"His poetry was not worked out from his brain,"
his daughter again writes, and who should know better than herself!
"it was the blossoming of his inward life."
In a brief paper upon Longfellow written by Mr. William Winter I find
the universal sentiment towards him more fully and tenderly expressed,
perhaps, than elsewhere. Mr. Winter writes: "I had read every line he
had then published; and such was the affection he inspired, even in a
boyish mind, that on many a summer night I have walked several miles
to his house, only to put my hand upon the latch of his gate, which he
himself had touched. More than any one else among the many famous
persons whom, since then, it has been my fortune to know, he aroused
this feeling of mingled tenderness and reverence."
The description of his person, too, as given by Mr. Winter, seems to
me clearer and closer to the truth than any other I have chanced to
see.
"His dignity and grace, and the beautiful refinement of his
countenance, together with his perfect taste in dress and the
exquisite simplicity of his manners, made him the absolute ideal of
what a poet should be. His voice, too, was soft, sweet, and musical,
and, like his face, it had the innate charm of tranquillity. His eyes
were blue-gray, very bright and brave, changeable under the influence
of emotion (as afterward I often saw), but mostly calm, grave,
attentive, and gentle. The habitual expression of his face was not
that of sadness; and yet it was pensive.
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