instead of good evening. "I am ravished to see you in Ems; nice place; all that there is of most nice. I drink my water and am good. Do you not think the Frau Kranich has a very beautiful leather?"

Who would ever divine that the prince referred to the gracious lady's skin?

This chapter is replete with evidences of Longfellow's brightness, and quick appreciation of wit in others. Near the end of the chapter on "Glimpses in Cloud Land," the professor speaks on time thus:

"For what is time? The shadow on the dialthe striking of the clock-the running of the sand— day and night-Summer and Winter-months, years, centuries-these are but arbitrary and outward signs, the measure of time, not time itself. Time is the life of the Soul. If not this, then tell me, what is Time?"

The professor shrieks this aloud in a high voice, and the baron, half awakened, hearing the word "time," innocently exclaims:

"I should think it must be near midnight."

T

CHAPTER V.

A MORNING'S OCCUPATION.

"Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

"That with a hand more swift and sure,
The greater labor might be brought
To answer to his inward thought."

THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP.

HE professor is an early riser, and at nine

the family assembles for breakfast. The dining-room looks out on the back

terrace, and from there beyond to the sea. The weather was beautiful, and the sun poured a continuous shower of iridescent rays into the apart

ment. They danced lightly hither and thither, at times making a shining halo above the poet's snowy head, anon falling lightly on the golden braids of Edith, Mrs. Dana, or flinging a defiant aureole above the brow of Mr. T. G. Appleton, who is the poet's vis-à-vis at table.

One thing particularly noticeable is the quaint ceremony which is never entirely done away with in this family. Each person addresses the other with well-bred deference, and the familiarity that sometimes excuses a "thanks" or "if you please" among one's own, here is conspicuous for its absence.

Of the poet's own family there were present his two daughters, Miss Annic, the younger, and Mrs. Richard Dana (Edith), and her husband, the second of the "trio," Mr. T. G. and Mr. Nathan Appleton, Mr. Longfellow's brothers-in-law, and among the guests the charming and talented artiste, Miss Susan Hale, and Mr. Craig, of New York.

You may imagine that the fine weather put everybody in good spirits, and the table was enlivened by appropriate small-talk, plans for the day, and the

usual inquiries of how the "night was passed." Longfellow takes some of the tea before mentioned at early breakfast, a bit of toast, and perhaps an egg, either poached or sur-le-plat. He eats so little that one can scarcely perceive of what consists his repast. He is cheerful, good-humored, and devoid of fancies as regards his own health, yet never for a moment treats those of others lightly. Conversation rarely drags, and the slightest possible break is adroitly covered by the ready grace of the professor.

The eldest at table, he might be the youngest. It is impossible to imagine, without having passed some time in the presence of this wonderful man, how great are his resources, and what youthful vigor animates his every thought and action.

While he speaks with the experience of ripened years, he yet invests every subject with the enthusiasin of Paul Flemming, and the graceful flowing utterance of a poet. The tender fancies, the soft expressions and ready imagination of the bard color all his thoughts, and their outward expression is no less happy. The most commonplace subjects receive

a new interest, when either argued or discussed by the professor, and no question once entered upon is ever dismissed without its full mete of attention.

:

After breakfast a general sally takes place through the French window, and the broad balcony is soon peopled with animated faces, foremost among them that of the poet. He sits at a round table drawn up near the edge of the terrace, with a light mantle thrown across his shoulders to protect him from the sea-breeze, which is always strong and brisk at Nahant. The pile of letters and periodicals is alınost appalling. The lion's share is his, and he speedily commences his morning's work, in the devastation of the mass. Unlike most people, the poet rarely scans the envelope before opening, in order to know the signature of the letter. He deliberately cuts through the upper ledge with a paper knife, and methodically extracts the inclosed missive.

Occasionally an exclamation will break from his lips, such as, "Dear me," "Just look at this," "How am I to get through so long a letter," etc.,