Italian lan 
 guage, and to-day even Italians need almost a special 
 education to be able to understand his exquisite met- 
 aphors, grand similes, and marvelous richness and 
 
62 A Visit to Queen Victoria. 
 
 redundancy of speech. His life was begun in liberty, 
 it finished in exile, but he has given to the world a 
 poem that can never die ; and the greater the 
 scholar to-day, the more profound is his reverence and 
 admiration for Danet. No one will ever again write 
 a " Divina Commedia." 
 
 Longfellow, who understands, in an eminent 
 degree, translation as an art, yet had a deeper insight 
 into the hearts of authors. He interpreted by intui 
 tion and poetic sentiment, not by the mere medium 
 of vulgar verse. It is impossible to do the great 
 Italian poet justice in a foreign tongue, but of all 
 pretenders the sweetest rhythm has followed Long 
 fellow s lines, and the most comprehensive descrip 
 tion of Dante s meaning is embodied in some of our 
 own poet s words. He worshiped him, and knew 
 his songs by heart. Dante s three books of " The 
 Inferno," "Purgatorio," and "Paradiso" have fur 
 nished thought and material for writing to hundreds 
 of poets during six centuries. Dante died in Ra 
 venna the fourteenth of September, 1321, thus end 
 ing a life which lias been of greatest use to the 
 
A Visit to Queen Victoria. 63 
 
 world. Although in itself unequal, disappointing 
 and misguided, it was not, as he expressed it, a 
 failure. 
 
 Before leaving, a delightful half hour was spent 
 with the autograph album. There were letters of 
 George Washington, pages from Carlisle, Emerson, 
 Hawthorne, Chas. Simmer, Dean Stanley, Agassiz, 
 Alfred Tennyson, Charles Dickens, Oliver Wendell 
 Holmes, Bayard Taylor, Rossini, Jenny Lind, Nils- 
 son, and a host of others. They had been cared for 
 by the poet s own hands, and were carefully and 
 neatly pasted in a beautiful book. 
 
 Longfellow looked it over with me, and showed 
 almost as much curiosity in it as 1 did. He 
 looked lovingly at the well-known pages, and stopped 
 here and there to comment on the person, or the 
 character of their calligraphy. 
 
 I never before had seen so wonderful a collection 
 of autographs and autograph letters, and promised 
 myself the pleasure of going through it again at no 
 distant day. The professor closed the book with an 
 affectionate smile, and said : 
 
64 A Visit to Queen Victoria. 
 
 " You must look at it quite carefully the next time. 
 We will go over it together, and I will explain all in 
 it that you do not understand. Some of the letters 
 are very curious, some piquant, and many quite 
 beautiful. Others, as you see, are merely invitations 
 and notes. I must confess to the general weakness, 
 if weakness it be. I love to look at autographs, and 
 this book is one of my treasures." 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 LONGFELLOW S CHARACTER. 
 
 " Live I, so live I, 
 To my Lord heartily, 
 To my Prince faithfully, 
 To my neighbor honestly, 
 
 Die I, so die I." 
 
 LAW OP LIFE. 
 
 Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined ; 
 Often in a wooden house a golden room we find." 
 
 ART AND TACT. 
 
 "I ask myself, is this a dream ? 
 Will it all vanish into air ? 
 Is there a land of such supreme 
 And perfect beauty anywhere ?" 
 
 CADENABBIA, LAKE OP COMO. 
 
 R LONGFELLOW has been twice married ; 
 his first wife was the beautiful Miss Potter, 
 of Maine. She died in Rotterdam after 
 five years of wedded life and unalloyed 
 happiness. Some years later Mr. Longfellow espoused 
 Miss Fanny Appleton, of Boston, a lady of rare per- 
 [65] 
 
66 Longfellow s C liar act cr. 
 
 sonal beauty, splendid family, and of a character 
 eminently suited to the student and poet husband. 
 Mr. Longfellow has a happy home, and five children, 
 two sons and three daughters, the fruit of this second 
 union. They are now grown up and live at home with 
 their father, or if not all in the house, at least riot far 
 away. Charles Longfellow, the eldest son, is a 
 famous yachtsman, and in consequence has passed 
 many years abroad and cruising in foreign waters. 
 Mr. Ernest, the second son, is a well-known artist of 
 great talent and fine tuition in his school of panning. 
 He is married, and lives in Cambridge, directly in 
 front of the Craigie mansion. The beautiful trio 
 portrait of three little girls by Buchanan Head, rep 
 resents the poet s daughters. The picture is too well 
 known to need description, but the ladies all bear 
 the same look that they had in youth, and are 
 women of rare sweetness and refinement of character. 
 Miss Alice Longfellow, the eldest, and Miss Annie 
 live at home, while Miss Edith, the second daughter, 
 is now Mrs. Dana, the wife of Kichard Dana, Jr., the 
 son of the well-known poet. 
 
Long fc How s Character. 67 
 
 Longfellow lives at Cambridge the year round, 
 with the exception of the summer months. These are 
 usually passed at Nahant, a charming sea-side resort, 
 just northeast of Boston, and directly facing Lynn. 
 It is almost a neck of land, and is so retired a spot 
 that not all the world knows of its existence. 
 
 Honored with an invitation to visit the poet and 
 his brother-in-law, Mr. Appleton, I actually found 
 myself en route, and was not a little disappointed to 
 see unmistakable signs of rain. 
 
 Heinrich Heine poetically says : " Der Himmel 
 hat cine Thrdne geweint /" evidently he was not 
 speaking of Boston, for in this case, Heaven not only 
 wept one, but many tears The dark clouds grew 
 darker and the rain began to fall, timidly, softly, and 
 exasperatingly, as it alone knows how to do in London 
 and her sister, the Hub. I can always reconcile myself 
 to a hearty down-pour, but I despise a half-and-half 
 shower that will not come boldly out and acknowl 
 edge itself rain, hiding in the skirts of mist and 
 deceiving all the world as to its legitimate intention. 
 I always think that there must be something wrong 
 
68 Longfellow s Character, 
 
 overhead, yet I suppose in nature s great plan there 
 must occasionally be a drizzle. 
 
 Perhaps it is heresy, but I am not fond of travel 
 ing by water ; however, I allowed myself to be per 
 suaded to go by boat. After an hour s run we 
 stopped, and the refreshing sight of a patch of green 
 made me anxious to get once more on terra forma. 
 The landing is very unpretentious, yet the feet of 
 many distinguished people have trodden its simple 
 boards. 
 
 A party approaching, disclosed to view no less a 
 person than the poet himself, accompanied by his 
 daughters, with Mr. Nathan Appleton. The ladies 
 were taking advantage of the wet day to go to town, 
 my arrival being quite unexpected, on account of the 
 rain. Begging them not to allow me to interfere 
 with their plans, I had an agreeable escort back to the 
 house in the persons of the poet and Mr. Nathan. 
 
 Nahant, unlike most sea-side places, is a little 
 bower of verdure. The coast is cultivated right to 
 the water s edge. Smiling grasses and ferns lean 
 lovingly over into the basin, unconsciously giving a 
 
Longfellow s Character. 69 
 
 touch of art to nature s generosity. Nothing is so dis 
 heartening as a sterile, barren beach, with no sight 
 of trees or vegetation, and only hungry waters lap 
 ping remorselessly up on the strand. There is 
 scarcely any seaboard to speak of, and the grounds 
 of the various properties extend quite to the water. 
 They are all in a state of natural vegetation, with 
 clambering vines, trailing sea- weed, and rocks lying 
 up against the banks overgrown with moss and 
 prettiness. 
 
 Etretat, on the coast of Normandy, is not unlike 
 Nahant in its retirement and natural beauty. We 
 miss in our American resort the enormous falaises 
 (cliffs) that clasp the French village in their embrace 
 and stand boldly out to sea, forming a beautiful 
 beach that is adorned by promenaders. Observed 
 from a distance, it is like an old Gobelin tapestry 
 pictured with living forms of brightness and beauty. 
 
 Nahant, without the cliffs, is none the less invit 
 ing, and although the tableau is different, its quaint 
 grace still reminds me of Etretat. 
 
 The house occupied by the professor is large, 
 
Longfellow? s Character 
 
 roomy, and unpretentious. It is built of wood, in 
 Italian style, with a broad porticoed terrace com 
 pletely surrounding it. The front part, facing the 
 street, is two stories in height, and on the first floor 
 French windows open out on the terrace, disclosing 
 to view a velvety grass-plot. The back, with an 
 additional \t ing, faces the sea, and a sharp descent in 
 the hill gives it three stories on this side. The ter 
 race, thus having the appearance of a high balcony 
 overlooking a picturesque declivity, commands a 
 superb view of the sea and surrounding country. 
 
 There is a summer garden, replete with the richest 
 vegetation. A profusion of wild roses and sweet- 
 briar fills the air with perfume, while the many- 
 leaved trees are so vine- entangled that their identity 
 is imperiled by a luxuriant mass of living creepers. 
 
 Bacon says, " God Almighty first planted a 
 garden," and in the natural beauty of this one, we 
 perceive the touch of the master hand. 
 
 The place has a delightful home air, and like 
 many country houses, the exterior is very simple. 
 
 Its interior is scarcely more ostentatious. I say 
 
Longfellow s Character. 
 
 "like" many houses, yet I think there are few in 
 the world that would make the same effect, being 
 equally unpretentious. 
 
 The rooms, like those of the Craigie Mansion, 
 are large, airy, sympathetic, and adorned in the most 
 perfect taste. The prevailing tone is light, the 
 chairs are mostly of bamboo or cane, and the floors 
 are covered with carpets and matting. The walls 
 are hung with line pictures, embracing a variety 
 of engravings, crayon sketches and water colors. 
 
 Some curious painted pebbles, framed in a back 
 ground of velvet, form a unique and handsome orna 
 ment. They are the work of Mr. T. Gr. Appleton, 
 and are faithful pictures of the surrounding scenery, 
 together with other charming bits made from his 
 sketches. They are remarkably well done, and the 
 miniature size of the figures detracts nothing from 
 their perfection. 
 
 There is an air of refinement throughout the 
 house that quickly communicates itself to the visitor, 
 and a suspicious sprinkling, here and there, of the 
 
Jjmgfellaw s Character. 
 
 best authors, betrays the presence of the Jioinnw de 
 lettres. 
 
 Money will buy much, but the greatest of earth s 
 treasures, virtue and dignity of mind, are not salable 
 articles. A room may be piled high with carved 
 cases that hold only gaudy bindings and trashy vol 
 umes ; the paintings thereof may be Rafael les 
 Guidos, Rembrandts or Carlo Dolces ; the carpets the 
 finests that the looms of Persia fabricate ; the glasses 
 exhaust the wealth of Venice ; the mosaics outvie 
 the Florentine roses themselves, and the statuary 
 reflect the handiwork of Michel Angelo s own 
 chisel, yet the home where intellect is the high 
 priest is richer in adornment than a palace filled 
 with all these, and devoid of the refining influence 
 that permeates a house inhabited by persons of intel 
 lect, education, and natural breeding. 
 
 Longfellow lives in quiet luxury and elegance, 
 while all the comforts of a real home surround him. 
 Still, he is so much in himself, his very presence and 
 manner are so infinitely more attractive than any 
 article that decorates his dwelling, that the outward 
 
Lougfeffow s Character. 73 
 
 forms of wealth are but as dross, when compared 
 with the inner beauties of a God-given mind. One 
 must visit the poet many times before realizing that 
 the four walls contain objects of luxury many and 
 rare, and that here are scattered the thousand and 
 one beautiful things that a man of taste instinctively 
 gathers around him. 
 
 While the house in Cambridge is replete with 
 chef-cPwuvres inestimable in the world of art, yet 
 never, with a single visit, could one carry away other 
 souvenirs than that of a beautiful home and a har 
 monious household. It is the home of a poet, with 
 the poet a dweller therein, himself the most perfect 
 creation among his household gods. 
 
 Longfellow shows, in a thousand ways, that he 
 has no wisli to appear other than a well-bred gentle 
 man. The complete absence of ostentation in his 
 person and surroundings is not the least of liis 
 charms. 
 
 Before I had been long an inmate of his house 
 hold an almost thorough understanding of the man 
 came to me. That which I had remarked, in a casual 
 
74 Longfellow s Character. 
 
 visit, as seeming modesty and reticence, now im 
 pressed me as an absolute characteristic of the man. 
 
 I think, in the history of all poets and distin 
 guished men of letters, some eccentricities of mind, 
 character or person have been remarked. It is also 
 ^ pose among persons whose talent, perhaps genius, 
 have lifted them out of the rut of e very-day exist 
 ence, to feign some startling personality, whether 
 from inordinate vanity, or a wish to be thought 
 eccentric, or whether affected merely from the un 
 worthy love of being peculiar, has never been ex 
 plained. The fond cherishing of a false idea about 
 self, carried to extremity, constitutes a glaring fault. 
 It is excused in a professed " genius," simply because 
 the world says " we must overlook this or that little 
 idiosyncrasy, he has so much talent." 
 
 A celebrated person, whose name I will not men 
 tion, used often to be so fatigued with the cares of 
 the day that evening found him in a sta,te not exactly 
 authorized by Beau Brummel. He received his 
 guests, however, and the charm of his exquisite con 
 versation blinded all to his appearance, with the 
 
Longfellow s Character. 75 
 
 exception of one an American. His visit was cur 
 tailed to the length of a fashionable call, and on his 
 return home he said, "Poet ou pas poet, faime du 
 linge propre" ("Poet or not poet, I like clean 
 linen.") 
 
 Longfellow has no eccentricities, except the one 
 of being the only poet in the world who avoids every 
 notoriety, and who is content to live within the 
 bosom of his family, a good father, and a plain, 
 every-day citizen, never thrusting his opinions upon 
 one, never vaunting his own talent, scarcely refer 
 ring, by word or deed, to anything he has ever 
 written, and ignoring, with delightful modesty, the 
 fact that he is more gifted than any one else in the 
 world. 
 
 I ought not to pay him the poor compliment, to 
 say that he does not know himself, yet 1 have often 
 thought that he really does not, and cannot appre 
 ciate his own worth and talent. 
 
 How a man with his eminently superior knowl 
 edge and education can maintain, in the presence of 
 the highest or lowest, such an absolute lack of self- 
 
76 Longfellow s Character. 
 
 consciousness, passes comprehension ; yet it is so. 
 He is the gentlest and most modest of men, yet, at 
 the same time, clothed with a dignity and self- 
 respect which impresses all, and never once borders 
 on the egotistical. 
 
 Bacon says " a man s nature is best perceived in 
 privateness, for there is no affectation in passion, for 
 that putteth a man out of his precepts, and in a new 
 case or experiment, for there custom leaveth him ;" 
 also, " that those are happy men whose natures sort 
 with their vocations." 
 
 It is not that Longfellow has forced a habit of 
 softness upon himself. He has ever been unassum 
 ing and refined, moderate in all things, and perfectly 
 self -poised. Whatever his inner consciousness of self 
 may be, the outer world rests in profound ignorance 
 and admiration. 
 
 ^Esop s story of the cat who was changed into a 
 maiden shows how far people can trust their natures. 
 She was in every way a decorous damsel, until a 
 mouse ran out from a corner before her, and from 
 thenceforward the charms of young ladyhood were 
 
Longfellow s Character. 77 
 
 forgotten, for the cat nature was soon resuscitated 
 into an immortal tabby. 
 
 Those who make an effort to appear what they 
 are not, and to completely change "what is born in 
 the bone," might have need of JEsop s warning ; but 
 in our poet s case it seems to me entirely lost, and I 
 have only made use of the simile in order to place in 
 greater relief the beauty of his real character. He 
 makes no imposition on a wayward nature, but sim 
 ply lives out the life that has reached perfection by 
 a continual following up of inherent principle. His 
 aim towards the good, rather than the corrupt, is 
 shown in his observance of the beautiful faith which 
 commands us " to love our neighbor as ourself," the 
 inborn honesty and straightforwardness of his soul, 
 and the well-tempered justice that yields every one 
 his right to be thought an " honest man until he is 
 convicted a thief." 
 
 In the smallest as well as greatest circumstances 
 of life Longfellow is incapable of subterfuge, mis- 
 statement, clap-trap, or make-believe. He enjoys with 
 real humor anything that is funny while it does not 
 
78 Longfellow s Character. 
 
 trespass on the bounds of decency or good taste, but 
 a suspicion of aught else immediately causes him to 
 close the almost wholly opened portals of counte 
 nance. He retires within himself in a half-anxious 
 way that shows the infinite sensitiveness and suscep 
 tibility of his nature. I do not mean that even the 
 hardiest person would attempt to say anything in his 
 presence that could not be said in a fashionable 
 drawing-room ; but Longfellow is peculiar in his 
 tastes, and many things that would raise a smile in 
 accepted circles, finds no answering smile in his 
 heart. 
 
 A very good idea of his appreciation of the in 
 nocently ridiculous, is in the description of the 
 aesthetic tea at the house of Frau Kranich, in " Hy 
 perion," commencing with the one hundred and sev 
 enty-sixth page. 
 
 The Moldavian Prince Jerkin makes his way 
 through the crowds, being anxious to show off his 
 English. In his haste he begins with a mistake, 
 saluting Paul Flemming thus : 
 
 " Good-bye ! Good-bye ! Mr. Flemming," said he, 
 
Longfclloivs Character. 79 
 
 instead of good evening. "I am ravished to see 
 you in Ems ; nice place ; - - all that there is of 
 most nice. I drink my water and am good. Do 
 you not think the Frau Kranich has a very beautiful 
 leather?" 
 
 Who would ever divine that the prince referred 
 to the gracious lady s skin ? 
 
 This chapter is replete with evidences of Long 
 fellow s brightness, and quick appreciation of wit in 
 others. Near the end of the chapter on " Glimpses 
 in Cloud Land," the professor speaks on time thus : 
 
 "For what is time? The shadow on the dial 
 the striking of the clock the running of the sand- 
 day and night Summer and Winter months, 
 years, centuries these are but arbitrary and out 
 ward signs, the measure of time, not time itself. 
 Time is the life of the Soul. If not this, then tell 
 me, what is Time V 
 
 The professor shrieks this aloud in a high voice, 
 and the baron, half awakened, hearing the word 
 " time," innocently exclaims ; 
 
 " I should think it must be near midnight." 
 
CHAPTER Y, 
 A MORNING S OCCUPATION. 
 
 " Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, 
 
 Onward through life he goes; 
 Each morning sees some task begun, 
 
 Each evening sees it close; 
 Something attempted, something done, 
 Has earned a night s repose." 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 44 That with a hand more swift and sure, 
 The greater labor might be brought 
 To answer to his inward thought. 1 
 
 THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 
 
 HE professor is an early riser, and at nine 
 the family assembles for breakfast. The 
 dining-room looks out on the back 
 terrace, and from there beyond to the sea. 
 The weather was beautiful, and the sun poured a 
 
 continuous shower of iridescent rays into the apart- 
 [80] 
 
A Mornings Occupation. 81 
 
 ment. They danced lightly hither and thither, at 
 times making a shining halo above the poet s snowy 
 head, anon falling lightly on the golden braids of 
 Edith, Mrs. Dana, or flinging a defiant aureole above 
 the brow of Mr. T. Gr. Appleton, who is the poet s 
 vis-d-vis at table. 
 
 One thing particularly noticeable is the quaint 
 ceremony which is never entirely done away with in 
 this family. Each person addresses the other with 
 well-bred deference, and the familiarity that some 
 times excuses a " thanks " or "if you please " among 
 one s own, here is conspicuous for its absence. 
 
 Of the poet s own family there were present his 
 two daughters, Miss Annie, the younger, and Mrs. 
 Richard Dana (Edith), and her husband, the second 
 of the " trio," Mr. T. G. and Mr. Nathan Appleton, 
 Mr. Longfellow s brothers-in-law, and among the 
 guests the charming and talented artiste, Miss Susan 
 Hale, and Mr. Craig, of New York. 
 
 You may imagine that the fine weather put every 
 body in good spirits, and the table was enlivened by 
 
 appropriate small-talk, plans for the day, and the 
 4* 
 
82 A Mornings Occupation. 
 
 usual inquiries of how the " night was passed." 
 Longfellow takes some of the tea before mentioned 
 at early breakfast, a bit of toast, and perhaps an egg, 
 either poached or sur-le-plat. He eats so little that 
 one can scarcely perceive of what consists his repast. 
 He is cheerful, good-humored, and devoid of fancies 
 as regards his own health, yet never for a moment 
 treats those of others lightly. Conversation rarely 
 drags, and the slightest possible break is adroitly 
 covered by the ready grace of the professor. 
 
 The eldest at table, lie might be the youngest. 
 It is impossible to imagine, without having passed 
 some time in the presence of this wonderful man, 
 how great are his resources, and what youthful vigor 
 animates his every thought and action. 
 
 While he speaks with the experience of ripened 
 years, he yet invests every subject with the enthusi 
 asm of Paul Flemming, and the graceful flowing 
 utterance of a poet. The tender fancies, the soft 
 expressions and ready imagination of the bard color 
 all his thoughts, and their outward expression is no 
 less happy. The most commonplace subjects receive 
 
A Morning s Occupation. 83 
 
 a new interest, when either argued or discussed by 
 the professor, and no question once entered upon is 
 ever dismissed without its full mete of attention. 
 
 After breakfast a general sally takes place 
 through the French window, and the broad balcony 
 is soon peopled with animated faces, foremost 
 among them that of the poet. He sits at a round 
 table drawn up near the edge of the terrace, with a 
 light mantle thrown across his shoulders to protect 
 him from the sea-breeze, which is always strong and 
 brisk at Nahant. The pile of letters and periodicals 
 is almost appalling. The lion s share is his, and he 
 speedily commences his morning s work, in the de 
 vastation of the mass. Unlike most people, the 
 poet rarely scans the envelope before opening, in 
 order to know the signature of the letter. He de 
 liberately cuts through the upper ledge with a paper 
 knife, and methodically extracts the inclosed mis 
 sive. 
 
 Occasionally an exclamation will break from his 
 lips, such as, "Dear me," Just look at this," 
 " How am I to get through so long a letter," etc., 
 
84 A Mornings Occupation. 
 
 etc. Many send him original poems begging him 
 to read them and respond quickly as to his opinion 
 of their talent, while others, less modest, kindly in 
 vite him, after reading, to be good enough to cor 
 rect or alter the MSS. in any way to suit himself. 
 The poet attempts to read each effort, and only 
 when too unworthy does he give up in despair, with 
 a sigh the luckless MSS. is replaced on the table, 
 and another taken up, shares the same fate. The 
 letters requesting autographs are many, and always 
 responded to with the desired signature. 
 
 By the way, what a beautiful calligraphy his is. 
 Slightly back-handed, with neat, distinct lettering, 
 prominent capitals, and ingenuous small letters, each 
 one made in just such a way and with just so much 
 precision. When he begins writing one detects a 
 slight undulation in the descending -stroke, as if the 
 strong quill were not quite firmly held for an instant, 
 then on, steadily, until it finishes each letter with firm 
 ness and exactitude. There are no marked signs of 
 the professional ilourisher, no heavily shaded letters, 
 no inequality in their size. Each figure has careful 
 
A Mornings Occupation. 85 
 
 justice rendered it, and a perfectly legible, honest 
 handwriting is the result. The vowels are also 
 quite prominent, the consonants all duly weighed. 
 How many in this world commit wholesale robbery 
 in the item of dots and crossing of t s, while a 
 shameful disrespect is vouchsafed more than one of 
 the cabalistic twenty-six that form the glory of our 
 English alphabet. 
 
 Many people profess to be able to read character 
 from handwriting. I think in Longfellow s case 
 the task would be an easy one. Would that all the 
 world paid the attention that he does to detail. He 
 evinces a special affection for small things, and 
 nothing worth doing is so trivial that all due atten 
 tion is not paid it. I never saw a blot upon his 
 paper, a word erased by that species of barred-gate- 
 ism that reminds one of the prisoner s window in 
 the trial by Pontius Pilate, or one of those un 
 healthy daubs that is the conventional obliteration 
 of a word that has lost its usefulness for the 
 quondam writer. 
 
 Longfellow is especially pleased with letters from 
 
86 A Mornings Occupation. 
 
 children, and wlien well written lie even grows 
 enthusiastic. He reads and re-reads with pleasure, 
 and many are the flattering comments that I have 
 heard after the perusal of some juvenile effort. I 
 think the poet, while appreciating the honors and 
 attention received from the old, is no less touched 
 by the admiration of the little ones. Speaking of 
 attention, I must say that lii^li or low, rich or poor, 
 receive the same tribute of courtesy irom the poet, 
 in response to an implied or outspoken compliment. 
 Whatever comes from the heart appeals directly 
 to his own delicate sense of feeling, and the slightest 
 attempt on the part of any one to render himself 
 agreeable is not lost or unnoticed by him ; on the 
 contrary, the more faintly manifested the praise, the 
 greater is his satisfaction. All of the letters ad 
 dressed to him are more or less complimentary. 
 Those with the bare-faced element predominating 
 are received and read in silence, while others of 
 modified expression seem really to please hiir... 
 
 After the correspondence is gone through with 
 he turns to the daily papers, and from these to the 
 
A Morning s Occupation. 87 
 
 magazines and monthlies, of which there is an unend 
 ing stock. I remember on this particular day he was 
 much amused, and as often shocked, by reading an 
 article on epitaphs that was going the rounds of the 
 papers. Some were given aloud for our benefit, and 
 the comments were one and all noticeable. The 
 professor straightened out the paper, adjusted his 
 glasses, and read with a distinct voice. It was curious 
 to listen to the intonations and the half-deprecative 
 utterance when the thing was too irreverent, also to 
 follow the humorous half-laugh that betrayed itself 
 in his voice when a really witty thing was unearthed. 
 The following are among the amusing ones that the 
 professor read aloud : 
 
 ON THOMAS WOODCOCK. 
 
 " Here lies the body of Thomas Woodfo/i 
 The most amiable of husbands, and excellent of men." 
 
 N. B. His real name was Woodcock, but it wouldn t 
 come in rhyme. His widow. 
 
 ON A BREWER. 
 
 " Poor John Scott lies buried here; 
 Tho once he was both hale and stout, 
 Death stretched him on his bitter bier, 
 In another world he hops about." 
 
88 A Mornings Occupation. 
 
 The following is from a German to a stone-cut 
 ter, to be put on his wife s tomb : 
 
 " My wife Susum is dead ; if she had life till next Friday, 
 she d been dead shust two weeks. As a tree falls so must 
 she stand. All things is impossible mit God." 
 
 THO. KEMP ON SHEEP STEALING-. 
 
 " Here lies the body of Thos. Kemp 
 Who lived by wool, but died by hemp; 
 There s nothing would suffice this glutton, 
 But, with the fleece, t;> steal the mutton; 
 Had lie but worked and lived uprighter 
 He d ne er been hung for a sheep biter." 
 
 The poet s voice ceased, and lie kid down the 
 paper, commenting at the same time upon the great 
 waste of space in the newspapers of to-day, besides 
 the baleful habit of making light of death, and topics 
 that should only suggest serious thought. He said 
 that where one of these so-called curious epitaphs 
 might be admissible, a thousand were irreverent, even 
 sacrilegious ; where one was touchingly and innocently 
 amusing, another was simply low, and scarcely com 
 ical enough to bo interesting. " I often read bits," 
 he said, " that wonderment afterwards causes me to 
 
A Mornings Occupation. 89 
 
 ask however can sucli a thing come to be printed. 
 Although," adding, with his usual justice, " it is no 
 sign, because I do not appreciate it, that a reason did 
 not exist for its having been written ; and many in 
 the world may like and admire what I could not give 
 a second thought to ; still, I do not in general enjoy 
 levity in connection with sacred subjects." 
 
 A slight controversy here ensued, and from epi 
 taphs we veered around to poetry. Up to the pres 
 ent time I had taken but little share in the conversa 
 tion. A momentary lull gave me a chance to speak, 
 and not interrupt. 
 
 " Yes," said I, deliberately, when all had finished, 
 " there is no accounting for the rubbish that will in 
 spite of judicious weeding find its way to publicity ; 
 the authors are never known, and perhaps it is as 
 well. I can at present only call to mind one instance, 
 under the head of poetry, which runs as follows : or" 
 I stopped with an inquiring look around, and half 
 hesitatingly ventured to retract my implied idea of 
 repeating it. In vain an earnest u Pray go on," 
 " continue," in whicli the professor s voice was upper- 
 
A Mornings Occupation. 
 
 most in the chorus, positively insisted on hearing the 
 aforesaid " rubbish ; " clearing my throat, I began 
 
 There was a little durl, 
 
 And she had a little curl 
 That hung in the middle of her forehead, 
 
 When she was dood, 
 
 She was very dood indeed, 
 But when she was bad she was horrid." 
 
 I looked up triumphantly as the last line rang out. 
 Depict, imagine, my confusion when the poet raised 
 his eyes, and with a faint smile, said : " Why ! those 
 are my words, are they not, Annie," turning to his 
 youngest daughter, who at that moment was grace 
 fully coming through the low window opening out 
 on the terrace, at the same time repeating the identi 
 cal rhythm that but a moment before 1 had signalized 
 as a sample of " rubbish." Miss Annie looked up 
 laughingly, and said in her cheery voice, "Why, of 
 course, papa, that comes in your nursery collection. 
 Don t you remember when Edith was a little girl and 
 didn t want to have her hair curled, you took her up 
 in your arms, and shaking your finger at her, com 
 menced, There was a little girl, " etc., etc. 
 
A Mornings Occitpation. 91 
 
 The poet laughed, they all laughed, and I, in spite 
 of my discomfiture, joined in the general merriment. 
 Had I not insisted strenuously that the " lines went the 
 rounds," and would never die out along with other 
 rubbish, the discovery to me of their real authorship 
 would not have been so awkward ; but to declare to 
 a gentleman s face an opinion which at best could 
 have little real value, and that opinion anything but 
 flattering, tried me sorely. The poet is so good- 
 natured that he said nothing ; but it was impossible 
 not to laugh. It was one of those coincidences that 
 occur when least expected. Yet rarely does one 
 " get come up with " in such a brutally matter-of- 
 fact way. I still think my mental equilibrium was 
 greatly disturbed, and my self-esteem dropped lower 
 and lower into the depths of humiliation. Why on 
 earth had E not stumbled on some other simile ? But 
 no, to add to my perplexity, Mr. Nathan asked me 
 pleasantly if I " could remember any more of the same 
 kind," and then we all got to laughing in real earnest. 
 It was too funny, and I forgot my own discomfiture in 
 watching the evident enjoyment of the professor. 
 
A Mornings Occupation. 
 
 First, he was grave, then a ripple stole from his 
 lips in a half unconscious way, until finally, yielding 
 to the general impulse toward risibility, it broke irre 
 sistibly out like a mountain rivulet. Timidly at first 
 it leaves nature s bed, and as it flows onward, flows 
 itself out ever in greater strength, until it joins a 
 rushing torrent that carries everything before it. 
 Just so is the professor s laugh. Faint at first, then 
 breaking into a series of hearty cadences that give 
 one a pleasant sensation on hearing them ; when he 
 finishes, a half sigh follows the last little gurgle, and 
 a homely " dear me, how I do laugh," restores the 
 speaking countenance to its own former likeness. 
 
 How few have a sympathetic smile ! how few a 
 sympathetic laugh! and again, how many make a 
 sounding-board of the roof of their mouth, which 
 echoes successive shrieks of merriment, while the 
 face expresses any other sentiment than that of fun. 
 Others, vice versa, betray in every feature the half 
 suppressed laughter that threatens momentarily to 
 burst all bounds, and through the natural outlet 
 communicates itself to all present. The world is 
 
A Mornings Occupation. 93 
 
 full of sad hearts and faces, but we welcome with 
 joy the advent of any individual with the natural 
 attribute of a wholesome, hearty, joyous and uncon 
 strained laugh. 
 
 Such is the natural gift of God that few are the 
 enviable possessors of, and it is one of the many 
 that endow our great poet. While he rarely ex 
 presses his feelings impulsively, he still yields him 
 self up wholly to the charm of the moment, and 
 whatever mirthful deserves a genuine laugh, the 
 professor tenders his tribute with unstint of gracious- 
 ness, and in so honest a way that it does one s heart 
 good to see and hear him. 
 
 How I have wandered from our morning s real 
 business ! Apropos of the poem aforesaid, some 
 one suggested to me the thought of revenge, and 
 with a little of the inherent viciousness in woman 
 the suggestion was eagerly carried out, the poet 
 waiting courteously to give me my " revanche" I 
 dared to respond " that my gross blunder was inex 
 cusable, and a possibility of such ever arising in 
 future, could only be avoided in one way. In order 
 
94 A Mornings Occupation. 
 
 not to be mistaken authors must feel the value of 
 putting their name to everything they write, even 
 
 when that name be - Longfellow." 
 
 I, with the common herd, cannot always appre 
 ciate, but out of deference to a name all the world 
 reveres I would be silent. Under the circumstances, 
 knowing how and why it came to be written, my 
 " rubbish * transmogrifies itself into a cunning and 
 appropriate ballad. 
 
OHAPTEK VI- 
 LONGFELLOW S IDEA OF POETICAL INFLUENCE. 
 
 41 O ye dead Poets who are living still 
 Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, 
 And ye, O living Poets, who are dead 
 Though ye are* living, if neglect can kill, 
 Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, 
 With drops of anguish falling fast and red 
 From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head, 
 Ye were not glad your errand to fulfill ? 
 Yes: for the gift and ministry of song 
 Have something in them so divinely sweet, 
 It can assuage the bitterness of wrong; 
 Not in the clamor of the crowded street, 
 Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, 
 But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat." 
 
 THE POETS. 
 
 HIS morning we took a little walk, and 
 the poet, who had slept well, seemed, 
 strange to say, nervous, and ill at ease. 
 This feeling soon wore off, for who, in 
 
 the presence of so delightful a family party, could 
 
 [95] 
 
96 Longfellow s Idea of Poetical Influence. 
 
 long " sit in sadness "? After breakfast, he was en 
 livened by numerous visitors, and sat on the balcony 
 receiving his guests with great vivacity and evident 
 pleasure. From the adjoining library I could hear 
 his voice, now in earnest, now in lighter talk, but 
 more than usually gay. 
 
 It seemed scarcely a wholesome humor, however, 
 arid I could frequently detect a nervous rising in 
 the vibrating tones, that was not habituary. Hav 
 ing no part in the conversation I cculd not listen, or 
 even stay in my corner when my work was finished, 
 so I stole away until we met at luncheon. 
 
 He seemed in a peculiarly restless state, and 
 spoke with quick precision, and in an outspoken 
 manner that was even beyond his usual terseness, 
 so I wondered of what he could have been think 
 ing. He ate, as usual, the slightest possible amount 
 of food, and seemed watchful of every word that 
 was uttered at table. We adjourned to the drawing- 
 room accompanied by Mr. Nathan Appleton, and 
 Mr. Craig, a young gentleman who was visiting the 
 poet at the time, and in a few moments the general 
 
Longfelloivs Idea of Poetical Influence. 97 
 
 conversation began. There were some fresh flowers 
 on the table, and thinking one to be a camellia, I 
 remarked upon its odorless beauty, and asked the 
 poet if he had ever read " La Dame aux Camelias," 
 by Alexander Dumas, Jr. He spoke up quickly, 
 answering, 
 
 " No ; I commenced it, but could not continue, 
 as it seemed to me a book for unhealthy appetites. 
 I doubt not there is much that is fine in it, as Dumas 
 is a man of extraordinary imagination and skill, but 
 I cannot bring myself to read such works as La 
 Dame aux Camelias. r 
 
 He went on with increasing warmth, 
 " Now, there is another French writer whose 
 books have probably been read by millions, but to 
 whose writing I- can never turn with pleasure. I 
 speak of Alfred de Musset, a man with a God-given, 
 beautiful talent, but all for the bad. I often think 
 of what he might have done in the world, had his 
 mind been on anything pure or virtuous. Look at 
 Holla une nuit de Mai, could more inspired 
 or exquisite language have found its way into 
 
98 Longfellow s Idea of Poetical Influence. 
 
 verse? yet mark the intent of the poem. I read, 
 and read on, half fascinated by the flowing grace, 
 passion and eloquence of his rhythm, then some 
 startling outburst of infidelity shocks me so that 
 1 leave the book with horror, and say to my 
 soul, < How sad ! a beautiful talent gone to waste ; a 
 brilliant imagination seeing only the spectacle of 
 ribaldry and infamy; a bright spark of genius, 
 growing and passing its life grovelling amongst the 
 tares of a dissolute and morally unhealthy clime. 
 He is to me a heart-rending example of the uses to 
 which a man may dedicate a great gift originally of 
 divine import, whose whole life and writings are 
 made up of worldliness, license and innate cravings 
 after unhealthy mental food. His words pander 
 to the vilest taste, while the beauty with which he 
 clothes his ideas is undeniable. Even in some of 
 his most violent outbursts, he does not divest his 
 pages of charm, and exquisite wording. He seems 
 to have lived with a gloss of utter indifference to 
 any faith covering a soul that I have often hoped 
 was not so barren as he himself painted it. I de- 
 
Longfellow s Idea of Poetical Influence. . 99 
 
 pi ore with my whole heart such a mistaken life, 
 that had within it the wherewith to be something 
 great and true. Only think ! had he described good 
 with the eloquence and sincerity that he bestowed 
 on vice, what a benefit he would have been to the 
 world, and what a series of powerful arguments he 
 would have wielded for mankind, with a brain and 
 pen that followed each other in such a headlong tor 
 rent of irresistible poetry ? One might overlook an 
 occasional skepticism, but no one with any respect 
 for virtue and goodness could remain unmoved 
 while reading any one of his poems. His fanatical 
 tendency to scoff and laugh to scorn the slightest 
 thing that is good, is a terrible power in the hands 
 of a man of genius. As a student I read, but as a 
 God-fearing man, I lament." 
 
 Never had I heard the poet speak with greater 
 warmth, and so anxious was I to hear more, that 
 when he continued the subject of poets and poetical 
 license, I took the liberty of defending them in a 
 moderate way. 
 
 " You are wrong," he said, decidedly, " when 
 
TOO Longfellow s Idea of Poetical Influence. 
 
 one finds in writing that his imagination is running 
 away with him, it is time to stop ; I always did." 
 
 " Yes," said I, quickly, "you show in your writ 
 ings often but I stopped shamefacedly. Did I 
 dare to criticise Longfellow ? 
 
 He looked up eagerly and said, 
 
 " Pray, don t stop ; what were you going to re 
 mark about my writings ? I should like your opinion." 
 Then he assumed a curious attitude of interest and 
 impatience. 
 
 I could no^ back out ingloriously, so went on : 
 
 " In your writings 1 find a want of laisser oiler, 
 that in the poetic sense often hastens a climax. 
 When, by some outburst of passion, you work your 
 reader up to fever heat, you quietly leave the dan 
 gerous ground, and instead of an unlimited outpour 
 of intense feeling, one has to be satisfied with sim 
 pler and more modified expressions. Still even you, 
 yourself, cannot always hide the deep under-current 
 of passion that runs surreptitiously through your 
 verse, and almost threatens, at times, to break the 
 bounds." 
 
Longfellow s Idea of Poetical Influence. 101 
 
 " But it never does," interrupted the poet, ex 
 citedly. " I understand what you mean, but I 
 always try, whenever my fancy leads me on, to have 
 a due regard for outward form. I could not write 
 that which poetic license permits if it goes 
 against my conscience and teachings. But pray let 
 us speak of some one else rather than myself, 
 although you will understand, some day, why I speak 
 thus." 
 
 Mr. Nathan Appleton came up and touched my 
 shoulder, for with the poet s words we had risen, and 
 as I supposed, conversation for that day was at an 
 end. I was just going out when his brother-in-law 
 spoke. 
 
 " You have told him the truth," he said, " and I 
 think, in twenty years, no one has ever said as much 
 to him ; but mind, he has not finished with you, and 
 to-morrow, or later to-day, you will have his answer." 
 
 He then went out, and I returned to iny room to 
 reflect on what I had said almost too abruptly to the 
 dear old poet. I had often thought of this, yet 
 never dreamed that, in the heat of conversation, my 
 
IO2 Longfelloivs Idea of Poetical Influence. 
 
 headlong talk would have resulted in such plain 
 speaking. I realized how much superior to all things 
 was this man s sense of right and honor, and how, 
 perhaps, he had, at times, sacrificed many an idea 
 that would have formed, in Byron, an innocent 
 glory. Before going in to dinner, we met on the 
 terrace. He came directly to me, put out his hands, 
 and said, with a sweet voice but reproachful accents, 
 
 " You speak with the enthusiasm of youth, hut 
 even had I the inclination, one could scarcely expect 
 me to lie awake at night writing things that would 
 set a bad example to a class of thirty young men 
 whom I had to teach in the morning. Heaven be 
 praised ! I tried at least to be guided by the right 
 spirit." 
 
 I was not surprised with the poet s outspoken 
 words regarding Alfred de Musset, for any one who 
 had ever known Longfellow and the June atmos 
 phere of his home-life, could readily understand his 
 condemnation of that poet s mode of living, and the 
 unsavory sentiment with which his poems were 
 filled. 
 
Longfellow s Idea of Poetical Influence. 103 
 
 De Musset lived at a time when virtue was almost 
 a fiction in France, and his dissolute habits, and con 
 stant companionship with scoffers and unbelievers, 
 was not calculated to turn his mind readily into a 
 better channel. He was born the eleventh of De 
 cember, 1810, in the old part of Paris, in a street 
 near the Hotel Cluny. The house still bears the 
 number, 33 Rue des Noyers. He died a little past 
 midnight of May ,1, 1857, two months after his 
 reception and entrance into the French Academy. 
 At the age of forty-seven, brilliant in all intellectual 
 attainments, but physically a wreck, the life that 
 had been so full of promise and bright hopes, and so 
 covered with questionable glory, was sapped at its 
 roots by the grim monster, consumption, and at an 
 early day his family feared he would be one of its 
 victims. His poetic taste showed itself at a very 
 tender age, and before he was eighteen he had 
 already published something of account. " Eolla " is 
 one of his most touching poems, others also breathe, 
 in certain lines, a spirit of unbelief and atheism appal 
 ling to read, and sad to think about as coming from 
 
IO4 Longfellow s Idea of Poetical Influence. 
 
 the soul of a young man divinely gifted. He was 
 only twenty-three when this was published in the 
 famous Parisian monthly, " Revue des deux 
 Mondes" and from that time forth his works 
 followed each other in quick succession. "For- 
 tunio," "la Nuit de Mai," " la Nuit de Decembre," 
 " To Ninon," " A Confession," " A Letter to Lamar- 
 tine," several plays, " Caprice," a translation of 
 Shakespeare s "As you Like It" (comme il vous 
 plaira), a quantity of lesser, but more " spirituelle " 
 efforts, and in a second volume of poems, I can 
 readily understand his own preference, given to his 
 strongest works " le Fils de Titien," " Lorenzaccio," 
 and " Carmosine." Besides these, with prolific and 
 unimpaired talent, he wrote, until his death, numer 
 ous sonnets, essays and letters, all with exquisite 
 poetic rhythm, but most of them tainted with the 
 dreadful impurity of thought and association that 
 distinguishes Alfred de Musset from a great galaxy 
 of French writers, the most talented, the most bril 
 liant, but the most hardened. He, among few, may 
 fully claim the title " genius," as no late writer of 
 
Longfellow s Idee of Poetical Influence. 105 
 
 the nineteenth century has ever compared with, or 
 exceeded the beauty of his language, or style of 
 writing. Victor Hugo is unapproachable, the ac 
 knowledged king of French poets, and in speaking 
 of others one should always remember that he takes 
 precedent. They can only come after, but Alfred 
 de Musset follows closely in his footsteps. He gave 
 to the world so striking an example of poetic talent, 
 that he may be considered as the second light in the 
 French firmament of literature. Perhaps, as Long 
 fellow said, had his own every-daylife been different, 
 one might have discovered a healthier tone in his 
 rnind pictures. His mode of living must have been 
 singularly abasing to the intellect, and harassing to 
 the mental and physical resources of the man. His 
 nights were spent in feasting and orgy ; his days in 
 preparing for the following night. His truest friends 
 were his own family, but he paid little attention to 
 them. He probably never knew the refining influ 
 ence of the lovo of one good woman, and even his 
 " mattresses " were fickle, unfaithful, and interested. 
 No wonder that one of his fitful genius arid unsatia- 
 5* 
 
106 Longfellow s Idea of Poetical Influence. 
 
 ble appetite for sensational scenes, to-day enjoyed 
 the society of ladies such as Pauline Viardot, and 
 to-morrow wept tears of sorrow at an inflexible 
 Ninon. His whole existence, from the time when 
 he left college until his death, seemed one raging 
 whirlpool of immoderate excess, with the sentiments 
 in his soul warring and clashing with one another. 
 He seemed penetrated by ugliness as by beauty, and 
 as fascinated with one as with the other ; he extolled 
 virtue with the same breath that he encouraged vice, 
 and to everything, good or bad, he lent the charm of 
 his inimitable verse, and wrote, alas, with equal 
 enthusiasm and brilliancy, no matter what the moral 
 tendency of his subject, and no matter in what ques 
 tionable light it presented the author to the world. 
 Few writers would dare say what Longfellow has 
 said, yet with tender pity for a misled life, and due 
 appreciation of the marvelous influence that one 
 with " a divine talent " might have exercised, had he 
 chosen to employ his gifts for the benefit of man 
 kind. Longfellow may be a Puritan in one sense of 
 the word, but while the life of the one is a long 
 
Longfellow s Idea of Poetical Influence. 107 
 
 hymn of praise to the great Maker, that of the other 
 is lost in the maelstrom of discord and unevermess. 
 It spent itself in a short blaze of transcendent glory, 
 and was soon obliterated within a pall of densest 
 smoke. So lives the name and memory of Alfred 
 de Musset. His genius will beguile, but his works 
 will ever grate on those who find life, as does Long 
 fellow, beautiful in Faith, Hope and Charity. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 LONGFELLOW S APPRECIATION OF PARODY. 
 
 " True, his songs were not divine; 
 
 Were not songs of that high art, 
 Which, as winds do in the pine, 
 Find an answer in each heart; 
 But the mirth 
 Of this green earth 
 Laughed and reveled in his line." 
 
 OLIVER BASSELIN. 
 
 CAME down-stairs this morning still think 
 ing of our late conversation. It was so 
 early that no one was yet visible, so I had a 
 fine stroll and went over the pretty garden 
 so overrun with its wealth of verdure. All the while 
 my mind kept running on the poet, and the various 
 conversations that we had had. I went to the foot of 
 the garden and cautiously descending a very narrow 
 path, prepared to lean over and dip my hands in the 
 
 salt water that came purring up so lovingly against 
 
 [108] 
 
Longfellow s Appreciation of Parody. 109 
 
 the domesticated rocks. They stood there, grim old 
 things, as if all their life consisted in growing old 
 gracefully, with a quantity of green vines hanging to 
 them, enlivened by the daily conversation of the sea, 
 and the friendly waves that dashed up to say " good 
 morning ;" with a few old family friends like moss 
 and sea- weed, who never left them, and who added, to 
 the obligation of finding a shelter, the eternal one of 
 staying there foraver. 
 
 While I was slipping and turning about, I was 
 startled by a hearty "Bon jour!" and a pleasant 
 laugh. 
 
 Looking up, I saw the professor at his open 
 window, looking very youthful, and gazing down 
 upon me. My decidedly ungraceful attitude must 
 have excited his risibilities, for he looked highly 
 amused at something and said quickly, as I glanced 
 about me, 
 
 "Oh, don t go away, I am coming down 
 directly." 
 
 I made a great effort and clambered back to meet 
 him on a more substantial footing. 
 
no Longfelloivs Appreciation of Parody. 
 
 The sight of nearly all the family gathered on 
 the balcony, reminded me that perhaps I had been a 
 little long in my solitary rambling, and breakfast was 
 ready, so I retraced my footsteps towards the house. 
 I met the professor in the front hall, and we went 
 into the parlor where the table was laid out, and, 
 as I had half divined, waiting 
 
 Q 
 
 The poet was very agreeable, and congratulated 
 me on my early rising. 
 
 u I am up betimes, myself," he said, " but I am 
 afraid that you have outdone me this morning, how 
 ever. No matter how late I am up at night, I never 
 can sleep later the following morning. I usually 
 wake up about the same hour, eight o clock." 
 
 While we sat at table Mr. Appleton began one of 
 his cheerful anecdotes. I laughed, and he said, 
 
 "Pray now, madam, don t say that you have 
 heard it before, as you would spoil a good story for 
 the rest of us." 
 
 Touched by such a picture I decided to sacri 
 fice myself, and he continued his recital. 
 
 " Your asking if I had heard it," I said, " reminds 
 
Longfellow s Appreciation of Parody. 1 1 1 
 
 me of something very funny, but 1 do not know that 
 I can tell it without offending the poet. It is a 
 parody on one of his poems." 
 
 " One of my poems?" said Longfellow ; " I would 
 be delighted to hear it rather than offended. I beg 
 you will repeat it." 
 
 So I began : 
 
 " A long time ago I went to see a comical musical 
 farce in the theater, where some people traveling on 
 the Rhine pass a dull evening with snatches of song, 
 quotations from famous authors, &e. One of the 
 travelers asked to entertain the company, gets up and 
 
 begins 
 
 " * Lives of great men all remind us, 
 
 " The other quietly interrupts, < I know the lines. 
 But the speaker, continues, 
 
 " We can make our lives sublime," 
 
 "Vigorous interruption from the same source, */ 
 know the lines ! 
 
 " The unabashed reciter keeps composedly on 
 
1 1 2 Longfellow s Appreciation of Parody. 
 * And in dying leave behind us 
 
 " Threats and outcries from the man who inter 
 rupts, 
 
 " < I KNOW THE LINES ! 
 
 " Then together they joined hands, went into the 
 steps of a break-down, and shrieked at the full pitch 
 of their lungs, 
 
 * And in dying leave behind us 
 
 Foot-prints with our seven-by-nines. " 
 
 That was enough for the poet. He broke into 
 shouts of laughter, and said : 
 
 " Dear me, how very funny ! And to think that 
 J, who wrote the original, never conceived so soul- 
 stirring an end for that verse." 
 
 " It is not to be wondered at," said some one 
 present, " your feet are too small to have suggested 
 it." 
 
 " Although," interrupted the poet, " my feet gen 
 erally fill the meter." (Meter is the French for 
 yard.) 
 
Longfellow s Appreciation of Parody. 1 1 3 
 
 After that, the expression "I know the lines," 
 became a household word. 
 
 The poet continued laughing until the tears came 
 into his eyes, and he blamed himself for being, as he 
 said, so childish. Seeing that he enjoyed parody, I 
 told him about an evening at the house of a countess, 
 in Verona, when poor Dante had a new rendering 
 given by the young Count P . 
 
 Without changing a word, he commenced, 
 
 " Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritro- 
 vai per una selva oscura," etc., etc., " die la diritta 
 via era smarrita," and gave the words such a pecu 
 liar reading, accompanied by appropriate gestures, 
 that everybody shouted with laughter; at the word 
 "vita" (waist, in English), he spanned his own sol 
 dier-like dimensions with such effeminate glee that 
 the double meaning of the word was fully apparent. 
 But the climax was reached when he prepared to 
 commence the third stanza. 
 
 Clearing his throat he began to talk, but stopped 
 as if encountering something that tasted peculiar. He 
 kept on working his face into such terrible grimaces, 
 
114 Long fellows Appreciation of Parody. 
 
 anon rolling his eyes, scraping his tongue, and fin 
 ally dropping a frantic hand over the pit of his 
 stomach with a gesture of such utter despair, that 
 nobody \vas surprised when the words came out. 
 "With a last awful shudder, and in a hysterical shrill 
 voice, he screamed, " Tanto e amaro, che poco era 
 piu rnorte 
 
 Before I could finish the professor was con 
 vulsed ; he said, " No wonder." 
 
 " * Tanto e amaro, is bitter enough in Dante s 
 own forcible language, yet see how without chang 
 ing a word the line has a different meaning when 
 accompanied by such vivid gestures. I laugh now, 
 what would it have been had I been in Verona that 
 evening ?" 
 
 Longfellow, who had followed the thread of the 
 story, was prepared for it, but he had the fit on, 
 and could not control his emotion. As soon as he 
 recovered his breath he would break out anew, and 
 finally, when his strength was exhausted, he said, 
 
 "It is really terrible to parodize a man like 
 
Longfellow s Appreciation of Parody. \ I 5 
 
 Dante, yet it is funny, and I must enjoy it in spite 
 of the source." 
 
 " Now," said Mr. Nathan, " that we are on the 
 subject of parodies, you must hear Mr. Longfellow on 
 his own poems. I think they are too funny not to 
 be honored with a mention. Once my nephew 
 Charles came to pay us a visit, when we resided in 
 Lynn ; I think about fifteen years ago. He would 
 come in a sail-boat, but as the water was fearfully 
 high, the frail bark capsized, and Master Charles 
 got a good ducking. When he reached our house 
 he was a sorry, wet-looking fellow enough, and, of 
 course, had to change his clothes. 1 loaned him a 
 pair of slippers which he wore home in lieu of boots, 
 and the next day a neat parcel came over from 
 Nahant, with the following lines written on the out 
 side in Mr. Longfellow s hand : 
 
 " * Slippers that perhaps another, 
 
 Sailing o er the bay of Lynn, 
 
 A forlorn or shipwrecked nephew 
 
 Seeing, may purloin again." 
 
 A roar of laughter greeted Mr. Appleton s recita- 
 
Ii6 Longfellow s Appreciation of Parody. 
 
 tion, and we all agreed that the poet himself " knew 
 the lines." 
 
 " That is not all," added Mr. Nathan ; " I remem 
 ber some other verses, not parody exactly, but ex 
 tremely funny, and I am sure you would all like 
 to hear them. Permit me," turning to the poet. 
 
 " Nay," said Mr. Longfellow, half shamefacedly, 
 " I think that I am becoming too prominent, and 
 perhaps " 
 
 i; There are no perhaps s," returned Mr. Nathan, 
 " I must tell this. When my father was traveling 
 in Switzerland, a long time ago, having postilions, 
 footmen, etc., the bills were frightful, and in Zurich, 
 even heavier. My father had already written his 
 name in the visitors books with compliments for 
 the lovely place, and when his bill was brought in 
 he regretted his undue haste and amiability. Mr. 
 Longfellow came up and said, 
 
 " Pray, let me add my autograph and treat the 
 landlord as he merits. 
 
 "The inn was called The Raven, and Mr. Long 
 fellow wrote the following in his book : 
 
Longfellow s Appreciation of Parody. 1 1 7 
 
 ** Beware of the Raven of Zurich, 
 
 Tis a bird of omen ill, 
 With an ugly, unclean nest 
 And a very, very long bill. " 
 
 This time even the professor had to laugh. He 
 remembered the circumstance too well to forget the 
 impression made on his mind by the landlord s ex 
 tortion, and he added to Mr. Nathan s words these : 
 u I am afraid that page wherein those lines are in 
 scribed is not the first shown to the visitors at The 
 Raven. I never went there again, but surely we 
 shall never forget Zurich." 
 
 Our parodies ended with a quotation from an 
 English paper, on " Hiawatha :" 
 
 " Should you ask me, What s its nature ? 
 Ask me, What s the kind of poem ? 
 Ask me in respectful language, 
 Touching your respectful beaver, 
 Kicking back your manly hind-leg, 
 Like to one who sees his betters; 
 I should answer, I should tell you, 
 Tis a poem in this metre, 
 And embalming the traditions, 
 Fables, rites, and superstitions, 
 Legends, charms, and ceremonials 
 Of the various tribes of Indians, 
 
1 1 8 Longfellow s Appreciation of Parody. 
 
 From the land of the Ojibways, 
 
 From the land of the Dacotahs, 
 
 From the mountains, moors, and fenlands 
 
 Where the heron, the Shuli-shuh-gar, 
 
 Finds its sugar in the rushes: 
 
 From the fast- decay ing nations, 
 
 Which our gentle Uncle Samuel 
 
 Is improving very smartly, 
 
 From the face of all creation, 
 
 Off the face of all creation. 
 
 " Should you ask in >, By what story, 
 By what action, plot, or fiction, 
 All these matters are connected? 
 I should answer, I should tell you, 
 Go to Bogue and buy the poem, 
 Published, neatly, at one shilling, 
 Published, sweetly, at five shillings." 
 
CHAPTEK VIII. 
 
 LONGFELLOW VISITS JULES JANIN. 
 
 A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round, 
 If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves 
 be ground." 
 
 THE RESTLESS HEART. 
 
 " Perchance the living still may look 
 Into the pages of this book, 
 And sec the days of long ago, 
 Floating and fleeting to and fro." 
 
 END TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 
 
 rain commenced to fall about noon, and 
 we were in for a wet day. No one could 
 go out of doors, and even the favorite 
 terrace was so deluged with salt spray and 
 mist, that it was quite unsafe. 
 
 The professor was very well, and seemed to enjoy 
 
 the gloomy down-pour. 
 [119] 
 
I2O Longfellow Visits Jules Janin. 
 
 I was visibly reminded of his exquisite poem, 
 and said softly to myself : 
 
 " The day is cold, and dark and dreary." 
 
 He interrupted me : 
 
 " You are trying to flatter me," said lie, smiling ; 
 " still you must know that that is one of my favorite 
 poems." 
 
 I continued to repeat a portion, until he looked 
 up with a quick sense of humor, and said : 
 
 " I know the lines !" After that we all laughed, 
 and there were no more poetic quotations. 
 
 After luncheon we again assembled in the draw 
 ing-room, and commenced a talk and discussion on 
 things in general. 
 
 Longfellow is a charming conversationalist, and 
 it was peculiar that while he spoke, with the greatest 
 beauty and ease, seven languages, he never inter 
 larded a word from one tongue into a conversation 
 held in another. If English, it was all English, with 
 beautiful round phrases, and the choicest of words. 
 If necessary to use one of the many expressions that 
 
Longfellow Visits Jules Janin. i 2 1 
 
 have become familiar to the Anglo-Saxon, lie even 
 then translated it immediately, which gave an ade 
 quate idea of his exactitude in speech, and the value 
 he set upon his mother tongue. 
 
 He spoke of his visit to Paris as a student, and a 
 call on Jules Janin. 
 
 "I went up five flights of terrible stairs," he 
 said, " and when you have seen some of those houses 
 in the Quartier Latin (Latin quarter), you may imag 
 ine what those particular stairs were like. I rapped 
 on a door, as there was no bell-rope visible, and a 
 smiling maid showed me into a very small ante 
 chamber, and from thence into a modest parlor, 
 study and dining-room, all in one. 
 
 " The greatest confusion reigned everywhere, and 
 the master of the house, sitting among his household 
 gods, was the greatest study of all. 
 
 " He greeted me with French effusion, and a peri 
 in his hand, freshly dipped in ink turned around 
 with such vivacity that a large drop splashed almost 
 in my face. He half dragged me into a chair which 
 he said looked uninviting, but was really very com- 
 
122 Longfelloiv Visits Jules Janin. 
 
 fortable. He then called some one, with a clear 
 voice. A very young lady came into tho apartment. 
 She was introduced as Madame Jairin, and I had 
 barely time to look at her when he started up and 
 said, Now that you are come, we will have dinner. 
 
 " I did not see where we would have it, but he 
 smiled with delight, saying, c Watch me, and I did. 
 
 " He swept everything off the table on the floor 
 in the corner of the room, and with great glee an 
 nounced the banqueting board ready. 
 
 " The maid came in, quickly laid the cloth, and 
 before I realized it a steaming soup was on the table. 
 He insisted on putting me in front of him, and 
 raadame at his right. 
 
 " The soup was a very excellent pot-au-feu, and 5 
 although a little bewildered by the rapid way in 
 which things had come about, I was a hungry student, 
 and did not need a second invitation. 
 
 " Jules Janin was a very bright man, with a good 
 di3position, and exceedingly gay. He talked about 
 Paris life and women in a way that amazed me, and 
 all with an air of perfect propriety that was astound- 
 
Longfclloiv Visits Jules Janin. 123 
 
 ing. The more surprised I was to see the meek 
 young woman who sat at his side, laugh with him 
 and enjoy jokes that I could not listen to without 
 blushing. He rattled them off with such infinite 
 zest that I began to think something had been amiss 
 with my education, as I seemed not to appreciate 
 them iu the right way. He was debonair and friendly 
 with the inadame, often stopping in the midst of his 
 speech to pat her cheek, call her his dear little cab 
 bage, or smile upon her with an affection that was 
 quite charming to see. She never spoke, and seemed, 
 however, beyond this quite a nonentity. 
 
 " Well, this dinner was one of startling surprises to 
 me. I thought then that I enjoyed it, and I did the 
 eating part, but the looseness of the conversation 
 scarcely compared favorably with what I had been 
 accustomed to. Towards the dessert, he became 
 more serious, and I listened to his really brilliant 
 remarks with great pleasure. 
 
 " He gave me much very useful information, and I 
 have sinca seen how true wore h i3 sayings in one 
 sense. When we had finished our coffee, he sug- 
 
124 Longfellow Visits Jules Janin. 
 
 gested a stroll, and we went out into the streets. I 
 said good-bye to madame, and wondered if she 
 were going to be left alone in the house, but Mr. 
 Jules, without the slightest compunction, tapped her 
 on the shoulder in sign of adieu, and we started. 
 
 " It was a beautiful night, and we walked a long 
 way by the Seine, and near the great Notre Dame 
 cathedral, whose towers were bathed in moonlight. 
 The night was so charming that we continued our 
 promenade for more than three hours, up and 
 down. 
 
 " Janin s character, while brilliant, was unsafe, or 
 so it appeared to me for he was shockingly leger or 
 trivial, and his talk, while one moment witty and 
 delightful, the next was reeking with some French 
 story that completely horrified me. When I bade 
 him good-bye I thought I would not willingly see 
 him again. In fact, many years passed, when I met 
 him once on the Boulevard of Paris. 
 
 " He was but little changed, and again wanted me 
 to dine with him. I was pleased to meet him, and 
 my own experience in the meantime had taught me 
 
Longfellow Visits Jules Janin. 125 
 
 that Frenchmen are not as bad at heart as they make 
 themselves out to be. 
 
 " Accepting his invitation, I found him in another 
 apartment, more ample and splendid, perhaps, but 
 still disorder was the reigning queen as before. 
 
 " He introduced me to Madame Janin. 
 
 " I, expecting to renew my acquaintance of former 
 times, found to - my astonishment that she had 
 changed beyond recognition, and I tried in vain to 
 recall her to my memory. I got through the form 
 of saying good evening, however, and later on ex 
 pressed my surprise to find madame so different from 
 what I remembered her. 
 
 " * When did you meet her, said he, eagerly. 
 
 * Why, let me see, I pondered, I should think 
 about nine or ten years ago, and since then she is 
 wonderfully altered. 
 
 " Great Heavens, said he, seriously, c are you 
 jesting ? did you think this the same one ? Who 
 knows how many Madame Janin s there have been 
 during that time ? 
 
 " I looked up quietly. 
 
126 Longfellow Visits Jules Janin. 
 
 " And this one, said I, coldly. 
 
 " ( Ah, ha ! he shrieked, with a shrewd laugh. 
 This time, mon cher, I have been caught my 
 self, and the real Madame Jules Janin stands before 
 you ; but, with a sober look, apropos of our little 
 dinner in the Quartier Latin, nothing to my wife of 
 that, I beg, otherwise your evening to-night might 
 be less tranquil. 
 
 "I never saw him again," said Longfellow, 
 " and I think that is one of the first and last French 
 literary menages that I frequented. Janin 
 thought it a fine joke, but I see no beauty or 
 decency in such an irregular life, although he had 
 many a laugh at what lie called my puritanical 
 innocence. " 
 
 It was easy to see that remembrances of this 
 sort made a great impression on Mr. Longfellow, 
 and while he always rendered full justice to the 
 talent and attainments of the person, the character 
 and daily habits of the man were to him a special 
 study. He could not, with his severe puritanical 
 ideas, accept or form any intimacy with one whose 
 
Longfellow Visits Jules Janin. 127 
 
 life was made up of condensed experience in vice, 
 and the careless way of living day after day in the 
 same unhealthy moral atmosphere that usually 
 falls to the lot of men of letters, especially in 
 Paris. 
 
 Jules Janin died some years ago, and later the 
 "real" madame followed him. He was really 
 " caught," as he said, although his wife was so clever 
 that she revenged all of her predecessors, and was 
 fond enough of Jules to write (so the wicked world 
 says) many of his most renowned criticisms. He 
 never left her alone in the evening with a careless 
 pat on the cheek, but almost begged permission to 
 go out, and in spite of his former license he really 
 became " regular." 
 
 I told this to the poet. 
 
 " Yes," he quickly said, " all is right, with one 
 exception. 
 
 " I don t believe that madame ever wrote a line 
 of his works, as he was quite clever enough to do 
 all, and more, than he ever did, himself." 
 
 That speech was so like Longfellow. Although 
 
128 Longfellow Visits Jules Janin. 
 
 he could not admire his character, and the man was 
 dead, he would still do him justice in his heart, and 
 spoke out in his defense with his rare honesty and 
 beautiful love of truth. 
 
 Being on the subject of writers he got back to 
 poets, and he spoke of Swinburne. 
 
 " I must admire such an avalanche of passionate 
 verse," said he, " but I am no way affected by his 
 fiery writings. 
 
 " The man is undoubtedly a remarkable character 
 in his way, but, must I confess it ? it is a way that I 
 do not like. His words seem to me to breathe forth 
 a pestilential fire, as impetuous as Vesuvius and as 
 fatal, and on reading one has still ringing in their 
 ears the clash of natures that rage against each other, 
 and the inharmonious din that accompanies such 
 energetic poetry. 
 
 " Some of the descriptions are fine, and very 
 vivid, but the whole leaves my soul in turmoil and 
 wearies me beyond expression. 
 
 " How different is Byron, who, while the incar 
 nation of voluptuous verse, still offends in a sweeter 
 
Longfellow Visits Jules Janin. 129 
 
 manner and often soothes while lie disturbs. I can 
 not commend him entire," said he, quickly, " neither 
 has he the right to wholesale condemnation ; but, 
 where one can choose many passages of equal beauty 
 and intense emotional quality, it is easy to leave 
 the rest alone, although the grade of passion is 
 equal, in expressing them both, while the thought 
 and reading are infinitely less pure, and different one 
 from the other. 
 
 " In all other poets of volcanic attributes this one 
 great quality is ambiguous ; in Byron it is almost a 
 charm, and then too he was Byron. 
 
 " Of Dante and Shakespeare," he continued, " I 
 will not speak. You know all men have their idols, 
 they are mine." 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LONGFELLOW WITH HIS GRANDCHILD. 
 
 " I have you fast in my fortress 
 And will not let you depart, 
 But put you down in the dungeon 
 In the round tower of my heart. 
 And there will I keep you forever; 
 Yes, forever, and a day, 
 Till the walls shall crumble to ruin 
 And moulder in dust away." 
 
 THE CHILDREN S HOUR. 
 
 " O child! O new-born denizen 
 Of life s great city, on thy head 
 The glory of the morn is shed 
 Like a celestial benison ! 
 Here at the portal thou dost stand, 
 And with thy little hand 
 Thou openest the mysterious gate 
 Into the Future s undiscovered land." 
 
 To A CHILD. 
 
 " Strike the sails ! King Olaf said; 
 
 Never shall men of mine take flight; 
 [130] 
 
Longfellow with his Grandchild. 131 
 
 Never away from battle I fled! 
 Never away from my foes, 
 
 Let God dispose 
 
 Of my life in the fight. " 
 KING OLAF S WAR HORSE. TALES WAYSIDE INN. 
 
 HE family party was complete, and after 
 breakfast the balcony was full of bright 
 faces. Everybody appeared in the best 
 of health and spirits, and even baby in 
 his carriage crowed with joy and juvenile ecstasy. 
 
 Mrs. Dana, " Edith," is his mother. She retains 
 the same beautiful features that lent such a charm 
 to her babyhood, and the " little curl that hung in 
 the middle of her forehead," has retired with 
 womanly dignity to join her sister locks on either 
 side of her winsome face. She has violet-blue eyes, 
 a skin of cream and roses, a dainty, shapely nose, a 
 most lovable mouth, and fine masses of ashen blonde 
 hair, that undulate away from the temples and are 
 crowned by a glistening braid. 
 
 She is extremely vivacious and fond of argu 
 ment. Mr. T. G. Appleton has left his pebbles to 
 join us, and his advent is always welcome. 
 
132 Longfellow with his Grandchild. 
 
 I never knew a man more thoroughly original 
 than Mr. Appleton, and whatever he says is just 
 characteristic of himself. His fund of anecdotes is 
 inexhaustible, and each day his clever sayings and 
 ingenious reflections are tempered with wholesome 
 humor. Mrs. Dana always answers " Uncle Tom " 
 back, as Mr. Appleton is called, and many bright 
 flashes of esprit are the result. 
 
 The poet looks on amusedly, lovingly, and with 
 an enjoyment that is undeniable. He rarely inter 
 rupts, but when referred to as umpire gives a gra 
 cious decision, that instead of settling the matter in 
 full throws an entirely new light on the subject, and 
 also throws both parties off the track. 
 
 This wary and dexterous way of answering a 
 question is one of the professor s great points, or 
 " coups," as the French would say. From being an 
 innocent umpire, he becomes, with one of his adroit 
 remarks, a master in the art of drawing others out. 
 
 The professor s face is a study, while those im 
 promptu word skirmishes are going on. 
 
 Whether the subject be grave or gay, he listens 
 
Longfellow with his Grandchild. 133 
 
 with the same seriousness, and his face glows with 
 vigilance and watchful interest. He seems like a 
 general at the head of his forces, and only by the 
 color that faintly comes and goes in his cheeks, and 
 the quick changing light of his flashing eye, can one 
 discover that he is at all moved. 
 
 He reminded me forcibly of the late King Victor 
 Emanuel of Italy. 
 
 At a review of many thousand troops given out 
 side the famous arena of Milan, a few weeks previous 
 to the first and welcome visit of the German emperor 
 to Italy, in 1875, I had an opportunity of watching, 
 during an hour, the great soldier king, the head of 
 the house of Savoy. How magnificently he sat his 
 horse, and with what royal grace and favor did he 
 look upon an army that is the honor and pride of 
 Italy. It was during the mock cavalry charge that 
 the king was to me perfectly fascinating. The 
 men rushed forward with such force arid vigor that 
 numbers of poor fellows were unhorsed, and the cry 
 of " nomo a terra" (men to earth) rang with too 
 
134 Longfellow with his Grandchild. 
 
 great frequency upon the air to realize that it waa 
 only a make-believe battle. 
 
 His Majesty the King never moved a muscle, 
 but his glance ran like lightning along the lines, 
 and the bronzed face, although set with a terrible 
 composure, yet glowed with color and interest, Not 
 a sound escaped his lips, nor did the long ends of 
 his waxed mustache betray the slightest nervous 
 motion. With calm, superb mien he sat and gazed 
 upon a sight that would have moved most men, 
 his face only betrayed the kingly pride and adaman 
 tine composure that he possessed in so eminent, a 
 degree. 
 
 His flashing eye pierced to the farthest extent of 
 the Piazza d Armi, always accompanied with the 
 same marvelous quietness of feature. The white- 
 gloved hand never wavered as it loosely held the 
 rich bridle-rein, and during the whole of the charge, 
 he never moved from his graceful position. 
 
 The royal saddle-cloth, with its broidered corners 
 and fringed edges, was held down with such firmness 
 that one would have thought it a part of the trap- 
 
Longfellow with his Grandchild. 135 
 
 pings and paraphernalia of a warrior cast in bronze 
 rather than a breathing embodiment of a real, live 
 king. One forgot his person in looking at his royal 
 head, military tenue, and martial bearing. 
 
 He was every inch a soldier, and the great gen 
 eral at the head of his troops. -They say that no one 
 ever sat a horse as did Victor Emanuel, and certainly 
 I shall never forget how I saw him that day, the 
 fierce Italian sun pouring down on his gilded helmet, 
 the large Piazza d Armi covered with the brilliant 
 and magnificently-trained army, and the clouds of 
 dust thickening the air almost as with the smoke of 
 great cannonading. 
 
 Who can wonder that the son of Carlo Alberto 
 was adored by his people ; that while " II Re 
 Galantuomo " was all that was kingly and royal, he 
 was loved so much the more as a man, because the 
 brave soldier came first in the hearts of his subjects ? 
 
 Those who see United Italy to-day realize the 
 great work accomplished by a man who, while never 
 forgetting that the blue blood of a long-lined ancestry 
 coursed through his veins, fought with the ardor of a 
 
136 Longfellow with his Grandchild. 
 
 common soldier. He endured toil and hardships, 
 and in the thickest of the fight mingled freely the 
 royal vesture with the modest uniform of the peasant. 
 Together the sabers clashed that ransomed a people 
 from the oppressor s power, and purchased a unity 
 that shows to-day how greater than any other 
 European nation is the progress of modern Italy. 
 Besides being a most honest man, the king was one 
 of such wondrous personal fascination that every one 
 of his people who came in contact with him left his 
 presence a firmer adherent, a passionate adorer, and a 
 most loyal subject forevermore. Such was the man 
 who governed with honesty and simplicity, with 
 heart and brain, and who merited the title of " The 
 Honest King " (II Re Galantuomo). 
 
 I have often thought of him, and the expression 
 on his face that day. Physically there was not the 
 slightest resemblance between the two, yet Long 
 fellow had the same look of conscious power, with 
 complete control of his features, and the skilled and 
 modest composure that so beautifully becomes the 
 truly great. 
 
Longfellow with his Grandchild. 137 
 
 I think the poet is generally happiest in the 
 morning. It is a sort of pleasurable omen when the 
 night has passed well, and to the affectionate inquiries 
 after his general health everybody responds, showing 
 how deep his welfare lies in their hearts. 
 
 It is a touching thing to hear the tender inquiries 
 framed by his daughters, and see how they hang, 
 with rapt attention, on every word he says. 
 
 The morning greeting is invariably, from him, a 
 fatherly kiss on the forehead, then he slides his arm 
 around his daughter s waist, while the little questions 
 that make up the sum total of home interest are 
 asked and answered with a sweet gravity and serious 
 ness that is perfectly charming to witness. Any 
 playful badinage that may be indulged in only adds 
 another charm to this sympathetic picture, and one 
 can imagine how truly delightful it is to see a united 
 family thoroughly " en rapport " with each other. 
 Let me see, how many were we? First, there was 
 the poet, and Mr. T. G. Appleton, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Dana, Mr. Craig, Mr. Nathan Appleton, Miss Annie 
 Longfellow, Miss Hale, myself and baby. His car- 
 
138 Longfellow with kis Grandchild. 
 
 riage, at the farthest end of the piazza, was carefully 
 tended by nurse, but seeing the company, he began a 
 series of vigorous outcries, and intimated that he had 
 been neglected far too long. 
 
 The poet arose and went quickly up to him. 
 Master Richard knew who was coming, and com 
 menced crowing lustily, one of those eff routed 
 juvenile invitations to be taken up and petted. The 
 favored one was the professor, and when he neared 
 the baby carriage the dear thing put up its soft white 
 hands, and almost sprang into grandpapa s arms. 
 
 He, nothing loth, took him up with all a mother s 
 gentleness, and held the dainty bundle close against 
 his breast. 
 
 It was a beautiful sight to see the old poet 
 cradling his grandchild in his arms. The tender 
 flesh of the young, contrasting its softness with the 
 mature coloring of the elder, with the diminutive 
 fingers tearing in and out the sire s snowy beard, and 
 the curling dark locks of baby, finer than gossamer 
 or cobwebs, mingling their dainty treasure with the 
 bard s silvered hair. This formed a picture too 
 
Longfellow with Jus Grandchild. 139 
 
 touching to be unremarked. Every moment the 
 baby s deep eyes would discover some new wonder 
 in grandpa s face, and with persistent cooing the 
 little hands would travel up and -down the poet s 
 features, as only such mites of hands could travel, 
 with infancy s royal prerogative of license, and right 
 of way. His face lit up with a beautiful smile, 
 while the dainty creature caressed him. Ah ! how 
 much a baby can say without speaking and Long 
 fellow understood, in the finest sense of the word, 
 the smallest wish of the little fellow. He would not 
 let him go, and baby caroled on, happy, so happy, 
 and seemed as unwilling to depart as grandpa was to 
 have him. Finally Mrs. Dana came forward and 
 remonstrated, saying: 
 
 " Now, papa, you have been a dear baby tender, 
 but I know you have had enough, and he will tire 
 you out. Pray let me take him, or let nurse look 
 after him, you have held him so long," the last with 
 a piteous little accent. 
 
 The poet looked up gravely, saying : 
 
 " Why, Edith, when you were little, I used to 
 
140 Longfellow with Ids Grandchild. 
 
 hold you hours and hours, and it never seemed too 
 much. So it is with your baby. I keep him fast in 
 my arms, and almost fancy it is you yourself, a little 
 thing helpless as he, and claiming all of my attention. 
 You know how I love babies. Now do let him 
 stay." 
 
 Another tug at his beard by the child, a frantic 
 juvenile dash, a crow, and peculiar shout of laughter, 
 followed by various vigorous movements, quite de 
 cides mamma. 
 
 She is inexorable. Baby has to go, for she will 
 not tire her papa out, and he, never thinking of him 
 self, would hold him till midnight. 
 
 Longfellow sighed, and with infinite reluctance 
 yielded up his beautiful grandson to the legitimate 
 tutelage, and settling back into his chair, the old ex 
 pression of quietness stole over his face. 
 
 The morning was already half finished, and baby s 
 departure was the signal for a stir among us. 
 
 The poet took the initiative, and asked what 
 everybody thought of doing. 
 
 Some would go yachting, others had visits, Miss 
 
Longfellow with his Grandchild. 141 
 
 Annie quite counted on lier daily one hour sea-bath, 
 and wild horses would not keep Mr. T. G. Appletou 
 now from painting on his pebbles. 
 
 At last some one asked the professor his plans for 
 the day, and he said : 
 
 "I think madame," turning to me, " would like 
 to see something of Nahant and our surrounding 
 country. I. had thought of showing her Lynn, and 
 if agreeable, we can take this afternoon for the visit. 
 There is a fresh breeze, and I, myself, would enjoy 
 getting a breath of it, while the day is so fine." 
 
 Of course, anything proposed by the poet was 
 received from the cnset with perfect favor, and it 
 was decided that Michael would have the victoria 
 ready by two, sharp, when we were to start. 
 
 We then dispersed, the professor to his apartment 
 over the terrace, Mr. Appleton to his pebbles, Mr. 
 Dana to the city, one here, another there, until 
 luncheon would again summon such as were visible 
 to the repast that evidently tried even Webster s 
 powers of definition. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE REAL STORY OF HYPERION. 
 
 " O, scorn me as thou wilt, still, still will I love thee; and 
 tliy name shall irradiate the gloom of my life, and make the 
 waters of Oblivion smile! And the name was no longer Her- 
 mione, but was changed to Mary; and the student 
 Hieronymus is lying at your feet! O, gentle lady, 
 
 I did hear you talk 
 
 Far above singing; after you were gone, 
 I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched 
 What stirred it so! Alus! I found it love. " 
 
 HYPERION, end chap. VIII. 
 
 "Tell me, my soul, why art thou restless? Why dost 
 thou look forward to the future with such strong desire ? 
 The present is thine, and the past, and the future shall 
 be. O, that thou didst look forward to the great hereafter 
 with half the longing wherewith thou longest for an earthly 
 future, which a few days at most will bring thec! To the 
 meeting of the dead as to the meeting of the absent! Thou 
 glorious Spirit-land! O, that I could behold thee as thou 
 art, the region of life, and light and love, and the dwelling- 
 place of those beloved ones whose being has flowed onward, 
 [142] 
 
The Real Story of Hyperion. 143 
 
 like a silver clear stream into the solemn-sounding main, into 
 the Ocean of Eternity." 
 
 HYPERION, chap. II., book III. 
 
 HE poet is in good health to all outward 
 appearances, but he eats little, almost 
 nothing-, and at luncheon I dared remon 
 strate, as his breakfast had been one but in 
 name. He smiled faintly and said : 
 
 " Most people have a famous appetite at the sea 
 shore, but I never had. I think that the very sight 
 and sound of it constitute sufficient nourishment. I 
 love the ocean, and my soul is iilled with something 
 infinitely more satisfactory than the bread and meat 
 of daily life. I feel a sense of completeness when in 
 sight and sound of it, that I realize nowhere on land. 
 I never tire of its strong, healthful breezes, and life- 
 giving properties. Then, too, I love to think that it 
 does me good, in a moral sense, and you know that 
 must in the end be also of great physical benefit." 
 
 "Dear master," said I quickly, "if the sea 
 soothes you, it must be good, but I cannot imagine 
 that morally you would need its influence." 
 
144 The Real Story of Hyperion. 
 
 The rare, irresistible smile that I had so often 
 seen came across his lips, and he said, 
 
 " I should hate to wait until I positively needed 
 its influence ; but we are all mortal, and I love to 
 take the good where I find it, and above all, not to 
 ilee any teaching that may come, whether of voice, 
 mind or current. To me the sea hath i a thousand 
 tongues, all speaking in praise of a higher power, 
 and a life to come that touches the realms of the 
 - infinite." 
 
 His speech almost saddened me, and observing 
 it, he said quite gayly, 
 
 " You must not look so serious. We shall gaze 
 at the ocean, on our way to Lynn, when it seems 
 quite a different affair from the puissant monster 
 that rages up and down whole continents, and I 
 promise you not one i of the thousand tongues 
 shall accost you unless you yourself first give the 
 signal. I see that our equipage is ready, and if 
 you like we will start at once." 
 
 The open victoria stood waiting, and the horses 
 magnificent black, spirited animals, gave a little 
 
The Real Story of Hyperion. 145 
 
 neigh of pleasure, as if proud of the honor of carry 
 ing the great poet. 
 
 The day was heavenly, and never have I seen the 
 professor in better spirits, if I may except the 
 slight tone of sadness that occasionally overcast his 
 fine countenance. He was in perfect health, and 
 determined to make the best of such propitious 
 weather. 
 
 It seemed impossible to imagine him other than 
 a young man. His voice was strong and full, and 
 had a happy ring that expressed contentment and 
 success, and he spoke of even indifferent things in a 
 way that was really charming. 
 
 As we neared the sort of road bridge that con 
 nects Lynn with Nahant. he ordered the coachman 
 to drive slowly, so that he could " take in more 
 fully," as he said, "the beautiful panorama that 
 stretched out before us." 
 
 And in truth it was beautiful. 
 
 To the right, a small basin gave the idea of an 
 inland lake rather than the sea, and an enormous 
 black rock in the center called " Egg Rock," dark- 
 
146 The Real Story of Hyperion. 
 
 ened the water for a mile around. To the left of the 
 embankment the breakwater formed a sluggish pool 
 filled with weeds, and floating bits of bark and wood, 
 and this muddy pond gradually grew less dark, as 
 the waters went out to the sea. 
 
 We looked to the right as the prettiest part of 
 the picture, and, musing, the poet spoke, 
 
 " Do you see that in the very edge of this basin a 
 thousand little eddies come and go, rush upon the 
 sands, then recede with a merry chattering out into 
 the great waters, and then, back again \ Well ! it 
 was just in sight and sound of this place that 1 
 wrote my poems, i The Secret of the Sea, and Pal 
 ingenesis. Each time I pass, I realize all of the 
 old fascination for the spot, I hear again in my ears 
 the same voices, and see those little fiendish waves 
 dance back and forth with their endless rhythm and 
 mystic chant. 
 
 " Look - - does it not seem a trick, the cunning 
 way with which those white waves get back and 
 sparkle over the sands, and their merciless hissing 
 
The Real Story of Hyperion. 147 
 
 voices, as the current takes them out again to the 
 sea ? I know them so well." 
 
 I followed his eye and voice, and indeed, I could 
 appreciate just the feeling that he described. 
 
 They seemed like old friends that beckoned and 
 nodded to him, and at the same time kept repeating 
 their endless good-bye until the carriage took us 
 further and further away from the spot. 
 
 As we neared Lynn, I felt more in confidence 
 with the professor, and we began talking of things 
 that we had seen abroad. 
 
 The poet discoursed delightfully on his travels, 
 and as we drove through the shady avenues of the 
 old town, his voice mingled itself with the cadence 
 of the sea, and the soft murmur of the summer air, 
 that came through the branches of the lindens, 
 making a sort of ^Eolian music, that was in perfect 
 harmony with the scene. I can see the grand old 
 man now, reposing against the cushions of the car 
 riage, with his fine, frank face glowing with a beau 
 tiful carnation, the shapely head thrown back, and 
 the snowy hair, silky and soft as spun glass, lying 
 
148 The Real Story of Hyperion. 
 
 against the back of the seat, and contrasting vividly 
 with the somber hue of the upholstery. 
 
 Mantled in his cloak, that gracefully covered his 
 sloping shoulders, he had a pose of consummate ease, 
 and the while talked quite unreservedly, now and 
 then turning to me with a sweet smile, and ever and 
 anon folding or clasping his hands, that otherwise 
 lay quite still and motionless in his lap. 
 
 He had never before been so friendly, and I 
 longed to improve that occasion to make him speak 
 of himself. I had no morbid curiosity to know the 
 slightest intimate detail of his life, but merely wished 
 to hear him describe, in his own rare way, something 
 relating entirely to his early travels in Europe. 
 
 Fate favored me. Turning a corner brusquely, 
 we came in sight of the sea and a bit of scenery that 
 caused him to exclaim : 
 
 " That reminds me of Switzerland. Have you 
 ever seen Interlachen ?" 
 
 " Yes," said I, eagerly, " but tell me about it. I 
 would rather know what you think of it. Were you 
 there when, alone and 5> he interrupted me sadly. 
 
The Real Story of Hyperion. 149 
 
 " No, not alone, but with friends ; Mr. Appleton 
 and his party." Then he stopped. 
 
 " No half confession," said I, gayly. " I am sure 
 you are thinking of something very important, for 
 your face looks grave and older, and I hear a half 
 sigh coming from beneath your cloak. Pray tell me 
 all about it." 
 
 He looked up affectionately, and patted my hand, 
 saying, at the time : 
 
 " 1 don t know why I should speak to you, you 
 are such a child, and this was a long time ago, but 
 do you not know," hesitatingly, " Mr. Appleton was 
 an old acquaintance, and he introduced me to the 
 party I mentioned, that I saw at Interlachen. I 
 suppose something irresistible drew me there, for 
 I had been traveling in another direction, and did 
 not intend going that way, but they insisted, and I 
 followed where Fate or any enterprising spirit led." 
 
 " Yes," I interrupted, " but the party you met, 
 confess, were they all gentlemen, no ladies ?" 
 
 He looked up, gravely. " No," said he, " there 
 
150 The Real Story of Hyperion. 
 
 were some ladies : one was Mr. Appleton s sister," a 
 pause, drawing in liis breath, " my late wife." 
 
 His voice deepened in feeling, and I lamented 
 my own stupidity. 
 
 " Pardon me, dear master," I said, hesitatingly. 
 I did not know I could not have imagined that 
 I was nearing such a subject. I am sure you will 
 never forgive me." 
 
 " There is nothing to forgive," said he, quietly. 
 " To-day I am filled with memories of the past, and 
 I am glad to talk with you, who seem to appreciate 
 my feeble efforts to entertain you." Assuring me 
 that it did him good to speak," he continued, tell 
 ing all about his travels ; he said : " I went to Inter- 
 lachen very heavy-hearted, and left it in almost the 
 same state of sadness." Stopping suddenly he said : 
 " But I am telling you all this. Have you never 
 read Hyperion ?" 
 
 I confessed that I had, but so long ago that I 
 remembered it only faintly. He looked at me curi 
 ously, and said, with some satisfaction and a half 
 sigh: 
 
The Real Story of Hyperion. 151 
 
 " That is well, for the real ending was different, 
 as you will now know. After the death of my wife 
 in Kotterdam, I left Holland and traveled all over 
 the Continent. In Switzerland I met the Appletons, 
 who were voyaging for pleasure. Mr. Appleton, my 
 wife s father, was very amiable. We were going to 
 walk over the mountains, but he said : Why should 
 you ? There is one seat in our carriage, and that is 
 at Mr. Longfellow s disposal. He turned to me 
 with so hospitable a manner that I immediately 
 accepted his invitation and sat vis-a-vis to Miss Fanny 
 Appleton. They were sc delicate and kind towards 
 me that my heart warmed instinctively, and in their 
 society one had little time for sad hearts and faces. 
 The rest," said he, sweetly, " you know." 
 
 Not content with what the poet had said, I went 
 still further and begged to ask him a question. 
 
 He considered, and said, " that if it were not too 
 dreadful " he would answer it with pleasure ; at the 
 same time he had anything but an unamiable look. 
 
 Kemembering that he had been twice married, I 
 asked him if he believed in affinities, and if he had 
 
152 The Real Story of Hyperion. 
 
 any warning or idea when he met Miss Appleton 
 that she would ever be his wife ? I said, " Did you 
 love her at first sight ?" 
 
 He started, as if of all questions that was the one 
 he least expected to hear, yet said to me with quiet 
 feeling and simplicity : 
 
 " You have asked I will answer. Love comes 
 in various forms. I had no thought, then, that she 
 was other than a lovable and lovely woman, and it 
 was only some years afterward that I knew she was 
 all my world, and I began to hope for that which 
 Heaven after granted me. After our second meeting 
 we corresponded, and later she consented to take me 
 for her husband. 
 
 " No," he continued, " Fate is sometimes so un 
 kind to let us not even dream of a happiness that is 
 in store. Could I have realized then, that the future 
 held one gleam of brightness, I think it would have 
 altered my character in many respects. Still, my 
 bitter complainings were all before my visit to Jnter- 
 lachen, and since then " 
 
 "Since then," I repeated, with hushed voice, 
 
The Real Story of Hyperion. 153 
 
 " you have been blessed beyond the lot of ordinary 
 mortals, and it has been also your good fortune to 
 help to make others happy in the world, which is a 
 rare joy, and one for which Heaven had selected you, 
 as her special and gifted servant." His face glowed 
 with a sublime faith, and he said with simple rever 
 ence : 
 
 "Yes. God is good!" 
 
 Back through the hushed town, back by the 
 stirring trees and murmuring ocean, we retraced our 
 way. The poet, after his long conversation, taken 
 up, of course, at different intervals, kept very quiet 
 until we reached home ; and seeing him wrapped in 
 thoughts of the past, nothing could have induced me 
 to break the stillness of his musings. 
 
 His fair, aristocratic face outvied the tranquillity of 
 nature in its repose, and over the calm features was 
 drawn a fine vail of melancholy that sat upon his 
 countenance like the mist that partially conceals the 
 dawn, and hid this wonderful nature, that was sacred 
 in its communion with memories of the past. 
 
 Before sleeping I re-read " Hyperion," and many 
 
 7* 
 
1 54 The Real Story of Hyperion. 
 
 things that had seemed sad and strange in the pro 
 fessor, were explained in the experience of Paul 
 Flemming. The book is really a history of his own 
 life, and his ideal woman, that in the last chapter he 
 bids adieu to forever as Fanny Asburton, became in 
 after years Mrs. Longfellow, nee Fanny Appleton. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 LONGFELLOW S LOVE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " In all places then, and in all seasons 
 Flowers expand, flowers expand their light and soul- 
 like wings, 
 
 Teaching us by most persuasive reasons, 
 How akin they are to human things." 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 " My Lord has need of these flow rets gay, 
 
 The reaper said, and smiled ; 
 Dear tokens of the earth are they, 
 Where he was once a child. 
 
 " * They shall all bloom in fields of light 
 Transplanted by my care, 
 And saints, upon their garments white 
 These sacred blossoms wear. " 
 
 THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 ONGFELLOW is very fond of flowers. 
 Besides the garden s generous contribu 
 tion, there are quantities sent to the poet 
 by admiring friends, and the house is 
 
 never without them. He loves them all, from the 
 
 [155] 
 
1 56 Longfellow s Love of Flozvers. 
 
 tiny flow ret that blooms modestly by the wayside, to 
 the gorgeous blossom that commands the attention 
 usually paid the pretentious. Mr. Longfellow pre 
 fers violets, roses and lilies, although he rarely passes 
 a flower-bed, or a dainty thing growing among the 
 grasses, but he stops affectionately and plucks some 
 leaf or bud. 
 
 I remember last Spring, at Cambridge, a stroll 
 we took up and down the old walk. The trees, dis 
 mantled of their snowy winter burden, were already 
 many-leaved, and the lawn had a velvety appearance. 
 The whole front of the garden facing Brattle street 
 has a thick hedge, or wall of bushes. These were 
 all in bud, and on the oldest branch there was one 
 spray of white lilac in full blossom. The poet 
 uttered an exclamation of pleasure as he saw it, and 
 with native gallantry plucked it and gave it me. 
 
 " You must keep it," said he naively, " tis the 
 first one this season. I love Spring flowers, and I 
 particularly love the old-fashioned lilacs, yet they 
 make me sad." 
 
 His was an impressionable nature, and when 
 
Long fellows Love of Flowers. 157 
 
 with his friends, he gave unrestrained utterance to 
 his thoughts. He was unusually quiet that morning, 
 and I said, 
 
 " Cher maitre, why do these early flowers sad 
 
 den you?" 
 
 He looked at me earnestly, and said, 
 "Whenever I take up one I ask myself, Will I 
 live to see another Spring-time? I have a strange 
 idea, that if they welcome me with their first smile 
 I shall not die that year, hut live just in sight of 
 another May. Promise me," this eagerly, "that 
 when I am gone you will place a branch of these 
 lilacs on my grave. Flowers are my oldest friends." 
 I was too touched not to promise as he wished, but 
 I scolded him playfully for his sad thoughts, and 
 refused to encourage such melancholy. To-day he 
 had the old look when he saw the fresh flowers in 
 the room, and at the first sign of sadness, I said 
 
 "Dear master, pas de tristesse, these are not 
 lilacs." Before he could answer Mr. Nathan came 
 in with a mysteriously-covered parcel. A faint 
 
158 Longfellow s Love of Flowers. 
 
 something gleaming from under the fine tissue 
 paper, suggested a bouquet or cut blossoms. Imag 
 ine what they were ? Pink pond lilies, not the 
 white or " yellow water lily," spoken of in Hiawatha, 
 but the veritable flower in pink. I think I never 
 saw anything so beautiful, and my astonishment was 
 as great as my admiration. Professor Longfellow 
 was more enthusiastic over them than any one, and 
 he expressed himself in the warmest terms. Mr. 
 Nathan explained that they had been brought orig 
 inally from South Africa by a sea-captain, and trans 
 planted near Sandwich, Cape Cod. They grew up 
 almost white, but of late, with care, they have 
 deepened into a lovely rose-pink. Strange to say, 
 they are side by side with the white lilies, and never 
 have propagated with them. They remain beauti 
 fully and distinctly pink, and each year become more 
 lovely. 
 
 " They are not luxuriant," said Mr. Appleton, " and 
 are found only in this one pond near Boston. It is a 
 pity they are so scarce, as they would speedily be 
 come the grand mode} " 
 
Longfellow s Love of Flowers. 159 
 
 "They are exquisite enough," responded Mr. 
 Longfellow, " to become the fashion they are in 
 spiring, and these are particularly lovely." Mr. 
 Nathan interrupted : 
 
 " They inspired Miss Jewett. She wrote a beau 
 tiful poem about them. Perhaps," turning to me, 
 " you will also express your feelings in verse." 
 
 " But I never write poetry" I objected. 
 
 " Never mind," said Mr. Nathan, " I dare you to 
 this time. Every lady that sees these flowers protests 
 an immediate inspiration, and you surely must try 
 your hand." 
 
 Mr. Longfellow was quite interested and looked 
 anxiously on, but I expostulated. 
 
 " I assure you I " 
 
 "No," said Mr. Nathan, "I dare you. You 
 must do it." 
 
 " I cannot ignore a dare," said I hastily, " but 
 poetry it seems dreadful to dash off anything in that 
 fashion." 
 
 Mr. Longfellow interposed. " Try," said he ; 
 
160 Longfellow s Love of Flowers. 
 
 adding, amusedly, " you know a great deal of poetry 
 is made to order ; why should you not succeed ?" 
 
 " Yery well," said I, " but give me a flower ; I can 
 not write without that." Mr. Nathan gravely handed 
 me the lily the poet smiled good-humoredly, and 
 said, " courage," while I withdrew to the little library. 
 Three-quarters of an hour later I came out with a 
 faded blossom but a flushed face. In my hand was 
 the following : 
 
 A PINK POND LILY. 
 
 1. 
 
 From far Ngami s golden shore 
 A gallant captain, passing o er 
 
 The river long and wide, 
 In a lonesome pool beyond the bank, 
 Mid waters dark and sea- weed dank 
 
 A blushing flower espied. 
 
 2. 
 
 Then far from Afric s fevered smile 
 The lily fair did he beguile, 
 
 And root and branch uptore. 
 He bore it in his ship of state 
 To newer land, to newer fate, 
 
 Upon Cape Cod s lone shore. 
 
Longfellow s Love of Flowers. 161 
 
 3. 
 
 The flower drooped in its stranger bed, 
 Fretted, and drooped, and hung its head, 
 
 To weep by day and night: 
 And when it reached Columbia fair, 
 To find itself transplanted there, 
 
 Its color fled twas white. 
 
 4. 
 
 O pallid flower, with petals cold, 
 O lovely form, with heart of gold, 
 
 Mine, mine thou art in truth ; 
 With wealth of sadness in thy face, 
 Each leaf of white symbolic grace, 
 
 Fair emblem of our youth. 
 
 5. 
 
 As by the quiet meadow-side 
 
 A mirrored lake thy form doth hide 
 
 A world of love unsought, 
 So with thy comrades to and fro, 
 The night-winds proud to tlice shall blow 
 
 The charm with which they re fraught. 
 
 6. 
 
 At last, with earthly care oppressed 
 The shades of evening bid thee rest, 
 
 A pale, unworldly elf. 
 The soft caress, love s wayward charm, 
 Can ne er to thee bring blight or harm, 
 
 Thou rt love and life thyself. 
 
1 62 Longfellow s* Love of Flowers. 
 
 7. 
 
 And when the waters grieving loud, 
 With shadows dark and mist o ercrowd 
 
 Thy tender drooping crest, 
 So night s great privilege will show 
 To thee as to all flowers below 
 
 Oblivion, peace, and rest. 
 
 8. 
 
 But shall thy head in death be bowed 
 Whose wealth of beauty, pure and proud, 
 
 A crown of life desires. 
 Thou licst to-night in pallid bier, 
 Nor think st to find enflamgd here 
 
 Proud resurrection s fires. 
 
 9. 
 
 A broken heart doth sadly sleep, 
 The secret all the lilies keep, 
 
 The secret of thy flight; 
 And then with bated breath they fold 
 Thy petals white, thy heart of gold 
 
 Wrapp d in the cloak of night. 
 
 10. 
 
 Yet hark. Alectryon s trump doth call, 
 Aurora s lights rose-tinted fall 
 
 On morning s dawn, then sink. 
 The stranger lily, once so white 
 Comes blushing from her buried night 
 
 Comes forth with petals pink. 
 
Longfellow s Love of Flowers. 163 
 
 11. 
 
 And so the legend now is told, 
 About a flower with heart of gold 
 
 That did her name forswear; 
 And said "adieu " to robes of snow, 
 With borrowed light to bloom and glow, 
 
 A piak pond lily rare. 
 
 Nahant, July, 1880. 
 
 I gave up the poem. Mr. Longfellow with aston 
 ishment took it from me, and scanning it over, said 
 quickly : 
 
 " The fourth and fifth verses are as good poetry as 
 most can write, but the rest I" hesitating " you 
 must not feel badly, but I should scarcely call this a 
 poem. It is a poetic sketch, and something might be 
 
 % 
 
 made of it. Let me have it and I will correct it, and 
 show you where and why the changes are made." 
 
 Mr, Nathan looked up quickly and said, " Two 
 ladies have written on the same flower with totally 
 different ideas. Who would have believed it ? Now 
 the next person I dare " 
 
 " Nathan," hastily interrupted the poet, " I don t 
 think you had better < dare any one else to write 
 poetry, although " checking himself adroitly, " had 
 
164 Longfellow s Love of Flowers. 
 
 you not done so, we would have missed madame s 
 lines." 
 
 " Oh ! I know what you were going to say," I 
 spoke up quickly. " But forgive me, I promise never 
 to do so any more." 
 
 The poet looked happy again. 
 
 " That is right," said he honestly, " I think there 
 are other things that you can do better than to write 
 poetry, although I shall correct this if you wish, and 
 if you still insist on making verses, I shall be glad to 
 help you any way in my power." 
 
 Those were my first and last lines made to order, 
 but I let Mr. Longfellow correct my sketch to keep 
 as a souvenir of a pink pond lily. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 LONGFELLOW IN CONVERSATION. 
 
 Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same 
 Year after year, through all the silent night, 
 Burns on forevermore that quenchless flame, 
 Shines on that unextinguishable light." 
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE. 
 
 " Nothing useless is, or low; 
 
 Each thing in its place is best; 
 And what seems but idle show 
 
 Strengthens and supports the rest." 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 AJLLS begin before luncheon, and the pro 
 fessor is always the recipient of several 
 each day. Here the visitors are usually 
 old friends, or recent agreeable acquaint 
 ances, instead of the crowd of curious, and autograph 
 
 seekers that hunt out the Craigie mansion, and be- 
 
 [165] 
 
1 66 Longfellow in Conversation. 
 
 tray themselves to the passers-by, in the shady 
 avenues of Cambridge. 
 
 Strange to say, the conversation rarely turns on 
 the subject of poetry. 
 
 Longfellow rarely argues. When he speaks, a 
 fine sensibility marks his demeanor, and a certain 
 self-respect that immediately gives dignity to the 
 topic under discussion, and commands the instant 
 attention of all present. The graces of his mind are 
 such that every sentiment receives just appreciation, 
 and before the thought finds expression his lips have 
 already framed an admirable and appropriate speech. 
 
 His language is strong, penetrating and beautiful, 
 rarely flowery, and devoid of useless words and re 
 dundant adjectives. Senseless phrases are never 
 interlarded. 
 
 He says the wittiest things without intention, and 
 never stops to make a point in the midst of his 
 speech. In things that need real condemnation his 
 words are steel-pointed, arid no barbed arrow ever 
 went nearer the mark. He speaks with conviction, 
 earnestness, and a certain eloquence as original as 
 
Longfellow in Conversation. 167 
 
 fascinating. Whatever the subject, he attacks it 
 boldly, honestly. 
 
 He employs no petty subterfuges of language to 
 hide a real meaning. There are no fine speeches 
 that cover a bad thought, or address themselves to 
 what the world calls clever people. In politics, re 
 ligion, civil reform or the fine arts, he is equally at 
 home in understanding and discussion. How in the 
 world Longfellow finds time to make himself master 
 of all subjects, is simply puzzling. He needs only to 
 read to remember, but it seems to me that twenty- 
 four hours study a day for a life-time would never 
 have sufficed to acquaint him with all he knows, with 
 out this special intuitive gift of understanding. 
 
 He does not need to turn a subject over in his 
 mind many times, before a just conclusion is 
 arrived at. 
 
 This superhuman mental quality is rare to-day, 
 and enjoyed, I think, in the highest sense by our 
 great poet. It is not a question of being able to 
 talk understandingly on general subjects, nor to crit 
 icise indiscriminately on every occasion, but to fabri- 
 
1 68 Longfelloiv in Conversation. 
 
 cate, from proper material, the structure that will 
 best hold your ideas and thoughts. It is easy to tear 
 down, but difficult to build. Longfellow, like 
 Leonardo da Vinci, is an architect of the soul, and 
 the solid foundation laid by nature has received 
 additional pillars of thought and education, and 
 plans of self-sustaining power, that show forth, in 
 their completeness, the overwhelming beauty of 
 truth, and truthful culture in man. 
 
 I doubt not that he could improvise, and the 
 most noted of his lyrics show that beneath the 
 shadow of the muse his heart has poured itself out 
 in suddenly-inspired song, yet his speech has little of 
 improvisation. It is more like the rounded utterance 
 of one who has studied a subject deeply, and turned 
 it over and over again in his mind. 
 
 My attention was called to this fact from observa 
 tions made by his own family. 
 
 At the conclusion of some of his remarks I have 
 frequently heard one of his daughters say : 
 
 " Why, papa, how funny. I never heard you 
 express yourself on that subject before, and certainly 
 
Longfellow in Conversation. 169 
 
 not with such precision, and positive conviction ; 
 you have been studying it up to surprise us." 
 
 Then the poet would start hastily, and with utter 
 gravity and modesty disclaim all special study of the 
 question, remarking, simply : 
 
 " Have I not spoken of it before ? "Well, that is 
 not strange although of course I have thought 
 about it often ; still, not being an ordinary topic, it 
 has been but little in my way." 
 
 On many questions the poet retains an obstinate 
 silence. In vain does one try to draw him out. He 
 listens with exquisite attention, but is cold, impas 
 sive and unyielding. No artifice of the calculating 
 speaker can win from him the slightest sign of either 
 approbation or disapproval. His manner is so posi 
 tive that one must needs be hardy indeed to ask his 
 opinion when he does not venture a word. 
 
 It is a great art to listen well greater than that 
 of speaking well. To those who have frequented 
 men of letters and geniuses, it is refreshing to find a 
 
 person who has no predilections in conversation, no 
 8 
 
170 Longfellow in Conversation. 
 
 hobbies to discuss, and who does not harp continually 
 on one subject. 
 
 I am not saying that Longfellow may not have 
 one thought that is paramount to all others, and one 
 ambition that the world knows has been gratified to 
 its full. Poetry ever will be the god of his idolatry. 
 A person not knowing him would at once allow him 
 to be a man of culture, although they would be at a 
 loss from his -speech to know in what particular line 
 his talents lay. 
 
 Whenever the conversation turns upon himself, as 
 very often happens, he deftly draws attention to 
 something else, but in a delicate way. Before one is 
 aware, the subject gradually becomes less personal, 
 and Longfellow directly appears pleased. 
 
 He takes real and unaffected interest in the pur 
 suits of those who visit him, and when young people 
 speak of what they are attempting to do in life, he 
 questions them kindly and judiciously, never failing 
 to encourage the fighter of life s battles to keep on 
 in the good way. 
 
 One does not often hear from his lips sweeping 
 
Longfellow in Conversation. 171 
 
 denunciations of religions, sects, societies, or any pro 
 fession. If there be good in them, he is the first to 
 speak of it, and if there be glaring faults, he tries to 
 find an excuse, and expresses a hope for their future 
 improvement and well-being. 
 
 A man possessed of Longfellow s keen insight 
 into human nature cannot ignore the fact that while 
 much is beautiful, much, alas ! is morally very ugly in 
 the world. The outward sign may be all that is 
 tempting, like those lovely flowers that grow in far- 
 off lands, where creeping waters hide their roots, and 
 a deadly poison is exhaled from their petals, instead 
 of the rare perfume that one expects from an en 
 chanting exterior. 
 
 Because it exists and is bad, he would not uproot 
 every vestige of the plant, but rather, like Father 
 Lawrence, would seek to find the good, although to 
 man still unrevealed. 
 
 The snows of many winters have silvered his hair, 
 and he has had a great experience in life, yet withal, 
 in face of his enormous instruction and still greater 
 
172 Longfelloiv in Conversation. 
 
 appreciation of the world, Longfellow is an optimist 
 in the fullest sense of the word. 
 
 Perhaps it is this love of truth, and enjoyment of 
 truthful things, that has in so great a measure shaped 
 his life, and rendered him the most simple and unaf 
 fected of men ; while at the same time he is more 
 sensitive than another, and peculiarly alive to the 
 coming in contact of an inharmonious nature. 
 
 I have felt when he was so tried. Without saying 
 anything, one could see at once that some antag 
 onistic element had forced its presence upon him, 
 and he received at the same moment an instantaneous 
 shock. He shivers mentally, and reminds one of a 
 sensitive plant that, taken from its natural surround 
 ings, is transplanted to the wayside, and feels for the 
 first time the chill, piercing blast, and cold discomfort 
 of an uncongenial clime. I sometimes think so im 
 pressionable a nature a doubtful gift. 
 
 Longfellow would have graced any century with 
 his virtues, and even the "L aureo trecento" (Golden 
 Age) with his talent. 
 
 Of the three great poets who are claimed by the 
 
Longfellow in Conversation. 173 
 
 Century of Gold, Petrarch was, perhaps, the most 
 strictly virtuous, Dante the most impetuous, and 
 Boccaccio the most careless of the trio. Longfellow 
 resembles them only in his rare gift of natural song, 
 and will hand down to history s page the record of a 
 pure and stainless life. 
 
 Dante was reckless and lived a life of turmoil. 
 The only pure affection he ever knew was the love of 
 Beatrice, and that came to him when he had learned 
 the value of a woman s smile. Boccaccio was vain, 
 careless, but supremely gifted. Longfellow, on the 
 contrary, has no ^ces, and lives out his exemplary 
 life in the fear of God, beloved by man, and with 
 exceeding tranquillity of mien. The world is better 
 that he has lived in it. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF FISH CHOWDER. 
 
 " To whom the student answered: Yes; 
 All praise and honor ! I confess 
 That bread and ale, home-baked, home-brewed, 
 Are wholesome and nutritious food." 
 
 " Forthwith there was prepared a grand repast." 
 
 " Then her two barn -yard fowls, her best and last, 
 "Were put to death at her express desire, 
 And served up with a salad in a bowl, 
 And flasks of country wine to crown the whole." 
 
 THE MONK OP CASTLE MAGGIOBE. 
 TALES OP A WAYSIDE INN. 
 
 OMEHOW to-day I feel quite strange, and 
 alone. " Allons," I am already late. The 
 sun has already covered everything out 
 side with a golden glow, and to be in the 
 house at such a time is criminal. Donning a dress 
 of soft white cashmere, trimmed with lace and 
 
 f ringe, I prepare to descend, and stop once again to 
 
 [174] 
 
The Origin of Fish Chowder. 175 
 
 look in the glass. Beflectively, I say to myself, 
 " White is becoming to blondes," and feeling already 
 a little better in my mind, I join the family, who are 
 loitering, as usual, on the back terrace. 
 
 " Why," said Mrs. Dana, quickly, " you look like 
 a bride. What is it ?" 
 
 " This is the anniversary of my wedding," said 
 I, "and the first time that I have been alone on 
 such a memorable occasion. But my husband must 
 be en route for America ; he expected to sail 
 about this date, and news must soon come." 
 
 While I was yet talking, a servant brought me a 
 dispatch. Thanks to Cyrus Field s Atlantic cable, 
 one can talk across continents, and I read " Sail to 
 day in < Gallia, all well, love." This had been sent 
 from Liverpool, and already my husband was on his 
 way. The professor smiled pleasantly, and all 
 wished him the safest of voyages. 
 
 We talked on of different things and brought up 
 the subject of the Boston Cadets, and a recent pleas 
 ant visit to the camp. The commanding officer, 
 Colonel Hayes, was very polite, and we had an op- 
 
176 The Origin of Fish Chowder. 
 
 portunity of seeing the "boys" near by as they 
 came up from their splendid drill, and passed in front 
 of the colonel s tent. 
 
 The time passed away so quickly that it was late 
 before we had even thought of leaving, and then, 
 accompanied by the charming Miss Sarah Jewett 
 and Miss Hayes, the colonel s sister, we finally left 
 the pleasant green to go to Nahant proper, or rather 
 to the poet s house, as we were all to dine with him. 
 
 When we returned, he was loud in his praise of 
 the cadets, and regretted that a slight cold had kept 
 him in doors. You see, it was rather risky going so 
 far, and being obliged to keep one s feet all of the 
 time upon the wet ground, so soon after recent rain ; 
 and the professor was very wise not to think of it. 
 We sat down to-day, a jolly party, and I must say 
 here, that one does not often get such dinners out 
 side Paris. Every day we had fish chowder by re 
 quest, but this evening there was a change. 
 
 When the table was all ready and the guests were 
 seated, Mr. T. G. Appleton raised his head and ex 
 plained, 
 
The Origin of Fish Chowder. 177 
 
 " To night our chowder is different ; instead of 
 fish " 
 
 " It is clam," interrupted the professor, with a 
 grim little smile. 
 
 " How did you know ?" said his brother-in-law 
 quickly. 
 
 " I did not know," said Longfellow ; " I only saw 
 that you looked as if you were about to announce a 
 matter of great moment, and by your partially desig 
 nating the dish, I thought it referred to a change in 
 our favorite soup. Although not radical, it is a 
 change. Chowder is always chowder, but fish 
 chowder is never clam." 
 
 " I cannot understand," I broke in, " what it all 
 means ; what is chowder, how is it made, and what 
 language docs it speak ? who will tell me about it ?" 
 
 Mr. T. G. Appleton looked up, and during the 
 pauses of helping his hungry guests, he said : 
 
 " I will explain, and gladly." Even the professor 
 looked interested, and Mr. Appleton began. 
 
 Stop, before he speaks I must describe him. 
 He has a portly form, tall, and well furnished. His 
 
178 The Origin of Fish Chowder. 
 
 eyes are steady, dark, and they burn with a look at 
 times that must be agony to the conscious man^ for 
 he certainly will get everything out of him, no mat 
 ter how much he might want to conceal. His face 
 is strongly marked, with heavy brows, thick mus 
 tache, and an expression of such rare intelligence 
 that an Italian after saying "astuzia" would give 
 it up, for " astuzia " means shrewdness, and our ami 
 able host, besides possessing that quality, adds to it a 
 world of natural wit and talent, aided by the most 
 advantageous study of human nature that wide 
 travel and a liberal education could possibly afford. 
 Besides being a charming man in every way, he is 
 kindliness itself, and the best story-teller one ever 
 listened to. Whatever he talks about his way of 
 putting it is refreshing, delightful, and altogether 
 palatable. 
 
 The professor looked brightly wide awake, and in 
 answer to my asking "What is chowder?" Mr. Ap- 
 plctori began. 
 
 " Chowder," he glances around everybody is 
 listening. 
 
The Origin of Fish Chowder. 
 
 " Chowder," lie repeats, daintily ladling out the 
 savory soup, " is only good when made in private 
 houses. At hotels it is watery and insipid, while 
 the fish and chowder crackers are usually boiled to 
 rags. The way to make it is this. The fish (cod or 
 haddock) should be broken into large flakes, and 
 boiled twenty minutes with plenty of salt pork and 
 milk and chowder biscuits. The dish was probably 
 obtained by New England fishermen from the French, 
 who for two centuries have been catching and salting 
 the cod, which is also immensely used in countries 
 bordering on the Mediterranean. When salted it is 
 called baccalao? The New England fishermen 
 told their wives of this good and simple dish, and 
 tanght them how to make it. The women asked 
 what it was called, and in reply were told that they 
 had heard a good deal of a word like chowder. 
 The real word they had heard was chaudiere, not 
 the thing itself, but the kettle in which it was 
 cooked." 
 
 Mr. Appleton looked around. 
 
 This was the real reason, undoubtedly, why 
 
i8o The Origin of Fish Chowder. 
 
 chowder was called chowder, and I was very glad to 
 know the origin of the dish. 
 
 In the midst of the talking and pleasant click of 
 the champagne glasses the professor arose, and lift 
 ing his, said with grave ceremony, and tender grace, 
 
 " Les absents ont toujours tort (the absent are 
 always in the wrong), according to the French prov 
 erb, but to-day I beg an exception to the general 
 rule in favor of my young friend, Signor Macchetta. 
 This is the anniversary of his wedding day, and 
 although he may not hear, I propose his life-long 
 heal tli and happiness, and that of my young guest, 
 Madame, his wife. May he have a prosperous voy 
 age, and may the good ship < Gallia bring back to 
 our hospitable shores the loving husband and ever- 
 welcome friend." 
 
 Then there were shouts and happy speeches, con 
 gratulations without number, and of course, I was 
 quite a heroine. One could not help feeling touched 
 at the dear old poet s attention, and I noticed for the 
 first time that the table was more than usually hand 
 some. Lovely flowers here and there covered the 
 
The Origin of Fish Chowder, 181 
 
 fine damask cloth, and some way the dinner partook 
 more of a fete than an every-day affair. It had been 
 so delicately managed, that I, least of all, was suspi 
 cious of what was going to happen when Professor 
 Longfellow got up, but now that it was done, and 
 done with such grace, who would not have felt hon 
 ored and proud to have such a thoughtful friend ? 
 All joined with equal good-will and sympathy in try 
 ing to make my anniversary a happy one. 
 
 The night was so still that during the dinner we 
 heard the first sound of the bells of Lynn borne 
 across the waters, and I called to mind the poet s beau 
 tiful lines : 
 
 " Oh, curfew of the setting sun ! O Bells of Lynn 1 
 Oh, requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynnl 
 
 From the dark belfries of yon cloud, cathedral wafted, 
 Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynnl 
 
 Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight, 
 O er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn ! 
 
 The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland, 
 Listens and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn. 
 
 Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward 
 Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynnl 
 
1 82 The Origin of Fish Chowder. 
 
 The distant light-house hears, and with his flaming signal, 
 Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn ! 
 
 And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges, 
 And clap their hands and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn ! 
 
 Till from the shuddering sea, witli your wild incantations, 
 Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn ! 
 
 And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of Endor, 
 Ye cry aloud and then are still, O Bells of Lynn 1" 
 
CHAPTER XIY. 
 LONGFELLOW S LOVE OF MUSIC. 
 
 4 And the night shall be filled with music, 
 
 And the cares that infest the day 
 Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 
 And silently steal away." 
 
 THE DAY is DONE. 
 
 E passed the evening delightfully, and some 
 near neighbors and friends coming in, the 
 current of conversation was led into various 
 channels. The poet is passionately fond 
 of music, and Mr. Haines, a cultivated amateur, 
 played and sang some charming selections. I also 
 had the honor of singing, at the poet s request, the 
 famous prayer from Rossini s Otello, sung by Desde- 
 mona in the finale of the great scene, " Assisa a pie 
 
 dlwi salice" 
 
 [183] 
 
184 Longfellow s Love of Music. 
 
 The prayer has no variations, with the exception 
 of a few changes at the end, written by Malibran, 
 and so admired by Rossini himself that they have 
 become traditional. 
 
 Longfellow listened with tears in his eyes. 
 
 " Pray sing it again," said he, eagerly, when I 
 had finished ; " those few notes to me contain more 
 real heart-felt music than anything that Rossini ever 
 wrote. How well I can picture to myself the 
 anguished Desdemona under the influence of some 
 terrible impending calamity, praying Heaven with all 
 her heart to give her peace and rest. How touching 
 the words." Then slowly to himself he repeated, in 
 a voice deep with suppressed feeling : 
 
 "Deh! Cttlma o ciel, nel seno 
 Per poco le mie peiie 
 Fate che 1 amto bene 
 Me vengo a con solar." 
 
 (Ah, calm, O Heaven, in my sad breast 
 For e en a while this grief. 
 Come, spouse beloved, although brief 
 Thy stay. It consolation brings.) 
 
 There was silence for a moment following his 
 
Long fellows Love of Music, 185 
 
 words, and the faint chords of the prelude recom 
 mencing, his request was complied with. After that 
 there was no more music. The night was still and 
 soft, and we all adjourned to the terrace overlooking 
 the sea. 
 
 The poet, enveloped in his long cloak, sat in an 
 arm-chair facing the water, and I looked at him 
 almost expecting to see a saint s halo descend upon 
 his head. The moon was high in the heavens, and 
 the firmament glittered with its myriad of stars. A 
 breeze, unusually soft for night, fluttered gently in 
 and out, stirring the almost tropical verdure at Nahant 
 with a faint rustle. The sea, like a fountain overrun 
 with liquid silver, swept its long train of heaven- 
 lighted waves back and forth upon the strand, up 
 and down the little beach, and yet out again to the 
 middle of the water lying between Nahant and 
 Lynn. 
 
 Mr. Appleton s yacht, the pretty " Alice," lay 
 out from the shore. Mr. Longfellow was very fond 
 of her. She crossed the Atlantic in 1866; but 
 to-night, bathed in moonlight, she made a white 
 
1 86 Longfellow s Love of Music. 
 
 speck on the wave, and seemed more a phantom than 
 a real sloop. Her dainty mast leaned so timidly 
 against the sky that even the shadow was unearthly. 
 One half expected it to appear and disappear as did 
 Heinrich Hudson s, the night that poor Eip Yan 
 Winkle entered upon his twenty years sleep. 
 
 The poet sat and gazed upon the sea, upon the 
 moon, upon the stars, and the while his face shone 
 with a heavenly brightness that completely illumined 
 it. The rays from the majestic orb silvered anew his 
 snowy hair, crept cunningly in and out of his beard, 
 and danced over his vesture with elf -like grace, and 
 inimitable friendliness. 
 
 They seemed to say, " You belong to us you are 
 not of earth, but part of a heavenly body in the 
 great plan of Nature, given for the world s benefit ; 
 and so to-night we come to greet you with affection 
 ate love and the kindred message which emanates 
 from souls that only haunt the earth but belong 
 really to a higher power. Thus the Queen of Night 
 sends greetings to the King of Poetry." 
 
 They flickered on, brighter and stronger, until 
 
Longfellow s Love of Music. 187 
 
 his form gleamed with light and his face looked like 
 that of one of the saints of old receiving the heav 
 enly benediction. The fire of his soul glittered in 
 his bine eyes, like sapphires when the sun shines on 
 them. 
 
 He sat there in his old age, a patriarch whom not 
 only the smiles of day but of night shone upon 
 loved by all the world and revered by those who 
 could know the innate purity and tranquillity of his 
 home life, with the mantle of a fame fallen upon his 
 shoulder, whose warmth outshone Haephestus fires, 
 and cloaked him with a dignity and immortality that 
 the world has rarely seen. 
 
 Long he sat musing, and no one disturbed his 
 revery. Miss Annie had been swinging in her ham 
 mock, but finally got up and went with some of the 
 party a bit of the way from the house, to a famous 
 ravine or drift in the rocks, which, when the moon 
 shone down upon it, was said to be surpassingly 
 lovely. 
 
 Not caring for a nearer view than could be had 
 from the balcony, I did not go, but remained beside 
 
1 88 Longfellow s Love of Music. 
 
 the poet who, while quiet and melancholy, was not 
 so silent as heretofore. He spoke with more than his 
 accustomed gentleness of voice, but I could see that 
 he was in no mood for conversation ; nor did he care 
 to be alone he simply seemed permeated with a 
 great sense of quietness and calm, and his body 
 showed the utter restfulness of his soul by its im 
 movability and statue-like repose. 
 
 While we were sitting, each one wrapped in 
 thought, a burst of music rang out on the air, and 
 the sounds came from some distance, borne directly 
 by the wind towards the house. 
 
 A regiment of Boston militia had been camping 
 out at Nahant for some time, and every evening they 
 held a sort of reception after their drill. Evidently 
 the day s ceremonies were ended, and this was the 
 " home march for everybody." 
 
 The poet looked up quickly and lent a listening 
 ear. Again I noticed in his face the same expression 
 as when listening to the " Otello," and he said : 
 
 "What can be more delightful than sounds of 
 melody wafted to one from some mysterious source ! 
 
Long fe How s Love of Music. 189 
 
 When night has fallen, and the sights and sounds of 
 daily strife are hushed by the murmur of the winds 
 among the leaves and the crash of the breakers 
 against the shore, all nature seems in harmony with 
 man, and it only needs the added charm of that dis 
 tant music to complete the beauty of this evening." 
 
 " I have a favor to ask, dear master," said I, in 
 terrupting him. " Will you not recite to me your 
 poem of " 
 
 "The Day is Done?" said he, interrupting me 
 sadly. " Certainly, if it will give you pleasure. I 
 mention The Pay is Done, because I know you 
 must have referred to that." 
 
 He then commenced the first stanza and recited 
 until the end with a clear, sweet voice, exquisitely 
 modulated, and a depth of earnestness in his tones 
 which no one in the world could have shown as well 
 as he. I never tire of reading this poem, and say it 
 over to myself so often that every word is stamped 
 upon my memory. He began : 
 
 " The day is done, and the darkness 
 Falls from the wings of night, 
 
190 Longfelloivs Love of Music. 
 
 As a feather is wafted downward, 
 From an eagle in his flight. 
 
 " I see the lights of the village 
 
 Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
 And a feeling of sadness comes o er me 
 That my soul cannot resist. 
 
 " A feeling of sadness and longing 
 
 That is not akin to pain, 
 And resembles sorrow only 
 As the mist resembles the rain. 
 
 " And the night shall be filled with music, 
 
 And the cares that infest the day 
 Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 
 And silently steal away." 
 
 The last words died out to a faint murmur, but 
 the old poet s face still bore its inspired look. 
 Thanking him with deep feeling, I prepared to say 
 " good-night," as the air was getting a little chill, 
 and I feared keeping him any longer; also may I 
 say it ? I wished to retire before the sound of any 
 other voice could disturb the lingering memory of 
 the professor s inspired tones. As 1 said " good 
 night " he arose, and spoke with infinite tenderness : 
 
 "God bless you, < chere enfant? and may your 
 life be one of happiness and content ; dormez lien, 
 and good-night." 
 
Longfellow s Love of Music. 191 
 
 He bowed with courtly grace, and led me through 
 the still opened window back to the drawing-room. 
 I left him, but, turning, I said : 
 
 " Cher maitre, are you not thinking of soon 
 taking your rest ? This has been a long and tiresome 
 day for you, I fear, although to me it has been so 
 enjoyable." 
 
 I looked at his face, and it seemed older than 
 usual, and I knew he must be tired, although he 
 
 " 1 cannot go just yet ; besides, I think I hear 
 voices, and I must see my daughter to say good 
 night. I could not sleep were I to retire now; 
 again, bonne nuit" 
 
 Sleep I I could not sleep myself, but lay think 
 ing over the day s events for some time. Of the 
 many great men whom it had been my fortune to 
 meet, none, not one, could claim to be the man that 
 Longfellow is. His is a soul that looks straight 
 ahead, and while he must have known all the fascina 
 tion that comes to the life of a public man, yet never, 
 in the slightest way, did a too worldly sentiment 
 
192 Longfellow s Love of Music. 
 
 ever escape him, or a spoken thought, that was not 
 pure and wholesome, ever pass his lips. I felt that 
 this man was one among men, perhaps the only poet 
 whose inner life lias been one beautiful hymn, and 
 whose dailv intercourse with the world left not one 
 imprint on the stainless character, one mark by 
 which the fatal traces of passion and worldliness 
 could ever show themselves, other than in a lofty 
 sense. I could not help praying that one whose 
 influence was so grand and puissant, might defy, for 
 many years to come, the approach of the angel 
 whose visit leaves only desolation behind. 
 
CHAPTER XY. 
 
 LONGFELLOW IS INTERESTED IN VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 " A cold, uninterrupted rain. 
 That washed each southern window-pane 
 And made a river of the road; 
 A sea of mist that overflowed 
 The house, the barn, the gilded vane, 
 And drowned the upland and the plain, 
 Through which the cak-leaves broad and high 
 Like phantom ships went drifting by." 
 
 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN, Part II. 
 
 " Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, 
 Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, 
 But the endeavor for the self-same ends, 
 With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations." 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 OR two days the rain has kept us within 
 doors and I can scarcely say that I regret 
 it, as the poet has been indefatigable in 
 his efforts to keep us enlivened, and I 
 
 have had the rare treat of hearing him speak at 
 9 [193] 
 
194 Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 
 
 length on many subjects, more or less interesting. 
 The hours passed under his roof have constituted the 
 greatest intellectual event of my life-time. His 
 beautiful ideas, and sweet way of expressing them, 
 are filled with an ineffable charm, and his voice is in 
 keeping with his poetic face ami appearance. 
 
 I had a copy of " Les Travailleurs de la Mer " in 
 my hand when I came down-stairs late in the after 
 noon, and the professor noticed it. 
 
 " I am glad to see you reading Victor Hugo," 
 said he, amiably ; " he is a great poet and writer, and 
 his works, besides possessing infinite charm and vigor, 
 are really instructive. Of course his great forte is in 
 his imaginative and descriptive power. He is grand 
 i and pathetic." 
 
 I interrupted : 
 
 " I know the old poet so well, that I read his 
 writings with still more pleasure, however. His 
 description of the deyil-fish in this is so terribly 
 graphic that I screamed out all alone by myself just 
 an hour since, as if really in the clutches of this hor 
 rible monster. I think I have learned more of the 
 
Long fc How is Interested in Victor Hugo. 195 
 
 wonders of the deep from this, than any other story 
 I ever read. His imagination, as you say, is so ex 
 traordinary that one scarcely knows where to draw 
 the line between it and reality." 
 
 Mr. Longfellow said quickly, " You know Victor 
 Hugo ? Pray tell me about him. Strange to say I 
 never saw him but once, and then at a distance ?" 
 
 I could not help smiling as the poet spoke, and 
 he said, " Why do you smile ?" 
 
 "You great writers," I answered readily, "all 
 want to know about each other. The last time I was 
 at his house he asked about you, using exactly the 
 same words, but alas ! not knowing you then per 
 sonally, I could tell him nothing. On the contrary, 
 I can tell you everything of him, if you care to 
 hear." 
 
 "Tell me," said Longfellow, "what kind of a 
 man he is, how he lives, and if it be true, as people 
 say, that he sits on a throne in his own house ?" 
 
 This last half laughingly. 
 
 "Prepare for a long recital," said I, jestingly, 
 and began : 
 
196 Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 
 
 " Victor Hugo lived at No. 21 Rue do Clichy, in 
 Paris, wlien I first knew him. Now he lias removed 
 to a fine house near the Arc du Triomphe in Avenue 
 d Eylau, I believe, named " Avenue Victor Hugo" 
 in honor of the poet. He used to receive at his 
 house every Thursday and Sunday evenings, and 
 around him were gathered the principal literary 
 lights of France. He does not < sit upon a throne, 
 as many have said, but his arm-chair is so large and 
 peculiar in shape, that devotees of the mansion have 
 nicknamed it * le tvone du Maitre, and I suppose 
 for all time it will retain its title. 
 
 " His dwelling-place was a very large apartment, 
 with ample rooms. Erom the moment the door 
 opened into the antechamber all was light and com 
 fort. The walls of the reception and drawing-rooms 
 were hung with Venetian tapestry in red and gold. 
 Eich stripes of embroidered yellow satin alternated 
 with ones of the same size in scarlet velvet. The 
 ceiling was covered in the same way, and held in the 
 center a superb chandelier of gold and rock crystal, 
 glittering with a thousand lights furnish ed by innu- 
 
Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 197 
 
 merable waxen tapers. You know it is considered 
 vulgar to use gas in a salon in Paris. All around the 
 room were curiously-carved magnificent cabinets in 
 renaissance and Venetian work. They were filled 
 with medals and collections of coins, bric-a-brac, and 
 valuable souvenirs, exquisite in taste and lavish in 
 quantity. 
 
 " Strange to say, not a book was to be seen, nor 
 was there a piano. Five immense oval mirrors (Ve 
 netian) hung around the room in various places, and 
 the intervening panels of the principal apartment 
 were hung with superb renaissance candelabra, some 
 of them centuries old, and giving the apartment a 
 very quaint Louis-the-Fourteenth look, and a real 
 old-fashioned air. It is the sort of room one would 
 expect to find Yictor Hugo in. The furniture was 
 of dark crimson velvet and rosewood. The win 
 dows, heavily-curtained, had portieres or hangings of 
 the same material at the doors. There was a circular 
 divan or dos-a-dos in the center of the room, and 
 near the fire-place, the comfortable arm-chair that is 
 called the master s throne. 
 
198 Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 
 
 " The poet is of medium height, and rather stout ; 
 his hair and beard are quite gray, and while the one 
 is ample, the other is very scant, his head being al 
 most bald. He has a kind face, heavily furrowed, 
 and rather sad. His smile is a pleasant one, and is 
 the only beautiful thing about his countenance, 
 which is often dark and troubled. His brow bears 
 the impress of intense thought. His eyes are pro 
 found and steady: I cannot tell whether they are 
 black or gray, but they seem nearer a brownish hazel 
 than either, and are very expressive without being 
 positively remarkable. He is a perfect gentleman of 
 the old school, and receives his guests with French 
 ceremony, not unmixed with a certain genial friendli 
 ness that is very frank and seemingly sincere. 
 
 " On the occasion of one visit to him I had the 
 honor of crowning him with a laurel wreath on the 
 anniversary of his seventy-third birth-day. 
 
 " By the way, maestro," turning to Longfellow, 
 a he was born the twenty-sixth of February, and 
 yourself the twenty-seventh of the same month, so 
 you see that Calliope had you both in her mind about 
 
Longfellow is Interested in Victor Huge. 199 
 
 the same time, although several years elapsed be 
 tween." 
 
 Our poet interrupted. 
 
 " Never mind me," said he, smiling; "you can 
 not tell how interested I am to hear more of Victor 
 Hugo. What else happened that evening ?" 
 
 " Several Americans in Paris," I continued, " who 
 had long enjoyed his hospitality and the charm of 
 his society, decided on presenting him with the 
 wreath and some flowers as a slight testimonial of 
 their remembrance. 
 
 " I was selected for the proud office of placing 
 the laurel on his honored head, also to read two origi 
 nal poems written for the occasion by Arsene IIous- 
 saye, the celebrated French novelist. I nearly killed 
 myself going up some rickety stairs I don t know 
 how many in the Palais Royale, to get M. Martcl, 
 of the Theatre Franchise, to teach me how to recite 
 them properly. 
 
 " These are the lines, and, my French being per 
 ilous in those days, I think I must have learned them 
 parrot-fashion, by dint of repeating them an hundred 
 
2OO Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 
 
 times or more. The accent must have been, to say 
 the least, peculiar, and I wonder I ever dared try it. 
 
 " TO VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 1. 
 
 " Ton g6nie est la cime mix eblouissementa 
 La nature sourit a tes apotheoses 
 La vigne est la Foret en leurs metamorphoses 
 Se traduissent tes vers, et content tes romans. 
 
 2. 
 
 " 4 Ton ggnie est la source ou boivent les amants 
 Courrant par les jardins tout parfume" cles roses 
 S enivrant du parfum des fleurs blanches et roses 
 Et jetant a la mer, perles et diamants. 
 
 3. 
 
 " Ton ge"nie est un ciel en sa beaute" premiere 
 Quand le jeune solcil rayonne gpanoni 
 Quand les e"toiles d or chantent 1 hymn inoui. 
 
 4. 
 
 " Ton ge*nie est un monde oil Dieu met sa lumire 
 Parceque ton esprit cherche la verite, 
 Ton ,me rinfini et ton coeur I luimanit6. 
 
 "Imagine after that the sensation. Victor Hugo 
 jumped up and embraced Arsene Houssaye, and 
 they kissed each other on both cheeks in real French 
 
Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 20 1 
 
 fashion. Everybody came forward to congratulate 
 the author of the verses and the one to whom they 
 were addressed ; the flowers were presented, and such 
 well-known persons as Louis Blanc, Ernest de Her- 
 villy, Richard Lesclide, Paul LeEoy, Theo. de Banne- 
 ville, and a host of others, among whom was our Amer 
 ican Minister, your friend Hon. E. B. Washburne, all 
 crowded up to get a word with the poet. He hav 
 ing previously said that his anniversary was a sad 
 day, triste jour, and one that he spent in absolute 
 solitude, we were obliged to celebrate the event the 
 evening before, and Arsene Houssaye, anticipating 
 his oft-reiterated words, had prepared still another 
 poem, which I read, and which seems to me prettier 
 even than the first. 
 
 " < ARSENE HOUSSAYE. 
 
 1. 
 
 ** Dimanche tu dissais, ne chantons pas ma fte 
 Puisqu une annSe encore m approche du tombeau 
 L amour passe a la mort le feu de son flambeau, 
 Le cypres est le seul bouquet qui ceint ma tete. 
 
2O2 Longfelloiv is Interested in Victor Hugo. 
 
 " Tu ne crains pus la mort, sourde, aveugle et tnuette 
 Ce n est pas pour Hugo qui chantc le corbeau 
 Continue a chercher le vrai conime le beau 
 Les homines comme toi sont des Dieu, O Po6t. 
 
 B. 
 
 " l La jeunessc a trcaipie ton ame! Tu vivras 
 Les siecles ne seront pour toi que des annes 
 Quaud Dieu t appellera vers d autres destinies. 
 
 " C est rimmortalitg qui t ouvrira ses bras 
 
 Tou jours jenne et toujours belle c est le mysteire 
 Tu seras chez les Dieux, mais sans quitter la terre. " 
 
 " How beautiful," said Longfellow, when I had 
 finished, " I do not wonder that he was pleased, what 
 did he say ?" 
 
 " Say - I repeated. " He didn t say any 
 thing, but the tears came into his eyes and again he 
 tendered his hand to the author, and they embraced 
 each other as before, although this time they were 
 visibly much moved; we spent a very delightful 
 evening, and when the last person had dispersed the 
 midnight bells were striking all over Paris. I used 
 to spend every Thursday at his house, and usually 
 
Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 203 
 
 Sunday evenings. Monday was a special day, but I 
 remember once when I was there, after spending a 
 long time in discussion, a little before ten, we went 
 out to have some refreshment. He sat at the head 
 of the table, with his dear old friend Madame 
 Drouet his vis-a-vis. There were fourteen people 
 present, and he made a charming host, talking now 
 and then himself, drawing out the others, and all 
 the while he was eating sliced oranges with great 
 appetite, and drinking some fine old burgundy, to 
 which he added three large lumps of sugar to each 
 half-glass, stirring it vigorously, and then quaffing 
 two-thirds of it at a single draught. I have seen 
 him so many times, but remember also particularly 
 one evening, when he commenced talking on art and 
 the galleries in Holland and Belgium. It was a 
 superb lecture, aud he talked unremittingly for two 
 hours. Every word that comes out of his mouth is 
 a pearl of great price. I never in my life learned so 
 much before of the Flemish school of painting, 
 and his description of certain pictures was so perfect 
 that on a subsequent visit t.o Holland I recognized 
 
2O4 Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 
 
 them from his describing, without the aid of guide 
 or catalogue. He is a remarkable speaker, and oh ! 
 so eloquent. He is very simple in his manners, and 
 never before have I heard any one who could pay a 
 more delightful compliment than he. 
 
 " To the young poets who flock around him and 
 fill his rooms, he is especially amiable, and in speak 
 ing of his way of complimenting I refer more par 
 ticularly to them, as he always found some delicate, 
 sweet thing to say just in the moment when it was 
 least expected, and there was a subtleness about his 
 remarks that was often very wonderful. 
 
 " Strange to say, he speaks of the time when he 
 was exiled as one might refer to a dinner, without 
 emotion, without sentiment, simply a recurrence to 
 fact. 
 
 " A great many titled people come to see him, in 
 fact, more noblemen than commoners, but no one is 
 called otherwise than simple "Monsieur." Victor 
 Hugo himself is always addressed as "Cher maitre," 
 by both ladies and gentlemen. The latter sometimes 
 kiss his hand affectionately, if they be students or 
 
Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 205 
 
 young aspirants for literary honors, while Victor 
 Hugo never kisses a lady s hand, but always her wrist. 
 " He certainly is original, and that to me is 
 charming. His speech is soft and insinuating, and 
 while any one else is talking he never takes his eyes 
 from their face, but sits with his chin propped 
 against his hand, the very picture of expectant curi 
 osity and serious attention. He puts questions with 
 great adroitness, and is as grave as a lawyer while 
 awaiting a response. 
 
 " Although he lived so long a time at Guernsey, 
 on the coast of England, he speaks but little English. 
 But I am sure he knows the language as well as we, 
 from the look on his face, when one speaks it. He 
 always says, Oh, my son Charles spoke beautifully, 
 referring to English, and his knowledge of Shakes 
 peare was remarkable. Pauvre Charles, then he 
 would sigh, and I do not wonder ; the loss of such a 
 man to the world of letters was something, but the 
 loss of such a son was enough to sadden any father." 
 " By the way," said Longfellow, " he did know 
 Shakespeare, because his translation of the English 
 
206 Longfellow in Interested in Victor Hugo. 
 
 bard s noted works is the most complete and faithful 
 to the text of any published in the French language. 
 It is paying him a truthful compliment to say that 
 his work will stand any amount of close reading and 
 criticism." 
 
 " Francois Charles Hugo, as he was called, left 
 two children, and these little ones are the delight of 
 Victor Hugo s life. He is very fond of his daughter- 
 in-law, who has since married Mr. Henry Lockroy, of 
 the French Parliament, and he passes most of his 
 time with his beloved grandchildren, playing with 
 them quite alone. 
 
 " But how I am rambling on, dear master," said 
 I, turning to Longfellow, " and I have not yet told 
 you of what he said of your own poems." 
 
 Longfellow looked up sweetly. 
 
 " I cannot tell how interesting it has been," said 
 he; "nor how much I wish that I had met him. 
 Pray go on." 
 
 " He knows your principal poems by heart, and 
 pronounces most of them beautifully ; and he seems 
 equally well acquainted with the text and subject 
 
Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 207 
 
 He calls you a heart-reader, and referred to the sen 
 timent and purity of your writings. He liked Hia 
 watha particularly ; but it was amusing to hear him 
 pronounce the word. Excuse me, but it was a 
 mouthful. He got on beautifully until he came to 
 the w commencing the third syllable, when his 
 mouth got into a twist, and poor watha was stran 
 gled between a Dutch v and an Italian a that threat 
 ened to obliterate every vestige of the original sound 
 of the letters. Of course I laughed, and everybody 
 else appreciated the poet s peculiar pronunciation of 
 English. As Victor Hugo good-naturedly smiled 
 himself, his satellites knew that they could chime in 
 with him, and everybody with a proper respect still 
 seemed to enjoy his English immensely. 
 
 " He is very kind to Americans, and seems par 
 ticularly pleased to receive them in his house. He 
 longs to visit America, but I am afraid he never will. 
 He calls this < the country of wonders le pays dcs 
 merveilles and is really and genuinely enthusiastic 
 when talking about it." 
 
 In speaking of his home life, I said that he spent 
 
2o8 Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 
 
 much time with his "little" grandchildren. I am 
 afraid I must alter that statement, as they are no 
 longer so " little," and he is now a Senator, so of 
 course things are much changed. He is hale and 
 hearty, and when he goes about he rides on the tops 
 of omnibuses so that he can " study character," as he 
 expresses it. No one clambers up with readier step 
 than he, and he sometimes smokes a pipe with great 
 stolidity of countenance, and looks around his dear 
 Paris that he can never see too much of. He chats 
 with his elbow-neighbor on the bus, whether prince 
 or laborer, with the greatest friendliness imaginable, 
 and when he gets down goes off with right good will, 
 saluted reverentially by everybody around him. Not 
 a working-man in his district but knows him, and his 
 face is as familiar to the regular Parisian as the light 
 of the sun or his own famous JSTotre Dame de Paris. 
 He is really beloved by the people, and is vastly fond 
 of talking of the " Model Republic America," and 
 the " Great Republic France." 
 
 "When you see him," said Longfellow, with 
 hearty sincerity, "present him my special compli- 
 
Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 209 
 
 ments. If I ever go to Paris again I snail not fail to 
 pay him a visit ; and in the meantime do not forget 
 to tell him how he is loved and appreciated in 
 America, and how honored I shall be to shake him 
 by the hand." 
 
CHAPTER XYL 
 
 SKETCHES DKAWN FROM LIFE. 
 
 " Around the fireside, at tlieir ease, 
 There sat a group of friends, entranced 
 With the delicious melodies; 
 Who from the far-off noisy town 
 Had to the wayside inn come down, 
 To rest beneath its old oak trees: 
 The fire-light on their faces glanced, 
 Their shadows on the wainscot danced, 
 And, though of different lands and speech, 
 Each had his tale to tell, and each 
 Was anxious to be pleased, and please, 
 And while the sweet musician plays, 
 Let me in outline sketch them all, 
 Perchance uncouthly, as the blaze 
 With its uncertain touch portrays 
 Their shadowy semblance on the wall. 
 
 " A young Sicilian, too, was there; 
 In sight of Etna born and bred, 
 Some breath of its volcanic air 
 Was glowing in his heart and brain, 
 
 [210] 
 
Sketches Drawn from Life. 211 
 
 And being rebellious to his liege, 
 After Palermo s fatal siege, 
 Across the western seas he fled." 
 
 TALES OF A AVAYSIDE INN. PRELUDE. 
 
 OME months had pasaed since my Nahant 
 visit when I went again to Cambridge. 
 It was Christmas night, and besides Signor 
 Monti, a great friend of the professor, 
 my husband and myself were the only strangers 
 present, The house was a beautiful picture in itself, 
 and the hanging wreaths and garlands showed the 
 presence of the holy natal tide. The poet was as 
 usual extremely courteous and kind, and the evening 
 passed with delightful charm. I recognized in Mr. 
 Monti an old friend of the professor, and he said to 
 me during the dinner : 
 
 " This is the young Sicilian that I have known so 
 long, and love so well," looking as he spoke directly 
 toward Mr. Monti with an affectionate smile. 
 
 Signor Monti was evidently gratified, and said, 
 with ready grace, speaking our language perfectly : 
 u Yes, I arn the once young, now old Sicilian 
 
212 Sketches Drawn from Life. 
 
 mentioned in The Tales of a Wayside Inn. Did you 
 not recognize me ?" 
 
 " Of course," said I heartily, " I ought to have 
 done so at once, but not thinking about it, my imagi 
 nation has proven itself excessively torpid. It never 
 entered my mind that you were the real c Signor 
 Luigi spoken to by the Jew ; but," turning to Loog- 
 fellow, " let me ask you a question. Are all of the 
 characters bona fide in the poem, and may I know 
 who they are ?" 
 
 Longfellow looked up quite gayly, and said, 
 
 "Yes, I think you may, but Mr. Monti shall 
 answer. Let him tell the story." 
 
 Mr. Monti would not hear to that, so Mr. Long 
 fellow began to speak. " Mr. Monti and his friends 
 used to steal away every summer for their vacation 
 to the little town of Sudbury, not far from Boston, 
 and they had such fine times among themselves, I 
 really thought that I should like to join their party 
 to pass my next summer. They insisted on my com 
 ing, and I was so charmed with the place that I im 
 mediately conceived my poem, The Tales of a Way- 
 
SkctcJies Drawn from Life. 213 
 
 side Inn. The house, although quaint and old-fash 
 ioned, was interesting in one way. Three pairs of 
 lovers used to steal in and out of the old tavern, and 
 three modest fiancees would regularly come to the 
 trysting-place in the vine-embowered garden. Later 
 on the same three couples were married in fine style, 
 and took each other for better or worse. One was 
 Monti and his wife, the other was the poet Theo phi- 
 Ins Parsons, and the third couple was Dr. Parsons, 
 sister and her fiance. 
 
 " Ah ! those were happy times. Why, do you 
 know, Monti was so fond of the place, that he went 
 there for twelve consecutive seasons, and 1 don t 
 know but the others did the same, now that I think 
 of it. I went a number of times until the inn fell 
 into disuse, and after my poem was finished, it was 
 strange to say, almost abandoned by our old party. 
 Still it was a charming spot, and so home-like. The 
 old inn is standing now, although sadly changed, and 
 I fear that of the number who once passed so many 
 happy hours there, not one to-day would think of 
 
214 Sketches Drawn from Life. 
 
 returning unless by way of a souvenir for Auld Lang 
 Syne." 
 
 " But the other characters," I interrupted, " who 
 were they? did they really exist?" 
 
 "Really," said the poet, laughing; "why, of 
 course. Professor Daniel Treadwell was the Theo 
 logian ; Henry Wales, Esq., was the Student ; Lyman 
 Howe was the Landlord, and our Italian friend here 
 before you was and is Luigi Monti, the Sicilian." 
 
 "The only fictitious character," interrupted the 
 Signor, "was the Jew. That is Mr. Longfellow s 
 
 O 
 
 secret, he will never tell who he was ; but you have 
 forgotten to say that the musician was Ole Bull," 
 continued Mr. Monti. "I am sure rnadame must 
 often have heard him play." 
 
 "Who," said I quickly, "has not heard of the 
 * Wizard of the North ? and what American but has 
 listened to his playing? I knew him well. He was 
 a charming gentleman, besides being a good story 
 teller and such an amiable man, while the whole 
 world acknowledged his wondrous talent." 
 
 Mr. Monti evidently did not intend letting the 
 
Sketches Drawn from Life. 215 
 
 professor off about the unknown character in tlio 
 " Tales of a Wayside Inn." Turning to him, he said, 
 with Italian perverseness : 
 
 " Confess the Jew was " The poet, with a 
 
 cunning smile, broke in : 
 
 " * A Spanish Jew from Alicant, 
 
 With aspect grand and grave was there ; 
 Vendor of silks and fabrics rare, 
 And attar of rose from the Levant. 
 
 I am sure," continuing helplessly, " I could not 
 describe him better than that. Are you satisfied ?" 
 
 Monti laughed heartily, and gave in that the 
 Professor was altogether too clever for him. He 
 would give up trying to find out who he was. But, 
 he added, with a characteristic gesture, to me, later : 
 
 "Many have wondered who the Jew was, and 
 between ouselves, I don t think he really ever 
 existed." That was Italian- like, and so droll. Some 
 way I liked Mr. Monti better. 
 
 After dinner, the subject of bric-a-brac came up, 
 and the professor invited us to his son Charles room 
 to see some rare objects, and some Japanese paint- 
 
216 Sketches Drawn from Life. 
 
 ings. On the way from tlic upper landing I stopped 
 to examine some carious piece of mechanism, which 
 proved to be the poet s gymnastic apparatus. He 
 stepped in to it quite glibly, to show us how it 
 worked, and stooping over began to raise weights in 
 either hand with astonishing ease. I looked on in 
 amazement. How strong he was, and after din 
 ner too. 
 
 "Come," said he, cheerily, "you try; it s very 
 simple." 
 
 I stepped on to the platform and took up a ring, 
 struggled tried to lift it up, bent over, tried again ; 
 but in vain ; then, oh horror ! I heard a fiendish 
 sound as of stitches giving way ; but I would not 
 give up, so ventured again this time with a very 
 red face. I bravely kept my post until the practiced 
 acrobat came forward commiseratingly. He looked 
 puzzled and said : 
 
 " What is it your muscle ?" 
 
 " No," I answered faintly, " I think I know it s 
 my dress. You see, Parisian waists are hardly the 
 thing in which to practice gymnastics, and " 
 
Sketches Drawn from Life. 2 1 7 
 
 " Come off directly," said the professor, severely. 
 " Why did you not speak of it before ? " half-relent 
 ing. " Let me look." He then turned me around as 
 if I had been a lay figure, and with a grave, serious 
 voice said, in matter-of-fact fashion, " Nothing is 
 spoiled I never would have forgiven myself had 
 that dress suffered." Then he turned the poor 
 offending apparatus nearer the wall, with paramount 
 displeasure. We entered his son s apartment. It 
 was filled with beautiful cabinets in Japanese work, 
 intricate boxes, fans, chains, carved ivory knick- 
 knacks, and screens innumerable, that stood about the 
 place. The doors were paneled with Japanese heads, 
 and some paintings hung upon the walls. 
 
 " Look well at them," said the poet clearly, 
 " look well, and tell me what they arc." 
 
 I saw what they were, but Mr. Longfellow s voice 
 stopped me. Suspecting some trick I refused to 
 answer, and he said with his eyes full of fun : 
 
 " No, no, this is not jesting," quite seriously ; 
 " what are they ?" 
 
2i8 Sketches Drawn from Life. 
 
 " Unless my eyes -deceive me," said I, " they are 
 specimens of Japanese oil-painting." 
 
 " That s just what they are," said he, composedly. 
 " I thought you could not be mistaken. I was only 
 trying to joke about them, because between ourselves, 
 one can see they are Japanese ; but it s very hard," 
 laughingly, " to tell what else they are intended for. 
 My son is fond of this sort of pictures, but to me 
 they look more comical than beautiful. I always 
 want to laugh when I see that moon," pointing to a 
 golden face on the canvas, u it does look so know- 
 
 ing-" 
 
 In truth it was a droll painting to look at, but it 
 
 was in reality too line a work of art to be so hardly 
 criticised, and good Mr. Monti would riot hear of our 
 traducing it farther. After passing a delightful half- 
 hour rummaging about, we left the bric-a-brac cham 
 bers. On our way past I spied the now disgraced 
 apparatus. " Do you use it often ?" said I to the 
 poet. 
 
 " Every morning, regularly," he responded ; " it 
 is a splendid exercise, and of positive benefit to the 
 
Sketches Drawn from Life. 219 
 
 health. I would not miss it." We sat for some time 
 in the beautiful drawing-room, and Mr. Longfellow 
 was very animated and cheerful. He talked on many 
 subjects and delightfully of Italy. 
 
 "Ah 1" he repeated, " I do want to see it so much. 
 I tell you, every one likes France, but we all love 
 Italy." 
 
 " This is the twenty-fifth Christmas dinner that 
 we have eaten together," chimed in Mr. Monti, " and 
 I think we always have some little word to say for 
 my country. Mr. Longfellow spoils me." 
 
 " Not at all, ; interrupted the poet. " I speak 
 only what comes from my heart." 
 
 Signor Monti is amiable, charming, and deeply 
 attached to Mr. Longfellow. " Attached " is scarcely 
 the word. He adores him, and their friendship of 
 many years is another beautiful sentiment, bearing 
 flowers that blossom anew with every spring-time. 
 Besides Mr. Monti s manners, he is a scholar, a lin 
 guist, and a man of great talent. He has much heart 
 and is capable of deep feeling, and in many ways is 
 
22O Sketches Drawn from Life. 
 
 exactly suited to the companionship of a nature like 
 Longfellow s. 
 
 On our way home, Mr. Monti did nothing but 
 talk of him and his rare quality. 
 
 " He is a man in a million," he would say, " and 
 when you have known him during thirty years, as I 
 have, you will appreciate what a great nature he has. 
 He never changes, and every time that I have seen 
 him during all these years, I greet him each day 
 with equal pleasure, and say adieu with new feelings 
 of regret. He is a great man. There is only one 
 Longfellow in all this world." 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE FRIEND OF HIS YOUTH. 
 
 I remember the gleams and glooms, that dart 
 Across the school boy s brain; 
 The song and the silence in the heart 
 That in part are prophesies, and in part 
 Are longings wild and vain. 
 And the voice of that fitful song 
 Sings on and is never still, 
 A boy s will is the wind s will, 
 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. 7 " 
 
 MY LOST YOUTH. 
 
 " There is no flock, however watched and tended, 
 But one dead lamb is there; 
 There is no fireside, hovrsoe er defended, 
 But has one vacant chair." 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 E determined to go to Cambridge this 
 morning, and once there, were more than 
 repaid for our discomforting drive, by 
 the cordial welcome of the professor. 
 
 The house looked very stately among the snow- 
 
 [221] 
 
222 The Friend of his Youth. 
 
 capped trees, and the sloping lawn, where the grass 
 seems in summer-time an unending green, was cov 
 ered with a thick white pall. Coming up the front 
 walk, the poet met us at the door and led the way 
 into the delightful study. So bright was the picture 
 that I could not help exclaiming, " How beautiful are 
 these walls, the atmosphere breathes rest and com 
 fort. 5 
 
 " And, " added the professor, " when you come 
 the many chambers are filled with welcomes." 
 
 A bright-faced gentleman, evidently an in 
 valid, was drawn up before the fire, a little to the 
 left, I should say, and the professor presented 
 him as 
 
 " My dear old friend, Mr. Greene." 
 
 Mr. Greene has a charming smile, and looked 
 affectionately at the poet as he said these words. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " your old friend, and now 
 worse old and helpless. You see," he continued, 
 " I had so severe an attack of rheumatism some time 
 since, that it has left me in a very lame condition. 
 I am obliged to sit here in this chair, and cannot 
 
The Friend of his Youth. 223 
 
 move with ease, otherwise I should get up and make 
 you a profound bow." 
 
 " We ll forgive you, Greene," said the professor, 
 cheerfully, " although who can say how much we 
 lose in not witnessing that how. Perhaps sup 
 pose you try it ?" 
 
 The invalid was " not to be coaxed," he said, so 
 we sat down and talked of the weather, Boston, a 
 hundred things, until the poet said, 
 
 " I want to show you my Bodoni." 
 
 He then led the way into the little room open 
 ing out of the study, and brought forth his won 
 drous treasures. One was a superb volume, and to 
 day these copies are most rare. Perhaps no one else 
 in America possessed a collection of equal value and 
 beauty. The professor with a scholar s eye, and 
 student s love of ancient lore, fondled it with tender 
 hands. He then went over to Mr. Greene, and to 
 gether the two companions of childhood pored over 
 a work that still had power to charm. 
 
 It was a beautiful sight to witness the tender 
 deference of Mr. Greene towards Longfellow, but 
 
224 The Friend of his Youth. 
 
 still more touching to see the poet s regard for liis 
 invalid friend. He leaned towards him lovingly, 
 lifted the volumes with wondrous care, and placed 
 them in his hands with all solicitude, then took them 
 away. "When one particularly interesting demanded 
 closer attention, the two old heads almost touched 
 each other, and the eyes that three-score of years 
 ago read from the same page at school, to-day 
 scanned anew, but with deeper love and interest, the 
 words that they knew by heart, not by habit. 
 
 Some time passed ; no one spoke, and yet they 
 read on. Longfellow laid his hand on Mr. Greene s 
 shoulder, the chair was drawn still closer, and the 
 poet s silver tresses almost touched his friend s sparse 
 locks. The faces were different, but a curious study. 
 The one, bright with a youthful vigor, was 
 pleasantly flushed with a faint color, and the una 
 bated interest that he had in all classic souvenirs 
 showed itself in the eager look of his eye, and the 
 ready movement of the outstretched hands. The 
 supple form bent itself with a grace and facility 
 that belied his snowy locks and whitened, frost-like 
 
The Friend of his Youth. 225 
 
 beard. He seemed a man strong not only in intel 
 lectual strength, but in a physique that the passing 
 years had in no wise undermined. 
 
 But the companion of his youth how can I best 
 describe him ? The head once of shapely grace, and 
 crowned with masses of curling hair, had shrunken 
 with the march of time, and the scanty locks gath 
 ered about the still classic profile drooped with tim 
 idity and strangeness, as if left alone by their kin 
 dred, they abandoned themselves to their fate. The 
 face once the perfection of manly beauty, still re 
 tains an expression of great sweetness and refine 
 ment. The eyes blue, large, and very bright, smile 
 out with intelligence and genial warmth, and on the 
 broad, high forehead the fine wrinkles are powerless 
 to hide the noble proportions and deeply-marked 
 characteristics of the man s brain and intellectual 
 power. The mouth is a little drawn, but the lips 
 open pleasantly and smi.e witli the slightly conscious 
 expression of one who had been used to fascinate. 
 The whole face is sympathetic, modest and gentle, 
 but old. 
 
226 The Friend of his Youth. 
 
 One would think him Longfellow s senior by a 
 great deal, yet the poet first saw the light of day 
 when Mr. Greene s mother was a blushing bride, and 
 many years after his loved friend came into the 
 world. 
 
 In youth however, they were fast allies, and M . 
 Greene whose name I might give in full as Georp 
 W. Greene is the grandson of the great Geneial 
 Greene, and has since become widely known as a 
 historian and a very able writer. 
 
 The professor looked up as the last page was 
 turned by his friend and said : 
 
 " How natural it seems for us to look over these 
 old things once more. Do you remember such, or 
 such a thing (referring to their early life), and how 
 happy it would have made me could I ever even 
 dreamed myself the possessor of such a treasure as 
 this ? 
 
 Greene nodded, and then seeing that we were sit 
 ting unoccupied, he said quickly to the professor, 
 
 " You know how 1 love to go over anything with 
 you, but see your guests must find us strangely ob- 
 
The Friend of his Ycnth. 227 
 
 livious, and we have been neglectful of them for a 
 long time." 
 
 1 protested, that instead, nothing could have given 
 us greater pleasure than to listen to their remarks, 
 and the talk on the " Bodoni " was instructive as 
 well as entertaining. Mr. Greene sat very quietly 
 looking out on the already fading twilight, and the 
 poet, with rny husband lit a cigarette and commenced 
 a conversation on Italy and its wondrous wealth of 
 art, and artistic souvenirs ; with reference to different 
 countries he said : 
 
 "We all like France, but we love Italy. My 
 many visits to The Eternal City never sufficed for 
 all that I wished to learn, and each time seemed more 
 incomplete. Eome is inexhaustible in all that appeals 
 to the mind of the student, and the sight of her seven 
 hills as I came into the city used to make my heart 
 throb with strange feelings of awe and pleasure. I 
 hope to return there some day, perhaps soon maybe 
 this coming summer." 
 
 We then entered into a general conversation on 
 Italy, and my husband recalled souvenirs of Yerona, 
 
228 The Friend of his Youth. 
 
 one of the most historical and splendid of all her cities. 
 The professor spoke with beautiful sentiment on the 
 ancient landmarks, and said : 
 
 " That it was peculiarly interesting to lovers of 
 the antique. The tombs of the Scaligeri, with their 
 wondrous architecture, the historic church of San 
 Zeno, and above all, the superb Coliseum or amphi 
 theatre that stands up a glory of the past in miracu 
 lous preservation, and an honor to the present genera 
 tion of Italy. I never tired of Verona," he said. 
 
 " And the tomb of Eomeo and Juliette?" I inter 
 rupted. 
 
 " I did not see it," he answered, "although I saw 
 the old palace near Piazza delle Erbe, with the in 
 scription, l Qui erano le case del Capuletti ed e Mon- 
 tecchi (Here were the houses of the Capulets and 
 Montagues)." 
 
 " I will send you the photograph," said my hus 
 band, " it gives a very good idea of the old tomb, 
 and although the place is somewhat distant from the 
 so-named Palazzo Capuletti, it is in a pretty spot. 
 You go underagrapevined trellis, and at the foot of a 
 
The Friend of his Youth. 229 
 
 fine old garden you turn to the right, where you follow 
 the walk that leads up to the open door of the tomb or 
 chapel. Here Juliette is supposed to be buried beside 
 her Romeo, and numerous inscriptions testify to the 
 immortal love of these two scions of Veronese nobility, 
 The top or upper part of the tomb has worn away, and 
 it now has the appearance of an empty casket. The 
 form is still perfect ; the arches above the vault are 
 time-eaten and marked with sure decay. The sides 
 of the stone bear faint signs of carved memorials, and 
 some ancient withered wreaths in jetted wire have 
 hung faithful to their trust, who knows how long? 
 There are always fresh flowers upon the tomb, and 
 such numbers of cards of visitors from every clime, 
 that the place has a strangely alive look." 
 
 The professor was deeply interested, and re 
 marked : 
 
 " Yes, Shakespeare immortalized two lovers, and 
 I regret that I did not visit the spot. I will be de 
 lighted to have the picture. It is kind in you to 
 give it me, and I shall always keep it as a souvenir of 
 a sad but grand old tale." 
 
230 The Friend of his Youth. 
 
 A lady then came into the study, and the poet 
 introduced Mrs. Greene. She was the wife of the 
 historian, and was so pleasing that one could not help 
 being favorably impressed with her. She cordially 
 extended her hand, at the same time looking me full 
 in the face with clear, frank eyes, and a smiling mouth 
 that made her few words of welcome doubly agree 
 able. She seemed a woman of straightforward at 
 tributes, and infinite sympathy of character and man 
 ner. The word u help-meet " came constantly in my 
 mind as I saw her, and watched her loving, wifely 
 attention to her husband, and how she anticipated 
 even his words, when his speech became energetic 
 and commanding. She joined our circle with ad 
 mirable ease, but before long the announcement of 
 dinner put a temporary veto on our conversation, and 
 all arose to meet later at the hospitable board. 
 
 First of all Professor Longfellow thought of his old 
 friend, and he went nimbly up with the ease of five- 
 and-thirty, to offer him his arm. Mr. Greene took it 
 with a friendly smile, and together they started for 
 the dining-room. 
 
TiL j Friend of Ids Youth. 231 
 
 I could not help noticing the tenderness with 
 which the poet guided his invalid guest, nor the 
 touching picture they made together as they walked 
 arm-in-arm through the soft harmonious rooms ! 
 The warm fire-light and richer glow of the waxen 
 tapers falling on their aged heads, illumined the 
 form of tha one, and cast flickering shadows over the 
 countenance of the other. 
 
 Time had changed the outer man, but the fast, 
 firm friendship whose bonds were knit in early 
 youth, had gone on through three-score of years, 
 thickening and strengthening, until its ligaments and 
 fibers were cemented together, as are the roots of 
 strong forest trees, that impervious to the shocks of 
 wind, hail rain storm and tempest, only stand more 
 firmly as the centuries go on, immutable as only are 
 immovable things, unchangeable as the great laws of 
 nature, and a friendship like theirs. 
 
 They walked slowly through to the library and 
 hall, and from there to the dining-room. Longfellow, 
 attentive before, was doubly so at table. His watch 
 ful eyes never left Mr.Greene s face, and the daintiest 
 
232 The Friend of his Youth. 
 
 morsels, the most savory bits, speedily found their 
 way to his friend s plate, and whether or no, he was 
 bound to make an effort to eat. It was impossible to 
 resist the poet s cheery voice, first remarking this 
 thing, then urging that, all the time keeping up the 
 most positive belief that Mr. Greene must eat well 
 and heartily if he wished to please his family and 
 friends and regain strength. He was unwearying in 
 his attentions, yet they were so delicately tendered, 
 and with such unobtrusive mien, that Mr. Greene 
 could never have thought that he was an invalid. 
 He was merely a dear friend received with open 
 arms, and treated to the best the house afforded, as 
 should be an honored and cherished guest. 
 
 It was the first time I had seen Longfellow in 
 this guise, and if pleased before with his rare sweet 
 ness and simplicity of manner, I was even more 
 touched to-day to witness this tender regard of an old 
 friend, and the exquisite frankness with which he 
 showed his pleasure in his society. He could not do 
 enough for him, and during the whole evening his 
 face glowed with contentment and real happiness, 
 
The Friend of his Youth. 233 
 
 while his voice rang out with admirable clearness, and 
 his speech held the happy cadences of one who holds 
 sympathetic converse with a congenial companion. 
 
 After dinner, we adjourned to the lovely parlor 
 and had coffee. The room was beautifully lit up, 
 and a generous tire of solid wood roared up in the 
 
 o 
 
 great fire-place, startling the flecks of soot from their 
 crannies, and reflecting a hundred lights on the pol 
 ished brass andirons, and near the chimney-place on 
 every bright object that timidly dwelt in the vicinity. 
 Long we sat there in light and comfort. The wind 
 howled without, but it could not penetrate within the 
 walls of the good old Craigie mansion. 
 
 The professor had drawn Mr. Greene s chair near 
 the fire, and he threw himself in an attitude of 
 supreme grace in a corner of a sofa to the left of the 
 chimney. 
 
 There with his head resting on his hand in 
 a favorite position, he sat talking with his friend, and 
 the hum of their voices was a pleasant accompani 
 ment to the charming softness of the apartment, the 
 crackle of the fire, and the distant soughing of the 
 
234 The Friend of his Youth. 
 
 night wind. One could easily rest under the spell of 
 the moment, and fancy it all a glowing " tableau 
 vivant." 
 
 The prospect of a long, cold drive into Boston 
 suddenly dispelled my dreaming, and the rest of the 
 evening held the one disagreeable fact of being 
 obliged to leave so much warmth and comfort, and 
 go out into the night ; a rude awakening after so 
 delightful a visit. 
 
 As we went back into the study before going 
 away, the professor turned to a superb bust in white 
 marble that stood on a table in front of a window, 
 and said patting the cold, glittering stone : 
 
 "Did you not recognize it? This is my friend 
 Greene. Who would think that this seemingly 
 strong man is intended for the one that we have just 
 left ; and it s his image," said he, going on enthusias 
 tically, " it looks just exactly "a little sadly" as he 
 ^idthen, when this was taken. Cher Greene," 
 said he tenderly. Then he looked again at the 
 white marble that gleamed with singular life and 
 persistent fascination. It was so fair that in contrast 
 
The Friend of his Youth. 235 
 
 I thought of " The Haven," and said unconsciously, 
 " Take your form from out ray heart, quit the bust 
 above my door." 
 
 Longfellow started and looked up quickly. 
 
 * Yes," said he, " but the meaning is different 
 the words in this case should be ne er take your 
 form from out my heart, and I am not speaking to 
 a raven, but to my dear and time-honored friend. 
 Apropos of The Eaven, what a great poem it is, 
 and how sadly realistic. How typical of the life of 
 its unhappy author. I think of it many times, and 
 know it by heart as who does not? but I also think 
 of the great talent lost in the sudden quenching of 
 that young life, and regret the untimely death of 
 Edgar Allan Poe as one must the loss of a real genius 
 to the world of letters. He was a true poet." 
 
 The kind word ever on his tongue for a brother 
 writer, as usual in this case was not wanting. We 
 had no more time for talking however, as the night 
 was really wearing away. Saying au revoir, we 
 went out, thanking again and again, our amiable host 
 for the delightful evening that we had passed. 
 
236 The Friend of his Youth. 
 
 Musing once more I looked at the bust and the 
 lines yet again came into my head. 
 
 " And the lamp light o er him streaming, cast his 
 shadow on the floor." There was the room ; there 
 was the "cushion s velvet lining;" there were the 
 " volumes quaint and curious," of forgotten lore ; 
 there was everything to recall the poem, yet Poe 
 never could have had such a study as that. How 
 rich the imagination must have been, that could 
 paint so exact a picture. Going over it in my mind 
 it seemed a prophecy of that very chamber, and the 
 tragic scene that cast a troubled dream over the life 
 of another poet, who vainly wept his " Lost beloved." 
 I kept saying the lines over to myself, and they sad 
 dened me. I remembered the fate of the young 
 wife, and thought how her husband must have said, 
 " And my soul from out that shadow, shall be 
 lifted nevermore." 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE LAST BRANCH OF LILACS. 
 
 u Through woods and mountain passes 
 
 The winds like anthems roll; 
 They are chanting solemn masses, 
 Singing Pray for this poor soul, 
 Pray, Pray. 
 
 " And the hooded clouds like friars 
 Tell their beads in drops of rain, 
 And patter their doleful prayers 
 But their prayers are all in vain, 
 All in vain." 
 MIDNIGHT MASS FOB THE DYING YEAR, 
 
 " What men call death cannot break off this task which 
 is never ending: consequently no period is set to my being, 
 and I am eternal. I lift my head boldly to the threatening 
 mountain peaks, and to the roaring cataract, and to the 
 storm-cloud, swimming iu the fire-sea overhead, and say ; I 
 am eternal and defy your power! Break, break over me! 
 and thou Earth and thou Heaven, mingle in the wild tumult! 
 And ye Elements, foam and rage, and destroy this atom of 
 
238 The Last Branch of Lilacs. 
 
 dust, this body which I call mine! My will alone, with its 
 fixed purpose, shall hover brave and triumphant over the 
 ruins of the universe; for I have comprehended my destiny; 
 and it is more durable than yel It is eternal, and I who 
 recognize it am eternal." 
 
 HYPERION, page 140. 
 
 LOOKED over my journal to-day in a 
 strangely interested fashion. Since com 
 mencing it, I have seen the poet a great 
 many times, and all that I have written 
 seems tame compared with his real worth. He has 
 been too ill of late to receive his accustomed visit 
 ors. I spent the twenty-eighth of last December at 
 Cambridge by special invitation, and was delighted 
 to find him in looks the negative of ill-health. He 
 had lost his color, but the unusual paleness did not 
 make him appear unwell. I must say that I never 
 have enjoyed a visit so much, and he was so remark 
 ably bright and vivacious. He talked with great 
 animation, and questioned me on my recent visit 
 abroad. 
 
 " It is not yet decided," said he, " whether I am 
 to go to Europe this year or not. I would like to 
 
The Last Branch of Lilacs. 239 
 
 ever so much, but I don t know. It is a long way 
 from home ; still we shall see." 
 
 He then spoke of his recent illness. 
 
 " In my life-time," said he, " I never have suffered 
 so much. I had at first (about three months ago) 
 an attack of vertigo, that lasted forty-eight hours, 
 and after that I was kept perfectly quiet in a dark 
 ened room. It seemed as if I never would get 
 well, and even now I can only see my friends for 
 a little while ; I cannot write ; I cannot read, and 
 must avoid the slightest excitement. But you, chere 
 Pandora, how have you been? tell me all about 
 yourself." 
 
 When I had finished he said, 
 
 " What, writing, and about me ? Well, I must 
 hear it all ; so let us begin at once." 
 
 Then, in spite of my fears that it might tire him, 
 he entered as usual with hearty interest into my 
 work. The morning passed away, and when lunch 
 eon time came he said, 
 
 " Why, I am really hungry ! That is a good 
 sign." 
 
240 The Last Branch of Lilacs. 
 
 As we sat down to table he added, " This is like 
 old times. I feel so well to-day, and I am going to 
 make tea just as the first time when you came to see 
 me. Alice," turning to his daughter, " see how well 
 I am. It does me good to have company, and I 
 really think that in your anxiety you have made a 
 prisoner of me far too long. I know that as soon as 
 I commence going about and living in the old way, I 
 shall feel far better." 
 
 He talked a great deal, and really seemed any 
 thing but ill or I should sav, a convalescent. We 
 
 O v 
 
 went over the old study again, and he showed me a 
 quantity of new things, also a splendid painting that 
 was on an easel in the Martha Washington room, and 
 a very large steel engraving of himself, just made. 
 
 It was unusually large. He opened the sheet and 
 said, 
 
 " You see all this paper they try to make a big 
 man of me but the head," pointing to it, " the head 
 is rather small," and, with a little laugh, "very natu 
 ral." 
 
 How glad I was to see some of his old humor ! 
 
TJic Last Branch of Lilacs. 241 
 
 He was quite gay and cheerful ; he seemed like a 
 school-boy home for his holiday, and spoke of his 
 plans for getting well immediately. The afternoon 
 wore away, and still we lingered. 
 
 " You see," said he, turning again to his daugh 
 ter, " how well I am, and how it brightens me up to 
 see my friends. I think I must protest against doc 
 tors and do only what pleases me ; then I shall speed 
 ily be cured." 
 
 At five o clock we took our leave. The day had 
 been remarkably fine, and the usually cold December 
 sun was setting with some warmth. The professor 
 started to accompany us to the piazza, when he was 
 called back. 
 
 " Not without your cloak papa," said Miss Long 
 fellow tenderly ; so back he went half fretfully. 
 
 " I cannot imagine," said he irritably, " that one 
 could take cold in such a short time ; however " 
 helplessly " I must do as they say, I suppose." 
 
 Then he put on his mantle and came outside. 
 He walked down the step, put us into the carriage, 
 and with a cheerful au revoir, we reiterated our 
 
242 The Last Branch of Lilacs. 
 
 aclieux. I promised to come again very soon, and 
 the last thing I saw as we went down the avenue 
 was the gleam of his snowy hair, and the supple 
 grace of his cloaked form, as he leaned against the 
 doorway. He kissed his hand in courtly adieu and 
 watched us out of sight, with cavalier-like grace, 
 raising his hat a second time at the last moment with 
 a sweet and friendly smile. We were well out of 
 the grounds when I remembered to have forgotten 
 something ; I wished to return. So we retraced our 
 steps. The professor had not yet entered the draw 
 ing-room, but stood in his antechamber looking at 
 some piece of statuary. 
 
 He started on seeing us but said, " I hope you 
 have omitted something that will keep you some 
 time to arrange." 
 
 " No," said I, hastily, " only a question." We 
 then spoke a few words, and I turned to go. 
 
 He shook hands with us again, and said, with a 
 kindly look, " I will not say good-by< 
 
 Wenn Menschen auseinander gehen 
 
 So sagen Sie Auf Wiederselm! Auf Weidersehn !" 
 
The Last Branch of Lilacs. 243 
 
 Then we really went away. He did not come to the 
 door, because he had not his cloak. I promised 
 myself the honor of soon coming again to see him. 
 "I wish," said he cheerfully, "that I were well 
 enough to drive out. It seems as if it would do me 
 a world of good, but I dare not try it yet awhile, 
 I suppose," with a little sigh, " I must be patient." 
 
 This was the twenty-eighth of December. A 
 multitude of cares have prevented me keeping my 
 promise, but I have been going over my journal 
 thoroughly. With painful exactitude I call to mind 
 my last visit to Cambridge, and the many happy 
 hours that I have spent in the poet s society. When 
 I go again it will be near spring-time, and perhaps as 
 before, I shall carry away a branch from the old 
 lilac-bush. It is nearly time for them ; this is the 
 twenty-fourth of March. 
 
 I left my writing, but an hour and a-half later 
 thought of returning to it. I had barely seated my 
 self at my table when the bell rang. A few mo 
 ments later, my husband came to me with a white 
 face. Looking at me sadly, he said, 
 
244 The Last Branch of Lilacs. 
 
 " Your visit dear, was really tlie last. Longfellow 
 is dead." 
 
 He died as he always predicted he would just 
 " in sight of another May." 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 "ULTIMA THULE." 
 
 "Lives of great men all remind us 
 
 We can make our lives sublime, 
 And in dying leave behind us 
 Footprints on the sands of time." 
 
 A PSALM OP LIFE. 
 
 "Take them, O Death! and bear away 
 
 Whatever thou canst call thine ownl 
 Thine image stamped upon this clay 
 Doth give thee that, but that alone I 
 
 Take them, O Grave ! and let them lie 
 Folded upon thy narrow shelves, 
 
 As garments by the soul laid by, 
 And precious only to ourselves. 
 
 Take them, O great Eternity ! 
 
 Our little life is but a gust 
 That bends the branches of thy tree 
 
 And trails its blossoms in the dust." 
 
 SUSPIRIA, 
 
246 Ultima Thule. 
 
 HE morning of March twenty-sixth broke 
 fair and smiling, and the sun shone until 
 near noon. Then as if in communion 
 with thousands of saddened hearts, its face 
 was veiled. At three o clock the winds rose high 
 with sobbing eloquence, and stirred the old trees about 
 Harvard with a desolate rustle. Appleton Chapel 
 was filled with mournful faces and weeping friends, 
 called together to pay the last earthly tribute of 
 homage to the distinguished dead. While their 
 prayers re-echoed in the holy sanctuary, the family of 
 the poet, and the relatives and intimate friends, fol- 
 owed his remains to Mount Auburn Cemetery. As 
 they left the house the face of nature grew dark, and 
 the storm-clouds rent their folds. A misty fall of 
 snow with tenderness, as if heaven were grieving 
 silently, gently shed its flakes upon the dreary earth. 
 It was a last virginal tribute from the Nature he so 
 adored, more appropriate to the life whose purity equal 
 ed its own whiteness, than the colored passion-flower 
 whose proud blossoms decked his last earthly bier. 
 On a slight elevation, in full view of the Charles 
 
Ultima T/iule. 247 
 
 river " that in silence windest," is the family burying 
 ground. There, with the open face of nature, shall 
 the sun at high noon pour her golden rays, and the 
 shades of twilight steal on apace. Homage from the 
 queen of night shall succeed morn s smiles, and in 
 the silent watch her silver beams shall flood his last 
 resting-place with glory. The stars in their azure 
 firmament will nightly shine on their once earthly 
 brother, now immortal with themselves. When the 
 world is hushed to rest, the elements shall guard his 
 tomb keeping a proud and eternal watch. None can 
 dispute their right, none disregard their jealous 
 sway. 
 
 Looking once again on his honored grave, I saw 
 in the day s fading dawn two black-robed figures; 
 with trembling hands and tearful eyes, they placed at 
 his head a handful of flowers white calla lily, and 
 branches of the violet-tinted heliotrope, whose faint 
 odor and dainty bloom he loved so well. Long they 
 stood there, and then their reluctant steps took them 
 further away from the sad spot. The snow-flakes 
 wildly struggling, tore through the air as the wind 
 
248 Ultima Thule. 
 
 increased in violence, and with nature s agonizing 
 mournings, those who loved him best, yielded their 
 long, last farewell. 
 
 " So, when a great man dies, 
 
 For years beyond our ken, 
 The light he leaves behind him lies 
 Upon the paths of men." 
 
 THE END. 
 
1882. 
 
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