LONGFELLOW'S HOME LIFE.

66

CHAPTER I.

THE HOUSE AT CAMBRIDGE.

"Once, ah! once within these walls,
One, whom memory oft recalls,
The Father of his Country, dwelt."

M

TO A CHILD.

Y DEAR MADAM:-I have arranged it all, and will call for you to-morrow at eleven. Excuse my coming so early, but it is a long way to Cambridge, and luncheon is usually at one o'clock. The Poet says he will be charmed to see you. In haste.

"Votre dévoué,

"NATHAN APPLETON."

Such is the substance of a little note that I am continually turning over and over in my hand. As

I read and re-read it I know that a great desire of my life is on the eve of realization. I am going to Cambridge. Cambridge is the home of a poet, and that poet is IIenry Wadsworth Longfel

low.

When I was in Paris, in the Spring of '79, I made the acquaintance of Mr. Nathan Appleton, our distinguished compatriot, who had come to Europe as a delegate to the International Congress, called together by Count Ferdinand de Lesseps, regarding a maritime canal across the American isthmus. Mr. Appleton is a brother-in-law of Mr. Longfellow, and he had promised to present me to the poet if ever I should go to Boston. I am here now, and this little note is the agreeable result.

The hours passed slowly till the following morning, and only as we drove through the well-kept carriage-way did I feel that my time of probation was ended. Ascending the old-fashioned steps, we found ourselves on the porch of the Craigie Mansion. We walked towards the entrance, and to my amaze

ment Mr. Appleton did not ring, but turned the knob softly, saying,

"Longfellow follows the custom of the ancients. His latch-string is ever out." Or, I interrupted,

"The peasants of Normandy in the reign of the Henrys. Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows; but their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners.""

We entered a large antechamber which reminded me of the small chamber in the Louvre of Paris, dedicated to the Venus of Milo, and, in fact, almost the first object my eye rested upon was a copy of that wondrous work. The walls were hung with plaques and pictures, while copies and originals in ancient sculpture were artistically placed about. In one corner, on a high pedestal, was a beautiful head in white marble of the Roman hero Marcellus-a copy of the famous bust in the antique museum in Rome; it is so well done as to almost rival in beauty the great original.

There were several doors to this apartment, and one at the farther end stood open. A maid came for

ward, and Mr. Appleton, recognizing her with a smile, inquired if the poet were visible. She answered in the affirmative, and showed the way through a richly-furnished hall to his study. As our advancing footsteps made themselves heard the door opened and Longfellow stood before us.

With well-bred civility, he acknowledged Mr. Appleton's introduction, and his first words were calculated to set me at my ease. The apartment in which we found ourselves was very large, and a huge open fire-place occupied considerable space at the left of the entrance. The morning was chilly, and a soft fire of cannel coal intermingled with logs of hickory shot a cheerful glow up into the wide chimney.

While the poet was engaged with Mr. Appleton, I looked around and examined the apartment at my fullest leisure. I lost no time in concluding that I was in the famous study of the poet, and what a study!

The room, about thirty feet square, seemed of more ample dimensions. There was a harmonious

blending of furniture, walls, books, pictures and statuary. The prevailing tint a warm Autumn brown-a sympathetic golden that comes to the leaves in October, when, fanned by the western winds, they deepen in color as they catch the glow of a fading Summer's sun.

The day was so misty without that it threw in bold relief the exquisite warmth and comfort within. A fire-light cast fitful gleams of brightness on the russet brown of the carpet, and dimly illumined even the furthermost objects in the apartment. I was absolutely penetrated with the atmosphere of repose and poetry of this wondrous chamber. My lips moved involuntarily, and I spoke rather than thought the word,

"Simpatica." The poet's voice interrupted ny

revery.

"I see that you are pleased with my study, and have divined the very name that my heart so long has given it. Besides being comfortable, there is one capital reason why it should be called sympathetic. This was Washington's own private room; and where my