cle;
the rows of well-thumbed volumes; the wellscored _Heften_ over
which their hands had moved; their inkstands and pens; the rough
arm-chairs and tables where they had sat. I think a trace from the
smoke of their pipes and midnight lamp still adhered to the ceiling,
and possibly cobwebs still hung in the corners of the bookcases which
had been there from an ancient day.

Quaint portraits of the "Brothers Grimm" at work in their caps and
rough dressing-gowns were at hand, but Hermann Grimm had rather
the appearance of a well-groomed man of the world. His coat was
fashionable, his abundant hair and flowing beard were carefully
trimmed. He was not a recluse, though faithful to his heredity and
devoted mainly to scholarly research. He was at ease in the clubs
and also at Court and enjoyed the give and take of a social hour with
friends.

CHAPTER VIII

POETS AND PROPHETS

When, in 1851, I arrived as a freshman in Cambridge, I encountered
on my first visit to the post-office a figure standing on the steps,
which at once drew my attention. It was that of a man in his best
years, handsome, genial of countenance, and well-groomed. A silk hat
surmounted his well-barbered head and visage, a dark frock-coat was
buttoned about his form, his shoes were carefully polished and he
twirled a little cane. To my surprise he bowed to me courteously as
I glanced up. I was very humble, young westerner that I was in the
scholastic town, and puzzled by the friendly nod. The man was no other
than Longfellow, and in his politeness to me he was only following his
invariable custom of greeting in a friendly way every student he
met. His niceness of attire rather amused the boys of those days who,
however, responded warmly to his friendliness and loved him much.
This story was current. He had for some time been a famous man and
was subjected to much persecution from sight-seers which he bore
good-naturedly. Standing one day at the Craigie House gate he was
accosted by a lank backwoodsman: "Say, stranger, I have come from way
back; kin you tell me how I kin git to see the great North American
poet?" Longfellow, entering into the humour of the situation, gave to
the stranger his ready bow and responded: "Why, I am the great North
American poet," at the same time inviting him into the garden with
its pleasant outlook across the Charles toward the Brookline Hills.
It would be quite unjust to think that there was any conceit in his
remar