entries concerning "F." in his journal show how incomplete was any happiness she did not share. The delightful old Craigie house, in which he had already, lived, had been purchased for them as a wedding gift, five beautiful children grew up about them, and their family life was in every way ideal. On July 9, 1861, his wife was sitting in the library with her two little girls, engaged in sealing up some small packages of their curls which she had just cut off; when from a match fallen upon the floor her light summer dress caught fire. She was ablaze in an instant, rushed into his arms with a wild cry, and never spoke afterwards". From that shock he never recovered.

For a time he was numbed. He found his only refuge in work, and years were given in a translation of Dante. But his children were about him, and they kept him alive. He has described them in one of his favorite poems, "The Children's Hour".

XXII

Perhaps the single adjective that would best describe his life is blameless. He was high-minded from a boy, and his instincts

A Blameless Life

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and tastes freed him from most of the temptations to which young men are subject.

At the funeral service in Harvard college chapel Dr. Holmes said:

The accord between the character and life of Mr. Longfellow and his poems was complete. His poetry touched the hearts of his readers because it was the sincere expression of his own. The sweetness, the cheerfulness, the grace, the purity of his verses were the image of his own soul, but ample as this expression of himself was it fell short of the truth. The man was more and better than the poet.

Intimate however as was the concord between the poet and his poetry, there was much in the man to which he never gave utterance in words. He was a man of deep reserve. He kept the holy of holies within himself inviolable. Seldom does he admit his readers to even its outward precincts. He said, "The deepest experiences of life are too sacred to be shared with anyone whatsoever."

XXIII

Perhaps no man of fame so extended, and occupation so incessant, ever held himself so completely at the service of others. He was apparently always accessible and unfailingly kind. He seemed never to decline a request upon his time or purse. His delight

was in causing delight. No one ever knew him to refuse his autograph, to treat an unwarranted visitor abruptly, to forget the courtesy due to little children or social inferiors. He never shut himself out from the fellowship of any human creature to whom he supposed he could be of comfort or service. His journal abounds with entries of days lost to his work because some visitor, unheralded and unintroduced, had appealed to his charity or his hospitality, and not in vain.

XXIV

In appearance he was most attractive. Hardly of medium stature, he was of symmetrical form and firmly knit. He had a leonine head, a face of remarkable beauty, forehead high and ample, eyes that kindled, nose straight and delicate, sensitive lips and chin, and the whole carried with a poise as princely as it was unconscious. His hair, changing with years from its original dark hue to a silvery white, combined with his full beard to give him an appearance of serene and winning majesty. His voice was low and de

liciously attuned.

His entire aspect was remarkable in its perfect union of beauty with strength".

In his "Life of Charles Dickens ", John Forster says in speaking of Longfellow's Visit at Gadshill:

He possessed all the qualities of delightful companionship, the culture and the charm, which have no higher type than the accomplished and genial American.

John Ruskin wrote to him:

I have many things to say about the sense I have

JOHN RUSKIN, 1819

XXV

of the good you might do this old world by staying with us a little, and giving the peaceful glow of your fancy to our cold, troubled, unpeaceful spirit. Strange that both you and Norton come as such a calm influence to me and others.

On March 2, 1884, his bust in the poets' corner of Westminster Abbey was unveiled,