en fair to see'? Or who, after reading the 'Psalm of
Life,' or the 'Footsteps of Angels,' does not feel a little less
worldly, a little less of the earth, earthy? The world, indeed, owes a
deep debt of gratitude to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.... Bidding me note
the beauty of the autumnal tints that make America in the 'fall' look as
if rainbows were streaming out of the earth, Longfellow presented me
with a goodly sample of the red and golden leaves of the previous
autumn, which, although dry and faded, still glowed like gems; these
leaves I brought away with me, and they now form a garland round the
poet's portrait; a precious _souvenir_ of that morning passed at Craigie
House."{107}

Lord Ronald Gower then quotes the words used long since in regard to
Longfellow by Cardinal Wiseman,--words which find an appropriate place
here.

"'Our hemisphere,' said the Cardinal, 'cannot claim the honor of having
brought him forth, but he still belongs to us, for his works have become
as household words wherever the English language is spoken. And whether
we are charmed by his imagery, or soothed by his melodious
versification, or elevated by the moral teachings of his pure muse, or
follow with sympathetic hearts the wanderings of Evangeline, I am sure
that all who hear my voice will join with me in the tribute I desire to
pay to the genius of Longfellow.'"{108}

"We have but one life here on earth," wrote Longfellow in his diary; "we
must make that beautiful. And to do this, health and elasticity of mind
are needful, and whatever endangers or impedes these must be avoided."
It is not often that a man's scheme of life is so well fulfilled, or
when fulfilled is so well reflected in his face and bearing, tinged
always by the actual mark of the terrible ordeal through which he had
passed. When Sydney Dobell was asked to describe Tennyson, he replied,
"If he were pointed out to you as the man who had written the Iliad, you
would answer, 'I can well believe it.'" This never seemed to be quite
true of Tennyson, whose dark oriental look would rather have suggested
the authorship of the Arab legend of "Antar" or of the quatrains of Omar
Khayyam. But it was eminently true of the picturesqueness of Longfellow
in his later years, with that look of immovable serenity and of a
benignity which had learned to condone all human sins. In this respect
Turgenieff alone approached him, in real life, among the literary men I
have known, and there is