k, it was all a joke, but the thoughtless boys of those days
took it up, commemorating it in a song, a parody of the air
_Trancadillo_.

"Professor Longfellow is an excellent man,
He scratches off verses as fast as he can,
With a hat on one whisker and an air that says go it,--
He says I'm _the_ great North American poet.
Hey, fellow, bright fellow, Professor Longfellow,
He's the man that wrote Evangeline, Professor Longfellow."

This was my first introduction to college music and I often bore a
quavering tenor as we shouted it out in our freshman enthusiasm. The
ridicule, however, was only on the surface; we thoroughly liked and
respected the genial poet and it was a great sorrow to us that he
resigned during our course, although his successor was no other than
James Russell Lowell, whose star was then rising rapidly with the
_Biglow Papers_. It was our misfortune that the succession was
not close. We had two professors of modern literature, both famous
men, but the usual calamity befell us which attaches to those who
have two stools to sit upon. We fell to the ground. We had a little
of Longfellow and a little of Lowell, the gap in the succession
unfortunately opening for us. I did, however, hear Longfellow lecture
and it is a delightful memory. His voice was rich and resonant,
bespeaking refinement, and it was particularly in reading poetry
that it told. I recall a discussion of German lyrics, the criticism
interspersed with many readings from the poets noted, which was
deeply impressive. At one time he quoted the "Shepherd's Song" from
_Faust_, "Der Schaefer putzte sich zum Tanz." This he gave with
exquisite modulation, dwelling upon the refrain at the end of
each stanza, "Juchhe, Juchhe, Juchheise, heise, he, so ging der
Fiedelbogen!" This he recited with such effect that one imagined he
heard the touch of the bow upon the strings of the 'cello with the
mellow, long-drawn cadence. He read to us, too, with great feeling,
the simple lyric, _Die wandelnde Glocke_; upon me at least this
made so deep an impression that soon after having the class poem
to write, I based upon it my composition, devoting to it far too
assiduously the best part of my last college term. I have always
felt that I was near the incubation of Longfellow's best-known poem,
perhaps his masterpiece, the all-pervading _Hiawatha_. The
college chapel of those days was in University Hall and is now the
Faculty Room, a beautiful little c