The Lambertville record. [volume] (Lambertville, N.J.) 1872-1968, 1877-09-12
MISCELLANY.
For THE RECORD.
NOTES FROM NEW ENGLAND.
BY K. n. HARRISON.

As passed through the "Craigie House,"
and noted the choice paintings, the lovely
pieces of sculpture, the rich furniture of an
tique workmanship, the rare and curious orna-
ments l said to myself, tone might know
that this was the home of poet" The house
itself is large old fashioned yellow mansion,
with white ornamental columns. 1t is said
to have been erected by Col. John Vassal,
about the year TAG. 1t was the headquarters
of General Washington during the siege of
Boston. 1t afterward passed into the hands
of Andrew Cragie, from whom it was called
poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who has
put it in condition Of perfect repair, with
out destroying any Of its ancient features.
The fire places, the roomy halls, the wide
stair case, all are left as of yore. Every room
within, and the grounds without, betoken a
pure aud elegant taste, combined with a re-
gard for simplicity aud comfort.
In the dining room hung that picture of the
poets daughters, from which we see so many
copies. My friend asked the lady who did The
honors of the house, IL It were true that one
of the sisters had but one arm? ''Oh, no, -
is the eldest, aud this one with the fair hair
is Edith, who is betrothed and soon to be
married and this is Annie, the youngest, -
allegro. her father often calls her. Do You
remember the stanza, in his little poem en-
titled the Children's Hour, in which he refers
to his daughters?
From my study see In the lampgbt,
Descending the broad hall STAIR
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegro,
And Edith with golden hair.'"
told her that had copy of his Household
Poems, which contained the one she referred
to, and that had read it.
AS sit writing, that little volume of poems
is on the table before me. see the inscrip-
ton "a B. Larson" in gilt letters upon the
cover. / remember how often gentle hand
turned over its leaves, and an earnest voice
read its pure and noble lays. drop my pen
and taking up the little book, read, -
"Then the forms OF the departed
Enter at the open door
The beloved, the true-hearted.
Come 10 visit me once morej
He, the young and strong. who cherished
Noble longipgs for the strife,
BY the roadside fell and persisted,
Weary with the march Of life
o, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside
If 1 but remember only
Such as he have lived and died
| close the book, and thank the Father for
all the messages of consolation, sent by his
prophets, priests and poets.
IT'S we'll, when between the moral teach
ing of the poems, and the daily life of the
poet, there is true harmony. And this exists
in the case of Longfellow even when a
young man at college, be was distinguished
for his quiet scholastic habits, his scrupulous
personal neatness, and his purity of life.
From the dining room, we passed into an
alcove, which contained some choice paint
ings noticed that the poets taste inclined
rather towards portraits than landscapes.
Dne, that was told he especially valued,
was that of man past middle life, who bore
upon his wonderfully life-like face, an express
sion of remorsefnl melancholy.
The head Of lovely woman, with wavy
brown hair, and deep dreamy look in her
dark eyes, attracted my attention. | was
told that it was the wife the poet. painted
when she was about twenty. she died fifteen
years ago, uuder peculiar circumstances.
Her clothing caught fire and before the
flames could be distinguished she was burned
to death. This tragic death has deepened the
tinge Of sadness often perceivable in her hus-
bands writings.
In the poem entitled the Footsteps of An
gels, !" be speaks of his wife as the
Being beauteous
Whounto my youth was given.
More than all things else to love me,
And is now saint in heaven.
With slow and noiseIess footstep
Comes that mess niger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand In mine.
And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes
Like the stars, so still and saint-iike,
Looking downward from the skies
In the drawing room, suspended from the
gas burner by delicate silken thread, was
a pure white dove, with its wings poised III
the act of flying. One can hardly imagine
without seeing it, what pleasing effect this
chaste ornament produced. A guitar, beau
tifully inlsid with mother Of peal, lay upon
side table. asked If Longfellow played