As a feather is wafted downward, "I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, "A feeling of sadness and longing And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. "And the night shall be filled with music, And silently steal away." The last words died out to a faint murmur, but the old poet's face still bore its inspired look. Thanking him with deep feeling, I prepared to say "good-night," as the air was getting a little chill, and I feared keeping him any longer; also-may I say it?—I wished to retire before the sound of any other voice could disturb the lingering memory of the professor's inspired tones. As I said "goodnight" he arose, and spoke with infinite tenderness: "God bless you, 'chere enfant, and may your life be one of happiness and content; dormez bien, and good-night." He bowed with courtly grace, and led me through the still opened window back to the drawing-room. I left him, but, turning, I said: "Cher maître, are you not thinking of soon taking your rest? This has been a long and tiresome day for you, I fear, although to me it has been so enjoyable." I looked at his face, and it seemed older than usual, and I knew he must be tired, although he said: "I cannot go just yet; besides, I think I hear voices, and I must see my daughter to say goodnight. I could not sleep were I to retire now; again, bonne nuit." Sleep! I could not sleep myself, but lay thinking over the day's events for some time. Of the many great men whom it had been my fortune to meet, none, not one, could claim to be the man that Longfellow is. His is a soul that looks straight ahead, and while he must have known all the fascination that comes to the life of a public man, yet never, in the slightest way, did a too worldly sentiment ever escape him, or a spoken thought, that was not pure and wholesome, ever pass his lips. I felt that this man was one among men, perhaps the only poet whose inner life has been one beautiful hymn, and whose daily intercourse with the world left not one imprint on the stainless character, one mark by which the fatal traces of passion and worldliness could ever show themselves, other than in a lofty sense. I could not help praying that one whose influence was so grand and puissant, might defy, for many years to come, the approach of the angel whose visit leaves only desolation behind. CHAPTER XV. LONGFELLOW IS INTERESTED IN VICTOR HUGO. "A cold, uninterrupted rain, That washed each southern window-pane A sea of mist that overflowed The house, the barn, the gilded vane, Through which the cak-leaves broad and high TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN, Part II. "Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations." SOR two days the rain has kept us within doors and I can scarcely say that I regret it, as the poet has been indefatigable in his efforts to keep us enlivened, and I have had the rare treat of hearing him speak at length on many subjects, more or less interesting. The hours passed under his roof have constituted the greatest intellectual event of my life-time. His beautiful ideas, and sweet way of expressing them, are filled with an ineffable charm, and his voice is in keeping with his poetic face anal appearance. I had a copy of "Les Travailleurs de la Mer" in my hand when I came down-stairs late in the afternoon, and the professor noticed it. "I am glad to see you reading Victor Hugo,” said he, amiably; "he is a great poet and writer, and his works, besides possessing infinite charm and vigor, are really instructive. Of course his great forte is in his imaginative and descriptive power. He is grand and pathetic." I interrupted: "I know the old poet so well, that I read his writings with still more pleasure, however. His description of the devil-fish in this is so terribly graphic that I screamed out all alone by myself just an hour since, as if really in the clutches of this horrible monster. I think I have learned more of the |