writing-desk now stands, there stood his table. These walls, lined with books, also shelved his literary lore. In fact, I think the arrangement of the room is exactly the same as when in his time." I looked around and said, musingly :

"Once, ah! once within these walls,
One, whom memory oft recalls,

The Father of his Country, dwelt."

Thrilled with the influence of the past, I almost expected to see the desk piled with maps and charts, and the paraphernalia of a General's budget. Instead, on either side of a carved portfolio was a mass of letters; those on the left with faces downward were answered (so the poet explained), those on the right, turned upwards, awaited his convenience for a response. A beautiful ink-stand attracted my attention.

"It belonged to Coleridge," said Longfellow, simply.

"And the quills?" I asked, referring to a package lying beside it.

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smile.

Belong to ine," added the poet, with a cunning

"I see," said I, laughing lightly, "you think, with the Earl of Dudley, that it is beneath the dignity of a gentleman to write with anything but a quill. I was once guilty of answering an invitation in a way that called this comment down on my head. His lordship explained further, that in the best circles of England it is considered positively a breach of etiquette to send a letter written with a steel pen."

It was impossible in looking around the room not to notice the many rare objects that adorned it. The bookcases were Parisian and magnificently carved ; all that is valuable in ancient and modern literature peeped out from behind the glass, and in one was a still rarer treasure—the original manuscript of all the poet's own works. On a beautiful table between the windows reposed an immense volume which the poet took up lovingly. It was a copy of the Lord's Prayer, printed in every known language; a most val

uable work and an exquisite testimonial of the bookbinder's art.

The walls were hung with perfect likenesses in crayon of Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Charles Sumner and Felton; and near the door an excellent likeness of the poet himself, although taken many years ago. Opposite his desk was a bust of General Green's grandson, G. W. Green, capable historian and Longfellow's dear friend. Over the door nearest the window were two portraits, ancient, yellow and time-stained, but inestimable in value. One was George Washington, and the other, Martha, his wife. An orange-tree stood in one window; in the other a high desk where the poet used often to write standing, and by the fireside was the already famous children's chair. The center-table was carelessly laden with choice volumes. I picked up one and read "The Scarlet Letter."

"What a wonderful book," I exclaimed.

"Yes, in truth a wonderful book," responded Longfellow, "I have read it many times, and think it stands pre-eminent among works of American fiction.

Hawthorne was my dear friend, yet I speak without prejudice."

I had thought that this room held all that was valuable in literature, but the professor laughingly opened a door to the right, disclosing a small room, absolutely filled with books, pamphlets and papers. Here are hidden some of his most valuable works; among them some original Bodonis, which marked the first great era in the art of Italian printing. This is also the legitimate home of the copy of the Lord's Prayer which was on the table by accident that day.

From the study we passed into Lady Washington's parlor, which now serves as a morning-room. An immense oil painting representing the children of Sir William Pepperill, the old colonial governor, the figures dressed in the fashion of his time, lent an added charm of quaintness to the apartment. The oldfashioned simplicity of the furniture in its stately repose seemed almost to bespeak the presence of the "First lady in the Land" as she was then called, and even a quantity of modern bric-a-brac could not entirely dispel the idea.

We stopped in an adjoining antechamber to admire two marvelous works of art-one a David, his own picture painted by himself, the other a Tintoretto, the head of a Venetian soldier. To one familiar with the many originals in the galleries of Venice, it was easy to recognize in the present picture one of the painter's master-pieces. Longfellow looked long and earnestly at both works, and pointed out with the eye of a connoisseur the salient points, the perfection of each as a work of art, yet withal the astonishing difference in the school of painting. Then ensued a discussion on the two artists and their works.

Tintoretto seems to have shown, in very early youth, a decided talent for painting. He first commenced decorating the walls of the house, and all the surrounding objects about the paternal workshop were covered with bold drawings of heads and faces. His good father, although only a poor dyer, determined, at last, to give the lad the best education that his means would permit. Some say he was born in 1512, others in 1517, and one may as well