ceeded to tell
the story of how he had received it.

"You express a kindly interest in the origin of my poems," he added,
in substance. "I will tell you something about the writing of some of
them. You see the screen yonder; it is Japanese; there is written upon
it the 'Psalm of Life.' The poem was written at Cambridge when the
orchards were bright with buds and blossoms, and the days were in the
full tide of the year. I did not write it for publication but for
myself. I felt an inspiration to express in words my one purpose in
life. I carried it about with me for a long time, when I was asked for
a poem for the _Knickerbocker Magazine_, then a popular periodical,
and I sent it to the editor without any expectation of its success
with the people. It has been translated into nearly all languages that
have a literature.

"In London I received an invitation to visit the queen. On returning
from the palace, the coach was stopped by the crowd of vehicles in the
street. There stepped before the door of the carriage an English
workman. 'Are you Mr. Longfellow?' he asked. 'I am,' I answered. 'Did
you write the "Psalm of Life"?' 'I wrote that poem, my friend.'
'Pardon me, but would you be willing to take the hand of a
_workingman_?' 'Certainly, my friend; it would give me pleasure.' He
put his hand through the carriage window, and I shook hands with him.
That," said Mr. Longfellow, with emphasis and feeling, "was the best
compliment that I ever received in my life."

[Illustration: Longfellow's Study.]

The last declaration, in which we think that we have quoted the poet's
exact words, shows the heart and character of the man. It is a
photograph of his soul.

He said that the poem "I Stood on the Bridge at Midnight" was written in
the lonely hours of his widowerhood, when he used to visit Boston
evenings and return over the bridge of the Charles. The bridge grew
still as the night wore on, and the procession of the day became thin.
There was a furnace at Brighton at that time, and the reflection of the
red fire fell across the dark river. The bridge over the Charles is
nearly the same now as then; it has been somewhat reconstructed, but the
wooden piers are there; the drifting seaweed, the odor of the brine, and
the processions of "care-encumbered men" vanishing into the night. An
English nobleman who is a literary critic has pronounced this poem the
most sympathetic in the language. Its popularity probably is due to the