A young person having written from a western
city to request him to write a poem for her class, he said: "I could
not write it, but tried to say 'No' so softly that she would think it
better than 'Yes.'"
He was distinguished by one grace which was almost peculiar to himself
in the time in which he lived--his tenderness toward the undeveloped
artist, the man or woman, youth or maid, whose heart was set upon some
form of ideal expression, and who was living for that. Whether they
possessed the power to distinguish themselves or not, to such persons
he addressed himself with a sense of personal regard and kinship. When
fame crowned the aspirant, no one recognized more keenly the
perfection of the work, but he seldom turned aside to attract the
successful to himself. To the unsuccessful he lent the sunshine and
overflow of his own life, as if he tried to show every day afresh that
he believed noble pursuit and not attainment to be the purpose of our
existence.
In a letter written in 1860 Longfellow says:--
"I have no end of poems sent me for candid judgment and opinion. Four
cases on hand at this moment. A large folio came last night from a
lady. It has been chasing me round the country; has been in East
Cambridge and in West Cambridge, and finally came by the hands of
Policeman S---- to my house. I wish he had waived examination, and
committed it (to memory). What shall I do? These poems weaken me very
much.
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