When, in 1851, I arrived as a freshman in Cambridge, I encountered on my first visit to the post-office a figure standing on the steps, which at once drew my attention.  It was that of a man in his best years, handsome, genial of countenance, and well-groomed.  A silk hat surmounted his well-barbered head and visage, a dark frock-coat was buttoned about his form, his shoes were carefully polished and he twirled a little cane.  To my surprise he bowed to me courteously as I glanced up.  I was very humble, young westerner that I was in the scholastic town, and puzzled by the friendly nod.  The man was no other than Longfellow, and in his politeness to me he was only following his invariable custom of greeting in a friendly way every student he met.  His niceness of attire rather amused the boys of those days who, however, responded warmly to his friendliness and loved him much.  This story was current.  He had for some time been a famous man and was subjected to much persecution from sight-seers which he bore good-naturedly.  Standing one day at the Craigie House gate he was accosted by a lank backwoodsman:  “Say, stranger, I have come from way back; kin you tell me how I kin git to see the great North American poet?” Longfellow, entering into the humour of the situation, gave to the stranger his ready bow and responded:  “Why, I am the great North American poet,” at the same time inviting him into the garden with its pleasant outlook across the Charles toward the Brookline Hills.  It would be quite unjust to think that there was any conceit in his remark, it was all a joke, but the thoughtless boys of those days took it up, commemorating it in a song, a parody of the air Trancadillo.

  “Professor Longfellow is an excellent man,
  He scratches off verses as fast as he can,
  With a hat on one whisker and an air that says go it,—­
  He says I’m the great North American poet. 
  Hey, fellow, bright fellow, Professor Longfellow,
  He’s the man that wrote Evangeline, Professor Longfellow.”

This was my first introduction to college music and I often bore a quavering tenor as we shouted it out in our freshman enthusiasm.  The ridicule, however, was only on the surface; we thoroughly liked and respected the genial poet and it was a great sorrow to us that he resigned during our course, although his successor was no other than James Russell Lowell, whose star was then rising rapidly with the Biglow Papers.  It was our misfortune that the succession was not close.  We had two professors of modern literature, both famous men, but the usual calamity befell us which attaches to those who have two stools to sit upon.  We fell to the ground.  We had a little of Longfellow and a little of Lowell, the gap in the succession unfortunately opening for us.  I did, however, hear Longfellow lecture and it is a delightful memory.  His voice was rich and resonant, bespeaking refinement, and it was particularly in reading poetry