Such honors as he could fitly permit himself he did not refuse, and I recall what zest he had in his election to the Arcadian Academy, which had made him a shepherd of its Roman Fold, with the title, as he said, of “Olimipico something.”  But I fancy his sweetest pleasure in his vast renown came from his popular recognition everywhere.  Few were the lands, few the languages he was unknown to:  he showed me a version of the “Psalm of Life” in Chinese.  Apparently even the poor lost autograph-seeker was not denied by his universal kindness; I know that he kept a store of autographs ready written on small squares of paper for all who applied by letter or in person; he said it was no trouble; but perhaps he was to be excused for refusing the request of a lady for fifty autographs, which she wished to offer as a novel attraction to her guests at a lunch party.

Foreigners of all kinds thronged upon him at their pleasure, apparently, and with perfect impunity.  Sometimes he got a little fun, very, very kindly, out of their excuses and reasons; and the Englishman who came to see him because there were no ruins to visit in America was no fable, as I can testify from the poet himself.  But he had no prejudice against Englishmen, and even at a certain time when the coarse-handed British criticism began to blame his delicate art for the universal acceptance of his verse, and to try to sneer him into the rank of inferior poets, he was without rancor for the clumsy misliking that he felt.  He could not understand rudeness; he was too finely framed for that; he could know it only as Swedenborg’s most celestial angels perceived evil, as something distressful, angular.  The ill-will that seemed nearly always to go with adverse criticism made him distrust criticism, and the discomfort which mistaken or blundering praise gives probably made him shy of all criticism.  He said that in his early life as an author he used to seek out and save all the notices of his poems, but in his latter days he read only those that happened to fall in his way; these he cut out and amused his leisure by putting together in scrapbooks.  He was reluctant to make any criticism of other poets; I do not remember ever to have heard him make one; and his writings show no trace of the literary dislikes or contempts which we so often mistake in ourselves for righteous judgments.  No doubt he had his resentments, but he hushed them in his heart, which he did not suffer them to embitter.  While Poe was writing of “Longfellow and other Plagiarists,” Longfellow was helping to keep Poe alive by the loans which always made themselves gifts in Poe’s case.  He very, very rarely spoke of himself at all, and almost never of the grievances which he did not fail to share with all who live.

He was patient, as I said, of all things, and gentle beyond all mere gentlemanliness.  But it would have been a great mistake to mistake his mildness for softness.  It was most manly and firm; and of course it was braced with the New England conscience he was born to.  If he did not find it well to assert himself, he was prompt in behalf of his friends, and one of the fine things told of him was his resenting some censures of Sumner at a dinner in Boston during the old pro-slavery times:  he said to the gentlemen present that Sumner was his friend, and he must leave their company if they continued to assail him.