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 178 ARTISTS AND AUTHORS people. He had become the poet of the English homes, and was as greatly read as the Laureate. I met the poet under most pleasant circumstances, in the beginning of his beautiful old age. I was a young editor ; I was called to make an address be- fore a church literary society on the historic places of Boston, and I wrote to Professor Longfellow in regard to the history of the poem " I Stood on the Bridge at Midnight." I received a note from him in his well-known hand, say- ing that if I would visit him some evening at his home, it would give him pleas- ure not only to give me the history of the writing of this poem, but of any of his poems in which I might take an interest. I accepted the invitation, and one misty February night found me at his door, feeling as poor Phillis Wheatly must have felt when she stood at the same door after the invitation from Washington. I well recall the night. The slow opening of the door by the quiet servant, the dim hall that seemed haunted by the shadows of the past, the great reception- room walled with books and pictures ! The poet was alone he was a lon2ly man in his old age. He rose from his table, and came to meet me, a kindly light in his face, His flowing hair as white as snow. He saw that I was awed by his presence, and his gracious dignity changed at once into a friendly sympathy. " I have here some things that may interest you," he said ; " here is Coleridge's inkstand ; there is Tom Moore's waste-paper basket.; and there," he added, in a reverent tone, "is a piece of Dante's coffin." The last relic was enclosed in a solid glass, and he proceeded to tell the story of how he had received it. " You express a kindly interest in the origin of my poems," he added, in sub- stance. " I will tell you something about the writing of some of them. You see the screen yonder ; it is Japanese ; there is written upon it the ' Psalm of Life.' The poem was written at Cambridge when the orchards were bright with buds and blossoms, and the days were in the full tide of the year. I did not write it for publication but for myself. I felt an inspiration to express in words my one purpose in life. I carried it about with me for a long time, when I was asked for a poem for the Knickerbocker Magazine, then a popular periodical, and I sent it to the editor without any expectation of its success with the people. It has been translated into nearly all languages that have a literature. " In London I received an invitation to visit the queen. On returning from the palace, the coach was stopped by the crowd of vehicles in the street. There stepped before the door of the carriage an English workman. ' Are you Mr. Longfellow ? ' he asked. ' I am,' I answe r ed. ' Did you write the " Psalm of Life " ? ' 'I wrote that poem, my friend.' ' Pardon me, but would you be will- ing to take the hand of a workingman ? ' ' Certainly, my friend ; it would give me pleasure.' He put his hand through the carriage window, and I shook hands with him. That," said Mr. Longfellow, with emphasis and feeling, "was the best compliment that I ever received in my life." The last declaration, in which we think that we have quoted the poet's exact words, shows the heart and character of the man. It is a photograph of his soul.