listen to the reading of the work, and to criticise, and suggest such
changes as were deemed advisable; and these occasions were much enjoyed.
As the years went by, one after another of the early friends fell by the
way, leaving gaps in his life which could never be filled. Felton was
the first to go, and he was very deeply mourned by Longfellow, who felt
"as if the world were reeling and sinking under his feet." His death
made, as his friend expressed it, "a chasm which not only nothing can
fill up, but which nothing has a tendency to fill up." Hawthorne and
Agassiz followed soon after Felton; and later Charles Sumner, most
deeply mourned of all. He said, in allusion to these friends, in one of
his most beautiful sonnets:--

"I also wait! but they will come no more,
Those friends of mine, whose presence satisfied
The thirst and hunger of my heart. Ah me!
They have forgotten the pathway to my door!
Something is gone from Nature since they died,
And summer is not summer, nor can be."

Mr. Longfellow made a final visit to Europe in 1868, accompanied by his
children, two sisters, and a brother, and his brother-in-law Thomas
Appleton. This journey was much enjoyed by all, although Mr. Longfellow
was not a very good sight-seer, and impatient of delays. The remainder
of his life passed placidly at his old home, and he died at the age of
seventy-five, in the midst of his family and friends. Upon his coffin
they placed a palm-branch and a spray of passion-flower,--symbols of
victory and the glory of suffering; and he was buried at Mount Auburn,
beside her he had so long mourned. What his work was we may tell in the
eloquent words of his brother poet and most appreciative critic, Mr.
Stedman:--

"His song was a household service, the ritual of our feastings and
mournings; and often it rehearsed for us the tales of many lands,
or, best of all, the legends of our own. I see him, a silver-haired
minstrel, touching melodious keys, playing and singing in the
twilight, within sound of the rote of the sea. There he lingers
late; the curfew-bell has tolled and the darkness closes round,
till at last that tender voice is silent, and he softly moves unto
his rest."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

The poet Whittier always calls to mind the prophet-bards of the olden
time. There is much of the old Semitic fire about him, and ethical and
religious su