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eyes were cerulean blue, and his face glowed with animation; the flesh tint being conspicuously bright and beautiful.

I

He was born February 27th, 1807, and since then the years of nearly three-quarters of a century have swept onward in their unending course. The slender lad grew to sensitive youth, living more within himself than with the outer world, and undoubtedly this extraordinary mental introspection did much to characterize his personal appearance. could see in the exact pictures of him, taken at twenty, forty, and the later years of his life, the same unvarying, lineal features. His face, filled with rugged lines, presents a contour of great firmness and intelligence. The nose is Roman rather than Greek, with the very slightest aquiline tendency. His eyes are clear, straightforward, almost proud, yet reassuring, rather deeply set, and shaded by heavy, overhanging brows. In moments of lofty and inspired speech they have an eagle look, and the orbs deepen and flash. Like the great bird of prey, they seem to soar off into endless space, grasp

ing in the talons of the mental vision, things unattainable to less ambitious flight. With his moods they vary, and when calm, nothing could exceed the quietness of their expression. If sad, an infinite tenderness reposes in their depths, and if merry, they sparkle and bubble over with fun. In fact, before the poet speaks, these traitorous eyes have already betrayed his humor. I must not forget the greatest of all expressions-humility. To one whose soul and mind are given to divine thought, 'tis in the eye that this sentiment finds its natural outcome. And the world knows that Longfellow's faith is the crowning gem in a diadem of virtues. His face is not a mask but an open book—a positive index to his character. His forehead is high, prominent, and square at the temples; numberless fine lines are ingrained in its surface, and on either side, a slender, serpentine vein starts from the eyes, and mounting upwards loses itself beneath a mass of silvery white hair. I should scarcely call them the work of time, but rather the marks of an overactive intelligence, and they may have appeared to

ease with which she joined us. The poet then led the way to the state parlor or drawing-room.

This room served formerly as a sort of councilchamber for Washington and his staff. It was double the size of any chamber I had yet seen, reminding me, in its stateliness and beauty, of the East Room of the White House. Two ancient fluted pillars support the ceiling and form a natural panel in the solid wall on one side. At one end two windows opened on a French terrace, while directly facing the other was the glory of the apartment, a mamn.oth fire-place. Although not so antique, it has a striking resemblance to the one in the house of William the Conqueror at Dives, in Normandy. The old pile, at present, is used as a tavern, but in one room the grand old fire-place still remains in perfect preservation. We can readily imagine how Guillaume and his bride, Mathilde of Flanders, sat together, as lovers might, before their own hearth, and in remembrance of the hour, scratched, in a stone in the chimney, the letters G. and M., a souvenir that centuries has not effaced.

Dives is not generally known to tourists, although it is not far from Paris. It would be insignificant,

were it not for a certain Norman prettiness in the old houses.

"Thatched were the roofs, with dormer windows and gables projecting."

The gardens are quaint, and the actual existence of the home dwelt in by the Conqueror makes the spot interesting.

Pointing to the fire-place before us, the poet said, "This chimney is old, but the one up-stairs bears a plaque dated 1759."

We continued our examination of the apartment, but it would be impossible to describe all the costly and rare articles of vertu that adorned it. To the left of the fire-place stood a large Japanese folding screen, which partially hid a wall of books. I say "wall," as the cases seemed literally built in the side of the house. Opposite the columns was another large window, looking out on a side terrace, and commanding a beautiful view of the spacious grounds belonging to the place. In the window was a small

writing-desk, furnished with other quills, trinkets ancient and modern, and a substantially well-filled portfolio. I took up a curious paper knife, which proved to be a dagger bearing the arms of Francis I., with the inscription "Tout est perdu fors l'hon

neur."

Seated beside the poet, I followed with eager interest his gracious observations; I think everything in the room received an affectionate tribute, and it was easy to see that every souvenir was held in constant remembrance by him.

The hands of many givers are peacefully folded to rest, while others still do their daily work in this busy life of ours.

A portrait of the Abbé Listz in his ecclesiastic gown, holding in his hand a flaring taper, was a striking likeness of the world-renowned pianist.

Adiniring and discussing the time passed swiftly until we were summoned to luncheon. A cozy party sat down at table, and the poet made the tea. Honored with a place at his right, I was near enough to enjoy every word that fell from his lips. His con

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