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stood with the knocker in my hand when the door was suddenly set ajar；
and a maid showed her face wet with tears。 〃How is Mr。 Longfellow？〃
I palpitated； and with a burst of grief she answered； 〃Oh； the poor
gentleman has just departed！〃 I turned away as if from a helpless
intrusion at a death…bed。
At the services held in the house before the obsequies at the cemetery； I
saw the poet for the last time； where
〃Dead he lay among his books；〃
in the library behind his study。 Death seldom fails to bring serenity to
all； and I will not pretend that there was a peculiar peacefulness in
Longfellow's noble mask； as I saw it then。 It was calm and benign as it
had been in life； he could not have worn a gentler aspect in going out of
the world than he had always worn in it； he had not to wait for death to
dignify it with 〃the peace of God。〃 All who were left of his old
Cambridge were present； and among those who had come farther was Emerson。
He went up to the bier； and with his arms crossed on his breast； and his
elbows held in either hand； stood with his head pathetically fallen
forward； looking down at the dead face。 Those who knew how his memory
was a mere blank； with faint gleams of recognition capriciously coming
and going in it； must have felt that he was struggling ；to remember who
it was lay there before him； and for me the electly simple words
confessing his failure will always be pathetic with his remembered
aspect： 〃The gentleman we have just been burying；〃 he said； to the friend
who had come with him； 〃was a sweet and beautiful soul； but I forget his
name。〃
I had the privilege and honor of looking over the unprinted poems
Longfellow left behind him； and of helping to decide which of them should
be published。
There were not many of them； and some of these few were quite
fragmentary。 I gave my voice for the publication of all that had any
sort of completeness； for in every one there was a touch of his exquisite
art； the grace of his most lovely spirit。 We have so far had two men
only who felt the claim of their gift to the very best that the most
patient skill could give its utterance： one was Hawthorne and the other
was Longfellow。 I shall not undertake to say which was the greater
artist of these two； but I am sure that every one who has studied it must
feel with me that the art of Longfellow held out to the end with no touch
of decay in it； and that it equalled the art of any other poet of his
time。 It knew when to give itself； and more and more it knew when to
withhold itself。
What Longfellow's place in literature will be； I shall not offer to say；
that is Time's affair； not mine； but I am sure that with Tennyson and
Browning he fully shared in the expression of an age which more
completely than any former age got itself said by its poets。
End