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authorRoger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org>2025-10-14 20:09:14 -0700
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Day With Longfellow, by
+Anonymous and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: A Day With Longfellow
+
+Author: Anonymous
+ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
+
+Release Date: November 11, 2011 [EBook #37980]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DAY WITH LONGFELLOW ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Delphine Lettau, Susan Theresa Morin and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+ DAYS WITH
+ THE GREAT
+ .POETS.
+
+ LONGFELLOW
+
+
+[Illustration: _Painting by A. E. Jackson._ THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.]
+
+ Between the dark and the daylight,
+ When the night is beginning to lower,
+ Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
+ That is known as the Children's Hour.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ They climb up into my turret,
+ O'er the arms and back of my chair;
+ If I try to escape they surround me,
+ They seem to be everywhere.
+
+
+
+
+ A DAY WITH
+ LONGFELLOW
+
+ [Illustration: portrait of Longfellow]
+
+ HODDER & STOUGHTON
+ LTD., PUBLISHERS LONDON
+
+
+_Uniform with this Volume_
+
+_DAYS WITH THE POETS_
+
+ BROWNING
+ BURNS
+ KEATS
+ LONGFELLOW
+ SHAKESPEARE
+ TENNYSON
+
+_DAYS WITH THE COMPOSERS_
+
+ BEETHOVEN
+ CHOPIN
+ GOUNOD
+ MENDELSSOHN
+ TSCHAIKOVSKY
+ WAGNER
+
+_Made and Printed in Great Britain for Hodder & Stoughton, Limited,
+by C. Tinling & Co., Ltd., Liverpool, London and Prescot._
+
+
+
+
+A DAY WITH LONGFELLOW
+
+
+
+
+The expression of serious and tender thoughtfulness, which always
+characterized the quiet face of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, had deepened
+during his later years, into something akin to melancholy. The tragic
+loss of his beloved wife,--burned to death while she was sealing up in
+paper little locks of her children's hair,--had left its permanent and
+irrevocable mark upon his life. Still, he did not seclude himself with
+his sorrow: the professor of Modern Languages at Harvard could hardly
+do that. He remained the selfsame kindly, gentle, industrious man,
+welcoming with ready courtesy the innumerable visitors to the Craigie
+House.
+
+This is a large old-fashioned house in Cambridge, Massachusetts--a place
+of grassy terraces, long verandahs, lilac bushes, and shady trees--a
+perfect dwelling for a man of cultured tastes, as the interior also
+testifies.
+
+From the Poet's study, a spacious, sunny room upon the ground floor,
+he could look across the meadows behind the house to the distant
+silver windings of the River Charles. It was a most orderly room.
+Every book and paper lay where he could put his hand on it in a moment.
+Book-cases full of valuable volumes--precious first editions--busts and
+portraits,--were to be seen on every side. A certain austere simplicity
+was noticeable all over Longfellow's house. "His private rooms," it has
+been said, "were like those of a German professor." But the attractiveness
+and delightfulness of Craigie House arose not from any intrinsic
+opulence of its contents, but from the personality of the man who lived
+there. "By his mere presence he rendered the sunshine brighter, and the
+place more radiant of kindness and peace."
+
+The Poet began his day, so long as age and health permitted, by a brisk
+morning walk. He would be out and about by six, observing and enjoying
+the beauty of earth and air, and subsequently recording his exquisite
+impressions:
+
+ O Gift of God! O perfect day:
+ Whereon shall no man work, but play;
+ Whereon it is enough for me,
+ Not to be doing, but to be!
+
+ Through every fibre of my brain,
+ Through every nerve, through every vein,
+ I feel the electric thrill, the touch
+ Of life, that seems almost too much.
+
+ I hear the wind among the trees
+ Playing celestial symphonies;
+ I see the branches downward bent,
+ Like keys of some great instrument.
+
+ And over me unrolls on high
+ The splendid scenery of the sky,
+ Where through a sapphire sea the sun
+ Sails like a golden galleon,
+
+ Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,
+ Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,
+ Whose steep sierra far uplifts
+ Its craggy summits white with drifts.
+
+ Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms
+ The snowflakes of the cherry-blooms!
+ Blow, winds! and bend within my reach
+ The fiery blossoms of the peach!
+
+ O Life and Love! O happy throng
+ Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!
+ O heart of man! canst thou not be
+ Blithe as the air is, and as free?
+ _A Day of Sunshine._
+
+The morning's post brought the first consignment of that enormous number
+of epistles which were at once an affliction and an amusement to him.
+The Poet was besieged by letters from ambitious aspirants seeking advice,
+and from self-styled failures, desirous of help. To these last he was
+peculiarly drawn, for he was distinguished by "a grace almost peculiar
+to himself at the time in which he lived--his tenderness towards the
+undeveloped artist, struggling towards individual expression." In short,
+his first desire was to help on people, and bring out the best in them.
+
+Of apparent failure or success he recked little, believing, like
+Stevenson, that the true success is labour,--that pursuit, and not
+attainment is the worthiest object of existence; and his philosophy is
+summed up in the well-known words of _The Ladder of Saint Augustine_,
+
+
+ Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
+ That of our vices we can frame
+ A ladder, if we will but tread
+ Beneath our feet each deed of shame!
+
+ All common things, each day's events,
+ That with the hour begin and end,
+ Our pleasures and our discontents,
+ Are rounds by which we may ascend.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ The longing for ignoble things;
+ The strife for triumph more than truth;
+ The hardening of the heart, that brings
+ Irreverence for the dreams of youth;
+
+ All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,
+ That have their root in thoughts of ill;
+ Whatever hinders or impedes
+ The action of the nobler will;--
+
+ All these must first be trampled down
+ Beneath our feet, if we would gain
+ In the bright fields of fair renown
+ The right of eminent domain.
+
+ We have not wings, we cannot soar;
+ But we have feet to scale and climb
+ By slow degrees, by more and more,
+ The cloudy summits of our time.
+
+ The mighty pyramids of stone
+ That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
+ When nearer seen and better known,
+ Are but gigantic flights of stairs.
+
+ The distant mountains that uprear
+ Their solid bastions to the skies,
+ Are crossed by pathways, that appear
+ As we to higher levels rise.
+
+ The heights by great men reached and kept
+ Were not attained by sudden flight,
+ But they, while their companions slept,
+ Were toiling upward in the night.
+
+ Standing on what too long we bore
+ With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,
+ We may discern--unseen before--
+ A path to higher destinies.
+
+ Nor deem the irrevocable Past
+ As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
+ If rising on its wrecks, at last
+ To something nobler we attain.
+
+
+Constant requests for autographs formed the bulk of the day's budget,
+and these also never went unanswered--even when couched in terms the
+most _mal à propos_, much as those of the man who said that "he
+loved poetry in 'most any style,"--"and would you please copy your
+'Break, break, break' for the writer?" Possibly the worst offenders, in
+this matter of autograph-hunting, were those multitudinous schoolgirls
+of whom Longfellow humorously complained that he was always "kept busy
+answering." They ignored the fact of his professional duties, and his
+own unremitting work; anything to get a reply in the handwriting of the
+celebrity! But he had a special delight in budding womanhood, and had
+depicted it with magical insight and rare delicacy of touch, in lines
+which have never been excelled in their charm and purity.
+
+
+ Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes
+ In whose orbs a shadow lies,
+ Like the dusk in evening skies!
+
+ Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
+ Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
+ As the braided streamlets run!
+
+ Standing, with reluctant feet,
+ Where the brook and river meet,
+ Womanhood and childhood fleet!
+
+ Seest thou shadows sailing by,
+ As the dove, with startled eye,
+ Sees the falcon's shadow fly?
+
+ Hearest thou voices on the shore,
+ That our ears perceive no more,
+ Deafened by the cataract's roar?
+
+ O, thou child of many prayers!
+ Life hath quicksands,--Life hath snares!
+ Care and age come unawares!
+
+ Like the swell of some sweet tune,
+ Morning rises into noon,
+ May glides onward into June.
+
+ Childhood is the bough, where slumbered
+ Birds and blossoms many-numbered;--
+ Age, that bough with snows encumbered.
+
+ Gather, then, each flower that grows,
+ When the young heart overflows,
+ To embalm that tent of snows.
+
+ Bear a lily in thy hand;
+ Gates of brass cannot withstand
+ One touch of that magic wand.
+
+ Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
+ In thy heart the dew of youth,
+ On thy lips the seal of truth.
+
+ O, that dew, like balm shall steal
+ Into wounds that cannot heal,
+ Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;
+
+ And that smile, like sunshine, dart
+ Into many a sunless heart,
+ For a smile of God thou art.
+
+ _Maidenhood._
+
+
+[Illustration: _Painting by W. H. Margetson._ MAIDENHOOD.]
+
+ Maiden with the meek, brown eyes
+ In whose orbs a shadow lies,
+ Like the dusk in evening skies!
+
+ Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
+ Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
+ As the braided streamlets run!
+
+
+The early instalment of letters attended to, the Poet could devote
+himself to his own affairs. He believed in _working_ at poetry,
+methodically, systematically: although inspiration might flow with
+sudden fervour, it was not to be waited for. "Regular, proportioned,
+resolute, incessant industry," was the secret of his success, and the
+erasures and substitutions in his MSS. bear witness to his care in
+craftsmanship. The least conspicuous word must be as perfect as he
+could make it. Longfellow's creed, as expounded in _The Builders_,
+allowed for no scamped work.
+
+
+ All are architects of Fate,
+ Working in these walls of Time:
+ Some with massive deeds and great,
+ Some with ornaments of rhyme.
+
+ Nothing useless is, or low;
+ Each thing in its place is best;
+ And what seems but idle show
+ Strengthens and supports the rest.
+
+ For the structure that we raise,
+ Time is with materials filled;
+ Our to-days and yesterdays
+ Are the blocks with which we build.
+
+ Truly shape and fashion these;
+ Leave no yawning gaps between;
+ Think not, because no man sees,
+ Such things will remain unseen.
+
+ In the elder days of Art,
+ Builders wrought with greatest care
+ Each minute and unseen part;
+ For the Gods see everywhere.
+
+ Let us do our work as well,
+ Both the unseen and the seen;
+ Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
+ Beautiful, entire, and clean.
+
+ Else our lives are incomplete,
+ Standing in these walls of Time,
+ Broken stairways, where the feet
+ Stumble as they seek to climb.
+
+ Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
+ With a firm and ample base;
+ And ascending and secure
+ Shall to-morrow find its place.
+
+ Thus alone can we attain
+ To those turrets, where the eye
+ Sees the world as one vast plain,
+ And one boundless reach of sky.
+
+ _The Builders._
+
+
+Work, indeed, whether mental or physical, was his first instinct, and
+he has preached the gospel of honest work to the whole English-speaking
+world in some of the most familiar lines in the language.
+
+
+ Under a spreading chestnut tree
+ The village smithy stands;
+ The smith, a mighty man is he,
+ With large and sinewy hands;
+ And the muscles of his brawny arms
+ Are strong as iron bands.
+
+ His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
+ His face is like the tan;
+ His brow is wet with honest sweat,
+ He earns whate'er he can,
+ And looks the whole world in the face,
+ For he owes not any man.
+
+ Week in, week out, from morn till night,
+ You can hear his bellows blow;
+ You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
+ With measured beat and slow,
+ Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
+ When the evening sun is low.
+
+ And children coming home from school
+ Look in at the open door:
+ They love to see the flaming forge,
+ And hear the bellows roar,
+ And catch the burning sparks that fly
+ Like chaff from a threshing floor.
+
+ He goes on Sunday to the church,
+ And sits among his boys;
+ He hears the parson pray and preach,
+ He hears his daughter's voice,
+ Singing in the village choir,
+ And it makes his heart rejoice.
+
+ It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
+ Singing in Paradise!
+ He needs must think of her once more,
+ How in the grave she lies;
+ And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
+ A tear out of his eyes.
+
+ Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
+ Onward through life he goes;
+ Each morning sees some task begin,
+ Each evening sees it close;
+ Something attempted, something done,
+ Has earned a night's repose.
+
+ Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
+ For the lesson thou hast taught!
+ Thus at the flaming forge of life
+ Our fortune must be wrought;
+ Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
+ Each burning deed and thought!
+
+ _The Village Blacksmith._
+
+
+[Illustration: _Painting by Dudley Tennant._ THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.]
+
+ And children coming home from school
+ Look in at the open door:
+ They love to see the flaming forge,
+ And hear the bellows roar,
+ And catch the burning sparks that fly
+ Like chaff from a threshing floor.
+
+
+Not for long, however, might Longfellow remain undisturbed in his
+sunny room. Sometimes he welcomed the opening door that saw "a little
+figure stealing gently in, laying an arm round his neck as he bent over
+his work, and softly whispering some childish secret in his ear." For
+this was no obstacle to the current of his tranquil thoughts. "My little
+girls are flitting about my study," he wrote to a friend, "as blithe as
+two birds. They are preparing to celebrate the birthday of one of their
+dolls.... What a beautiful world this child's world is! I take infinite
+delight in seeing it go on all around me."
+
+It was with absolute sincerity that he had exclaimed:
+
+
+ Come to me, O ye children!
+ For I hear you at your play,
+ And the questions that perplexed me
+ Have vanished quite away.
+
+ Ye open the eastern windows,
+ That look towards the sun,
+ Where thoughts are singing swallows,
+ And the brooks of morning run.
+
+ In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
+ In your thoughts the brooklet's flow;
+ But in mine is the wind of Autumn,
+ And the first fall of the snow.
+
+ Ah! what would the world be to us,
+ If the children were no more?
+ We should dread the desert behind us
+ Worse than the dark before.
+
+ What the leaves are to the forest,
+ With light and air for food,
+ Ere their sweet and tender juices
+ Have been hardened into wood,--
+
+ That to the world are children;
+ Through them it feels the glow
+ Of a brighter and sunnier climate
+ Than reaches the trunks below
+
+ Come to me, O ye children!
+ And whisper in my ear
+ What the birds and the winds are singing
+ In your sunny atmosphere.
+
+ For what are all our contrivings,
+ And the wisdom of our books,
+ When compared with your caresses,
+ And the gladness of your looks?
+
+ Ye are better than all the ballads
+ That ever were sung or said;
+ For ye are living poems,
+ And all the rest are dead.
+
+ _Children._
+
+But these were congenial moments. There were visitors much less
+desirable. "He was besieged," as one of his friends declares, "by every
+possible form of interruption which the ingenuity of the human brain
+could devise." For his admirers, whose name was legion, were not
+satisfied with hero-worship afar off: they must needs force themselves
+into his presence, and express their admiration _vivâ-voce_. Most
+amazing folks swooped suddenly down upon him, ruthless and unabashed.
+
+Longfellow, always quick to see the comical side of a situation, would
+tell with great delight strange tales of his unexpected guests. "One
+man," he said, "a perfect stranger, came with an omnibus full of ladies.
+He introduced himself, then returning to the omnibus, took out all the
+ladies, one, two, three, four, five, with a little girl, and brought
+them in. I entertained them to the best of my ability, and they stayed
+an hour."
+
+On another occasion, an English gentleman, with no letter of introduction,
+abruptly introduced himself, thus: "In other countries, you know, we go
+to see ruins, and the like--but you have no ruins in your country, and I
+thought," growing embarrassed, "I would call and see _you_!" Another
+strange gentleman accosted him with great fervour, "Mr. Longfellow, I
+have long desired the honour of knowing you. I am one of _the few men_
+who have read your _Evangeline_!"
+
+All these worshippers at his shrine were received by the Poet with his
+unfailing courtesy and patience; but he was invariably adroit in warding
+off compliments. To applause and flattery he was impervious--reference
+to his own works was distasteful to him. His perfect modesty was the
+reflex of his natural reticence.
+
+Longfellow regarded life from the standpoint of eternity, and thus
+was one who, in the words of à Kempis, "careth little for the praise
+or dispraise of men." His gaze was riveted upon that "Land of the
+Hereafter," to which he was always more than ready to set out, and in
+the departure of Hiawatha he had imaged his longing for the "Happiest
+Land."
+
+
+ On the shore stood Hiawatha,
+ Turned and waved his hand at parting;
+ On the clear and luminous water
+ Launched his birch canoe for sailing,
+ From the pebbles of the margin
+ Shoved it forth into the water;
+ Whispered to it "Westward! westward!"
+ And with speed it darted forward.
+
+ And the evening sun descending
+ Set the clouds on fire with redness,
+ Burned the broad sky, like a prairie,
+ Left upon the level water
+ One long track and trail of splendour,
+ Down whose stream, as down a river,
+ Westward, westward Hiawatha
+ Sailed into the fiery sunset,
+ Sailed into the purple vapours,
+ Sailed into the dusk of evening.
+
+ And the people from the margin
+ Watched him floating, rising, sinking,
+ Till the birch canoe seemed lifted
+ High into that sea of splendour,
+ Till it sank into the vapours
+ Like the new moon slowly, slowly
+ Sinking in the purple distance.
+
+ And they said "Farewell for ever!"
+ Said "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
+ And the forests, dark and lonely,
+ Moved through all their depths of darkness,
+ Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
+ And the waves upon the margin
+ Rising, rippling on the pebbles,
+ Sobbed "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
+ And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
+ From her haunts among the fenlands,
+ Screamed "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
+
+ Thus departed Hiawatha,
+ Hiawatha the Beloved,
+ In the glory of the sunset,
+ In the purple mists of evening,
+ To the regions of the home-wind,
+ Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin,
+ To the Islands of the Blessed,
+ To the kingdom of Ponemah,
+ To the land of the Hereafter!
+
+ _Hiawatha._
+
+
+[Illustration: _Painting by J. Finnemore._ HIAWATHA.]
+
+ And the evening sun descending....
+ Left upon the level water
+ One long track and trail of splendour,
+ Down whose stream as down a river,
+ Westward, westward Hiawatha
+ Sailed into the fiery sunset,
+ Sailed into the purple vapours,
+ Sailed into the dusk of evening.
+
+
+Personal friends, of whom the Poet possessed many, would arrive in
+time for lunch, and be welcomed by the master of Craigie House at the
+gate in the lilac hedge. He would bring them into the large, cheerful
+dining-room, and the children would sit at a little table on the
+verandah, while the host, with his own hands, set the copper kettle
+singing, and made tea in the antique silver pot.
+
+It was a peaceful, happy hour for the guests. Longfellow, unlike
+Tennyson, was never much of a talker: he was a listener and observer,
+who dwelt in a speaking silence--in what has been defined as a heavenly
+unfathomableness. Ruskin had written: "You come as such a _calm_
+influence to me ... you give me such a feeling of friendship and repose."
+And this feeling was enhanced by the man's natural dignity and grace,
+the refinement of his features, the perfect taste of his dress, and
+the exquisite simplicity of his manners. Many have alluded to his soft,
+musical voice, to his steady blue-grey eyes, to the "innate charm of
+tranquillity," which gave a peculiar spiritual sweetness to his smile.
+But the man was even more, and better than the poet; so much so that a
+young enthusiast exclaimed "All the vulgar and pretentious people in the
+world ought to be sent to Mr. Longfellow to show them how to behave!"
+Nor was this calm the outcome of natural placidity--it had been attained
+through bitter suffering: it was that gleam of a hero's armour which the
+"red planet Mars" unveils to a tear-dimmed sight, when
+
+
+ The night is come, but not too soon;
+ And sinking silently,
+ All silently, the little moon
+ Drops down behind the sky.
+
+ There is no light in earth or heaven,
+ But the cold light of stars;
+ And the first watch of night is given
+ To the red planet Mars.
+
+ Is it the tender star of love?
+ The star of love and dreams?
+ O no! from that blue tent above,
+ A hero's armour gleams.
+
+ And earnest thoughts within me rise,
+ When I behold afar,
+ Suspended in the evening skies,
+ The shield of that red star.
+
+ O star of strength! I see thee stand
+ And smile upon my pain;
+ Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,
+ And I am strong again.
+
+ Within my breast there is no light,
+ But the cold light of stars;
+ I give the first watch of the night
+ To the red planet Mars.
+
+ The star of the unconquered will,
+ He rises in my breast,
+ Serene, and resolute, and still,
+ And calm and self-possessed.
+
+ And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
+ That readest this brief psalm,
+ As one by one thy hopes depart,
+ Be resolute and calm.
+
+ O fear not in a world like this,
+ And thou shalt know ere long,
+ Know how sublime a thing it is
+ To suffer and be strong.
+
+ _The Light of Stars._
+
+
+After lunch, the guests would be taken round the house, and its various
+treasures pointed out: books in every corner, and on every wall pictures
+and portraits; antique furniture, interesting mementoes of every sort.
+It was a home well worth seeing: and an old-world air pervaded all,
+from the quaint drawing-room, with its old-fashioned, rose-festooned
+wall-paper, to the upper rooms with the Dutch-tiled hearths.
+
+Later on, to those with whom he felt specially _en rapport_, Longfellow
+would read aloud some poems, new or old, his own, or those of other men.
+He was not a forcible or a dramatic reader; the simplicity which he
+loved "in all things," as he had said, "but specially in poetry," was
+evident also here. Yet perhaps no other man could have done equal justice
+to the lingering hexameters of his most successful poem--for such, by
+reason of its novelty, pathos, and beauty, _Evangeline_ must always be
+considered. "It has become a purifying portion," says Rossetti, "of the
+experiences of the heart ... a long-drawn sweetness and sadness"; and,
+though sixty years have elapsed since _Evangeline_ first appeared, the
+ideal maiden of this "idyll of the heart" has lost no fraction of her
+loveliness.
+
+
+ Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.
+ Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the
+ wayside,
+ Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her
+ tresses!
+ Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.
+ When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noon-tide
+ Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.
+ Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret
+ Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop
+ Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,
+ Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her
+ missal,
+ Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,
+ Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heir-loom,
+ Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.
+ But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty--
+ Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
+ Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+ When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
+
+ _Evangeline._
+
+
+In the course of the afternoon, some of the Poet's guests taking leave,
+others would accompany him to a concert, organ recital, or any other
+musical function which might be available. Longfellow was passionately
+fond of good music, and lost no opportunity of hearing it. His own
+lyrics are singularly susceptible, as all composers know, of an adequate
+musical setting.
+
+
+[Illustration: _Painting by H. M. Brock._ EVANGELINE.]
+
+ But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty--
+ Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
+ Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+ When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
+
+
+Few short poems in the world have been so often sung as "Stars of
+the summer night"--"Good-night, beloved"--"The rainy day"--and other
+well-known verses. A most effective sense of sound and rhythm, joined
+with perfect simplicity of diction, evince the inherent artistry of a
+man who was no musician in the technical sense, but who could express
+himself in such lines as
+
+
+ The night is calm and cloudless,
+ And still as still can be,
+ And the stars come forth to listen
+ To the music of the sea.
+ They gather, and gather, and gather,
+ Until they crowd the sky,
+ And listen in breathless silence,
+ To the solemn litany.
+ It begins in rocky caverns,
+ As a voice that chants alone
+ To the pedals of the organ
+ In monotonous undertone;
+ And anon from shelving beaches
+ And shallow sands beyond,
+ In snow-white robes uprising
+ The ghostly choirs respond.
+ And sadly and unceasing
+ The mournful voice sings on,
+ And the snow-white choirs still answer
+ Christe eleison!
+
+ _The Golden Legend._
+
+
+After dinner, to which perhaps an intimate friend or two remained,
+the poet would remain awhile in his study: not actually at work, for
+his writing was only done in the morning hours, but considering and
+criticising work already accomplished, and carefully perusing that great
+translation of Dante which he considered, rightly or wrongly, as the
+most important work of his life. The twilight would slowly fade into the
+dusk of a "blindman's holiday," and then came the sweetest moment of the
+day.
+
+Longfellow's intense affection for all little ones, his touching
+kindness to them, his sympathy with their most trivial joys or troubles,
+were focussed and centred in the love he bore to his own dear,
+motherless children.
+
+
+ Between the dark and the daylight,
+ When the night is beginning to lower,
+ Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
+ That is known as the Children's Hour.
+
+ I hear in the chamber above me
+ The patter of little feet,
+ The sound of a door that is opened,
+ And voices soft and sweet.
+
+ From my study I see in the lamplight,
+ Descending the broad hall-stair,
+ Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
+ And Edith with golden hair.
+
+ A whisper, and then a silence:
+ Yet I know by their merry eyes
+ They are plotting and planning together
+ To take me by surprise.
+
+ A sudden rush from the stairway,
+ A sudden raid from the hall!
+ By three doors left unguarded
+ They enter my castle wall!
+
+ They climb up into my turret,
+ O'er the arms and back of my chair;
+ If I try to escape they surround me;
+ They seem to be everywhere.
+
+ They almost devour me with kisses,
+ Their arms about me entwine,
+ Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
+ In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
+
+ Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
+ Because you have scaled the wall,
+ Such an old moustache as I am
+ Is not a match for you all!
+
+ 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 I will keep you for ever,
+ Yes, for ever and a day,
+ Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
+ And moulder in dust away!
+
+ _The Children's Hour._
+
+
+A brief period of childish gaiety would supervene, to which the man of
+childlike heart responded readily; and when the little feet had pattered
+bedward, and the house was silent from the merry little voices, the
+father would sit on until midnight in his spacious empty room. He would
+occupy himself with letters--long, fragrant, pleasant gossips to his
+best and most familiar friends at a distance: till midnight came upon
+him unawares. "It is nearly one o'clock--I am the only person up in the
+house: my candle is sinking in its socket."
+
+And a double loneliness descended upon him as his weary hand laid
+down the pen. He remained inert and brooding; the solitude was
+almost tangible. But this solitude was presently peopled by visions,
+fraught with ineffable consolation to a mind never out of touch with
+"other-worldly" influences.
+
+
+ When the hours of Day are numbered,
+ And the voices of the Night
+ Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
+ To a holy, calm delight;
+
+ Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
+ And, like phantoms grim and tall,
+ Shadows from the fitful firelight
+ Dance upon the parlour wall;
+
+ Then the forms of the departed
+ Enter at the open door;
+ The beloved, the true-hearted,
+ Come to visit me once more;
+
+ He, the young and strong, who cherished
+ Noble longings for the strife,
+ By the roadside fell and perished,
+ Weary with the march of life!
+
+ They the holy ones and weakly,
+ Who the cross of suffering bore,
+ Folded their pale hands so meekly,
+ Spake with us on earth no more!
+
+ And with them the Being Beauteous,
+ Who unto my youth was given,
+ More than all things else to love me,
+ And is now a saint in heaven.
+
+ With a slow and noiseless footstep
+ Comes that messenger divine,
+ Takes the vacant chair beside me,
+ Lays her gentle hand in mine.
+
+ And she sits and gazes at me
+ With those deep and tender eyes,
+ Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
+ Looking downward from the skies.
+
+ Uttered not, yet comprehended,
+ Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
+ Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
+ Breathing from her lips of air.
+
+ O, though oft depressed and lonely,
+ All my fears are laid aside,
+ If I but remember only
+ Such as these have lived and died!
+
+ _Footsteps of Angels._
+
+"_Empty_ is a horrid word," the Poet had written to a friend--but the
+room is no longer empty. It has become a habitation for other visitants
+than the motley throng of flatterers impelled by curiosity, who hindered
+his morning hours. Unspoken benedictions lie thick upon the air--the
+man's griefs are soothed away by the touch of invisible fingers. Patient,
+unselfish, indomitable, he resumes the burden of his daily life with new
+hope and courage for the morrow.
+
+
+ As torrents in summer,
+ Half dried in their channels,
+ Suddenly rise, though the
+ Sky is still cloudless,
+ For rain has been falling
+ Far off at their fountains;
+
+ So hearts that are fainting
+ Grow full to o'erflowing,
+ And they that behold it
+ Marvel, and know not
+ That God at their fountains
+ Far off has been raining.
+
+ _Tales of a Wayside Inn._
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Day With Longfellow, by
+Anonymous and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
+
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+</head>
+<body>
+
+
+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Day With Longfellow, by
+Anonymous and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: A Day With Longfellow
+
+Author: Anonymous
+ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
+
+Release Date: November 11, 2011 [EBook #37980]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DAY WITH LONGFELLOW ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Delphine Lettau, Susan Theresa Morin and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+<hr class="full" />
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Illustration">
+ <tr>
+ <td align="center">
+ <a href="images/illus008.jpg">
+ <img src="images/illus008.jpg" height="300"
+ alt="BOOK COVER" /></a>
+ </td>
+ </tr>
+ </table>
+</div>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<div class="center">
+<p class="noindent"><span class="widebb">DAYS WITH<br />
+THE GREAT<br />
+.POETS.<br />
+<br />
+LONGFELLOW</span>
+</p>
+</div>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Illustration">
+ <tr>
+ <td align="center">
+ <a href="images/illus001.jpg">
+ <img src="images/illus001.jpg" height="450"
+ alt="THE CHILDREN'S HOUR" /></a>
+ </td>
+ </tr>
+ <tr>
+ <td align="center">
+ <span class="caption">Click to <a href="images/illus001.jpg">ENLARGE</a><br /><br />
+ <i>Painting by A. E. Jackson.</i><br />
+ <br />THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.</span>
+ </td>
+ </tr>
+</table>
+<table class="sm" style="margin: 0 auto" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="center" valign="top"></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="center" valign="bottom"></td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Between the dark and the daylight,</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind2">&nbsp;</span>When the night is beginning to lower,</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Comes a pause in the day's occupations,</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind2">&nbsp;</span>That is known as the Children's Hour.</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="center" valign="middle">*&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;*</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">They climb up into my turret,</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind2">&nbsp;</span>O'er the arms and back of my chair;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">If I try to escape they surround me,</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind2">&nbsp;</span>They seem to be everywhere.</td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<hr class="narrow" />
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h1>A &middot; DAY &middot; WITH<br />
+<br />
+LONGFELLOW</h1>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<div class="center">
+<p class="noindent"><span class="bb">HODDER &amp; STOUGHTON</span><br />
+<b><span class="wide">LTD., PUBLISHERS LONDON</span></b>
+</p>
+</div>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<hr class="narrow" />
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Illustration">
+ <tr>
+ <td align="center">
+ <a href="images/illus002.jpg">
+ <img src="images/illus002.jpg" height="400"
+ alt="TITLE PAGE" /></a>
+ </td>
+ </tr>
+ </table>
+</div>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<hr class="tiny" />
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<div class="center">
+<p class="noindent"><i>Uniform with this Volume</i></p>
+
+<table class="sm" style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left"><i>DAYS WITH THE POETS</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">BROWNING<br />
+BURNS<br />
+KEATS<br />
+LONGFELLOW<br />
+SHAKESPEARE<br />
+TENNYSON</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><i>DAYS WITH THE COMPOSERS</i></td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">BEETHOVEN<br />
+CHOPIN<br />
+GOUNOD<br />
+MENDELSSOHN<br />
+TSCHAIKOVSKY<br />
+WAGNER</td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<hr class="tiny" />
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<div class="center">
+ <p class="noindent">
+ <span class="small"><i>Made and Printed in Great Britain for Hodder &amp; Stoughton, Limited,<br />
+by C. Tinling &amp; Co., Ltd., Liverpool, London and Prescot.</i>
+ </span>
+ </p>
+</div>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<hr class="minimal" />
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Illustration">
+ <tr>
+ <td align="center">
+ <a href="images/illus003.jpg">
+ <img src="images/illus003.jpg" height="100"
+ alt="DECORATION" /></a>
+ </td>
+ </tr>
+ </table>
+</div>
+<h2><span class="wide">A DAY WITH LONGFELLOW</span></h2>
+
+<p>The expression of serious and tender
+thoughtfulness, which always characterized
+the quiet face of Henry Wadsworth
+Longfellow, had deepened during his later years,
+into something akin to melancholy. The tragic
+loss of his beloved wife,&mdash;burned to death while
+she was sealing up in paper little locks of her
+children's hair,&mdash;had left its permanent and
+irrevocable mark upon his life. Still, he did not
+seclude himself with his sorrow: the professor
+of Modern Languages at Harvard could hardly do
+that. He remained the selfsame kindly, gentle,
+industrious man, welcoming with ready courtesy
+the innumerable visitors to the Craigie House.</p>
+
+<p>This is a large old-fashioned house in
+Cambridge, Massachusetts&mdash;a place of grassy
+terraces, long verandahs, lilac bushes, and shady
+trees&mdash;a perfect dwelling for a man of cultured
+tastes, as the interior also testifies.</p>
+
+<p>From the Poet's study, a spacious, sunny
+room upon the ground floor, he could look across
+the meadows behind the house to the distant
+silver windings of the River Charles. It was a
+most orderly room. Every book and paper lay
+where he could put his hand on it in a moment.
+Book-cases full of valuable volumes&mdash;precious first
+editions&mdash;busts and portraits,&mdash;were to be seen on
+every side. A certain austere simplicity was
+noticeable all over Longfellow's house. "His
+private rooms," it has been said, "were like those
+of a German professor." But the attractiveness
+and delightfulness of Craigie House arose not from
+any intrinsic opulence of its contents, but from the
+personality of the man who lived there. "By his
+mere presence he rendered the sunshine brighter,
+and the place more radiant of kindness and peace."</p>
+
+<p>The Poet began his day, so long as age and
+health permitted, by a brisk morning walk. He
+would be out and about by six, observing and
+enjoying the beauty of earth and air, and subsequently
+recording his exquisite impressions:</p>
+
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left">O Gift of God! O perfect day:<br />
+Whereon shall no man work, but play;<br />
+Whereon it is enough for me,<br />
+Not to be doing, but to be!</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Through every fibre of my brain,<br />
+Through every nerve, through every vein,<br />
+I feel the electric thrill, the touch<br />
+Of life, that seems almost too much.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">I hear the wind among the trees<br />
+Playing celestial symphonies;<br />
+I see the branches downward bent,<br />
+Like keys of some great instrument.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">And over me unrolls on high<br />
+The splendid scenery of the sky,<br />
+Where through a sapphire sea the sun<br />
+Sails like a golden galleon,</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,<br />
+Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,<br />
+Whose steep sierra far uplifts<br />
+Its craggy summits white with drifts.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms<br />
+The snowflakes of the cherry-blooms!<br />
+Blow, winds! and bend within my reach<br />
+The fiery blossoms of the peach!</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="center" valign="middle">*<span class="ind2">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>*<span class="ind2">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>*<span class="ind2">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>*<span class="ind2">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>*</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">O Life and Love! O happy throng<br />
+Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!<br />
+O heart of man! canst thou not be<br />
+Blithe as the air is, and as free?<br />
+&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="right"><i>A Day of Sunshine.</i></td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+
+<p>The morning's post brought the first consignment
+of that enormous number of epistles which
+were at once an affliction and an amusement to him.
+The Poet was besieged by letters from ambitious
+aspirants seeking advice, and from self-styled
+failures, desirous of help. To these last he was
+peculiarly drawn, for he was distinguished by "a
+grace almost peculiar to himself at the time in
+which he lived&mdash;his tenderness towards the
+undeveloped artist, struggling towards individual
+expression." In short, his first desire was to help
+on people, and bring out the best in them.</p>
+
+<p>Of apparent failure or success he recked little,
+believing, like Stevenson, that the true success is
+labour,&mdash;that pursuit, and not attainment is the
+worthiest object of existence; and his philosophy
+is summed up in the well-known words of <i>The
+Ladder of Saint Augustine</i>,</p>
+
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left">Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>That of our vices we can frame<br />
+A ladder, if we will but tread<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Beneath our feet each deed of shame!</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">All common things, each day's events,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>That with the hour begin and end,<br />
+Our pleasures and our discontents,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Are rounds by which we may ascend.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="center" valign="middle">*<span class="ind2">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>*<span class="ind2">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>*<span class="ind2">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>*<span class="ind2">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>*</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The longing for ignoble things;<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>The strife for triumph more than truth;<br />
+The hardening of the heart, that brings<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Irreverence for the dreams of youth;</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>That have their root in thoughts of ill;<br />
+Whatever hinders or impedes<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>The action of the nobler will;&mdash;</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">All these must first be trampled down<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Beneath our feet, if we would gain<br />
+In the bright fields of fair renown<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>The right of eminent domain.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">We have not wings, we cannot soar;<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>But we have feet to scale and climb<br />
+By slow degrees, by more and more,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>The cloudy summits of our time.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The mighty pyramids of stone<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,<br />
+When nearer seen and better known,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Are but gigantic flights of stairs.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The distant mountains that uprear<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Their solid bastions to the skies,<br />
+Are crossed by pathways, that appear<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>As we to higher levels rise.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The heights by great men reached and kept<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Were not attained by sudden flight,<br />
+But they, while their companions slept,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Were toiling upward in the night.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Standing on what too long we bore<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,<br />
+We may discern&mdash;unseen before&mdash;<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>A path to higher destinies.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Nor deem the irrevocable Past<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>As wholly wasted, wholly vain,<br />
+If rising on its wrecks, at last<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>To something nobler we attain.</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;</td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+
+<p>Constant requests for autographs formed the
+bulk of the day's budget, and these also never
+went unanswered&mdash;even when couched in terms
+the most <i>mal &agrave; propos</i>, much as those of the man
+who said that "he loved poetry in 'most any
+style,"&mdash;"and would you please copy your 'Break,
+break, break' for the writer?" Possibly the worst
+offenders, in this matter of autograph-hunting,
+were those multitudinous schoolgirls of whom
+Longfellow humorously complained that he was
+always "kept busy answering." They ignored the
+fact of his professional duties, and his own unremitting
+work; anything to get a reply in the
+handwriting of the celebrity! But he had a special
+delight in budding womanhood, and had depicted
+it with magical insight and rare delicacy of touch,
+in lines which have never been excelled in their
+charm and purity.</p>
+
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left">Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes<br />
+In whose orbs a shadow lies,<br />
+Like the dusk in evening skies!</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Thou whose locks outshine the sun,<br />
+Golden tresses, wreathed in one,<br />
+As the braided streamlets run!</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Standing, with reluctant feet,<br />
+Where the brook and river meet,<br />
+Womanhood and childhood fleet!</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Seest thou shadows sailing by,<br />
+As the dove, with startled eye,<br />
+Sees the falcon's shadow fly?</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Hearest thou voices on the shore,<br />
+That our ears perceive no more,<br />
+Deafened by the cataract's roar?</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">O, thou child of many prayers!<br />
+Life hath quicksands,&mdash;Life hath snares!<br />
+Care and age come unawares!</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Like the swell of some sweet tune,<br />
+Morning rises into noon,<br />
+May glides onward into June.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Childhood is the bough, where slumbered<br />
+Birds and blossoms many-numbered;&mdash;<br />
+Age, that bough with snows encumbered.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Gather, then, each flower that grows,<br />
+When the young heart overflows,<br />
+To embalm that tent of snows.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Bear a lily in thy hand;<br />
+Gates of brass cannot withstand<br />
+One touch of that magic wand.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,<br />
+In thy heart the dew of youth,<br />
+On thy lips the seal of truth.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">O, that dew, like balm shall steal<br />
+Into wounds that cannot heal,<br />
+Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">And that smile, like sunshine, dart<br />
+Into many a sunless heart,<br />
+For a smile of God thou art.<br />
+&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="right"><i>Maidenhood.</i></td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<hr class="minimal" />
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Illustration">
+ <tr>
+ <td align="center">
+ <a href="images/illus004.jpg">
+ <img src="images/illus004.jpg" height="450"
+ alt="MAIDENHOOD" /></a>
+ </td>
+ </tr>
+ <tr>
+ <td align="center">
+ <span class="caption">Click to <a href="images/illus004.jpg">ENLARGE</a><br /><br />
+<i>Painting by W. H. Margetson.</i><br /><br />
+MAIDENHOOD.</span>
+ </td>
+ </tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+<div class="center">
+<table class="sm" style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left">Maiden with the meek, brown eyes<br />
+In whose orbs a shadow lies,<br />
+Like the dusk in evening skies!<br />
+&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Thou whose locks outshine the sun,<br />
+Golden tresses, wreathed in one,<br />
+As the braided streamlets run!<br />
+&nbsp;</td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<hr class="minimal" />
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>The early instalment of letters attended to,
+the Poet could devote himself to his own affairs.
+He believed in <i>working</i> at poetry, methodically,
+systematically: although inspiration might flow
+with sudden fervour, it was not to be waited for.
+"Regular, proportioned, resolute, incessant industry,"
+was the secret of his success, and the erasures
+and substitutions in his MSS. bear witness to his
+care in craftsmanship. The least conspicuous word
+must be as perfect as he could make it. Longfellow's
+creed, as expounded in <i>The Builders</i>, allowed for
+no scamped work.</p>
+
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left">All are architects of Fate,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Working in these walls of Time:<br />
+Some with massive deeds and great,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Some with ornaments of rhyme.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Nothing useless is, or low;<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Each thing in its place is best;<br />
+And what seems but idle show<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Strengthens and supports the rest.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">For the structure that we raise,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Time is with materials filled;<br />
+Our to-days and yesterdays<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Are the blocks with which we build.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Truly shape and fashion these;<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Leave no yawning gaps between;<br />
+Think not, because no man sees,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Such things will remain unseen.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">In the elder days of Art,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Builders wrought with greatest care<br />
+Each minute and unseen part;<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>For the Gods see everywhere.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Let us do our work as well,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Both the unseen and the seen;<br />
+Make the house, where Gods may dwell,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Beautiful, entire, and clean.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Else our lives are incomplete,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Standing in these walls of Time,<br />
+Broken stairways, where the feet<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Stumble as they seek to climb.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Build to-day, then, strong and sure,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>With a firm and ample base;<br />
+And ascending and secure<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Shall to-morrow find its place.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Thus alone can we attain<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>To those turrets, where the eye<br />
+Sees the world as one vast plain,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And one boundless reach of sky.</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="right"><i>The Builders.</i></td></tr>
+
+</table>
+</div>
+
+<p>Work, indeed, whether mental or physical,
+was his first instinct, and he has preached the
+gospel of honest work to the whole English-speaking
+world in some of the most familiar lines in the
+language.</p>
+
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left">Under a spreading chestnut tree<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>The village smithy stands;<br />
+The smith, a mighty man is he,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>With large and sinewy hands;<br />
+And the muscles of his brawny arms<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Are strong as iron bands.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">His hair is crisp, and black, and long,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>His face is like the tan;<br />
+His brow is wet with honest sweat,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>He earns whate'er he can,<br />
+And looks the whole world in the face,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>For he owes not any man.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Week in, week out, from morn till night,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>You can hear his bellows blow;<br />
+You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>With measured beat and slow,<br />
+Like a sexton ringing the village bell,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>When the evening sun is low.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">And children coming home from school<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Look in at the open door:<br />
+They love to see the flaming forge,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And hear the bellows roar,<br />
+And catch the burning sparks that fly<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Like chaff from a threshing floor.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">He goes on Sunday to the church,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And sits among his boys;<br />
+He hears the parson pray and preach,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>He hears his daughter's voice,<br />
+Singing in the village choir,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And it makes his heart rejoice.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">It sounds to him like her mother's voice,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Singing in Paradise!<br />
+He needs must think of her once more,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>How in the grave she lies;<br />
+And with his hard, rough hand he wipes<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>A tear out of his eyes.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Toiling,&mdash;rejoicing,&mdash;sorrowing,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Onward through life he goes;<br />
+Each morning sees some task begin,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Each evening sees it close;<br />
+Something attempted, something done,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Has earned a night's repose.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>For the lesson thou hast taught!<br />
+Thus at the flaming forge of life<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Our fortune must be wrought;<br />
+Thus on its sounding anvil shaped<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Each burning deed and thought!</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="right"><i>The Village Blacksmith.</i></td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<hr class="minimal" />
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Illustration">
+ <tr>
+ <td align="center">
+ <a href="images/illus005.jpg">
+ <img src="images/illus005.jpg" height="400"
+ alt="THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH" /></a>
+ </td>
+ </tr>
+ <tr>
+ <td align="center">
+ <span class="caption">Click to <a href="images/illus005.jpg">ENLARGE</a><br /><br />
+<i>Painting by Dudley Tennant.</i><br /><br />
+THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
+</span>
+ </td>
+ </tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+<div class="center">
+<table class="sm" style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left">And children coming home from school<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Look in at the open door:<br />
+They love to see the flaming forge,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And hear the bellows roar,<br />
+And catch the burning sparks that fly<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Like chaff from a threshing floor.</td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<hr class="minimal" />
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p>Not for long, however, might Longfellow
+remain undisturbed in his sunny room. Sometimes
+he welcomed the opening door that saw
+"a little figure stealing gently in, laying an arm
+round his neck as he bent over his work, and
+softly whispering some childish secret in his ear."
+For this was no obstacle to the current of his
+tranquil thoughts. "My little girls are flitting
+about my study," he wrote to a friend, "as blithe
+as two birds. They are preparing to celebrate
+the birthday of one of their dolls&hellip;. What a
+beautiful world this child's world is! I take infinite
+delight in seeing it go on all around me."</p>
+
+<p>It was with absolute sincerity that he had
+exclaimed:</p>
+
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left">Come to me, O ye children!<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>For I hear you at your play,<br />
+And the questions that perplexed me<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Have vanished quite away.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Ye open the eastern windows,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>That look towards the sun,<br />
+Where thoughts are singing swallows,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And the brooks of morning run.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>In your thoughts the brooklet's flow;<br />
+But in mine is the wind of Autumn,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And the first fall of the snow.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Ah! what would the world be to us,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>If the children were no more?<br />
+We should dread the desert behind us<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Worse than the dark before.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">What the leaves are to the forest,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>With light and air for food,<br />
+Ere their sweet and tender juices<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Have been hardened into wood,&mdash;</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">That to the world are children;<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Through them it feels the glow<br />
+Of a brighter and sunnier climate<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Than reaches the trunks below</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Come to me, O ye children!<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And whisper in my ear<br />
+What the birds and the winds are singing<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>In your sunny atmosphere.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">For what are all our contrivings,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And the wisdom of our books,<br />
+When compared with your caresses,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And the gladness of your looks?</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Ye are better than all the ballads<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>That ever were sung or said;<br />
+For ye are living poems,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And all the rest are dead.</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="right"><i>Children.</i></td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+
+<p>But these were congenial moments. There
+were visitors much less desirable. "He was
+besieged," as one of his friends declares, "by
+every possible form of interruption which the
+ingenuity of the human brain could devise." For
+his admirers, whose name was legion, were not
+satisfied with hero-worship afar off: they must
+needs force themselves into his presence, and express
+their admiration <i>viv&acirc;-voce</i>. Most amazing folks
+swooped suddenly down upon him, ruthless and
+unabashed.</p>
+
+<p>Longfellow, always quick to see the comical
+side of a situation, would tell with great delight
+strange tales of his unexpected guests. "One
+man," he said, "a perfect stranger, came with
+an omnibus full of ladies. He introduced himself,
+then returning to the omnibus, took out all the
+ladies, one, two, three, four, five, with a little girl,
+and brought them in. I entertained them to the
+best of my ability, and they stayed an hour."</p>
+
+<p>On another occasion, an English gentleman,
+with no letter of introduction, abruptly introduced
+himself, thus: "In other countries, you know, we
+go to see ruins, and the like&mdash;but you have no
+ruins in your country, and I thought," growing
+embarrassed, "I would call and see <i>you</i>!" Another
+strange gentleman accosted him with great fervour,
+"Mr. Longfellow, I have long desired the honour
+of knowing you. I am one of <i>the few men</i> who
+have read your <i>Evangeline</i>!"</p>
+
+<p>All these worshippers at his shrine were
+received by the Poet with his unfailing courtesy
+and patience; but he was invariably adroit in
+warding off compliments. To applause and flattery
+he was impervious&mdash;reference to his own works
+was distasteful to him. His perfect modesty was
+the reflex of his natural reticence.</p>
+
+<p>Longfellow regarded life from the standpoint
+of eternity, and thus was one who, in the words
+of &agrave; Kempis, "careth little for the praise or
+dispraise of men." His gaze was riveted upon
+that "Land of the Hereafter," to which he was
+always more than ready to set out, and in the
+departure of Hiawatha he had imaged his longing
+for the "Happiest Land."</p>
+
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>On the shore stood Hiawatha,<br />
+Turned and waved his hand at parting;<br />
+On the clear and luminous water<br />
+Launched his birch canoe for sailing,<br />
+From the pebbles of the margin<br />
+Shoved it forth into the water;<br />
+Whispered to it "Westward! westward!"<br />
+And with speed it darted forward.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And the evening sun descending<br />
+Set the clouds on fire with redness,<br />
+Burned the broad sky, like a prairie,<br />
+Left upon the level water<br />
+One long track and trail of splendour,<br />
+Down whose stream, as down a river,<br />
+Westward, westward Hiawatha<br />
+Sailed into the fiery sunset,<br />
+Sailed into the purple vapours,<br />
+Sailed into the dusk of evening.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And the people from the margin<br />
+Watched him floating, rising, sinking,<br />
+Till the birch canoe seemed lifted<br />
+High into that sea of splendour,<br />
+Till it sank into the vapours<br />
+Like the new moon slowly, slowly<br />
+Sinking in the purple distance.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And they said "Farewell for ever!"<br />
+Said "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"<br />
+And the forests, dark and lonely,<br />
+Moved through all their depths of darkness,<br />
+Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"<br />
+And the waves upon the margin<br />
+Rising, rippling on the pebbles,<br />
+Sobbed "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"<br />
+And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,<br />
+From her haunts among the fenlands,<br />
+Screamed "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Thus departed Hiawatha,<br />
+Hiawatha the Beloved,<br />
+In the glory of the sunset,<br />
+In the purple mists of evening,<br />
+To the regions of the home-wind,<br />
+Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin,<br />
+To the Islands of the Blessed,<br />
+To the kingdom of Ponemah,<br />
+To the land of the Hereafter!</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="right"><i>Hiawatha.</i></td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<hr class="minimal" />
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Illustration">
+ <tr>
+ <td align="center">
+ <a href="images/illus006.jpg">
+ <img src="images/illus006.jpg" height="500"
+ alt="HIAWATHA" /></a>
+ </td>
+ </tr>
+ <tr>
+ <td align="center">
+ <span class="caption">Click to <a href="images/illus006.jpg">ENLARGE</a><br /><br />
+<i>Painting by J. Finnemore.</i><br /><br />
+HIAWATHA.
+</span>
+ </td>
+ </tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+<div class="center">
+<table class="sm" style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left"><span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And the evening sun descending&hellip;.<br />
+Left upon the level water<br />
+One long track and trail of splendour,<br />
+Down whose stream as down a river,<br />
+Westward, westward Hiawatha<br />
+Sailed into the fiery sunset,<br />
+Sailed into the purple vapours,<br />
+Sailed into the dusk of evening.</td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<hr class="minimal" />
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p>Personal friends, of whom the Poet possessed
+many, would arrive in time for lunch, and be
+welcomed by the master of Craigie House at the
+gate in the lilac hedge. He would bring them
+into the large, cheerful dining-room, and the children
+would sit at a little table on the verandah, while
+the host, with his own hands, set the copper kettle
+singing, and made tea in the antique silver pot.</p>
+
+<p>It was a peaceful, happy hour for the guests.
+Longfellow, unlike Tennyson, was never much of
+a talker: he was a listener and observer, who
+dwelt in a speaking silence&mdash;in what has been
+defined as a heavenly unfathomableness. Ruskin
+had written: "You come as such a <i>calm</i> influence
+to me &hellip; you give me such a feeling of friendship
+and repose." And this feeling was enhanced by
+the man's natural dignity and grace, the refinement
+of his features, the perfect taste of his dress, and
+the exquisite simplicity of his manners. Many
+have alluded to his soft, musical voice, to his
+steady blue-grey eyes, to the "innate charm of
+tranquillity," which gave a peculiar spiritual sweetness
+to his smile. But the man was even more,
+and better than the poet; so much so that a young
+enthusiast exclaimed "All the vulgar and pretentious
+people in the world ought to be sent to Mr.
+Longfellow to show them how to behave!" Nor
+was this calm the outcome of natural placidity&mdash;it
+had been attained through bitter suffering: it
+was that gleam of a hero's armour which the "red
+planet Mars" unveils to a tear-dimmed sight,
+when</p>
+
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left">The night is come, but not too soon;<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And sinking silently,<br />
+All silently, the little moon<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Drops down behind the sky.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">There is no light in earth or heaven,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>But the cold light of stars;<br />
+And the first watch of night is given<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>To the red planet Mars.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Is it the tender star of love?<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>The star of love and dreams?<br />
+O no! from that blue tent above,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>A hero's armour gleams.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">And earnest thoughts within me rise,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>When I behold afar,<br />
+Suspended in the evening skies,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>The shield of that red star.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">O star of strength! I see thee stand<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And smile upon my pain;<br />
+Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And I am strong again.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Within my breast there is no light,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>But the cold light of stars;<br />
+I give the first watch of the night<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>To the red planet Mars.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The star of the unconquered will,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>He rises in my breast,<br />
+Serene, and resolute, and still,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And calm and self-possessed.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>That readest this brief psalm,<br />
+As one by one thy hopes depart,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Be resolute and calm.</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">O fear not in a world like this,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And thou shalt know ere long,<br />
+Know how sublime a thing it is<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>To suffer and be strong.</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="right"><i>The Light of Stars.</i></td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+
+<p>After lunch, the guests would be taken round
+the house, and its various treasures pointed out:
+books in every corner, and on every wall pictures
+and portraits; antique furniture, interesting
+mementoes of every sort. It was a home well
+worth seeing: and an old-world air pervaded all,
+from the quaint drawing-room, with its old-fashioned,
+rose-festooned wall-paper, to the upper
+rooms with the Dutch-tiled hearths.</p>
+
+<p>Later on, to those with whom he felt specially
+<i>en rapport</i>, Longfellow would read aloud some
+poems, new or old, his own, or those of other
+men. He was not a forcible or a dramatic reader;
+the simplicity which he loved "in all things," as
+he had said, "but specially in poetry," was evident
+also here. Yet perhaps no other man could have
+done equal justice to the lingering hexameters of
+his most successful poem&mdash;for such, by reason of
+its novelty, pathos, and beauty, <i>Evangeline</i> must
+always be considered. "It has become a purifying
+portion," says Rossetti, "of the experiences of the
+heart &hellip; a long-drawn sweetness and sadness";
+and, though sixty years have elapsed since <i>Evangeline</i>
+first appeared, the ideal maiden of this "idyll of
+the heart" has lost no fraction of her loveliness.</p>
+
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left" valign="top">Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.<br />
+Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,<br />
+Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!<br />
+Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.<br />
+When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noon-tide<br />
+Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.<br />
+Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret<br />
+Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop<br />
+Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,<br />
+Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,<br />
+Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,<br />
+Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heir-loom,<br />
+Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.<br />
+But a celestial brightness&mdash;a more ethereal beauty&mdash;<br />
+Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,<br />
+Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.<br />
+When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.<br />
+&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="right"><i>Evangeline.</i></td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+
+<p>In the course of the afternoon, some of the
+Poet's guests taking leave, others would accompany
+him to a concert, organ recital, or any other
+musical function which might be available.
+Longfellow was passionately fond of good music,
+and lost no opportunity of hearing it. His
+own lyrics are singularly susceptible, as all
+composers know, of an adequate musical setting.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<hr class="minimal" />
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Illustration">
+ <tr>
+ <td align="center">
+ <a href="images/illus007.jpg">
+ <img src="images/illus007.jpg" height="500"
+ alt="EVANGELINE" /></a>
+ </td>
+ </tr>
+ <tr>
+ <td align="center">
+ <span class="caption">Click to <a href="images/illus007.jpg">ENLARGE</a><br /><br />
+<i>Painting by H. M. Brock.</i><br /><br />
+EVANGELINE.</span>
+ </td>
+ </tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+<div class="center">
+<table class="sm" style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left" valign="top">But a celestial brightness&mdash;a more ethereal beauty&mdash;<br />
+Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,<br />
+Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.<br />
+When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.</td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<hr class="minimal" />
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>Few short poems in the world have been
+so often sung as "Stars of the summer night"&mdash;"Good-night,
+beloved"&mdash;"The rainy day"&mdash;and
+other well-known verses. A most effective
+sense of sound and rhythm, joined with perfect
+simplicity of diction, evince the inherent artistry
+of a man who was no musician in the technical
+sense, but who could express himself in such
+lines as</p>
+
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left">The night is calm and cloudless,<br />
+And still as still can be,<br />
+And the stars come forth to listen<br />
+To the music of the sea.<br />
+They gather, and gather, and gather,<br />
+Until they crowd the sky,<br />
+And listen in breathless silence,<br />
+To the solemn litany.<br />
+It begins in rocky caverns,<br />
+As a voice that chants alone<br />
+To the pedals of the organ<br />
+In monotonous undertone;<br />
+And anon from shelving beaches<br />
+And shallow sands beyond,<br />
+In snow-white robes uprising<br />
+The ghostly choirs respond.<br />
+And sadly and unceasing<br />
+The mournful voice sings on,<br />
+And the snow-white choirs still answer<br />
+Christe eleison!<br />
+&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="right"><i>The Golden Legend.</i></td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+
+<p>After dinner, to which perhaps an intimate
+friend or two remained, the poet would remain
+awhile in his study: not actually at work, for his
+writing was only done in the morning hours, but
+considering and criticising work already accomplished,
+and carefully perusing that great
+translation of Dante which he considered, rightly
+or wrongly, as the most important work of his
+life. The twilight would slowly fade into the
+dusk of a "blindman's holiday," and then came
+the sweetest moment of the day.</p>
+
+<p>Longfellow's intense affection for all little
+ones, his touching kindness to them, his sympathy
+with their most trivial joys or troubles, were
+focussed and centred in the love he bore to his
+own dear, motherless children.</p>
+
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left" valign="top">Between the dark and the daylight,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>When the night is beginning to lower,<br />
+Comes a pause in the day's occupations,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>That is known as the Children's Hour.<br /><br />
+
+I hear in the chamber above me<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>The patter of little feet,<br />
+The sound of a door that is opened,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And voices soft and sweet.<br /><br />
+
+From my study I see in the lamplight,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Descending the broad hall-stair,<br />
+Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And Edith with golden hair.<br /><br />
+
+A whisper, and then a silence:<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Yet I know by their merry eyes<br />
+They are plotting and planning together<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>To take me by surprise.<br /><br />
+
+A sudden rush from the stairway,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>A sudden raid from the hall!<br />
+By three doors left unguarded<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>They enter my castle wall!<br /><br />
+
+They climb up into my turret,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>O'er the arms and back of my chair;<br />
+If I try to escape they surround me;<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>They seem to be everywhere.<br /><br />
+
+They almost devour me with kisses,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Their arms about me entwine,<br />
+Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!<br /><br />
+
+Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Because you have scaled the wall,<br />
+Such an old moustache as I am<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Is not a match for you all!<br /><br />
+
+I have you fast in my fortress,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And will not let you depart,<br />
+But put you down in the dungeon<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>In the round-tower of my heart.<br /><br />
+
+And there I will keep you for ever,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Yes, for ever and a day,<br />
+Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And moulder in dust away!<br />
+&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="right"><i>The Children's Hour.</i></td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+
+<p>A brief period of childish gaiety would
+supervene, to which the man of childlike heart
+responded readily; and when the little feet had
+pattered bedward, and the house was silent from
+the merry little voices, the father would sit on
+until midnight in his spacious empty room. He
+would occupy himself with letters&mdash;long, fragrant,
+pleasant gossips to his best and most familiar
+friends at a distance: till midnight came upon
+him unawares. "It is nearly one o'clock&mdash;I am
+the only person up in the house: my candle is
+sinking in its socket."</p>
+
+<p>And a double loneliness descended upon him
+as his weary hand laid down the pen. He remained
+inert and brooding; the solitude was almost
+tangible. But this solitude was presently peopled
+by visions, fraught with ineffable consolation to
+a mind never out of touch with "other-worldly"
+influences.</p>
+
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left">When the hours of Day are numbered,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And the voices of the Night<br />
+Wake the better soul, that slumbered,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>To a holy, calm delight;<br /><br />
+
+Ere the evening lamps are lighted,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And, like phantoms grim and tall,<br />
+Shadows from the fitful firelight<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Dance upon the parlour wall;<br /><br />
+
+Then the forms of the departed<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Enter at the open door;<br />
+The beloved, the true-hearted,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Come to visit me once more;<br /><br />
+
+He, the young and strong, who cherished<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Noble longings for the strife,<br />
+By the roadside fell and perished,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Weary with the march of life!<br /><br />
+
+They the holy ones and weakly,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Who the cross of suffering bore,<br />
+Folded their pale hands so meekly,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Spake with us on earth no more!<br /><br />
+
+And with them the Being Beauteous,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Who unto my youth was given,<br />
+More than all things else to love me,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>And is now a saint in heaven.<br /><br />
+
+With a slow and noiseless footstep<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Comes that messenger divine,<br />
+Takes the vacant chair beside me,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Lays her gentle hand in mine.<br /><br />
+
+And she sits and gazes at me<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>With those deep and tender eyes,<br />
+Like the stars, so still and saint-like,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Looking downward from the skies.<br /><br />
+
+Uttered not, yet comprehended,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,<br />
+Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Breathing from her lips of air.<br /><br />
+
+O, though oft depressed and lonely,<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>All my fears are laid aside,<br />
+If I but remember only<br />
+<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span>Such as these have lived and died!<br />
+&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="right"><i>Footsteps of Angels.</i></td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+
+<p>"<i>Empty</i> is a horrid word," the Poet had
+written to a friend&mdash;but the room is no longer
+empty. It has become a habitation for other
+visitants than the motley throng of flatterers
+impelled by curiosity, who hindered his morning
+hours. Unspoken benedictions lie thick upon the
+air&mdash;the man's griefs are soothed away by the
+touch of invisible fingers. Patient, unselfish,
+indomitable, he resumes the burden of his
+daily life with new hope and courage for the
+morrow.</p>
+
+<div class="center">
+<table style="margin: 0 auto" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem">
+<tr><td align="left">As torrents in summer,<br />
+Half dried in their channels,<br />
+Suddenly rise, though the<br />
+Sky is still cloudless,<br />
+For rain has been falling<br />
+Far off at their fountains;<br /><br />
+
+So hearts that are fainting<br />
+Grow full to o'erflowing,<br />
+And they that behold it<br />
+Marvel, and know not<br />
+That God at their fountains<span class="ind1">&nbsp;</span><br />
+Far off has been raining.<br />
+&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="right"><i>Tales of a Wayside Inn.</i></td></tr>
+</table>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Day With Longfellow, by
+Anonymous and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Day With Longfellow, by
+Anonymous and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: A Day With Longfellow
+
+Author: Anonymous
+ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
+
+Release Date: November 11, 2011 [EBook #37980]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DAY WITH LONGFELLOW ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Delphine Lettau, Susan Theresa Morin and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+ DAYS WITH
+ THE GREAT
+ .POETS.
+
+ LONGFELLOW
+
+
+[Illustration: _Painting by A. E. Jackson._ THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.]
+
+ Between the dark and the daylight,
+ When the night is beginning to lower,
+ Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
+ That is known as the Children's Hour.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ They climb up into my turret,
+ O'er the arms and back of my chair;
+ If I try to escape they surround me,
+ They seem to be everywhere.
+
+
+
+
+ A DAY WITH
+ LONGFELLOW
+
+ [Illustration: portrait of Longfellow]
+
+ HODDER & STOUGHTON
+ LTD., PUBLISHERS LONDON
+
+
+_Uniform with this Volume_
+
+_DAYS WITH THE POETS_
+
+ BROWNING
+ BURNS
+ KEATS
+ LONGFELLOW
+ SHAKESPEARE
+ TENNYSON
+
+_DAYS WITH THE COMPOSERS_
+
+ BEETHOVEN
+ CHOPIN
+ GOUNOD
+ MENDELSSOHN
+ TSCHAIKOVSKY
+ WAGNER
+
+_Made and Printed in Great Britain for Hodder & Stoughton, Limited,
+by C. Tinling & Co., Ltd., Liverpool, London and Prescot._
+
+
+
+
+A DAY WITH LONGFELLOW
+
+
+
+
+The expression of serious and tender thoughtfulness, which always
+characterized the quiet face of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, had deepened
+during his later years, into something akin to melancholy. The tragic
+loss of his beloved wife,--burned to death while she was sealing up in
+paper little locks of her children's hair,--had left its permanent and
+irrevocable mark upon his life. Still, he did not seclude himself with
+his sorrow: the professor of Modern Languages at Harvard could hardly
+do that. He remained the selfsame kindly, gentle, industrious man,
+welcoming with ready courtesy the innumerable visitors to the Craigie
+House.
+
+This is a large old-fashioned house in Cambridge, Massachusetts--a place
+of grassy terraces, long verandahs, lilac bushes, and shady trees--a
+perfect dwelling for a man of cultured tastes, as the interior also
+testifies.
+
+From the Poet's study, a spacious, sunny room upon the ground floor,
+he could look across the meadows behind the house to the distant
+silver windings of the River Charles. It was a most orderly room.
+Every book and paper lay where he could put his hand on it in a moment.
+Book-cases full of valuable volumes--precious first editions--busts and
+portraits,--were to be seen on every side. A certain austere simplicity
+was noticeable all over Longfellow's house. "His private rooms," it has
+been said, "were like those of a German professor." But the attractiveness
+and delightfulness of Craigie House arose not from any intrinsic
+opulence of its contents, but from the personality of the man who lived
+there. "By his mere presence he rendered the sunshine brighter, and the
+place more radiant of kindness and peace."
+
+The Poet began his day, so long as age and health permitted, by a brisk
+morning walk. He would be out and about by six, observing and enjoying
+the beauty of earth and air, and subsequently recording his exquisite
+impressions:
+
+ O Gift of God! O perfect day:
+ Whereon shall no man work, but play;
+ Whereon it is enough for me,
+ Not to be doing, but to be!
+
+ Through every fibre of my brain,
+ Through every nerve, through every vein,
+ I feel the electric thrill, the touch
+ Of life, that seems almost too much.
+
+ I hear the wind among the trees
+ Playing celestial symphonies;
+ I see the branches downward bent,
+ Like keys of some great instrument.
+
+ And over me unrolls on high
+ The splendid scenery of the sky,
+ Where through a sapphire sea the sun
+ Sails like a golden galleon,
+
+ Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,
+ Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,
+ Whose steep sierra far uplifts
+ Its craggy summits white with drifts.
+
+ Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms
+ The snowflakes of the cherry-blooms!
+ Blow, winds! and bend within my reach
+ The fiery blossoms of the peach!
+
+ O Life and Love! O happy throng
+ Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!
+ O heart of man! canst thou not be
+ Blithe as the air is, and as free?
+ _A Day of Sunshine._
+
+The morning's post brought the first consignment of that enormous number
+of epistles which were at once an affliction and an amusement to him.
+The Poet was besieged by letters from ambitious aspirants seeking advice,
+and from self-styled failures, desirous of help. To these last he was
+peculiarly drawn, for he was distinguished by "a grace almost peculiar
+to himself at the time in which he lived--his tenderness towards the
+undeveloped artist, struggling towards individual expression." In short,
+his first desire was to help on people, and bring out the best in them.
+
+Of apparent failure or success he recked little, believing, like
+Stevenson, that the true success is labour,--that pursuit, and not
+attainment is the worthiest object of existence; and his philosophy is
+summed up in the well-known words of _The Ladder of Saint Augustine_,
+
+
+ Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
+ That of our vices we can frame
+ A ladder, if we will but tread
+ Beneath our feet each deed of shame!
+
+ All common things, each day's events,
+ That with the hour begin and end,
+ Our pleasures and our discontents,
+ Are rounds by which we may ascend.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ The longing for ignoble things;
+ The strife for triumph more than truth;
+ The hardening of the heart, that brings
+ Irreverence for the dreams of youth;
+
+ All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,
+ That have their root in thoughts of ill;
+ Whatever hinders or impedes
+ The action of the nobler will;--
+
+ All these must first be trampled down
+ Beneath our feet, if we would gain
+ In the bright fields of fair renown
+ The right of eminent domain.
+
+ We have not wings, we cannot soar;
+ But we have feet to scale and climb
+ By slow degrees, by more and more,
+ The cloudy summits of our time.
+
+ The mighty pyramids of stone
+ That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
+ When nearer seen and better known,
+ Are but gigantic flights of stairs.
+
+ The distant mountains that uprear
+ Their solid bastions to the skies,
+ Are crossed by pathways, that appear
+ As we to higher levels rise.
+
+ The heights by great men reached and kept
+ Were not attained by sudden flight,
+ But they, while their companions slept,
+ Were toiling upward in the night.
+
+ Standing on what too long we bore
+ With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,
+ We may discern--unseen before--
+ A path to higher destinies.
+
+ Nor deem the irrevocable Past
+ As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
+ If rising on its wrecks, at last
+ To something nobler we attain.
+
+
+Constant requests for autographs formed the bulk of the day's budget,
+and these also never went unanswered--even when couched in terms the
+most _mal a propos_, much as those of the man who said that "he
+loved poetry in 'most any style,"--"and would you please copy your
+'Break, break, break' for the writer?" Possibly the worst offenders, in
+this matter of autograph-hunting, were those multitudinous schoolgirls
+of whom Longfellow humorously complained that he was always "kept busy
+answering." They ignored the fact of his professional duties, and his
+own unremitting work; anything to get a reply in the handwriting of the
+celebrity! But he had a special delight in budding womanhood, and had
+depicted it with magical insight and rare delicacy of touch, in lines
+which have never been excelled in their charm and purity.
+
+
+ Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes
+ In whose orbs a shadow lies,
+ Like the dusk in evening skies!
+
+ Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
+ Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
+ As the braided streamlets run!
+
+ Standing, with reluctant feet,
+ Where the brook and river meet,
+ Womanhood and childhood fleet!
+
+ Seest thou shadows sailing by,
+ As the dove, with startled eye,
+ Sees the falcon's shadow fly?
+
+ Hearest thou voices on the shore,
+ That our ears perceive no more,
+ Deafened by the cataract's roar?
+
+ O, thou child of many prayers!
+ Life hath quicksands,--Life hath snares!
+ Care and age come unawares!
+
+ Like the swell of some sweet tune,
+ Morning rises into noon,
+ May glides onward into June.
+
+ Childhood is the bough, where slumbered
+ Birds and blossoms many-numbered;--
+ Age, that bough with snows encumbered.
+
+ Gather, then, each flower that grows,
+ When the young heart overflows,
+ To embalm that tent of snows.
+
+ Bear a lily in thy hand;
+ Gates of brass cannot withstand
+ One touch of that magic wand.
+
+ Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
+ In thy heart the dew of youth,
+ On thy lips the seal of truth.
+
+ O, that dew, like balm shall steal
+ Into wounds that cannot heal,
+ Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;
+
+ And that smile, like sunshine, dart
+ Into many a sunless heart,
+ For a smile of God thou art.
+
+ _Maidenhood._
+
+
+[Illustration: _Painting by W. H. Margetson._ MAIDENHOOD.]
+
+ Maiden with the meek, brown eyes
+ In whose orbs a shadow lies,
+ Like the dusk in evening skies!
+
+ Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
+ Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
+ As the braided streamlets run!
+
+
+The early instalment of letters attended to, the Poet could devote
+himself to his own affairs. He believed in _working_ at poetry,
+methodically, systematically: although inspiration might flow with
+sudden fervour, it was not to be waited for. "Regular, proportioned,
+resolute, incessant industry," was the secret of his success, and the
+erasures and substitutions in his MSS. bear witness to his care in
+craftsmanship. The least conspicuous word must be as perfect as he
+could make it. Longfellow's creed, as expounded in _The Builders_,
+allowed for no scamped work.
+
+
+ All are architects of Fate,
+ Working in these walls of Time:
+ Some with massive deeds and great,
+ Some with ornaments of rhyme.
+
+ Nothing useless is, or low;
+ Each thing in its place is best;
+ And what seems but idle show
+ Strengthens and supports the rest.
+
+ For the structure that we raise,
+ Time is with materials filled;
+ Our to-days and yesterdays
+ Are the blocks with which we build.
+
+ Truly shape and fashion these;
+ Leave no yawning gaps between;
+ Think not, because no man sees,
+ Such things will remain unseen.
+
+ In the elder days of Art,
+ Builders wrought with greatest care
+ Each minute and unseen part;
+ For the Gods see everywhere.
+
+ Let us do our work as well,
+ Both the unseen and the seen;
+ Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
+ Beautiful, entire, and clean.
+
+ Else our lives are incomplete,
+ Standing in these walls of Time,
+ Broken stairways, where the feet
+ Stumble as they seek to climb.
+
+ Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
+ With a firm and ample base;
+ And ascending and secure
+ Shall to-morrow find its place.
+
+ Thus alone can we attain
+ To those turrets, where the eye
+ Sees the world as one vast plain,
+ And one boundless reach of sky.
+
+ _The Builders._
+
+
+Work, indeed, whether mental or physical, was his first instinct, and
+he has preached the gospel of honest work to the whole English-speaking
+world in some of the most familiar lines in the language.
+
+
+ Under a spreading chestnut tree
+ The village smithy stands;
+ The smith, a mighty man is he,
+ With large and sinewy hands;
+ And the muscles of his brawny arms
+ Are strong as iron bands.
+
+ His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
+ His face is like the tan;
+ His brow is wet with honest sweat,
+ He earns whate'er he can,
+ And looks the whole world in the face,
+ For he owes not any man.
+
+ Week in, week out, from morn till night,
+ You can hear his bellows blow;
+ You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
+ With measured beat and slow,
+ Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
+ When the evening sun is low.
+
+ And children coming home from school
+ Look in at the open door:
+ They love to see the flaming forge,
+ And hear the bellows roar,
+ And catch the burning sparks that fly
+ Like chaff from a threshing floor.
+
+ He goes on Sunday to the church,
+ And sits among his boys;
+ He hears the parson pray and preach,
+ He hears his daughter's voice,
+ Singing in the village choir,
+ And it makes his heart rejoice.
+
+ It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
+ Singing in Paradise!
+ He needs must think of her once more,
+ How in the grave she lies;
+ And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
+ A tear out of his eyes.
+
+ Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
+ Onward through life he goes;
+ Each morning sees some task begin,
+ Each evening sees it close;
+ Something attempted, something done,
+ Has earned a night's repose.
+
+ Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
+ For the lesson thou hast taught!
+ Thus at the flaming forge of life
+ Our fortune must be wrought;
+ Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
+ Each burning deed and thought!
+
+ _The Village Blacksmith._
+
+
+[Illustration: _Painting by Dudley Tennant._ THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.]
+
+ And children coming home from school
+ Look in at the open door:
+ They love to see the flaming forge,
+ And hear the bellows roar,
+ And catch the burning sparks that fly
+ Like chaff from a threshing floor.
+
+
+Not for long, however, might Longfellow remain undisturbed in his
+sunny room. Sometimes he welcomed the opening door that saw "a little
+figure stealing gently in, laying an arm round his neck as he bent over
+his work, and softly whispering some childish secret in his ear." For
+this was no obstacle to the current of his tranquil thoughts. "My little
+girls are flitting about my study," he wrote to a friend, "as blithe as
+two birds. They are preparing to celebrate the birthday of one of their
+dolls.... What a beautiful world this child's world is! I take infinite
+delight in seeing it go on all around me."
+
+It was with absolute sincerity that he had exclaimed:
+
+
+ Come to me, O ye children!
+ For I hear you at your play,
+ And the questions that perplexed me
+ Have vanished quite away.
+
+ Ye open the eastern windows,
+ That look towards the sun,
+ Where thoughts are singing swallows,
+ And the brooks of morning run.
+
+ In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
+ In your thoughts the brooklet's flow;
+ But in mine is the wind of Autumn,
+ And the first fall of the snow.
+
+ Ah! what would the world be to us,
+ If the children were no more?
+ We should dread the desert behind us
+ Worse than the dark before.
+
+ What the leaves are to the forest,
+ With light and air for food,
+ Ere their sweet and tender juices
+ Have been hardened into wood,--
+
+ That to the world are children;
+ Through them it feels the glow
+ Of a brighter and sunnier climate
+ Than reaches the trunks below
+
+ Come to me, O ye children!
+ And whisper in my ear
+ What the birds and the winds are singing
+ In your sunny atmosphere.
+
+ For what are all our contrivings,
+ And the wisdom of our books,
+ When compared with your caresses,
+ And the gladness of your looks?
+
+ Ye are better than all the ballads
+ That ever were sung or said;
+ For ye are living poems,
+ And all the rest are dead.
+
+ _Children._
+
+But these were congenial moments. There were visitors much less
+desirable. "He was besieged," as one of his friends declares, "by every
+possible form of interruption which the ingenuity of the human brain
+could devise." For his admirers, whose name was legion, were not
+satisfied with hero-worship afar off: they must needs force themselves
+into his presence, and express their admiration _viva-voce_. Most
+amazing folks swooped suddenly down upon him, ruthless and unabashed.
+
+Longfellow, always quick to see the comical side of a situation, would
+tell with great delight strange tales of his unexpected guests. "One
+man," he said, "a perfect stranger, came with an omnibus full of ladies.
+He introduced himself, then returning to the omnibus, took out all the
+ladies, one, two, three, four, five, with a little girl, and brought
+them in. I entertained them to the best of my ability, and they stayed
+an hour."
+
+On another occasion, an English gentleman, with no letter of introduction,
+abruptly introduced himself, thus: "In other countries, you know, we go
+to see ruins, and the like--but you have no ruins in your country, and I
+thought," growing embarrassed, "I would call and see _you_!" Another
+strange gentleman accosted him with great fervour, "Mr. Longfellow, I
+have long desired the honour of knowing you. I am one of _the few men_
+who have read your _Evangeline_!"
+
+All these worshippers at his shrine were received by the Poet with his
+unfailing courtesy and patience; but he was invariably adroit in warding
+off compliments. To applause and flattery he was impervious--reference
+to his own works was distasteful to him. His perfect modesty was the
+reflex of his natural reticence.
+
+Longfellow regarded life from the standpoint of eternity, and thus
+was one who, in the words of a Kempis, "careth little for the praise
+or dispraise of men." His gaze was riveted upon that "Land of the
+Hereafter," to which he was always more than ready to set out, and in
+the departure of Hiawatha he had imaged his longing for the "Happiest
+Land."
+
+
+ On the shore stood Hiawatha,
+ Turned and waved his hand at parting;
+ On the clear and luminous water
+ Launched his birch canoe for sailing,
+ From the pebbles of the margin
+ Shoved it forth into the water;
+ Whispered to it "Westward! westward!"
+ And with speed it darted forward.
+
+ And the evening sun descending
+ Set the clouds on fire with redness,
+ Burned the broad sky, like a prairie,
+ Left upon the level water
+ One long track and trail of splendour,
+ Down whose stream, as down a river,
+ Westward, westward Hiawatha
+ Sailed into the fiery sunset,
+ Sailed into the purple vapours,
+ Sailed into the dusk of evening.
+
+ And the people from the margin
+ Watched him floating, rising, sinking,
+ Till the birch canoe seemed lifted
+ High into that sea of splendour,
+ Till it sank into the vapours
+ Like the new moon slowly, slowly
+ Sinking in the purple distance.
+
+ And they said "Farewell for ever!"
+ Said "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
+ And the forests, dark and lonely,
+ Moved through all their depths of darkness,
+ Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
+ And the waves upon the margin
+ Rising, rippling on the pebbles,
+ Sobbed "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
+ And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
+ From her haunts among the fenlands,
+ Screamed "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
+
+ Thus departed Hiawatha,
+ Hiawatha the Beloved,
+ In the glory of the sunset,
+ In the purple mists of evening,
+ To the regions of the home-wind,
+ Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin,
+ To the Islands of the Blessed,
+ To the kingdom of Ponemah,
+ To the land of the Hereafter!
+
+ _Hiawatha._
+
+
+[Illustration: _Painting by J. Finnemore._ HIAWATHA.]
+
+ And the evening sun descending....
+ Left upon the level water
+ One long track and trail of splendour,
+ Down whose stream as down a river,
+ Westward, westward Hiawatha
+ Sailed into the fiery sunset,
+ Sailed into the purple vapours,
+ Sailed into the dusk of evening.
+
+
+Personal friends, of whom the Poet possessed many, would arrive in
+time for lunch, and be welcomed by the master of Craigie House at the
+gate in the lilac hedge. He would bring them into the large, cheerful
+dining-room, and the children would sit at a little table on the
+verandah, while the host, with his own hands, set the copper kettle
+singing, and made tea in the antique silver pot.
+
+It was a peaceful, happy hour for the guests. Longfellow, unlike
+Tennyson, was never much of a talker: he was a listener and observer,
+who dwelt in a speaking silence--in what has been defined as a heavenly
+unfathomableness. Ruskin had written: "You come as such a _calm_
+influence to me ... you give me such a feeling of friendship and repose."
+And this feeling was enhanced by the man's natural dignity and grace,
+the refinement of his features, the perfect taste of his dress, and
+the exquisite simplicity of his manners. Many have alluded to his soft,
+musical voice, to his steady blue-grey eyes, to the "innate charm of
+tranquillity," which gave a peculiar spiritual sweetness to his smile.
+But the man was even more, and better than the poet; so much so that a
+young enthusiast exclaimed "All the vulgar and pretentious people in the
+world ought to be sent to Mr. Longfellow to show them how to behave!"
+Nor was this calm the outcome of natural placidity--it had been attained
+through bitter suffering: it was that gleam of a hero's armour which the
+"red planet Mars" unveils to a tear-dimmed sight, when
+
+
+ The night is come, but not too soon;
+ And sinking silently,
+ All silently, the little moon
+ Drops down behind the sky.
+
+ There is no light in earth or heaven,
+ But the cold light of stars;
+ And the first watch of night is given
+ To the red planet Mars.
+
+ Is it the tender star of love?
+ The star of love and dreams?
+ O no! from that blue tent above,
+ A hero's armour gleams.
+
+ And earnest thoughts within me rise,
+ When I behold afar,
+ Suspended in the evening skies,
+ The shield of that red star.
+
+ O star of strength! I see thee stand
+ And smile upon my pain;
+ Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,
+ And I am strong again.
+
+ Within my breast there is no light,
+ But the cold light of stars;
+ I give the first watch of the night
+ To the red planet Mars.
+
+ The star of the unconquered will,
+ He rises in my breast,
+ Serene, and resolute, and still,
+ And calm and self-possessed.
+
+ And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
+ That readest this brief psalm,
+ As one by one thy hopes depart,
+ Be resolute and calm.
+
+ O fear not in a world like this,
+ And thou shalt know ere long,
+ Know how sublime a thing it is
+ To suffer and be strong.
+
+ _The Light of Stars._
+
+
+After lunch, the guests would be taken round the house, and its various
+treasures pointed out: books in every corner, and on every wall pictures
+and portraits; antique furniture, interesting mementoes of every sort.
+It was a home well worth seeing: and an old-world air pervaded all,
+from the quaint drawing-room, with its old-fashioned, rose-festooned
+wall-paper, to the upper rooms with the Dutch-tiled hearths.
+
+Later on, to those with whom he felt specially _en rapport_, Longfellow
+would read aloud some poems, new or old, his own, or those of other men.
+He was not a forcible or a dramatic reader; the simplicity which he
+loved "in all things," as he had said, "but specially in poetry," was
+evident also here. Yet perhaps no other man could have done equal justice
+to the lingering hexameters of his most successful poem--for such, by
+reason of its novelty, pathos, and beauty, _Evangeline_ must always be
+considered. "It has become a purifying portion," says Rossetti, "of the
+experiences of the heart ... a long-drawn sweetness and sadness"; and,
+though sixty years have elapsed since _Evangeline_ first appeared, the
+ideal maiden of this "idyll of the heart" has lost no fraction of her
+loveliness.
+
+
+ Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.
+ Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the
+ wayside,
+ Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her
+ tresses!
+ Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.
+ When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noon-tide
+ Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.
+ Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret
+ Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop
+ Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,
+ Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her
+ missal,
+ Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,
+ Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heir-loom,
+ Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.
+ But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty--
+ Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
+ Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+ When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
+
+ _Evangeline._
+
+
+In the course of the afternoon, some of the Poet's guests taking leave,
+others would accompany him to a concert, organ recital, or any other
+musical function which might be available. Longfellow was passionately
+fond of good music, and lost no opportunity of hearing it. His own
+lyrics are singularly susceptible, as all composers know, of an adequate
+musical setting.
+
+
+[Illustration: _Painting by H. M. Brock._ EVANGELINE.]
+
+ But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty--
+ Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
+ Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+ When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
+
+
+Few short poems in the world have been so often sung as "Stars of
+the summer night"--"Good-night, beloved"--"The rainy day"--and other
+well-known verses. A most effective sense of sound and rhythm, joined
+with perfect simplicity of diction, evince the inherent artistry of a
+man who was no musician in the technical sense, but who could express
+himself in such lines as
+
+
+ The night is calm and cloudless,
+ And still as still can be,
+ And the stars come forth to listen
+ To the music of the sea.
+ They gather, and gather, and gather,
+ Until they crowd the sky,
+ And listen in breathless silence,
+ To the solemn litany.
+ It begins in rocky caverns,
+ As a voice that chants alone
+ To the pedals of the organ
+ In monotonous undertone;
+ And anon from shelving beaches
+ And shallow sands beyond,
+ In snow-white robes uprising
+ The ghostly choirs respond.
+ And sadly and unceasing
+ The mournful voice sings on,
+ And the snow-white choirs still answer
+ Christe eleison!
+
+ _The Golden Legend._
+
+
+After dinner, to which perhaps an intimate friend or two remained,
+the poet would remain awhile in his study: not actually at work, for
+his writing was only done in the morning hours, but considering and
+criticising work already accomplished, and carefully perusing that great
+translation of Dante which he considered, rightly or wrongly, as the
+most important work of his life. The twilight would slowly fade into the
+dusk of a "blindman's holiday," and then came the sweetest moment of the
+day.
+
+Longfellow's intense affection for all little ones, his touching
+kindness to them, his sympathy with their most trivial joys or troubles,
+were focussed and centred in the love he bore to his own dear,
+motherless children.
+
+
+ Between the dark and the daylight,
+ When the night is beginning to lower,
+ Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
+ That is known as the Children's Hour.
+
+ I hear in the chamber above me
+ The patter of little feet,
+ The sound of a door that is opened,
+ And voices soft and sweet.
+
+ From my study I see in the lamplight,
+ Descending the broad hall-stair,
+ Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
+ And Edith with golden hair.
+
+ A whisper, and then a silence:
+ Yet I know by their merry eyes
+ They are plotting and planning together
+ To take me by surprise.
+
+ A sudden rush from the stairway,
+ A sudden raid from the hall!
+ By three doors left unguarded
+ They enter my castle wall!
+
+ They climb up into my turret,
+ O'er the arms and back of my chair;
+ If I try to escape they surround me;
+ They seem to be everywhere.
+
+ They almost devour me with kisses,
+ Their arms about me entwine,
+ Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
+ In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
+
+ Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
+ Because you have scaled the wall,
+ Such an old moustache as I am
+ Is not a match for you all!
+
+ 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 I will keep you for ever,
+ Yes, for ever and a day,
+ Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
+ And moulder in dust away!
+
+ _The Children's Hour._
+
+
+A brief period of childish gaiety would supervene, to which the man of
+childlike heart responded readily; and when the little feet had pattered
+bedward, and the house was silent from the merry little voices, the
+father would sit on until midnight in his spacious empty room. He would
+occupy himself with letters--long, fragrant, pleasant gossips to his
+best and most familiar friends at a distance: till midnight came upon
+him unawares. "It is nearly one o'clock--I am the only person up in the
+house: my candle is sinking in its socket."
+
+And a double loneliness descended upon him as his weary hand laid
+down the pen. He remained inert and brooding; the solitude was
+almost tangible. But this solitude was presently peopled by visions,
+fraught with ineffable consolation to a mind never out of touch with
+"other-worldly" influences.
+
+
+ When the hours of Day are numbered,
+ And the voices of the Night
+ Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
+ To a holy, calm delight;
+
+ Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
+ And, like phantoms grim and tall,
+ Shadows from the fitful firelight
+ Dance upon the parlour wall;
+
+ Then the forms of the departed
+ Enter at the open door;
+ The beloved, the true-hearted,
+ Come to visit me once more;
+
+ He, the young and strong, who cherished
+ Noble longings for the strife,
+ By the roadside fell and perished,
+ Weary with the march of life!
+
+ They the holy ones and weakly,
+ Who the cross of suffering bore,
+ Folded their pale hands so meekly,
+ Spake with us on earth no more!
+
+ And with them the Being Beauteous,
+ Who unto my youth was given,
+ More than all things else to love me,
+ And is now a saint in heaven.
+
+ With a slow and noiseless footstep
+ Comes that messenger divine,
+ Takes the vacant chair beside me,
+ Lays her gentle hand in mine.
+
+ And she sits and gazes at me
+ With those deep and tender eyes,
+ Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
+ Looking downward from the skies.
+
+ Uttered not, yet comprehended,
+ Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
+ Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
+ Breathing from her lips of air.
+
+ O, though oft depressed and lonely,
+ All my fears are laid aside,
+ If I but remember only
+ Such as these have lived and died!
+
+ _Footsteps of Angels._
+
+"_Empty_ is a horrid word," the Poet had written to a friend--but the
+room is no longer empty. It has become a habitation for other visitants
+than the motley throng of flatterers impelled by curiosity, who hindered
+his morning hours. Unspoken benedictions lie thick upon the air--the
+man's griefs are soothed away by the touch of invisible fingers. Patient,
+unselfish, indomitable, he resumes the burden of his daily life with new
+hope and courage for the morrow.
+
+
+ As torrents in summer,
+ Half dried in their channels,
+ Suddenly rise, though the
+ Sky is still cloudless,
+ For rain has been falling
+ Far off at their fountains;
+
+ So hearts that are fainting
+ Grow full to o'erflowing,
+ And they that behold it
+ Marvel, and know not
+ That God at their fountains
+ Far off has been raining.
+
+ _Tales of a Wayside Inn._
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Day With Longfellow, by
+Anonymous and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #37980 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37980)