languor and weariness of age." On one of Mr. Norton's last visits, in response to the greeting, "I hope this is a good day for you," the poet answered, with a pleasant smile, "Ah! there are no good days now."

Still, there were no apprehensions. In the sunny days of the early spring he went out on the sheltered piazza for his usual air and exercise. Only a few days before he died, he walked about his grounds, not, of course, with his old elasticity, but as if it gave him pleasure. His son-in-law, it is said, meditated a trip to Europe, nothing in the poet's condition making such a step unwarrantable. But on Saturday evening there was a chill, and at night there were symptoms of inflammation in the bowels. On Sunday sleep was obtained only by the action of opiates. On Monday his state was so serious that the physicians thought it wise to give the alarm to the family and immediate friends. By Wednesday all seemed so promising that it was confidently hoped the danger was passed. There was no more pain; the patient was conscious; the bright smile came back to his face. On Thursday he had a relapse. In the evening he rallied again, but fell away toward morning, and by daylight was all but speechless. The breathing was labored. During Friday forenoon he lay in a kind of stupor, occasionally moving as if in pain. At ten minutes past three he died peacefully, with his family and a few friends by his bedside. It was the twenty-fourth day of March, 1882.

Now ensued something like a transfiguration. The news of the poet's death gave a shock of surprise to the whole community. A spasm of loving gratitude stirred all hearts. On Saturday flags were hung at half-mast. On Sunday morning the pastors of all the churches spoke tenderly of him to sympathizing congregations. Emblems of mourning were displayed from many dwellings. Portraits and engravings appeared at shop windows. On the afternoon of Sunday a great crowd flocked to Cambridge in the hope of witnessing the last rites.

But the funeral services were held at the house, in presence of a company of forty or fifty persons. Emerson was there from Concord, Curtis from Staten Island, while Boston

sent a distinguished company of poets, divines, professors, men and women of letters, physicians, teachers, all filled with admiration and affection. The poet's brother, Samuel, then a minister in Germantown, Pennsylvania, conducted the simple ceremony, after which the body was conveyed to Mount Auburn, its final resting-place. The day was as unlike the poetry and life of the dead singer as could be imagined. Nature had no tears for her departed child. The wind blew in bitter gusts; flurries of snow were in the air; the sky was gloomy with clouds; the branches of the trees creaked dismally; the withered leaves of the previous autumn rustled in the blast. But he was at peace. His grave, situated on a hillside on Indian Ridge Path, looks out on the blue hilltops of Arlington Heights, and down on the cemetery lake. Soon the trees were green and the singing of birds made glad the singer's resting-place.

In the mean time Appleton Chapel was filling up. The President of Bowdoin College came early. There were few floral decorations, only a large harp with broken strings which leaned against the altar. Professor J. K. Paine presided at the organ; the Harvard Glee Club sang "Beati sunt mortui"; the Rev. Francis Peabody read inspiring words from Scripture and from the poet's own verse; the Rev. Carroll Everett gave an admirable address, which is printed in full as expressing fitly the scope and tendency of the poet's genius.

"In this service of sympathy and reverent sorrow it is a moving and inspiring thought that the feelings which drew us here are shared by multitudes whereever the English tongue is spoken. Many share them to whom the songs of our poet are known only in what is to them a foreign speech. It shows our civilization in one of its most interesting aspects, that feelings so profound, so pure, should fascinate such a large portion of the world to-day. Here is no dazzling position; here is no startling circumstance. A simple life has uttered itself in song; men listened, rejoiced, and loved, and now they mourn; yet for us there is a deeper sorrow. While others mourn the poet who is gone, we mourn the man who was our townsman, who was our neighbor, who was our friend. We knew the simple beauty of his life; we knew its truth, its kindness, its helpfulness, its strength. We could not, indeed, separate from our thought of him

the knowledge of his fame and of his genius. We saw him bear the honors of the world more easily than many bear the triumphs of our ordinary life. Thus we knew and loved him, and thus we sorrow for him. But this difference of which I speak is, after all, one of degree. He poured himself into his songs, and wherever they went he was found with them, and in these others found the beauty of that spirit which was revealed to us in its nearer presence. Thus he drew very near to many hearts. Thus many who never looked upon his face feel to-day that they, too, have lost a friend. You remember how sweetly and gracefully he greets these unseen and unknown friends in the dedication of one of his books. feels their presence, though he sees them not. enters their very households, sure of a welcome. Thus he cries:

'I hope, as no unwelcome guest,

He

He

At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted, To have my place reserved among the rest.'

"The kindly request was heeded; he found a place in many households which he had never seen. And now, by many a fireside, it is almost as though there was one more vacant chair.'

"I have said he poured his life into his work. It is a singular fact, however, that the phase of life which furnishes the material of so large a portion of the poetry of the world, which many sing if they sing nothing else, he was content to utter in prose if prose we must call the language of his romances. He seemed content to have scattered unbound the flowers of romantic love at the doors of the temple of his song. There is something strange, too, in the fascination which the thought of death has for so many generous youths. You remember that Bryant first won fame by a hymn to death, and so, I think, the first work of Longfellow which won recognition for him was that translation of those sounding Spanish lines which exalt the majesty of death and sing the shortness of human life. But the first song of his own which won the recognition of the world was not a song of death; it was a psalm of life. That little volume, Voices of the Night,' formed an epoch in our literary history. It breathed his whole spirit, his energy, his courage, his tenderness, his faith. It formed the prelude of all which should come after, and henceforth we find his whole life imaged in his verse. I do not mean that he tore open the heart or the home, but all is transfigured, enlarged, made universal, made the common property of all. We wander with him through foreign lands; he takes us with him into his studies. In his translations he gives us their fairest fruits. We hear with him the greeting of the new-born child; we

are taken into the sacred joy of home; the merry notes of the children's hour ring upon our ears; we feel the pains of sorrow and of loss; we hear the prayer of elevated trust, and when age draws near at last, when the shadows begin to fall, then we share with him the solemnity and sublimity of the gathering darkness. The life which is thus imaged in these songs was one that was fitted for such use. I think we may look at it as one of the most rounded lives that ever has been lived upon earth, there seems so little that was lacking to its perfect completeness. I do not mean there was no sorrow in it. What life can be made perfect without it? What poet's life can be made complete without the experience of suffering? But from the very first his life flowed on its calm and even way. His first songs received the applause of the world, and the sympathy of men moved with him as he moved forward in his work. Travel in foreign lands enlarged his sympathies and added a picturesqueness to his poems which they otherwise might have lacked. The literature of all ages and nations was open to him, and he drew from all. It is said, I know, that thus he represents the culture of the past and of foreign lands; that he is not our poet, not American; but what is the genius of our country, what is American? Is it not the very genius of our nation, to bring together elements from far-off lands, fusing them into one and making a new type of man? The American poet should represent the genius of all lands. He must have no provincial muse. He must sing of the forest and of the sea, but not of these alone. He must be 'heir of all the ages.' He must be the representative of all the culture of all time. He must absorb all things into himself and stand free, strong, able, a man as simple as though he had never strayed beyond his native woods. He must, in other words, be like our Longfellow. When what we may call his preparation was completed, his life flowed on its course, gathering only greater and calmer feelings as it flowed. His age was as beautiful as his manhood and his youth. 'Morituri Salutamus,' that marvellous poem, is, perhaps, the grandest hymn to age that was ever written. Death is no distant dream, as it was when those sounding Spanish lines fell from his pen; he feels its shadows; he feels that the end is drawing near; but there he stands, strong and calm, with sublime faith as at the first; he greets the present as he greeted the past; he gathers from the coming of age, from approaching night, not a signal for rest, but a new summons to activity. He cries:

'It is too late! Ah, nothing is too late Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.' "And so he takes up his glad work again, and I

think some of his sweetest and deepest songs date from this latest period, such as that graceful poem to Tennyson, that chivalrous greeting from one son of song to another, and that tender message that he sent to Lowell across the seas, in The Herons of Elmwood.' There comes in a little playfulness, too, of which there is not much in his earlier songs.

"His was a calm, loving age, full of activity, confidence, and peace. He writes upon his latest volume those words that mark the end of his career, and his labors are at an end. The Ultima Thule' has been reached. The world's love gathered about him as he lived, and its homage was breathed into his ear. On his last birthday there was paid to him an ovation given to few living. From the home of his youth in Maine came greetings; children's voices, those which were ever most welcome to his ear, joined in the acclaim. Thus the story of his life was completed. His last book had been written and marked by him as his last; the final greeting of the world had been uttered to him, and he passed away. He passed away. I think we have not yet learned the meaning of those words. I think we do not yet quite feel them. We still half think we may sometimes meet him in his familiar haunts. Does not this protest of the heart contain a truth? His spirit, as we trust, has been called to higher service; yet he had given himself unto the world, he had breathed himself into his songs; in them he is with us still. Wherever they go, as they wander through the world, he will be with them, a minister of love; he will be by the side of youth, pointing to heights as yet unscaled, bidding him have faith and courage; he will be with the wanderer in foreign lands, making the beauty that he sees more fair; he will be with the mariner on the seas; he will be in the quiet beauty of home; he will be by the side of the sorrowing heart, pointing to a higher faith. When old age is gathering about the human soul he will be there to inspire courage still, to cry, 'For age is opportunity no less than youth itself.' Thus will he inspire in all faith and courage, and point all to those two sources of strength that never fail - 'Heart within and God o'erhead.'"

The daily papers all over the country contained biographical notices of Mr. Longfellow, accompanied with attempts more or less successful to assign his place among native and foreign bards. So far as I have seen, these notices were eulogistic, most of them extremely So. At the monthly meeting of the Massachusetts Historical Society, held on April 13th,

Dr. George E. Ellis, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Professor Norton, and Mr. William Everett paid touching tributes to the dead poet. At the meeting of the Maine Historical Society, on May 25th, the following resolutions were presented:

"Resolved, That the Maine Historical Society, honored in counting among its members the illustrious poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, lately deceased, desire to join their fellow countrymen everywhere in paying their tribute of gratitude and admiration for those productions of his genius which have made his name immortal.

"Resolved, That while death has removed from association with living men his revered presence, and, so far as can be seen, has arrested that assiduous labor which has so enriched the pages of permanent literature, it has extended his fame, and brought to millions who had not known him an appreciation of the nobility of his nature and the purity of his life.

“Resolved, That the society whose office it is to cherish the memory of the men of Maine who in literature, science, politics, war, business enterprise, and the inventive arts have shed lustre upon our history, acknowledge the indebtedness of our citizens to Longfellow for the honor his long and brilliant career in the highest departments of creative art has conferred upon our country, and especially upon our State that gave him birth.

"Resolved, That the secretary be requested to communicate, with a copy of these resolutions, the respectful sympathy of this society to the family of the distinguished deceased."

In Great Britain all the leading papers paid tribute to Longfellow. The "Times" said :

"The news of Longfellow's death will be read with deep regret wherever the English language is spoken. The death of no literary Englishman could excite more genuine sorrow than that of the muchloved author of 'Evangeline.' He will be no more sincerely lamented in America than in this country." The "News" said:

6

"His Muse was crowned with the pink lianas of the virgin forest, and soared aloft with the blue bird of Meschacébé. There was an amplitude as of condor wings in her angel-flight. A flame of liberty and love, innocent faith and savage pride, filled her soul. "Through his songs, in the ecstacy of his Excelsior,' one inhales the breeze that blows over desert prairies, perfumed with the breath of unknown flowers, the wind that is cooled by its passage over the great lakes, and embalms the immensities untrodden by the foot of man.

"All the melancholy splendors of solitudes beam in the creations of Longfellow.

"The author of 'Evangeline' was the Lamartine of America, who rejuvenated the poetry of the Old World through contact with virgin nature.

"Some of his works have been translated into French by M. Xavier Marmier with exquisite art and conscientious fidelity."

Other writers were more discriminating. M. Scherer had a good many words of just praise. M. Leon Quesnel wrote:

"Chaste, pure, and pensive, his Muse always seems to us a beautiful maiden, becomingly and elegantly robed, refined, polished, attractive, and endowed with the divine gift of eternal youth. No poem of Longfellow's will ever be old-fashioned. His poems are the especial favorites of women who appreciate the delicacy of his sentiments and the chasteness of his language. They are also more susceptible than men of being influenced by his subtle charm. . . . But he is not, if loved by ladies, a ladies' poet. There is no artificial scent about him. If there had been, Baudelaire would not have cared to translate many of his verses in 'The Flowers of Evil.'"

M. Louis Depret, the translator of the "Belfry of Bruges" and other pieces, thinks that

the American poet has too keen a sense of ideal beauty ever to grow antiquated, and believes he will always remain one of the most universally interesting of literary figures. In his judgment, Longfellow had a dual nature. He was original and natural; he was a New-Englander among New-Englanders, and still he had a faculty for entering into the heart of Old World tongues, literatures, fine arts, modes, and manners. He was a beautiful echo at times of the archaic poets of Europe. He had the tastes of a scholar and the sensibilities which belong to the children of a young civilization. There was never a more elegant scholar, and yet no primitive man ever listened with more reverent attention to the voices of the forest. The American poet, he avers, had an exceedingly fine ear. At the Théâtre Français he observed that the French language, as well as the manner of pronouncing it, had undergone a change between 1829 and 1869.

The Roman Catholics were always interested in Longfellow on account of his freedom from the sectarian spirit. The first in the series of sonnets entitled "Divina Commedia" is, naturally, a favorite with them, and is quoted in a German paper.

"Oft have I seen at some cathedral door

A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,
Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor
Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er;

Far off the noises of the world retreat;
The loud vociferations of the street
Become an undistinguishable roar.
So, as I enter here from day to day,

And leave my burden at this minster gate,
Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray,
The tumult of the time disconsolate

To inarticulate murmurs dies away,
While the eternal ages watch and wait."

Cardinal Wiseman, alluding to Longfellow, is recorded as saying:

"Whether we are charmed by his fancy, fascinated by his melodious numbers, exalted by the high moral teaching of his pure Muse, or whether we follow with compassionate hearts the wanderings of Evangeline, I am sure, at all events, that as many as hear my voice will unite with me in paying the highest tribute to the genius of Longfellow."

The choicest of the English people, nobles,

peers, men of letters, poets, petitioned that a memorial of some kind should be erected in Westminster Abbey, in order that the name of our poet might be associated with the most distinguished of the nation, and might show to all men that England and America were one at heart. Nothing was wanting that could give dignity or grace to the request. The Prince of Wales lent his influence to the scheme. The Earl of Granville, at the head of a large and distinguished delegation, waited on the Dean of Westminster with the request. The Dean promptly and cordially complied. sum of money required is already raised; the spot is chosen; the artist is selected; and before many months have elapsed a suitable monument will be erected among the great poets, to the man who threw such golden lustre on the English as well as on the American

name.

The

It is quite natural that the English people, especially the noble and intellectual order of them, should welcome those traits in Longfellow which, to an aggressive democracy, may be objectionable; his reverence for the Past, his love of European learning and taste, his serene acquiescence in the established order of Providence, his freedom from the spirit of denial and scepticism in regard to religious ideas,

the sweet, gracious character of his verse. The increasing familiarity with Europe, the respect for the old countries that is taking possession of the American people, the temper of mild conversation that is stealing over our communities, may, perhaps, in time overcome a part of their objections by reconciling the more indifferent of Americans to Longfellow's foreign dispositions. How far the growing tendency to religious doubt may extend among the readers of his poetry and undermine their tranquil faith in spiritual things, it is at present impossible to tell. A reaction may come, but will it stop at his calm equipoise of trust? If not, his popularity must temporarily decline. That it will fall away permanently one cannot believe who believes in the wonted instincts of human nature. So long as suffering, disappointment, effort, sorrow, death, are universal experiences, the sentiments belonging to them will be universal too; and he who has given most ample, varied, pathetic, simple, and sincere expression to them will be listened to with affectionate interest. The time is not likely to come when men and women will cease to weep, to strive, or to love. Such experiences outlast unbelief in God and immortality, and will make their voice heard above the din of changing years.