universities of New England; who, as a gifted poet, evolved themes that rank among the classics of the age; and who, as a citizen, has been honored in every quarter of the globe; and yet was so simple in the habits of his life that when he became weary at the end of his journey, he tarried at the foot of the hill, and chose for his last resting place a spot in the shade of an elm, where now stands an only slab—the plainest in all the great cemetery.
The home was like the man; for what the home was in the world of nature and art, Lowell was in the world of poetry and critical study. It has become a part of his own life; therefore everything has been held sacred and left undisturbed, that we may know more of the poet, the better understand his art, and come closer to the man. No one need have told us this, for it is one of the things the visitor feels without knowing why. We are interested in all that we see, become engaged in this and that particular object, forget something that has taken place, and then heedlessly cast about thinking that he has just completed "The Vision of Sir Launfal" or some other classic, laid aside his pen, and stepped out. And we take up the lap desk seemingly fresh from his fingers; and the conversation glides on while we linger a little longer, unconsciously awaiting him to step in again. Thus the visit moves along until a late hour, when, in the absence of the poet, we are given the parting hand of his grandson; and we take a
