Longfellow regarded life from the standpoint of eternity, and thus was one who, in the words of a Kempis, "careth little for the praise or dispraise of men." His gaze was riveted upon that "Land of the Hereafter," to which he was always more than ready to set out, and in the departure of Hiawatha he had imaged his longing for the "Happiest Land."

On the sh.o.r.e stood Hiawatha, Turned and waved his hand at parting; On the clear and luminous water Launched his birch canoe for sailing, From the pebbles of the margin Shoved it forth into the water; Whispered to it "Westward! westward!"

And with speed it darted forward.

And the evening sun descending Set the clouds on fire with redness, Burned the broad sky, like a prairie, Left upon the level water One long track and trail of splendour, Down whose stream, as down a river, Westward, westward Hiawatha Sailed into the fiery sunset, Sailed into the purple vapours, Sailed into the dusk of evening.

And the people from the margin Watched him floating, rising, sinking, Till the birch canoe seemed lifted High into that sea of splendour, Till it sank into the vapours Like the new moon slowly, slowly Sinking in the purple distance.

And they said "Farewell for ever!"

Said "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"

And the forests, dark and lonely, Moved through all their depths of darkness, Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"

And the waves upon the margin Rising, rippling on the pebbles, Sobbed "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"

And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, From her haunts among the fenlands, Screamed "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"

Thus departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha the Beloved, In the glory of the sunset, In the purple mists of evening, To the regions of the home-wind, Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin, To the Islands of the Blessed, To the kingdom of Ponemah, To the land of the Hereafter!

_Hiawatha._

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Painting by J. Finnemore._ HIAWATHA.]

And the evening sun descending....

Left upon the level water One long track and trail of splendour, Down whose stream as down a river, Westward, westward Hiawatha Sailed into the fiery sunset, Sailed into the purple vapours, Sailed into the dusk of evening.

Personal friends, of whom the Poet possessed many, would arrive in time for lunch, and be welcomed by the master of Craigie House at the gate in the lilac hedge. He would bring them into the large, cheerful dining-room, and the children would sit at a little table on the verandah, while the host, with his own hands, set the copper kettle singing, and made tea in the antique silver pot.

It was a peaceful, happy hour for the guests. Longfellow, unlike Tennyson, was never much of a talker: he was a listener and observer, who dwelt in a speaking silence--in what has been defined as a heavenly unfathomableness. Ruskin had written: "You come as such a _calm_ influence to me ... you give me such a feeling of friendship and repose."

And this feeling was enhanced by the man's natural dignity and grace, the refinement of his features, the perfect taste of his dress, and the exquisite simplicity of his manners. Many have alluded to his soft, musical voice, to his steady blue-grey eyes, to the "innate charm of tranquillity," which gave a peculiar spiritual sweetness to his smile.

But the man was even more, and better than the poet; so much so that a young enthusiast exclaimed "All the vulgar and pretentious people in the world ought to be sent to Mr. Longfellow to show them how to behave!"

Nor was this calm the outcome of natural placidity--it had been attained through bitter suffering: it was that gleam of a hero's armour which the "red planet Mars" unveils to a tear-dimmed sight, when

The night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky.

There is no light in earth or heaven, But the cold light of stars; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars.

Is it the tender star of love?

The star of love and dreams?

O no! from that blue tent above, A hero's armour gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star.

O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, And I am strong again.

Within my breast there is no light, But the cold light of stars; I give the first watch of the night To the red planet Mars.

The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm and self-possessed.

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm.

O fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong.

_The Light of Stars._

After lunch, the guests would be taken round the house, and its various treasures pointed out: books in every corner, and on every wall pictures and portraits; antique furniture, interesting mementoes of every sort.

It was a home well worth seeing: and an old-world air pervaded all, from the quaint drawing-room, with its old-fashioned, rose-festooned wall-paper, to the upper rooms with the Dutch-tiled hearths.

Later on, to those with whom he felt specially _en rapport_, Longfellow would read aloud some poems, new or old, his own, or those of other men.

He was not a forcible or a dramatic reader; the simplicity which he loved "in all things," as he had said, "but specially in poetry," was evident also here. Yet perhaps no other man could have done equal justice to the lingering hexameters of his most successful poem--for such, by reason of its novelty, pathos, and beauty, _Evangeline_ must always be considered. "It has become a purifying portion," says Rossetti, "of the experiences of the heart ... a long-drawn sweetness and sadness"; and, though sixty years have elapsed since _Evangeline_ first appeared, the ideal maiden of this "idyll of the heart" has lost no fraction of her loveliness.

Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.

Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside, Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!

Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.

When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noon-tide Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.

Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, Down the long street she pa.s.sed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal, Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings, Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heir-loom, Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.

But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty-- Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession, Homeward serenely she walked with G.o.d's benediction upon her.

When she had pa.s.sed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

_Evangeline._

In the course of the afternoon, some of the Poet's guests taking leave, others would accompany him to a concert, organ recital, or any other musical function which might be available. Longfellow was pa.s.sionately fond of good music, and lost no opportunity of hearing it. His own lyrics are singularly susceptible, as all composers know, of an adequate musical setting.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Painting by H. M. Brock._ EVANGELINE.]

But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty-- Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession, Homeward serenely she walked with G.o.d's benediction upon her.

When she had pa.s.sed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

Few short poems in the world have been so often sung as "Stars of the summer night"--"Good-night, beloved"--"The rainy day"--and other well-known verses. A most effective sense of sound and rhythm, joined with perfect simplicity of diction, evince the inherent artistry of a man who was no musician in the technical sense, but who could express himself in such lines as

The night is calm and cloudless, And still as still can be, And the stars come forth to listen To the music of the sea.

They gather, and gather, and gather, Until they crowd the sky, And listen in breathless silence, To the solemn litany.

It begins in rocky caverns, As a voice that chants alone To the pedals of the organ In monotonous undertone; And anon from shelving beaches And shallow sands beyond, In snow-white robes uprising The ghostly choirs respond.

And sadly and unceasing The mournful voice sings on, And the snow-white choirs still answer Christe eleison!

_The Golden Legend._

After dinner, to which perhaps an intimate friend or two remained, the poet would remain awhile in his study: not actually at work, for his writing was only done in the morning hours, but considering and criticising work already accomplished, and carefully perusing that great translation of Dante which he considered, rightly or wrongly, as the most important work of his life. The twilight would slowly fade into the dusk of a "blindman's holiday," and then came the sweetest moment of the day.

Longfellow's intense affection for all little ones, his touching kindness to them, his sympathy with their most trivial joys or troubles, were focussed and centred in the love he bore to his own dear, motherless children.