inquiry about a Michigan young man who had been
sending some of his poetry to Emerson. Howells was embarrassed to be
obliged to say that he knew nothing of the Michigan poet. Later
Emerson asked whether he had become acquainted with the poems of Mr.
William Henry Channing. Howells replied that he knew them only through
the criticism of Poe.

"Whose criticisms?" asked Emerson.

"Poe's," replied Howells.

"Oh," Emerson cried after a thoughtful moment, "you mean _the jingle
man_!"

This was a moment of confusion and embarrassment for Howells. Had the
vituperative pen of Poe ever thrown off more stinging criticism than
that? "_The jingle man!_"

Emerson turned the conversation to Howells himself and asked him what
he had written for the _Atlantic_. Howells replied, and Emerson took
down the bound volumes and carefully affixed Howells' initials to the
poems. "He followed me to the door, still speaking of poetry, and as
he took a kindly enough leave of me, he said one might very well give
a pleasant hour to it now and then." This was a shock to Howells. "A
pleasant hour!" Howells was intending to consecrate all time and
eternity to it, and here is the Sage of Concord coolly speaking of
poetry as though it were some trifling diversion, like billiards or
whist.

Later in life when Howells resided in Cambridge he had abundant
opportunity to become acquainted with Longfellow, whom in _Literary
Friends and Acquaintance_ he calls the "White Mr. Longfellow."

"He was the most perfectly modest man I ever saw, ever imagined, but
he had a gentle dignity which I do not believe any one, the coarsest,
the obtusest, could trespass upon. In the years when I began to know
him, his long hair and the beautiful beard which mixed with it were of
iron-gray, which I saw blanch to a perfect silver, while that pearly
tone of his complexion, which Appleton so admired, lost itself in the
wanness of age and pain. When he walked, he had a kind of spring in
his gait, as if now and again a buoyant thought lifted him from the
ground. It was fine to meet him coming down a Cambridge street; you
felt that the encounter made you a part of literary history, and set
you apart with him for the moment from the poor and mean. When he
appeared in Harvard Square, he beatified if not beautified the ugliest
and vulgarest looking spot on the planet outside of New York. You
could meet him sometimes at the market, if you were of the same
provision-man as he, fo