theatre, high and low. They thronged the scenery,
those who were not upon the stage, and at the edge of every wing were
faces peering round at the poet, who sat unconscious of their adoration,
intent upon the play. He was intercepted at every step in going out, and
made to put his name to the photographs of himself which his worshippers
produced from their persons.

He came to the first night of the piece, and when it seemed to be finding
favor with the public, he leaned forward out of his line to nod and smile
at the author; when they, had the author up, it was the sweetest flattery
of the applause which abused his fondness that Longfellow clapped first
and loudest.

Where once he had given his kindness he could not again withhold it, and
he was anxious no fact should be interpreted as withdrawal. When the
Emperor Dom Pedro of Brazil, who was so great a lover of Longfellow, came
to Boston, he asked himself out to dine with the poet, who had expected
to offer him some such hospitality. Soon after, Longfellow met me, and
as if eager to forestall a possible feeling in me, said, "I wanted to ask
you to dinner with the Emperor, but he not only sent word he was coming,
he named his fellow-guests!" I answered that though I should probably
never come so near dining with an emperor again, I prized his wish to ask
me much more than the chance I had missed; and with this my great and
good friend seemed a little consoled. I believe that I do not speak too
confidently of our relation. He was truly the friend of all men, but I
had certainly the advantage of my propinquity. We were near neighbors, as
the pleonasm has it, both when I lived on Berkeley Street and after I had
built my own house on Concord Avenue; and I suppose he found my youthful
informality convenient. He always asked me to dinner when his old friend
Greene came to visit him, and then we had an Italian time together, with
more or less repetition in our talk, of what we had said before of
Italian poetry and Italian character. One day there came a note from him
saying, in effect, "Salvini is coming out to dine with me tomorrow night,
and I want you to come too. There will be no one else but Greene and
myself, and we will have an Italian dinner."

Unhappily I had accepted a dinner in Boston for that night, and this
invitation put me in great misery. I must keep my engagement, but how
could I bear to miss meeting Salvini at Longfellow's table on terms like
these? We co